“Yes, dear,” Samantha says. “That’s just about it.”
Mirabelle sighs. “That doesn’t seem fair. I like you guys,” she says, and I say to myself, you gotta love the ghost of a whore with a heart of gold.
Samantha smiles warmly at my little Mirabelle. “Thank you, honey. That’s very sweet of you. And I like you.”
“As do I,” Dracula says.
And for a moment, there is silence.
Well, shit on a stick, I think to myself. Friendly vampires. Fangs with Fuzzy Feelings. Nice Folk Nosferatus, just hanging out, drinking scotch with old Dick and his squeeze, the phantom Mirabelle.
I consider this, then take another moment to just stare at both Dracula and Samantha. I finally nod, weary to the bone, the events of the day fully caught up to me … along with the scotch.
“Tell me,” I say wearily, “why both of you are cops.”
“One has to do something to make a living, Dick,” Dracula replies. “And being a cop in Monster Vice allows Samantha and myself to maximize our talents for destroying the evil opposition.”
I nod and sigh.
“Okay. Thanks. What a story.” I then walk over to the window. I glance at my watch, and see that the sun is beginning to rise. I realize my companions and I have been talking for hours. I look to them now. “So now what? Where do we go from here?”
“The big question, Dick, is do you want to go anywhere from here with us as your partners?”
A good question, and the answer flies unhesitatingly from my lips, catching me off guard. “Of course. I’d be a fool not to work with you. You’re assets. That, and you’re not trying to fang me on a moment to moment basis.”
“Excellent,” Dracula says. “Then our work lies before us. And it will be daunting work at that. I give ourselves one out of ten chances of survival against the Master and his minions, based on the sheer preponderance of numbers in his favor.”
“I was sooo afraid you’d say that.”
“The Grand Master, like ourselves, is close to shutting down for the day to come. But by tonight, he will surely come searching for us, Dick. You – and Samantha and myself. He will never forgive our intrusiveness from a few hours ago.”
“I figured as much.”
“If it’s alright with you, we’ll return here tomorrow at sunset, then strategize.”
“There must be something I can do today, something to give us an edge,” I say.
“Yes, there is,” Dracula says.
“What?”
“Stay alive.”
I’m about to respond quickly that this is not a problem … but I see Dracula’s point. Every day in Monster Vice lowers the statistical probability of continued survival. I nod, then look to Mirabelle. “Alright, I’ll work on that one.
Dracula and Samantha rise, and head for my front door.
“It must be a helluva life,” I say to them.
They regard one another, and Samantha nods. “It is. I wish I could say it is a happy life. But you probably know that’s not true.”
“Join the club,” I say.
“See you tomorrow, Dick. And thank you for your understanding.”
They turn in unison, and are about to exit my apartment.
“Dracula. What happened to Pontius Pilate?”
He turns and looks at me and smiles. “I don’t know, Dick. He disappeared one day. We were traveling companions for a time … but then he just wasn’t there one day.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
Dracula sighs. “I believe in every vampire’s existence, there is a time to evaporate into the fog of time. If not to die, then simply to hide. He may be dead, he may not be. Or he may be waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Again, I don’t know. This is all theory for me, conjecture.”
I nod and think about what Dracula has said. I shake my head and whisper: “I think I would kill myself after a time. To live so long, to be the vanguard of so much purported evil – the poster boy for villainy.”
Dracula seems to consider this with true thoughtfulness. “Yes. You may be right.”
He then turns, and with Samantha, exits through my door, closing it behind them.
I stare at my door for a moment, shaking my head.
“Jesus H. Christ,” I say.
“Dick?”
I turn, and see Mirabelle staring at me from the sofa.
“Yes, Mirabelle?”
“Can I stay with you for awhile?”
She didn’t even need to ask.
“I was hoping you would, sweetheart.”
She smiles.
“And I’m going to check up on your daughter today. I promise.”
Mirabelle floats over to me, and kisses me.
“Thank you.”
She then begins to cry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The sun is fairly low in the sky when I awake, and for a moment, I think it is a little past dawn. But in fact, I’ve slept away most of the day, and it is already late-afternoon.
I remember that Mirabelle had left me almost immediately after we had sex hours earlier. One moment she was there, and in the next second, she was gone. She does not say good-bye. Like a thought, fleeting and insubstantial, she evaporates into the ether. I sigh, suddenly feeling very empty. I ache all over, and my leg still hurts from the chewing Jules gave me earlier at the Pole Pony. Since I am already Bit, a vampire attack short of one involving decapitation or disembowelment, has little other effect on me, aside from causing annoying pain and discomfort.
I jot down a to-do list mentally of today’s activities. I will report my findings on the Grand Master to HQ. Of course, I will edit that report accordingly, not mentioning that, by the way, two of Monster Vice’s Finest are vampire police officers. I did not need to ask Dracula or Samantha if their anonymity was something that needed to be protected. Duh. A no-brainer.
