Thirst

by Pyotyr Kurtinski

  “Amazing.” Mara helped himself to another drink. His skin was taking on the pallor of the vampire, not that it had changed all that much. His skin had been gray; now it was approaching translucence—an improvement to be sure. “What happened to the old prospector?”

  “He fell off a cliff.” Van Diemen smiled at Mara when he spoke so he wouldn’t miss the point. It was a silly story, but he liked it. When the Landau problem was out of the way, he thought he might take a stab at writing fiction. Life was fiction; history was fiction; anything recalled from the past was fiction.

  “Poor guy,” Mara said, but he smiled.

  Van Diemen smiled back. “I came to America from St. Petersburg and have never looked back. But enough about me—dull stuff, really. What about you, Vincent? How did a chap like get to be a private detective. Had you been reading Hammett and Chandler? I must confess I find Spillane much more fun than the Californians. Kiss Me Deadly, I think, is a classic of its kind. Or did you just fall into the job, as they say?”

  Van Diemen wanted to know if Mara was a better detective than he was a novelist. His handling of Tracy Lee Dembroder proved he was a pretty good fixer.

  “I kind of fell into it.” Mara’s voice was steady now. “Got drafted the end of the ‘Nam war, was put into the MPs, later CID, did some investigative work on a gang of noncoms who were stealing major materiel, whole convoys of supplies and selling them to the enemy. I go too close and got warned off—those noncoms would kill you—but I kept at it, do or die, you know, with the help of a CID captain who was dirty himself, but wasn’t in with this gang. Finally he took over himself, broke the case, and made a name for himself. It made a small splash in the Stateside papers, but I got no mention. Natural enough, I guess, I was only a sergeant in my twenties. Nobody trusted me after that—officers or men don’t like the CID, like cops don’t like Internal Affairs—and I got sent home.”

  “Go on, Vincent. How did you get to be a private sleuth?”

  “I liked the work and thought of joining the NYPD, figuring someday I’d get a gold shield, but how many years would that take? Maybe never. And when you first join, they give you the shit work. I didn’t want to find myself patrolling Bed-Stuy. So I went back to college and got a degree in criminal law from the Manhattan School of Law. After that, I worked as an investigator for two agencies and three attorneys. I was involved in several big cases. I set up for myself about eight years ago.”

  “Was this your first case for Landau?” Van Diemen knew Landau wouldn’t hire someone he didn’t know to do a job that could land him in jail.

  “No, I’d done other work for him before, for a friend of his before that. But I wasn’t on the payroll like other guys he had. He said he’d throw other work my way if I did this right. I thought to myself, why not? I’ll have him by the balls.”

  Van Diemen wanted to smile. It wouldn’t be so easy to compromise a villain like Landau. “We’ll talk more about Landau when you make your report, which I’d like to be as soon as possible. For now, tell me something about your writing career. I’ve often thought of taking a crack at historical fiction.”

  Mara liked this conversation better than private-eye talk. “I got started in the writing game by doing some true-crime articles for Sunday supplements and crime magazines. Nothing big—they don’t pay much—but extra money just the same. But then I began to wonder about all these hacks making big money, TV miniseries, so on, cranking out erotic historicals like sausages. I really went at it after I worked on a case involving a big-name woman novelist—crazy drunken old broad—who lived on the Upper East Side. When she started out, she did most of the writing herself. Later on, after she got to be rich, most of it was done by two fags who worked together and could be trusted not to talk. Didn’t matter if they did. By then she was too big and who cared? Publisher didn’t, the public didn’t.”

  “And so she inspired you?”

  “The money inspired me,” Mara said without a smile. “The way she lived was really something to see. An ex-buyer for a chain of dress shops. Well, I worked—all the spare time I had—for close to four years. The Scarlet Letter was my inspiration, my starting point. Other writers had reworked the classics and that one was mine. There’s a great story there, but kinda dull. I knew I had to have an agent, but it wasn’t easy to find out who wasn’t a crook, and after several rejections from regular publishers, I was forced to publish my book at my own expense. The Plantagenet Press, here in a New York. Book came out January this year. Got some decent reviews, as I said in my letter. I’m still paying for it, but I’m proud of it just the same.”

