by D. S. Ritter
“Yeah,” huffed Sam, “but he might know something. Weird shit is kind of this guy’s forte, right?
“I think he wants me to meet him at a bar or club, or something. Have you guys heard of The House of the Sun?”
They hadn’t.
“Do not shave your legs for this,” said Yolanda. “I forbid you.”
Sam’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously? You think it’s like that with me? With him? Gross.”
“You called him cute. Don’t play with me. If you do it, I will know.”
“Dude,” said Jesus, “I bet she’s blushing.”
Her face hot, Sam didn’t want to admit this was true. “Well, let’s stop talking about my legs, okay?”
***
It didn’t take Sam long to find the House of the Sun on the internet, and it surprised her how close to her regular structure it was. That night, she called in her lunch break early, changed her shirt in the bathroom and decided to test her luck.
***
Situated back in an alley, down a flight of stairs, the House of the Sun was all but hidden, aside from an old school hand-painted wooden sign of a sunburst with the name of the bar scrawled under it hanging on the brick wall. It was not a place Sam would have found on her own, that’s for sure. She wasn’t even sure it was open since there were no signs of life outside. There weren’t any lights on except the utility light for the alley. The concrete stairs didn’t look like they’d been swept in a while either: they still had the skeletons of leaves from last fall on them.
She could hear David Bowie as she got closer to the wooden door, its blue paint peeling with age. Sam tried the handle, and it opened for her.
Inside was the cool dank of a basement, the smell of beer and wood polish and must hitting her along with the full volume of the music. A long, old-school bar top and stools dominated the dimly lit room. On the wall behind hung a copper mirror, speckled with age, its reflection warmer and cloudier than glass.
Just above the music babbled the din of conversation, flowing among the people sitting on the stools and standing at high top tables, beers in their hands.
Sam looked around the bar and realized her clothes were the most down to earth in the room. A handful of nervous goths stood at one of the high tops in a corner, and a couple dressed like they were going to a steampunk convention chatted at the other end of the bar. Besides that, there were people dressed in clothes from many eras, spanning from the 70s and 80s to something almost Mad Max-like, to what looked like Regency garb done up to modern times.
“Hey.” The bartender waved her over to an empty stool.
He wore a sleeveless shirt, all the better to show off his tattoos; intricate star charts, accentuated with a detailed depiction of scales and the constellation Libra. His hair was blonde and spiked with product. Something about his face struck her as rather familiar.
“You Sam?” he asked, wiping down the bar where he’d indicated she should sit.
“Yeah,” she said, climbing up on the stool, garnering a few looks from the other sitters, one of whom wore an eye patch. “Do I know you?”
He grinned, becoming even more attractive, in a roguish way. “Not yet.”
“Is there a costume party going on?” asked Sam, looking around at the other patrons.
The bartender chuckled. He set a napkin down in front of her. “What can I get you?”
This didn’t look like a cocktail kind of place though there were liquor bottles lined up along the copper mirror. They weren’t slick, frosted bottles of sweet concoctions and flavored vodkas. These were whiskey, bourbon, tequilas with scorpions in the bottle, pisco. Fighting liquor. “Can I get a Whiskey Sour?”
“Whiskey Sour.” The bartender nodded and got to work.
“I’m supposed to meet someone here...” said Sam, scanning the bar again.
“Yeah, he’s in the bathroom. He’ll be right out.”
“What?”
“Hey, Sam.” She turned on the stool and found John, grinning at her sheepishly. “Been a while, huh?”
Chapter Five
“That’s what you say to me? After snubbing me for a year?!”
“I–” The words caught in John’s throat.
The bartender cracked up. “Wow,” he said, setting Sam’s drink on the napkin. “I knew you were bad with women, but you’re outdoing yourself.”
“You’re not helping, Smith,” sighed John, sliding unbidden onto the stool beside Sam.
“You’re under the impression I want to help… The least you could do is offer to pay for her drink.”
“Or you know,” said Sam, glaring, “you could talk to her, rather than about her.”
“Oh,” said Smith, grinning. “I like you. You’re feisty. Whatever you’re drinking is on the house.”
He turned to John. “And what’ll you have, my reprobate cousin?”
Sam snorted in her drink. “Cousin?”
“What do you have on the top shelf?” asked John, leaning against the bar like he owned it.
“Nothing I’m going to waste on you. Try again.”
“A beer?”
Smith nodded and went to the tap.
“Wait, so he’s your cousin?” asked Sam, staring after the bartender.
“Smithsonian Black. His is from a more successful branch of the Black family.”
“Smithsonian?”
“My parents were, perhaps, a little overly proud of my conception,” said Smith, setting a big glass of frothy beer down on the bar. “Embarrassing, really.”
John made a face at Smith. Taking the hint, Smith pretended the steam punk couple at the end of the bar had signalled him and walked away. John wanted to talk privately. The trouble was, Sam was not sure how much she wanted to talk to John. Particularly when he restarted the conversation with, “Look, I got busy, okay?”