After a much needed shave and shower, I feed Little Prick, who has decided for reasons unfathomable, to allow me to pet him (perhaps, though, it is because I provide an extra large helping of breakfast in the cat bowl). Zelig from Monster Vice has emailed me, but it is simply a query as to my well-being, not a demand to know what the fuck-all I’ve been doing for the day. I reply that I’m fine, laying low, then enter my report into the computer, and send it off, not yet wanting to put in an appearance downtown. I have things to do, and promises to keep.
It’s around 4pm, and there’s still stuff on my agenda. I take a hurried piss, throw on some cologne, then jump in to the car and head for the first chore of the day.
* * *
The first orphanage in Los Angeles was established in 1856 by the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul at the corner of Alameda and Macy, where Union Station now stands. The hospital that grew out of the orphanage was the first in Los Angeles as well, officially opening in 1858 in the Aguilar Adobe on Upper Main Street. St Vincent Medical Center even has a museum and archive at Third and Alvarado. It is home to many ghosts and spirits – a place festooned with the floating undead. These wandering souls are mainly children of crack-addict mothers or suicides – perennial victims of the streets of Los Angeles, and worsened by the Popov Incident and murder rate that has risen a hundred percent from vampires and werewolf attacks.
I will keep my word to Mirabelle and visit her daughter at the orphanage. Afterwards, I will check in on my sister-in-law, and my nephews. I cannot quell a constant sense of anxiety within myself as I head south on the Hollywood Freeway for St. Vincent de Paul. The source of my uneasiness is not hard to discern: For it is an official and unequivocal fact that werewolves now walk on holy ground and that the Grand Master is alive and well (sorta), and presumably looking to draft as many children as possible into the ranks of the mean and blood-hungry. Further, if vampires like Dracula and Samantha can move about with relative impunity during the day, if only for the briefest of durations, it is logical to assume that other vampires have figured out a way to do li
kewise – and if not now, then sometime down the line.
I am, my fellow malchiks, with these gentle thoughts rambling, tempted to begin drinking right about now. But I am determined to exert some measure of self control – a measure of self-resolve that I will levy upon myself for at least another half an hour.
I turn off the Alvarado exit and notice a bevy of pigeons tearing at some stale bread along the sidewalk. Vampire food, I say to myself. Mommy, look: Little feathered finger-sandwiches, waiting to be scarfed down by a hungwy wampire. Yum, yum. Make sure you chew the beak, honey. Isn’t that special.
I’ve been awake less than an hour, and I’m already punch-drunk.
My mind rifles itself back to last night, and our encounter with the Grand Master. Dracula has maintained that our chances of prevailing against this Super Vampire are extremely low. And yet, even super creatures are vulnerable … this much I am sure of. I reviewed, as a kind of mental exercise, what I understood of vampire pathophysiology.
The human body contains six quarts of blood. Your basic bloodsucker can scarf that down inside of a New York Minute, then be ready for an extra helping just seconds later. They’re like seagulls, always famished, always possessed of the urge to snack. Yet what drives them to feed? So far, science had yet to find a reason – the mystics were way ahead of us on this one – vampires, quite simply, were intrinsically evil.
Monster Vice actually collared a Tuti last year and dissected it; we fed it some pretty choice hemoglobin, laced in about a pound of Vicadin. The Tuti never really fell asleep, but it sure didn’t put up a hassle once we cut into it. The collar was historically significant because a Tuti had never been hauled in before — either here in L.A. or across the world - and our Med Techs wanted to see what made the monsters tick. Correction, until Dracula had informed me that he had collared a Master himself.
And yes, in case you’re wondering, I was the cop who made the collar and lived to tell about it here on the West Coast.
As it turned out, the vampire simply doesn’t possess a normal set of internal organs. Well, a normal set of internal organs that function on a human level, anyway. This is not, however, an impediment to the bloodsucker’s talent for locomotion and flying, or transformation to animal or winged beast. So, logically, one must assume that a vampire does not exist according to the laws of existing biology. It operates under its own rules and order. Forget about trying to attach a subset of logical protocols to their lives … such as could be characterized. Couldn’t be done.
Fine.
Wonderful piece of deductive reasoning, I think. Nothing new. The guys at a thousand laboratories all over the world would say as much. Vampire. Evil. Supernatural. End of story, and just deal with it.
I pull up to the orphanage, find a parking place, and turn the car off. I still feel anxious.
Fucking vampires, they really get under your skin.
And now, according to the Grand Master, we have kid vampires to deal with. I’ve never had to stake a kid before. I don’t know if I could, in all honesty. The freeze reflex could kick in, and that would be a bad thing indeed. Somehow, I would have to inure myself to that potential scenario.
The foyer to the orphanage feels more like the anteroom to a morgue, versus a caretaking hospice for parentless juveniles. There is a dreadful stillness to the place, and I see no one in the halls, nor hear the pitter-patter of little children’s feet nearby. All I see, seated behind a desk, is a rather large woman who looks at me as if perhaps I was the most dangerous pedophile in the world. Maybe I’m just feeling vulnerable, perhaps that is only a look of intense professionalism she offers me. Yeah, probably. Then again…
“Excuse me,” I say, “I’m looking for a little girl.”
Already, I know that I have chosen the wrong words.
