Blood Crimes

by Dave Zeltserman

  “You know Drum. If you had to guess, what would you think—Cleveland proper, Westlake, Strongsville, Lyndhurst?” Jim asked, rattling off the towns where Charles or C. Drum had been listed.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Pete said. “If we went hunting for him it would probably just be a wild goose chase, which I’m really not up to right now. My advice, we’re better off waiting here. Charlie a lot of times has late nights. I’m still hoping he shows. The fucker better.”

  “What about him?”

  Jim pointed a thumb at another bartender cleaning up the back tables. The other bartender’s name was Simon, and he had shown up before the Bon Jovi cover band took the stage to help with the larger crowd that was expected. Simon was young, probably early twenties, and had a bulldog look about him complete with a thick squat body and a squashed nose. Ever since he had come to work, he glowered openly at Jim. He didn’t bother saying a word to him, but it was obvious he was wondering who the fuck Jim was and why he was sticking so close to Pete the whole night, and probably also why Pete was doing such a lousy job bartending.

  Pete’s eyes focused slowly on who Jim was pointing at and he shook his head. Just like asking about whether he knew where Drum lived, this was the fourth or fifth time Jim had asked him about Simon. After the first time he appeased Jim by asking Simon if he knew how to get a hold of Drum or where Drum lived, even though he knew the other bartender wouldn’t have anything more than he did. Simon’s glower turned more suspicious at this point. “All I have is Charlie’s cell number,” he said. “Same as you.”

  After that Simon kept his distance from the two of them, probably suspecting something was wrong about Pete and even more wrong about the strange-looking dude hanging around him. Maybe he thought that Jim was another drug dealer looking to muscle in on the territory. Whatever it was he just didn’t want anything to do with it, and he didn’t say another word to Pete that night.

  “I already talked to Simon,” Pete said, trying to keep his voice as nonthreatening as possible, which was hard given how hoarse his throat had become. This wasn’t good—Jim asking the same questions over and over again. The guy was obviously losing it, which given that he had a big fucking gun on him and, among other things, was freakishly strong, was worse that just not being good—it was scary as hell. He still didn’t want to think about how this guy was able to shoot himself in the chest the way he did. Pete had been trying to tell himself all night that the guy had slipped a blank in, that it was part of an act to scare the shit out of Pete, but he couldn’t get himself to believe it.

  “He didn’t know anything then and he doesn’t know anything now,” Pete continued, struggling hard to keep his eyes focused and a soft smile showing. “And there’s no reason that he would. He’s a college boy doing this part time. He keeps his nose cleaner than I do.”

  The door to the bar opened and a large rotund man in his late forties with long greasy hair walked in. Pete nudged Jim, indicated that this was the Charlie Drum they were waiting for. Drum had a pasty look about him and his eyes the same glazed surliness that every drunk seems to have before throwing that first punch. He was pissed that he was there. His eyes caught Pete’s, then he spotted Jim and his expression shifted to something shrewd, as if he were reconsidering the last message that Pete had left him, and that maybe he was about to be introduced to a new business partner, one who could offer better terms than Raze. He winked at the two of them and wandered over to the band members where he shook their hands and flirted with the teenage girls sitting by them. While he talked to the girls he let his fingertips drop on their bare arms. He also touched their hair, rolling strands of it between his fingers and thumb. The girls didn’t seem to like it and their smiles turned plastic, but they didn’t say anything. He owned the place and could kick them out if he wanted to and then they’d have no shot at spending the night with the band. Jim tensed as he watched this. He started to get off his barstool, but Pete suggested he stay where he was. “Give it a minute,” he said.

  It turned out Pete was right. No more than a minute later Drum looked bored with his flirting, most likely realizing it wasn’t going to lead anywhere, and he excused himself from the group to walk over to Jim and Pete. He winked at his bartender, a glimmer shining in his eyes.

  “This the fella that’s so urgent for me to meet?” he asked, smiling broadly at Jim, his voice slurred. The smell of gin was heavy on his breath and his clothes were saturated with the pungent sweet smell of pot. He had obviously been smoking and drinking heavily all night.