She stared at him, not bothering to hide her disgust. “That’s some bullshit. You had plenty of time to text me before, even as the world was ending. And then what, you just dropped off the face of the planet?”
“It’s complicated,” he said, looking away. “I probably wouldn’t have come back at all if Smith hadn’t called me. He’s got a job I thought you could help with.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
John’s face was uncharacteristically serious. “Because I think you have major potential, and you will never find out what it is if you spend your whole life telling people how to park.”
It surprised Sam how much these words hurt. It was no secret to anyone, least of all her, that the job was a dead end, but to hear it from him really bothered her. She drained her whiskey and was about to come to Empire Parking’s defense, when Smith set another drink in front of her.
“Plus,” said the bartender, grinning in a way Sam couldn’t help but like, “there might be a massive payout in it for you, if things go how I foresee.”
“What does that mean?”
John sighed. “You know how I said I’m not a very good chaos magician? Well, Smith here is one of the better ones.”
“In our generation? The best. Hands down.” Smith flashed her a smile again, really selling it.
John snorted. “Whatever. Anyway, his doomsday sense is tingling. Tell her.”
“Does it have anything to do with the vampire attacks going on around town?” asked Sam, gazing at the last drops of her Whiskey Sour. It tasted amazing, several levels above any she’d had anywhere else.
Smith looked at John with his eyebrows raised. “Well, yeah. I’ve had a few vampires come in, talking about–”
“You have vampires in here?” asked Sam, looking around, trying to pick them out of the crowd.
“Yeah, of course,” he said, shrugging. “I have blood stores in the fridge in the back. Strict no biting policy in here though, if they want to get hot and heavy with someone, they can take that outside. Too much clean up afterward.”
“Aren’t vampires evil though?”
“Aren’t humans evil th
ough?”
“When did this become a philosophical debate?” asked John, butting in.
Sam’s head was swimming now, both with alcohol and information. “So, those guys,” she said, nodding at the high top full of goths. “Vampires?”
Smith laughed. “No, they’re just going through a phase, probably. I’m not sure how they keep finding their way in here.”
Sam’s failure to understand must have shown on her face a little. “House of the Sun is a bit of a pocket dimension and we’re kind of anchored in various times and places and well, universes. Normal people usually can’t find it on their own.”
Sam stared at him. “Wait, what? Are you shitting me right now? We’re between dimensions?”
“It’s true. My bar serves all sorts of neighborhoods. It was a bitch getting it set up, let me tell you.”
“I just don’t…” said Sam, staring at the maraschino cherry on a little plastic sword in her drink, mind reeling. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this kind of thing, you know?”
Smith nodded. “This whole thing can be pretty mind-blowing, but John’s confident you can handle this. He seemed pretty impressed with you after the monster thing last year.”
John blushed a little and pushed away from the bar. “I’m going to check out the jukebox...”
“He’s not as much of a jackass as he seems,” said Smith conspiratorially. “Terrible magician, not a terrible human being. Most of the time.”
Sam sighed. She didn’t want to talk about the finer points of John, the coward and thief. “So, you were saying about vampires? Your doomsday sense? I assume we’re looking at utter destruction or something?”
“Maybe not utter destruction. Word is we’re getting a lot of vampire-on-vampire violence in your area. This is never a good thing, and it’s going to affect my business, and well, yours too I guess, unless we try to figure this out and nip it in the bud somehow.”
You’re really overselling this doomsday thing.”
This time, Smith’s smile was more of a grimace. “The stakes are higher than they look, trust me. I know where this thing might go and it isn’t pretty. The problem is that while I can see what might be the result, I’m not seeing all the moving pieces.
“That’s where you guys come in. Business booming as it is, I have too many irons in the fire. I can’t really leave the bar these days.”
“And you need someone to do the legwork?”
He nodded. “Pretty much.”
“And this massive payout?” she asked, looking him in the eye.
“I can practically see the future. The lay-lines of causality. If you handed me a pen and a napkin I might work out enough winning lotto numbers, you’d never have to work another day in your life.”
“So why aren’t you a millionaire?”
Smith shrugged. “I could do that, but I’ve studied my various possible futures, and this is where I need to be. This is what will get me where I want to go.”
“And where is that?”
He laughed. “That’s a pretty personal question.”
John came back, having regained some of his confidence. “So, you in?”
She nodded. “Okay. So, where do you want us to start?”
Chapter Six
September was ending and October rolling in. The days were becoming shorter, with the sun setting only an hour after Sam got work. The internet, as always, had proven a treasure trove of fairly useless information, though she had picked up a few things. Like that hardwood stakes would probably be ideal rather than soft wood. A logical observation.
Hardwood stakes being a bit out of her price range and skill set, she’d spent her day off sharpening some thick dowels she’d bought at the hardware store. Some monster hunter I am, she thought as she slid the plastic shopping bag full under the seat of her car. She’d also bought a little cross on a chain, though she wasn’t sure if it would do much, being an atheist. The websites she’d stumbled upon had been unclear about who needed to believe in God, having been written in a tone that just sort of assumed belief on behalf of both parties.