  “I’d like to read it, Vincent. You should have brought me a copy.” Van Diemen wondered why Mara hadn’t. Perhaps it was so poorly written or so badly produced that he didn’t want anyone to see it.

  “I’ll send you a copy or have Plantagenet send one before I return with my report. I’ll try to do it in a week. Can I phone you if there are any hang-ups?”

  “I’d rather you reported in person, Vincent.” He didn’t want Mara to have his telephone number yet. “Meanwhile, I think you’ll be pleased to receive your first week’s salary. Mind you, I didn’t say retainer. Your thousand a week will be permanent, and if you do well, you will be paid much more than that.”

  Van Diemen had no intention of doing any such thing, but what did it matter? Mara wouldn’t be around to complain.

  Van Diemen was handing his new servant ten hundred-dollar bills when the telephone rang.

  Nine

  It was Bradford C. Wilcox, and he was drunk again.

  “Where are you?” Van Diemen said. Mara was walking around looking at the paintings and the books. Polite enough for his kind, he pretended not to listen.

  “Tracy’s dead.” The lawyer sobbed into the phone. “Murdered in her apartment. Naked, bruised, throat ripped out. It was on the TV just now.”

  Van Diemen looked at the library clock: 1:15. Wilcox was up fairly late. “Where are you?”

  “Sea Island, Georgia. We were so happy here one time. Christ, William, I don’t know what to do. I want to come right back. It’s only right.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll only become involved if you do. When did the reporter say the murder happened?”

  The lawyer had to think. “They’re not giving that out yet. The night before. No, that’s not right—more like twenty-four to thirty hours ago. I was here then. I couldn’t have had anything to do with it, could I? How could they blame me?”

  “Of course not,” Van Diemen said as he watched Mara open an ancient book on vampires with his pudgy hands. “Stay right where you are for at least another ten days. Give me your telephone number, and I’ll call you if it’s really important.”

  Suddenly the lawyer was shouting. “What do you mean if it’s important! Isn’t this important? The woman I loved was murdered by a wild beast. They said it looked like the work of one of these new vampire cults or blood drinkers. Her body was completely drained. My poor Tracy!”

  Van Diemen let him finish his tirade, then said, “I am as shocked as you are, but you must be calm. I doubt that it’s the work of any such person or group though I know it’s possible. A clever rapist and murderer is more like it. Now give me your number and try to get some rest.

  I promise I’ll call you if I found out more about it. Good night.”

  Mara sat down in his chair as Van Diemen hung up. His face had the look of someone who expected to be told something. Van Diemen gave no explanation. It was time to send Mara on his way after a little more advice about the care and feeding of vampires.

  “This is most important,” Van Diemen said. “You will have to feed on someone at least every day—better still every night because it’s safer. That’s the ideal. You can feed on someone without killing him. Draining someone of all his blood will kill him, of course; whereas if you fall far short of that, he no doubt will recover if he is rushed to a hospital and given a transfusion. However, if you don’t feed enough
, you will be forced to feed again within twenty-four hours. Well, not forced, but you will be weak, not at your best. Feeding on two people within so short a time is not advisable. It increases the risk of being seen and having your description given to the police.”

  “But what can the police do to me?” Even as a vampire, Mara looked worried.

  Van Diemen sighed with mild impatience. “I thought I explained to you. The police can grab you and put you in a cell. You can’t just make yourself disappear yet. Your full powers haven’t even begun to develop. If you find yourself in a cell at sunrise, you will be in grave danger. By the time they take you to court in the morning, the sun may be blazing down, its deadly rays seeking to kill you. You may have lost your wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses in the struggle to resist arrest.”

  Mara was surprised. “I don’t wear such things.”

  “You will wear them now since you’ll have to go out by day for the time being. One of my hats won’t fit you—my head is too large—but I’ll give you the sunglasses. See to the hat very early in the morning. Don’t stay out longer than you have to. Now all we have to do is get a limousine to take you back to Manhattan. Just a moment.”