  Pete nodded, didn’t say anything.

  “Business proposition?”

  “That’s right,” Jim said. “We should talk alone. Just the three of us.”

  Pete added, “I thought I’d just leave you two to talk—”

  Jim stopped the bartender with a hard look. “Better that all three of us talk it over.”

  Drum didn’t catch on to the look that Jim had given his bartender. Even if he had, he would’ve been too wasted to understand it. “How much we talking about?” he asked.

  “Over a hundred grand,” Jim said.

  Drum gave his bartender a questioning eye and Pete nodded, said that sounded right. Drum then turned to the rest of the room and announced that it was time for everyone to head home.

  “Charlie, show us a little love,” the band’s lead singer implored. “We’ve been playing our arses off all night. We need some down time, brother!”

  The rest of the band murmured in agreement. Drum winked at Jim before turning back to the room. “Can’t do that, boys,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed. “It’s already two-thirty. If one of the County boys shows up and sees me still operating and serving drinks at this hour, I’ll lose my license. But no reason you boys can’t continue this party in that van of yours you got parked in back. If it’s a rockin’, no one here’s gonna be a knockin’.”

  He held out his hand to Pete, who handed him a full bottle of Maker’s Mark. Drum made a face, expecting Pete to have handed him a cheaper brand, but he corrected himself and was gracious as he gave the bottle to the lead singer. For good measure he also slipped the singer a baggie filled with pot which went quickly into musician’s pants pocket. The Bon Jovi wannabee nodded, asked about payment for the night.

  “Check’s in the mail as always,” Drum said, smiling stiffly.

  The musician accepted that and pushed himself to his feet. The rest of the band followed, grumbling as they headed to the door. The teenage girls with them didn’t seem to mind the change of location, each of them wrapping their arms around a different band member and helping guide them out of the bar. After they left, the rest of the exodus followed until it was just Drum, Pete, Jim and Simon. Drum nodded at Simon and told him he could leave, that he and Pete would lock up. Simon didn’t argue, and he moved fast to get out of there. Once they were alone, Drum asked Jim what he had. Jim unzipped his jacket and took his .45 out and placed it on the bar.

  “Tell me where I can find Raze,” Jim said.

  “What is this?” Drum asked, his smile strained. He turned to Pete. “You knew about this?” The bartender looked away, a film falling over his eyes. Drum’s expression changed as he realized what was happening. “You set me up like this?” Drum said to his bartender, his face growing beet red. “You cocksucker. You dirty ungrateful cocksucker. Guess what? You’re fired. I never want to see your pug ugly face here again.” He then turned to face Jim, his thick lips twisted into a sneer. “You’re going to shoot me, is that it, asshole? If you think I’m going to tell you bupkes—”

  Jim poked Drum in the chest with his index finger and the blow sent the bar owner tumbling over one of the tables and crashing to the floor.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Jim said.

  Drum wiped a hand across his mouth. He pushed himself up into a sitting position.

  “Where’s Raze?”

  “How should I know? And go fuck yourself.”

  Jim slid off his barstool. He m
ade a fist and brought it down hard on the bar. The oak surface splintered, and Jim drove his fist nearly a foot through it. Drum watched this with a hard sneer, as if he were trying to figure out the trick. Slowly it dawned on him that there was no trick involved.

  “I don’t know where Raze is,” Drum said, sobering up quickly, his tone subdued, his eyes unable to meet Jim’s. “We don’t socialize. We do business, that’s all. All I have for him is a phone number.”

  “Call him then. Get him down here.”

  “At this hour? There’s nothing I could say.”

  “You better think of some deal you can offer him.”

  Jim glanced at the shattered bar and then at Drum. He didn’t have to say what was implied. Either Drum think of something, or he was going to end up the same as his bar. Drum nodded and took out his cell phone. He was having trouble dialing, though, shaking too much to press the right keys. He swore bitterly to himself after each mistake.