She didn’t really feel secure about going to work, but she could only imagine how HR would react if she filed a report saying she didn’t want to come in for fear of movie monsters. She’d told the others what she’d found out, and none of them were calling off either.
Jesus R:
How many crosses we need?
Abuelita got tons
Heather J:
Don’t take your grandma’s crosses!
Jesus R:
It cool man she’ll just think Tia did it
***
Matt was manning the desk that night, in charge of handing out assignments. It had been a week since Sam had trained him, and he seemed to be settling in. When she walked in, he was talking to Tina, somehow failing to notice her openly annoyed expression. “So, I’ve been on the Liquifier diet for a little while, and I think I’m really starting to see results.”
He’s still talking about that? Sam hid a smirk as she pulled out her usual clipboard and paperwork. But then, she glanced at the jobs board and noticed things were a little different. “Hey, is that a change relief shift up there?”
“Huh?” Matt was about to expound further about the benefits the lycopene Liquifier recipe, which apparently consisted of nothing but tomatoes and watermelon and the special powder. “Oh, yeah,” he said, shrugging. “We had a call off. You can have it if you have seniority.”
Ah, the almighty power of seniority. Sam had been at Empire probably six months longer than any of the other utility workers on her shift. “Yeah, I’ll take it.”
Change relief was a unique position in the machination of the parking business. Relief drove around the city, dolling out change to the booths and providing a replacement during lunch and bathroom breaks. It meant a lot of driving, but Sam would get paid for the mileage and it was a low-stress position.
She put her clipboard back and instead, took the relief schedule, which had never been correct, and signed out the five hundred dollar bank bag full of rolled coin and singles in packs of twenty.
Night had fallen, and there was a bitter chill to the air by the time she pulled out of HQ, but it didn’t bother her. She had gas enough to turn the heater on if she wanted. At least that worked.
She hated her car. Her old one had died the night she’d slammed into a huge monster crawling out of the hole in the basement of Seven-One, and this replacement sucked, hard. Every time she started it up, she missed her old sedan. It had been getting on in years and kind of beat up, but it had been a good, loyal car. This one… well.
The little insurance money she’d gotten and a total lack of time to look around had limited her choices. It was what was available. It was smaller than her old car, and had a sunroof and a multi-CD player, which were nice, but the electrical system seemed to have problems. If she turned the ignition too far, the windshield wipers and radio wouldn’t go on. The clock didn’t always keep time when the car was off. There was a leak somewhere, so when it rained, anything on the floor got soaked. But it ran, and didn’t guzzle gasoline, so she supposed things could have been worse.
According to the schedule, the first stop she needed to make was over at Seven-Three for a lunch break. Despite the hour, she found almost no traffic. Ann Arbor was having a little cold snap, enough to keep people at home on a Wednesday evening. With a CD going and the heat keeping things comfy, Sam felt pretty good. She tapped along with the music at the three lights and stop signs on the way. She even nodded at a group of pedestrians, who scowled at her like she was getting ready to run them over.
These people obviously weren’t vampires. Vampires would be off doing sexy things since that’s all she ever seemed to see vampires do in movies. They bit necks and looked slick all the time, unless they had the misfortune of being Nosferatu, in which case they seemed to be the creepy uncle nobody talked to or left their kids alone with.
She pulled into Seven-Three and saw Fr
anklin working one of the booths. She would make his night.
The schedule said she was supposed to relieve Seven-Three South. Pete looked ready for a break; his eyes were drooping, and he was resting his head in his hand, staring off into the distance. Luckily, traffic was dead. He jumped when she knocked on the door of the booth and almost fell out of his chair letting her in.
“You okay, man? You looked wiped out.”
He smiled and nodded. “I was out late partying last night. Might have overdone it a little, I guess.”
“Maybe,” she said, setting her backpack down on the floor. “Go take a nap or something. I got this.”
“Sounds good,” he yawned, stretching. “I’ll be back in a half.”
He left the booth keys hanging on a hook by the door and stepped outside, stifling another huge yawn. Sam opened the service window and waved at Franklin across her lane, who slid the door of his booth open. “The heck you doing here?” he asked, putting his phone down.
“Just lucky, I guess,” she said. “Got my place all decked out in anti-vampire stuff.”
“Same here. I haven’t worn a cross since I was a kid, but I don’t think anything could get it from around my neck now.” he said, shaking his head. *“Vampires. I mean, monsters were weird enough, but how much more of this shit is real? Am I going to be punching a Frankenstein in the face or something?”
“You mean his monster?”
“Huh?”
“Frankenstein is the mad scientist. Frankenstein’s *monster is the one with the bolts in his neck,” said Sam, checking out Pete’s many piles of tickets and wondering how he organized them.
Something many people coming in didn’t understand was that a lot of the parking business was about organization. Someone in a booth could collect anywhere from five hundred, to a thousand tickets in a shift, and that employee was responsible for every one of those tickets. Some would be discounted, some would be validated, some would be free, and in some garages, there were special long-term programs. Not to mention lost tickets, which were thirty dollars a pop.