by Brian Keene
Summers was going on. “We were delighted, of course, to host Spider Fingers Livingston. Though we have an impeccable reputation, we don’t often book acts as popular as Lonnie.”
“You pay him a lot?” Raft asked, interested in spite of himself.
“A fair bit,” Summers allowed. “But it was the magic of the Shantyman that attracted Lonnie. The mystique.”
“Your two minutes are up, Summers. Take me to Clara.”
Summers chuckled, his belly tremoring. “Oh, I can’t do that, Mr. Raft. Not yet. We’ll go to her in a little while, once her set is done and the crowd has dispersed.”
Raft seized Summers by the sport coat, jerked him closer. “You’re stalling.”
Summers returned his gaze serenely. “Control yourself, Mr. Raft. You’ll want to hear the rest of the tale.” A wink. “Then you can decide if you really want to trouble yourself with Clara.”
It took everything he had, but Raft decided it might be preferable to wait. What he had in mind would work better in an empty nightclub rather than one filled to capacity. Lonnie had begun to play another tune, this one lighter, less brooding. Clara’s lilting voice joined in, further mitigating Raft’s stormy mood.
He released Summers, nodded toward the bar. “You got water back there?”
“Of course,” Summers answered. As he motioned toward the emaciated old barkeep, Summers continued. “Lonnie acted exasperated by Clara’s trailing him all the way to San Francisco, but it was clear to me he was flattered. You see, Lonnie’s ego is the equal of his talent.”
“I’d say it surpasses his talent,” Raft said.
“A water for my friend, please,” Summers told the barkeep. He turned to Raft. “You mustn’t be so critical of Lonnie. He had the most soothing voice.”
“I’ve heard him.”
“On the radio,” Summers said. “On phonographs.” He shook his head. “Recorded voices sound so tinny, Mr. Raft, particularly voices like Lonnie’s. No, he was undoubtedly talented.”
“Why do you keep saying was?” Raft asked. The bartender placed a glass of water on the bar, and Raft took it wordlessly.
“When Clara introduced herself to Lonnie,” Summers went on, “she made no pretense about her interest in him. She said she’d become an actress because she wanted to find truth in the world, but instead she’d only encountered . . . ”
“Predators,” Raft finished.
“Quite right,” Summers said, sobering. “Clara said—this was shortly after Lonnie arrived, mind you . . . it must have been five in the morning—she said she’d sensed truth in Lonnie’s singing, in his lyrics, and she wanted to become part of his act.”
“Bet he liked that.”
Summers’s eyebrows rose. “Wouldn’t you? A beautiful young woman like Clara driving through the small hours of the night just to declare her desire to work with you?”
Raft’s gaze roved over the tops of the gleaming heads and settled on Lonnie Livingston, his pale skin, his auburn hair, close-cropped on the back and sides, glossy and curly on top. He supposed he could see why women might swoon for the musician, but that didn’t make Raft want to pulverize him any less.
Summers went on with the tale, though Raft could have guessed the gist of it. Lonnie had listened to Clara sing, judged her good enough, and told Clara he’d take her on, but only on a trial basis. Clara eagerly accepted. They played together, and the show was a hit.
“Then,” Summers said, his fingers steepling at his waist, “Lonnie started gambling again.”
Raft nodded, unsurprised. He knew Spider Fingers Livingston suffered from a gambling affliction—roulette or baccarat when he was in polite company, poker when he wasn’t. That he’d relapsed was the most predictable twist of all.
Raft glanced across the nightclub at Lonnie, noticed how he never opened his mouth. “That what happened? He got into the wrong people for too much money and they fixed his jaw for him?”
The crowd had begun to thin out, but Summers still looked around to make sure no one was listening. He sidled closer. “Tell me, Mr. Raft. When you were at the wharves, did you notice anything unusual?”
He glared at Summers. “You got something to say to me, say it.”
Summers chewed his lip, went on. “Lonnie’s habit consumed him, like habits always do. First it was a friendly game with the dock foreman and his workers, low stakes and good company. Soon he was consorting with the less savory individuals who live by the sea.”