  “Give me the phone,” Jim said. “I’ll dial for you. And don’t fucking die on me with a heart attack. A little while this will all be over for you. But you are going to need to find a new drug dealer after tonight.”

  Drum tossed him his cell phone, his face chalk white. “On the news tonight,” he said. “You’re one of them that killed all those cops?”

  “Not me. Raze’s number?”

  Drum recited it slowly, methodically, as if he were having a tough time saying anything. Pete cleared his throat and asked if he could leave yet.

  “Sorry, not until this is over.”

  Jim started dialing the number but before he could finish someone was at the front door, rattling it, and Jim stopped what he was doing to look up. The door was kicked open, the wood frame splintering. It was a heavy door, a solid oak number, something that Jim had noted when he entered the place, and it shouldn’t have been able to be kicked in like that.

  Zach walked in carrying a samurai sword. For whatever reason it didn’t surprise Jim. Just made him sick to his stomach.

  “I spotted a Harley parked down the street,” Zach said to him, his eyes scanning the bar, taking everything in. “That was careless of you, Jim. It warned me that you could be in the area. Otherwise I might not have taken the time to breathe in as deeply as I did.”

  “You and that nose,” Jim said. “You’re in the wrong business, Zach. You could be in Provence putting all those truffle-sniffing pigs to shame.”

  “Don’t knock it. I was able to smell you out. Because of that I’ve been standing outside listening for the last ten minutes. I’m curious, why do you need to get a hold of this Raze fellow? By any chance does he has something of yours? Your girlfriend, maybe?” Zach showed a crooked smile. “Sorry, Jim, but you won’t be around to get her back. I promise you, though, before we leave this ugly cow town of a city, we’ll find Raze for you, and I’m sure Serena will take extra special care of your girlfriend.”

  “You won’t know who she is,” Jim said.

  Zach’s lips pulled back revealing blood-stained teeth. “Oh, we will. We have a drawing of her.”

  As the vampire talked he edged closer to Jim, moving from side to side like a sand crab before taking each small incremental step forward. He had his sword held over his head. He stopped within a foot of Drum, who lay cowering under a table. Zach addressed the bar owner, telling him for his own edification that it was actually he and his companions who massacred all those cops, that Jim didn’t deserve any credit for it. Then his sword came down, splitting both the table and the bar owner down the middle.

  “Oops,” Zach said to Jim, his smile turning naughty. “Silly me. It doesn’t look like there’s any way for you to find this Raze now, even if you were able to walk out of here. Which you won’t be doing.”

  Jim took the .45 from the bar and fired several rounds into Zach’s eyes, then kept shooting at Zach’s sword hand until the vampire dropped his weapon. Zach stumbled backwards, temporarily blinded, his cornea’s scratched by the bullets. Jim moved quickly to the dropped sword, picked it up, and swung at Zach’s neck like he was swinging a baseball bat for the fences. The blow struck solidly and sent Zach’s severed head flying. What was left of the dead vampire tottered for a moment on its feet before dropping like a load of timber. Jim stared at the dead body, wondering why Serena would send Zach alone after him. She’d have to know what the outcome would be. Fuck it, it didn’t matter. He had more pressing matters.

  He went back to the bar to retrieve Drum’s cell phone. The number Drum had given was different than the one he had gotten earlier from Ash’s phone. That one must’ve been a disposable, this one had to be Raze’s business line. When he picked up the phone he saw Pete lying on the floor behind the bar with a large hole torn out of his skull. One of the bullets must’ve ricocheted and caught him. There was no question he was dead. Jim regretted that—he had started to like the guy, but there was nothing he could do about it. He used Drum’s cell phone to call Raze. The first call went to voice mail. Jim called again and this time Raze picked up, his voice druggy, out of it, as if he’d just woken up. Trying his best to imitate Drum’s easygoing Midwestern drawl, he told Raze that he was sitting on ten kilos and needed to see him right away at the Broken Drum. He hung up and didn’t bother answering Raze’s return call.

