by Mark Allen
CHAPTER TEN
Back out on the street, the vampire sailed seamlessly through the crowd, cutting an unerring course through an ocean of people. A gentle breeze brushed his lank hair off his forehead. Various scents, smells, and odors wafted, swirling around him, overloading his senses: perfume, cologne, sweat, lavender soaps, semen, laundry detergent, menstrual blood. Occasionally, he intentionally brushed a shoulder here and there. He needed the brief physical contact as he hunted.
He did not detect those he chose to hunt, the worst of the worst – pimps, drug dealers, wife beaters, rapists, pedophiles. A young mother out for the first time in months, the vampire would give a pass. Likewise the father working two or three jobs to make ends meet and feed his kids. But if someone who fit his special criteria blundered across his path...
The vampire could be a messy eater.
He rounded a corner on Fourth and F, the heart of the Gaslamp, and stopped. Across the street, in the middle of the block, a large powder blue neon sign spelled out the word, FETISH in jagged, fractured letters.
He could smell prey even from this distance. The faintest hint of a smile curled his lip. This was his hunting ground for tonight. He had never hunted here before. He would never hunt here again. Security measures.
He noticed a line already forming at the entrance, replete with Fetish’s rather distinctive clientele: leather, Bondage, dominatrix, submissives, wannabes and posers who just dressed the part. Not his scene, that was for sure. Not as a man, and certainly not now. But people did what they did, and he was in no position to judge.
The vampire crossed the street with the light. Part of staying safe in this modern world was keeping his secret about what he really was. All he needed would be for a truck to plow into him doing forty, and him get up from the pavement with nothing more than a pissed off disposition.
He walked up to the end of the line and stood there. “Is the line moving?” he asked the young couple in front of him.
“We’ve been here about ten minutes,” the girl replied over her shoulder. “We haven’t moved at all.”
Her male companion nodded his pierced, bare, and tattooed skull. “Yeah. Man. Sucks, doesn’t it?”
Several minutes ticked by. The large muscular bouncer at the door stood impassively at the front of the line. The club entrance, a metal door adorned with several peeling layers of old paint, sexually explicit graffiti, and punk–inspired stickers, stood embedded in the white brick wall immediately to his right. The couple in front shifted their weight, the girl now clutching her arms across her chest. The tattooed young man pulled her closer, trying to warm her.
The vampire leaned forward, so they only could hear him. “Come on. Follow me.” Then he was moving to the aside of the line, towards the doorway and the enormous guard. The couple obediently moved in behind him.
The bouncer, whose nametag on his upper left pectoral proclaimed his name as Antoine, focused as they approached. His arms dropped to his sides.
Walking up, the vampire and offered his hand. “Good evening, sir.”
“Yeah. Good evening.” Antoine’s reply was merely perfunctory. He took the vampire’s cool hand, shook it, and his fingers curled around the three hundred dollar bills folded up in the vampire’s palm.
A quick glance into his own hand, and the bouncer looked at the three in front of him. “Can’t let you in,” Antoine said.
The vampire pulled out two more bills, slapped them into the bouncer’s waiting hand, approximately the size of a catcher’s mitt.
Antoine deposited the money into his pocket, then folded his arms across his chest once more. “Can’t let you in.”
The vampire understood completely.
“Well,” he finally sighed, holding out his hand once more, “You can’t blame a guy for trying. No hard feelings?”
Antoine, certain he had won the confrontation, thrust forward his Thanksgiving turkey - sized hand, and shook the vampire’s.
The smile on the vampire’s face disappeared. His mouth flattened into a cruel, thin line across the lower half of his face. His visage changed from disarming to sadistic in the blink of an eye.
Suddenly, the bouncer’s face froze. Confusion, surprise, and fear and pain washed over Antoine’s face as the tiny man in front of him crushed his hand in an impossibly viselike grip. He tried to reach out, break the grip with his other hand. The vampire in front of him simply batted it away as if it were nothing more than a minor nuisance.