  Van Diemen got Sandor out of bed on the interior telephone. He told his servant to call a car for Mr. Mara and to see him to the gate.

  Waiting for Sandor to appear, Mara looked around the library. “I wish I lived here,” he said. “I wouldn’t get in your way.”

  “You must never become depressed, Vincent. Never even consider suicide. Such a thing can happen. A vampire can commit suicide. It seems many of the old human emotions persist long after one becomes a vampire. There are vampires who long for their old mortal state so that they may die in the so-called normal way.

  Vampires have gone a hundred miles out into the Mojave Desert, where there is no escape from the sun, no chance of rescue. Ah, here’s my good man Sandor. Good night, Vincent.”

  “Good night, Mr. Van Diemen,” Mara said. At the door he turned. “I won’t let you down, sir.” It was good to have him gone, not to have to look at his shapeless face for a week. Van Diemen hadn’t asked him to seek out Maggie Connors. That would be too much work for a week, and he didn’t want Mara lumbering all over the place. There was time enough for the Connors woman when he made his report. There was something almost touching about his last, plaintive words before leaving: “I won’t let you down, Mr. Van Diemen.”

  Van Diemen was tired, irritable. He didn’t want to go out, but knew he had to. He had given Mara back too much blood, and now it needed to be replenished. There was no escape from that; if he stayed in, he’d be very weak by the following evening. The only thing to do to buck him up was to take a Ritalin tablet, no more than one, and another short drink of vodka. Yes, yes, he knew he’d sworn off both, but there were times when a fellow had to break his own little laws when necessary. Even so, there must be no showing off tonight. It was close to 2:30, not many hours till sunrise. If he wanted to get any writing done that night, he would like to return home by four o’clock. And even if he got home by then, it would take him a while to settle down at his writing table to attain the tranquility of mind he needed in order to write successfully.

  The Ritalin and the vodka relaxed Van Diemen as he climbed the old stone steps to the tower. It was a clear, starry night, and the lights of the northern Bronx twinkled below as a string of barges moved on the Hudson River. He had been so content here before Landau had started his real-estate machinations. How pleasant life had been before that conniving wretch had come into Van Diemen’s eternal life. Landau would get more than he wanted for all the trouble he’d caused.

  Get on with it, Van Diemen told himself. All good things will come to pass. He hurled himself from the tower and soared off into the star-bright night, enjoying as he always did, the sudden surge of immense power as he transformed into an immense bat. His size excited him as much as his power, and when he was aloft, he felt he could do anything. Best of all, though he was a great flying predator of the skies, he still thought like a man. Even now, flying at incredible speed, he could think, reason, calculate. Two centuries hadn’t dulled the joyous feeling that ability gave him, and two millennia hence, his joy would remain undiminished.

  Flying low over Riverdale Avenue, which was usually quiet at that time of night, Van Diemen was surprised to see the old Didricksen mansion all lit up inside and out. Flashing lights— some of which were those atop police cars— popping lights everywhere. What in the name of the Great Fiend could be going on? Van Diemen knew the old place; he had seen it for a hundred years. He’d known it when the Didricksens had built it and lived there. He’d witnessed its decline, until it was boarded up, shabby, and in need of paint. He circled the old house and saw swank cars and limousines parked on the sidewalk and on what was left of the lawn. He made another pass and read a huge sign announcing a blood happening. The words seemed to be smeared with red paint—no, it was blood—on flapping white canvas moored by ropes. Could this be happening in Riverdale? But it was, and Van Diemen’s heart beat faster with the joy and excitement of anticipation. He landed on the quiet street a few blocks away and walked back toward the light-blasted old mansion as a man.

  He was a block away when all the lights in the house went out. That was better. Artificial light couldn’t kill him. Only the light of the sun could do that. The lights outside kept flashing and popping, and that bothered him, but he pressed on. Soon he’d be inside the house. He meant to get in there. It might all be a fake, but the word blood drew him closer, strengthened his determination to discover what was happening. He relaxed a little when he saw a more conventional sign above the door that said the admission was $50 dollars.