  * * * * *

  Jim found a set of car keys in Charlie Drum’s pockets for a newer model Chevy Monte Carlo parked out front of the bar. He drove the car further down the street, moving it under a street lamp that he broke so he’d be in the dark, then sunk down in the driver’s seat and waited with Zach’s samurai sword laying on the floor by the back seat. There was no use waiting in the bar or near the entrance; Zach did a good job demolishing the door frame when he broke in, and there was nothing Jim could do to camouflage the damage. The name of the bar was probably more accurate now than it had ever been. The door was broken, the oak bar was broken, tables were broken, the owner, Pete and Zach were all badly broken. When Raze or one of his Blood Dragons saw the busted up doorway they would know something was wrong and would take off. The best Jim could hope for would be to follow them. While he waited he slouched further down in his seat and examined the .45 automatic. The gun held two magazines, each able to hold nine rounds. There were six bullets left which should be enough, but he still wished he could get his hands on more ammo. It would come in handy if he ran into any more of Serena’s crew. He slid the magazines back in place and kept the gun within reach on the passenger seat next to him.

  He heard the Harley before he saw it. As expected the driver slowed down enough to see that the doorframe was busted up, then did a quick one eighty and drove off. Jim couldn’t tell whether the driver was Raze or another biker. He was hoping it was Raze. He pulled the Monte Carlo onto the street and kept the headlights off as he followed. He tried to maintain a two-block distance. With his acutely sensitive hearing he could tell where the biker was heading even when he couldn’t see it. For twelve miles he was able to follow the bike this way without any problem, then he saw the bike pull down an alleyway, and when he drove up to it found that it was too narrow for the Monte Carlo. He thought about running after the bike, but instead stopped and listened, putting every ounce of energy he had into his concentration.

  The world became still. In his mind’s eye he could see the turns the biker made, could picture them, and by the time the engine was shut off, Jim had a good idea where the bike had stopped. Not too far away. He decided that the biker never realized he was being followed. Still, though, the area the biker led him to didn’t make sense to him. These were mostly tenement buildings; he expected Raze to be holding Carol in a safe house out in the burbs. It didn’t feel right to him, but it was the only lead he had. He got out of the car, taking the sword and gun with him. For a moment he stood paralyzed trying to wrack his brains over anything else he could do to smoke Raze out. If he had to he’d rob a bank the next day, but he couldn’t help feeling that Raze was fucking with him; that the guy wouldn’t trade Car
ol for any amount of money. How could he? Maybe Raze hadn’t realized it yet, but he had to have an idea of what he was dealing with; that if he had already hurt Carol there was nothing that could keep him safe once Jim found him. Which meant he couldn’t afford to let Jim find him, or for that matter, allow any swap. Maybe he just hadn’t realized it yet, but he would. Probably after he slept on it. It was everything Jim could do to keep from breaking out sobbing. He looked up into the hazy darkness as if he were beseeching the sky for answers. There were none coming, nothing but a sad dim moon overhead mostly obscured by haze and clouds. He would find the biker he had followed, and if Carol was being held someplace else, he’d do whatever he had to to make the biker tell him where she was. Whatever it took. Whatever…

  Jim started running to the location where in his mind’s eye he had pictured the biker stopping, the blade of the sword reflecting the street lights, the .45 that he gripped in his other hand not much more than a grayish blur.

  Chapter 12

  It was three-thirty-six in the morning when Metcalf knocked on Hayes’ hotel room door. Serena let him in, a pale trace of a smile showing. Metcalf didn’t bother acknowledging her, just stared though her with empty eyes before moving past her. He barely seemed to notice Hayes laying on the floor, moaning softly, his wrists and ankles chained. Metcalf walked across the room, stepping over the PI, and sat in the chair that Serena and Zach had shared earlier. He appeared more haggard than usual, his cheeks sunken, the skin under his eyes colored a grayish-black, almost as if soot had been applied. Serena smiled thinly at him, her almond-shaped eyes as dull as sandstone.