Sweat appeared across Antoine’s upper lip and forehead. He tried reaching for his hand again, but the vampire batted the other arm away with a swing so strong it felt like being hit with an iron rod.
“What is the matter, sir?” the vampire asked calmly from behind his sunglasses. “Changing your mind, perhaps?” He tilted his head, inquisitive. Then the vampire compressed again, and this time rolled his right hand inward, towards his thumb.
Antoine, realizing he was in way over his head, let out a sharp cry as his arm twisted outward and a bone inside his wrist snapped. He grabbed his shoulder with his other hand, an instinctive ploy to prevent the shoulder socket from dislocating forward with a loud pop.
Antoine dropped to one knee. He grunted in agony. A tear formed at the corner of one eye, spilled downward across his cheek.
“Think you can let us in now?”
Antoine, the humiliated bouncer, desperate to escape, tried to form words, but no coherent speech came out. So he simply nodded yes.
“Get the door for us.” It was an order, given with a dismissive air. Antoine knew this creature in front of him saw him as nothing.
The vampire, never releasing his grip, helped the big man stand up. The injured bouncer reached for the door with his good hand, opened it, then moved aside. The vampire motioned for the couple to go in first. Scared by what they’d seen, they scurried inside.
The vampire turned his attention back to Antoine. He moved in close, so no one else could see. He took off his sunglasses.
The big man inhaled in panic as he dropped to one knee again.
“Do not scream,” the vampire ordered, a low, whispered warning.
Antoine the former bouncer obeyed. The vampire allowed his fangs to show for the first time.
“Never overestimate yourself. Never underestimate your opponent.” He made certain Antoine’s saucer eyes were on his fangs. “I am the last person on this entire planet you want to anger.” The vampire put his sunglasses back on. “We have an understanding then, yes?”
The vampire released his grip on the hapless human’s now useless hand. Antoine winced. His whole body seemed to sag. By the time he looked up, the vampire was already gone, inside.
Antoine looked up, hit by a tsunami of embarrassment. The partygoers and revelers he took so much pleasure in teasing, extorting, and otherwise fucking with, were all still there waiting to get in. Some looked worried. Some looked scared. Some grinned, exhilarated that he finally had gotten what he deserved.
He staggered to his feet with Herculean effort. He stood up, wobbly on unsteady legs. He still cradled his ruined appendage. He tried to put on a brave face. Epic fail. Everyone stood there, waiting.
Antoine the Defeated unlatched the velvet rope and let it drop to the ground. He stepped aside. “Go on in. I don’t care.”
He stepped further back as one girl stepped forward and opened the door for herself. She paused, looked over at him with compassion.
“Sorry about your hand.” Then she was inside.
The next person in line stepped up, followed by a couple. Then the rest began filling through the door so rapidly, the door had no chance to close between them.
Antoine watched the last one enter, the door slamming shut behind her. Suddenly alone on the sidewalk, he looked around. It was uncharacteristically quiet. He and heaved a great sigh.
“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath.
And then he turned and weaved erratically down the block, still tenderly cradling his wounded wr
ist in his other hand.
“You know, feeding you is starting to become a fulltime job,” Walt grinned over a Styrofoam container of mostly eaten cheese enchiladas, decimated refried beans, and untouched rice.
Reggie smiled as he wiped his mouth on a cheap napkin. “It’s much appreciated, Boss.”
“Maybe I can claim you as a dependent on next year’s taxes.”
Coulter and Downing sat at Coulter’s desk inside the fortified Boroquez building. It was pitch dark outside. Two lights on Coulter’s desk cast unfiltered, garish light at odd angles, partly obscured by deep blackness.
“Next time, you buy the grub.”
“Deal.”
“So what’s next for you?”
“This place is the best kept secret in the city,” Downing stated. “I’m staying in the duty room tonight.”
“Hell. Stay the weekend. There’s pizza in the fridge.”
“Can’t. Gotta keep moving. I will need to swing by my place.”