Less savory, Raft thought. You can say that again.
“He allowed Clara to accompany him,” Summers said, and before Raft could let loose with a string of expletives, Summers added, “I know. It was unforgivable.”
Raft sipped his water, but it did nothing to assuage his burning throat.
“For weeks this went on,” Summers said, “and Lonnie’s debauchery grew progressively worse. His debts larger.”
Raft’s heart thumped like a giant tympani. He’d guessed the rest of the story, but he had to hear it. He had to be sure . . .
“I told you the Shantyman possesses a rare kind of energy,” Summers said. “And so it does.” More patrons were filing out, yet Summers’s voice grew more hushed anyway. “But that energy, that thrum you feel within these walls, it’s like a beacon. One that transmits darkness rather than light. And those who spend time here, the individuals who absorb that darkness . . . they carry it with them.”
“Don’t lecture me about evil,” Raft said.
“You’ve seen them?” Summers guessed, his eyes widening.
Raft said nothing.
Summers reached up, massaged the skin around his Adam’s apple. “Then you know what happened.”
Raft’s voice trembled a little, but he managed to get out, “Lonnie had a choice. Either be killed, or . . . ” He cleared his throat wetly. “ . . . or let them have Clara.”
Summers had paled. “Nasty business.”
But Raft said nothing. He was staring at Lonnie. At the gutless coward who, even now, was being broadcasted by every radio station in the country.
“As I told you,” Summers said, his voice doleful, “there is no Clara anymore. She’s gone.”
“How much longer until everyone clears out?” Raft asked, his eyes never leaving Lonnie Livingston.
“Mr. Raft—”
“How much longer?” Raft barked.
Summers sighed, checked his watch. “It’s midnight now. The rest of the patrons will be gone within the hour, I should think.”
“I’ll wait,” Raft said.
“She’s gone,” Summers repeated. “You’re wasting your time and needlessly courting danger.”
Raft tilted back the rest of his water, handed the glass to Summers. “I’ll wait.”
And with that, he moved to the center of the room, where the sparse club-goers parted to grant him passage. He took a table not far from the stage, scooted out his chair to face Clara, and crossed his arms.
Clara’s eyes found him before long, and unless he was mistaken, she sang the next song to him.
***
It took longer than an hour for the patrons to vacate the Shantyman, but not by much. Though Raft didn’t check his watch—that would require tearing his eyes off Clara—he estimated it was one-thirty when the metallic clack sounded, the main door locked for the night.
Summers passed Raft’s table, made his way up the steps to the stage, and then, the carbon arc light illuminating him, the manager spoke to Lonnie and Clara in undertones. To Raft it looked like a poorly-rehearsed stage play, the actors fumbling for their lines while the audience shifted restlessly. At length, Lonnie nodded, unconcerned.
But Clara appeared frightened.
Summers motioned toward Raft. “Our stars will see you now, Mr. Raft.”
Raft downed the rest of his water, wiped his lips with a shaking hand, but his eyes remained on Clara. For her part, Clara appeared to be studying a spot between the baby grand piano and where she stood, as though the stage itsel
f might possess the answers she sought.
Raft mounted the steps, his eyes flicking to Lonnie Livingston. The musician wore an amused smile now, the same condescending expression he’d no doubt directed at Clara the night she’d followed Lonnie here. He likely believed Raft was here for an autograph.
Raft forced his fists to unclench.
“Lonnie, Clara,” Summers said, “please say hello to tonight’s guest. He calls himself George Raft.”
Clara kept her eyes averted. Lonnie only watched him in that aloof way.
“‘Tonight’s guest,’” Raft muttered. “You say that like it’s a frequent thing, bringing someone up here to meet the performers.”
“Our stars,” Summers corrected.
Lonnie grunted, gave a dismissive shake of his curly head, and lit a cigarette. A Murad, Raft noticed. Lonnie blew smoke in his direction, the scent of the Turkish cigarette wafting over him.
“You’re right, Lonnie,” Summers said, as though Lonnie had spoken. “We mustn’t keep Clara waiting.”