  Van Diemen mounted the broken old steps, glad to have the lights behind him. The double doors were open and the sound of moaning and chanting came from the interior of the house, which was illuminated by pulsing red light. And there was throbbing music to go with the hellish light. Van Diemen decided it must be blood music. He didn’t like it, but he could endure it for as long as he needed to. Placed between the wide doors, but not blocking them, was a table draped with a red cloth; seated behind the table was a pretty young woman dressed all in red. Guarding the girl and the cashbox on the table were two huge black men in flowing red robes. Van Diemen knew security guards when he saw them, robes or not. He knew there would be guns under the robes.

  Van Diemen put down his money and got a brochure in return. The girl asked him if he wanted to sign the guest book and he wrote John Polidori, who was the real author of the famous tale “The Vampyre” stolen by Byron and published under his own name. The girl glanced at the book and said, “Thank you, Mr. Polidori/’

  “I’m a doctor,” Van Diemen said, assuming the role of the long-dead man.

  It was a huge old house, filled now to overflowing. Something seemed to be going on on all four floors, but the library was the center of attention. A lot of people, all well-heeled, were in there, but the show hadn’t started yet. Instead, there was the usual hustle and bustle that marked the amateur production, although, Van Diemen thought, there was nothing amateur about charging a huge admission and getting it. Many of the guests looked very well fed, and even the thin ones weren’t bad either. He was in no hurry, however; he would find someone to feed on when he was ready.

  Waiting by the library door, he glanced at the brochure. It was printed on shiny paper and the white cover had a splash of red on it. The throwaway was titled A Blood Happening. On the inside cover there was a quote from some artist that read: “Human blood is the prima materia. It’s been used for painting since Paleolithic times. It’s the only medium that fuses the image with the image maker/’ Good show! Van Diemen thought, though he didn’t like the idea of all that blood going to waste. But primitive man hadn’t had paint stores.

  While he waited, Van Diemen spotted Draculina, the phony vampire he’d seen on television. She looked much the same: haggard, chalk faced, stringy haired, except tha
t here her period dress was red rather than black. She was talking to a somber-faced man in a business suit with a laminated press card clipped to the lapel. “I hear you, Draculina,” he was saying to her. “But these people here don’t claim to be vampires. They paint with blood and some of them drink blood, but it’s their own blood. I say it’s fruit juice or water with food coloring in it. You got any comment to make on that?”

  Draculina bared her joke-shop fangs and a little red fluid ran out the corners of her mouth. “Dey are all phonies!” she screamed in a B-movie Transylvanian accent. “De Count would torn ober in hiss coffin if he could see zese phonies!” No one paid the slightest attention. “You can quote me on that, Herbie,” she told the reporter in a normal New York squawk.

  Van Diemen moved away, but kept his eye on Draculina. Underneath the ghoul makeup and the plastic fangs she might be a good-looking woman. Although not that young, at least thirty, she had a good body. The television cameras had made her look like a gaunt-faced hag, which was her aim, of course, but she was far from it. What was she? Jewish? Italian? Polish? It was hard to tell what she was. She could be black underneath all that white slop on her face. He didn’t care what she was. Van Diemen was completely without prejudice. When it came to feasting on fine flesh, he was willing to try any kind of ethnic dish.

  Van Diemen knew the happening was about to begin when the two big security guards closed the front doors after removing the money table. Then one of them locked the doors and stayed there. The other bruiser followed the young lady with the cashbox as she took it away. An old guy who looked like the Grim Reaper came out of the library and told everyone in the hall or on the stairs that the happening was about to hemorrhage.

  Van Diemen managed to stay close to Draculina after she gave the reporter a pretend bite on the neck and went inside. He noticed that most people there tried to avoid her or gave her dirty looks. They seemed to wonder what such a fake was doing among serious artists. Van Diemen couldn’t see how she was any worse than they were. He got a seat beside her and waited for the doings to take place. Up on the stage the performers still weren’t organized. The old man kept pointing and whispering. Finally, he came to the front of the stage and made a little presentation speech.