I try to be amusing, or at least charming. I chuckle, shake my head, and wave my mot mauvais to the four winds. “I mean, I’m looking for a particular little … a child of around eight.”
I stop. This is going from bad to worse.
The woman says nothing, but continues to stare coldly at me. I wonder if she has a loaded shotgun pointed at me from beneath the desk. Probably.
I then notice her eye-line as she continues to rudely stare without comment.
She is eyeballing my crotch.
The old lecherous cow, I think, realizing it is an unfair thought – that perhaps this poor woman has not been with a man for some time, and that my presence here – a robust example of middle-aged pulchritude – causes her to stare at my nethers with unabashed fascination.
I sigh. I guess I still have some kind of magic, I think. I am mildly flattered.
But she continues staring. It is almost too much. I sigh, and look down at my pants, wondering for a moment if I spilled something on them, and that indeed this gazing lady behind the desk is simply fascinated by my sloppy food spots rather than the concealed, tempestuous promise hidden within.
The urge to melt into something liquid is immediate.
For I see that my fly is open.
The urination process, clearly a hurried act of ten minutes earlier, ended with me forgetting to zip up the old Pecker Bat Cave. I remember that I have just recently asked, as of seconds ago, for a little girl, and a child … with my fly open.
Not a good first impression.
I moan in suppressed mortification, and quickly fumble with my pants.
“Sorry,” I whisper through a grunt. “These things happen.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do,” the receptionist replies without even trying to crack a sympathetic smile.
I catch my breath, regrouping, and take out my wallet and badge, and open it.
“I’d like to see Jennifer Wilson.”
The uber-receptionist glances at my badge, then looks back to me.
“May I ask why, Officer Pitts? Is she under arrest?”
No,” I offer a smile. “I just need to see her.”
“It’s very late for visitors. Visiting hours really end around four.”
“I know. But this is important.”
“I’m sure it is. Perhaps you could come by another time. The children have just finished their afternoon nap, and they’re preparing for their last classes of the day.”
Why does it feel like the whole world is fucking with me?
I hold back a rising surf of annoyance, and smile again.
“Another time would be inconvenient. And I won’t be long. Could you arrange for me to see her? Now, please?”
Godzilla-woman stares at me silently.
“Before the next ice age?” I smile again. I feel like my face is aching from all this forced friendliness.
The uber-receptionist stares at me for a moment longer, then rises, turns, and trundles out of sight.
I am alone, and I begin to have a strange feeling.
There is something wrong.
Terribly wrong.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My gun is withdrawn from my holster, and in my hand within one second, at most.
I move around the receptionist desk, and head into the main hallway where Strong-Like-Bull Receptionist-Lady disappeared to. There are doors on either side of me. I open one. A class-room within, I note, empty desks, a blackboard, a few bookcases. Onward.
Somewhere down the hall I can hear hissing. My heart begins to sink. And then from around the corner, I see it.
A kid. Around eight years old.
With fangs.
Blood dripping from his mouth.
His eyes staring at me with blind, voracious hate.
A vampire.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper so softly, I can barely hear the expletive that has escaped my lips.
The kid moves toward me very quickly, and I get off a shot that slams the little vampire against and through a pane window twenty feet away. I turn a corner, and find the uber-receptionist lying dead, her throat torn apart.
More hisses.
I come across another adult, a young woman o
f thirty, disemboweled. I almost slip on strewn intestines and pancreatic goo. The vampires, the little darlings, come into full view, unafraid. There are around six of them now, boys and girls who just wanna have some bloody fun. I realize what has happened in one galvanizing moment.
The Grand Master has been this way, and has fed.
More accurately, he has fed with intent to convert. The conversion has clearly been successful. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.
Suddenly, there is a scream – a child, I can tell – who is terrified and I shall presume, unbitten. The screams, shrill and desperate, emanate to my right in an adjoining hallway. I back up, not turning away from the vampire children, but back-pedaling quickly. Finally, I spin on my heel and run.
The screaming continues. A half open door looms ahead of me, and I crash through it. There, still screaming, and using a pillow as a kind of weapon, is a little girl, trying to fend off two other children, both girls – both now of the vampire persuasion. She looks at me, pleading and horror in her eyes.
The two little bloodsuckers turn to address my presence, and I put a bullet in each of their sweet little hearts. They drop to the ground quickly, but I know they will not stay down for long. I rush forward, and grab the child’s hand, as she begins to sob.
“It’s alright, honey. We’re getting out of here,” I say.
“They were my best friends,” she sobs.
“Are you hurt? Were you bitten?”
She shakes her head adamantly. “I hid in the closet when he came. When the big man came.”
The Grand Master.
“Sweety, you stay right behind me. Do not let go of my hand. Alright?”
She nods emphatically, her tears evaporating, as if something inside of her had suddenly kicked in – a survival instinct that defied a child’s sense of pain and heartbreak.
“What’s your name?”
“Jennifer,” she says softly, and I hear hisses down the hall once again.
“Jennifer Wilson?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Your mommy sent me, honey.”
“Mommy’s dead, mister.”
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