Raft glanced at Clara, saw how she’d placed a hand on the corner of the black Steinway as if to steady herself. Her chest was heaving, the sequins of her silver dress catching the arc light and spangling the stage around her.
Look at me, Clara, he thought. Look at me, please.
But she wouldn’t. Not yet.
He sensed Summers creeping nearer. When Raft turned and regarded the manager he discovered the big man’s hands were occupied, one with a small but wicked-looking sickle, the other with a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver. A .357, from the looks of it.
Raft smiled. “You think you’re gonna stop me with that cap gun?”
Summers laughed. “Not kill you, Mr. Raft. I only need to incapacitate you. Besides,” he added with a one-shouldered shrug, “I’d rather not taint your bloodstream.”
Raft glanced at Clara, saw her chest was heaving.
“No,” Summers went on, “rather than forcing me to shoot you, it would be better to lean forward and offer up your throat. You see, Clara hasn’t fed for several nights. She . . . ” An icy grin. “She resists. But when I saw what Clara had become . . . when I realized what price Lonnie had paid for giving his beloved to the beings that dwell beneath the docks . . . I knew Clara and Lonnie would become permanent fixtures at the Shantyman.”
Clara’s shoulders spasmed.
Summers nodded. “I told you that the Shantyman thrives on the darkness, Mr. Raft. I learned it soon after I acquired the business several years ago.” Something haunted permeated Summers’s features. “I learned that the power that resides here must be satiated. You see, I have to slake that energy’s thirst. Just as you must slake Clara’s.”
Raft looked at Clara, who stared back at him with tears shimmering in her eyes.
“Say it,” Summers said.
Raft only gazed at Clara, imagined how horrified she must have been when Lonnie offered her up.
“Say the word,” Summers demanded, raising the revolver.
Raft’s mouth had gone dry, but he managed to say, his voice little more than a croak, “She’s a vampire.”
A single teardrop crawled down Clara’s cheek. It was answer enough.
From his periphery, Raft saw Lonnie make to rise, but Summers’s harsh voice rang out. “Sit, Lonnie. I may need your assistance.”
His complexion the hue of spoiled ham, Lonnie sat and faced the keyboard like a scolded child.
“Now open up,” Summers instructed.
Lonnie drew in shuddering breaths, even rocked on the bench a little, but didn’t comply.
“I said openyour mouth,” Summers commanded.
Looking nothing like the cocksure entertainer with whom the public was familiar, Lonnie writhed on the bench, his eyes brimming with tears. From between his closed lips came a weird mewling sound.
Summers leveled the gun at Lonnie. “If you wish, Lonnie, you may take Mr. Raft’s place tonight. Your blood is as potable as his.”
Lonnie glanced at Summers, his expression difficult to behold. Then, he turned to Raft and opened his mouth.
Where Lonnie’s tongue had been was now only a crimson mass of scar tissue.
“Yes,” Summers said, nodding. “Do what you do best, Lonnie. Save your own skin. Your tongue was a small price to pay the vampires, wasn’t it? After all, you’re not a slave to the thirst the way Clara is. You don’t have to commit murder.”
Clara gasped and turned away, her hands clamped over her ears. Raft stared at Summers and thought, You unfeeling son of a bitch.
Clara now stood at the edge of the spotlight, half-illuminated, half-enshadowed. Abandoned by the man she’d trusted, damned by the fate he’d thrust upon her.
It took all he had, but Raft forced himself not to go to her.
Summers’s grin grew predatory. “Sorry, friend. It’s all part of the chain. Clara needs sustenance, and you’re the lucky winner tonight.” He waved the revolver carelessly. “So what will it be? The bullet or the blade? The gun might be quicker, but the sickle is more intimate.” Brandishing the sickle, he studied Raft. “I know you want to be close to Clara. It was obvious the first time you laid eyes on her.”
Raft put a vise on his emotions. He chuckled, regarded his shoes, which he’d appropriated from the affluent businessman he’d murdered the night before. “It’s funny, Mr. Summers. I’ve never much liked the idea of someone draining my blood. I don’t think I’ll let that happen.”