“That’s the first place they’ll look,” Coulter said.
“Not my cover flat. My real place.”
“They know who you are,” Coulter continued. “They probably know everything.”
“I have to risk it.”
“You need to lie low. Go watch TV or something.”
Downing yawned. “Good idea.” He stood and gathered up the remnants of his meal container. “See you later.” He threw his garbage in a trashcan at the door.
Walt Coulter watched through the glass as Downing padded deeper into the building. He disappeared into the shadows as he climbed the back stairs to the second floor. From his office, Coulter could hear the aged wood creak under Downing’s weight. When Downing made it to the duty room, Coulter knew. The boards stopped creaking, silence followed.
Coulter turned back around in his desk. He pushed his meal trash aside with a swipe of his left arm. He grabbed his keyboard and pulled it close to him.
He began typing furiously.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FETISH undulated with wall-to-wall people. Drinks as colorful and as varied as the customers floated in their hands. Some people leaned in close to speak, others to hear over the din of thrash metal music and thousands of conversations.
Everywhere one looked, leather corsets pushed breasts upwards, creating or accentuating cleavage. Leather pants and skinny jeans announced the young males’ endowments. A latex–clad, redheaded dominatrix with large breasts, flat stomach, and curvy hips lead her “slave”, an overweight middle-aged man wearing sneakers and an adult diaper, through the crowd. A black leather dog leash attached to the front of the silver spiked collar latched snugly around his thick neck. They headed single file towards the main bar.
Behavior would get you arrested elsewhere was “self-expression” here.
The entire place throbbed with house music, interspersed with the occasional cacophony of death metal. Blue, green, and red lights flashed in beat to the music. People danced anywhere and everywhere, even in line at the bar or the bathrooms.
Rick Oakley, wearing his trademark black T shirt and brown military bomber’s jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots, shoved his way through the crowd, trying to ignore as much of this hedonistic debauchery as he could.
He had work to do, so he continued through the pulsating people. He bumped into people, and sometimes people bumped into him. In some cases, people even groped him. The occasional hand, coming from any direction or no direction at all, and could be male or female, might grab his ass or cup his cock. Anywhere else, Rick would simply leave the offender lying in a puddle of their own blood.
But here, the rules were different. Acceptable interaction here was whatever went on between consenting adults. Body contact was inevitable, permitted, encouraged. If the place were to break out into a mass orgy of fornicating bodies, the owners would simply lock the main entrance and join in the fun.
No one Rick knew would be caught dead here. It was one of the reasons he’s chosen this place for a meeting.
In a corner booth to his left, he saw a young brunette woman thin and pale, crane her neck back, eyes closed in pleasure, as two men on either side of her kissed her mouth and neck, caressed her body. They already had her shirt open. One man caressed her pearly, smallish breast and teased his thumb over her nipple. The other one kissed her neck and had already snaked a hand up her leather mini skirt.
Oakley could not see fingers, but he saw the muscles in the young man’s forearms fluttering under the skin, so he knew those fingers were busy. Whatever he was doing under there, the girl liked it. She gasped, arched her back, started grinding her hips against his hand. A few more minutes, and she would be having intercourse with both men simultaneously, right there in the booth.
Self–expression, indeed!
As Oakley moved onward, movement to his right caught his eye. A young man had crawled under a cocktail table. The other man sitting in the chair leaned back, eyes closed, a serene smile on his face.
More self–expression.
Oakley’s eyes locked back on the booth in front of him. It was empty, which surprised him considering how crowded the place was. He snagged it before anyone else could. He sat down, eased himself back, made himself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as he could be in this type of place.
Regardless about cutting edge these people wanted to think all this was, the truth was, this was nothing new. Rick knew it. This entire scene, while definitely not his cup of tea, had existed for a long time, thousands of years in fact, and would continue well into the future, just underneath that thin veneer called Civilized Society.