Summers drew closer. “You’re acting like you have a choice, Mr. Raft. This is your end. This is—”
Raft swatted the revolver away. It skimmed off the tilted piano lid and tumbled off the stage. Bug-eyed, Summers tore down at him with the sickle, but Raft easily sidestepped the whooshing blade. His hand closed over Summers’s and squeezed. There was a dull cracking sound. Summers emitted a high-pitched groan and dropped the sickle.
Raft spun Summers around and seized him by the throat. Though she stood several feet away, he heard Clara’s sharp inhalation.
Summers’s face was going red, now indigo, his feet scissoring like a slumbering beagle chasing rabbits. Two feet off the ground Raft lifted him, and when Raft opened his mouth and revealed his daggerlike canines, Summers’s eyes shot wide, a frightened moan escaping from his diminishing airway.
“Play it,” Raft ordered.
Like a red-haired statue, Lonnie only gawped at him. Raft jerked his head around, pierced the musician with an orange-eyed glare. “Play the goddamned song. Now.”
Lonnie jolted, looking paler than usual, and cleared his throat. Moments later, the first few notes of “Night and Day and in Between” began to sound.
Summers was slapping at Raft’s squeezing hand, frantic now, but Raft paid the dying manager no mind. He craned his neck farther—God, his range of motion was extraordinary, just one of the innumerable improvements born of the Change—and regarded Clara. Her eyes were rapturous.
“Miss Russell,” Raft said, “I’d be honored if you’d drink with me.”
She started forward, but he brought up his free hand, then blushed when he realized how brusque the gesture had been. “I’m . . . forgive me, Miss Russell. But I’m like a kid right now . . . all aflutter.” He ventured a feeble smile. “I’m wondering though . . . could you maybe sing for me?” A sideways nod at Summers, whose fingernails were digging moist troughs in the back of Raft’s hand, wounds that would soon heal, just like his lung cancer. “I can make him last awhile longer.” Raft swallowed. “I promise he’ll be fresh when you’re done.”
Clara spared Summers only a quick glance before her eyes latched onto Raft’s. He was pleased to note the way her smooth chest heaved, the keen interest reflected in her blue eyes, which had begun to glint orange when they caught the arc light.
Lonnie, who’d been repeating the opening preamble as they’d spoken, nodded like it was none of his business, provided Clara with a preparatory flourish, and began to accompany her.
“Sun and moonlight start to
fade,” she sang, her voice smokier, sultrier than it had been. “Dead along the promenade.”
Raft’s body untensed, a sigh drizzling over him like a soothing July rain. Distantly, he felt Summers tear through the tendon of Raft’s index finger, but that didn’t matter. It would heal within the hour. Right after he guzzled Summers’s blood.
Clara was smiling at him.
“Night and day and in between,” she sang. “You’re the one who haunts my dreams.”
***
. . . and when it ended, and Lonnie’s fingers tinkled out those final silvery notes, Summers was dead, limp and purple in Raft’s grasp. He had no idea when he’d killed the nightclub manager. Maybe during the second verse, perhaps nearer the song’s end. At any rate, he and Clara fed together, spreading Summers’s body on the Steinway’s now-closed lid and starting, out of mutual courtesy, on separate wrists. Their drinking was polite at first, almost shy. As Raft had instructed, Lonnie was playing another tune, Cole Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave,” and though the pianist’s fingering was stiffer than usual, Raft thought he acquitted himself well, all things considered.
Clara requested Gershwin’s “Primrose,” and as Lonnie, her erstwhile boyfriend, started on the melody, Clara turned her lambent orange eyes on Raft. She didn’t need to ask the question. He merely nodded, indicating the dead man’s throat, and, her blood-moist chest heaving, Clara sank her teeth into Summers’s jugular.
When she’d fed, she peered up at Raft guiltily, but he made sure he wore his broadest grin to show her it was all right.
And it was. For the first time in months, everything was as it should be.
“I looked for you at the wharves,” Raft said.
Her orange eyes widened, some blue permeating the irises. “I hope they weren’t too rough with you.”