From his seat, Oakley could see most of the club in front of him. The main bar did a bustling business, crackling along about forty feet to his right. Beyond that, the stairs jutted upwards, leading to the ground level main entrance. The DJ booth lurked near the back wall in front of him, with the dance floor in front of that.
To the left, people occupied more booths, partying, drinking, scoping out potential sex partners.
Kid stuff.
People at some of the other tables definitely walked a darker path. Drugs snorted, leashes pulled short, brutal kisses that left lips red with blood instead of lipstick.
Impatient, Rick Oakley glanced at his watch. His contact was running late. All Oakley wanted to do was get the hell out of here, go home, wash the stink of this place off him, and go to bed. He adjusted the large caliber handgun stuffed into the back waistband of his pants.
A buxom waitress sashayed over to him. Dressed in a black French Maid’s uniform, her hair dyed a raven black with streaks of fire engine red and a darker purple, her eyes cast off an impossible green color. Oakley assumed she wore contact lenses. She balanced herself deftly atop four-inch stiletto heels. Her smile was pretty, genuine.
He was old enough to be her father.
“What’ll ya’ have hon?” she yelled over the music.
Oakley leaned in to speak. “Diet Coke.” She nodded. “I’m expecting someone. Can I also have an ice water?”
“You bet.” She spun around on those impossible heels. Oakley was astounded she didn’t fall over. And then she moved away, swishing her ample ass at him until swallowed up by the crowd.
Oakley sat back, his old counterintelligence training kicking in. His eyes constantly scanned, moving up, down, from one side to another, doubling back, trying to catch something – anything! – out of place.
That’s when he saw The Predator.
Oakley would never forget that first sighting. The Predator revealed himself dimly, subtly, in the distance, across the room, partially obscured by partiers oblivious to the fact there were now TWO truly dangerous people in their midst. The Predator seemed detached, otherworldly. Like he had no real connection to the humanity around him. He moved fluidly as a wraith, ethereal as a wisp of smoke. He moved among them, aloof, not one of them.
Dressed in leather pants, a plain, unimportant shirt, and motorcycle jacket that seemed a part of him like
a second skin, this Predator simply curled past everyone else. Slow, meticulous, prowling. Scanning the heard.
On the hunt.
Oakley knew blood would spill tonight; life would drain away, crimson rivulets swirling down a back alley drain. Whoever this guy was looking, Oakley pitied them.
A portly, balding middle-aged man appeared. Looking pathetic, gasping like a fish out of water, he saw Oakley and headed directly toward him. The man’s face was red, blotchy, and sweaty. He obviously was not a regular here.
“Counselor. So nice of you to come.”
Michael C. Law, obese attorney to drug dealers, wiped his pudgy face with a white linen handkerchief. “What kind of place is this?”
“Somewhere we can talk without being disturbed.” Oakley motioned to the cushion beside him. “Take a load off.”
Law plopped down. He tugged at his drenched collar, loosened his damp tie. His skin lost some of its redness. He looked around, his head on a swivel.
“Relax, Counselor. No one is going to rape you here.”
The waitress returned, glasses balanced on a small serving tray. She placed the drinks in front of the two men. She gave a curious glance was Law, then looked at Oakley.
“That’ll be fifteen dollars, hon.”
Oakley put a twenty on her tray. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, hon. Anything else?”
“Just a bit of privacy.”
She looked incredulous. “In here? Good luck with that.”
Oakley grinned. “Good point.”
“I’ll be back later to check on you,” she said. She gave one more glance to the guy in the suit. He looked like he was going to throw up. “It’s okay, hon. Don’t take this shit seriously. No one else does.” Then, like the good waitress she was, she walked away.
Law continued looking around, aghast. He gulped the ice water in front of him. Oakley enjoyed seeing the normally smug, self-centered fat fuck in such acute discomfort.
“Let’s get this over with,” Law said.
Oakley’s grin vanished. Like a veil descending, he put his game face back on. “Very well, Counselor. Mr. Vargas wants to know what kind of shape Rudy Valdez is in.”