by Mark Allen
The vampire bent down and wiped his hand off on Chester’s clothing. He stood back up, calmly, pushed his glasses up on his nose. Slight One stood there, paralyzed. On any other night, the vampire might have felt sorry for him.
But not this night.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the Slight One. Slight One stepped back, but had nowhere to run. Slight One panicked and reached for the door. There was no outside knob or latch, just his frantic palm slipping over smooth metal.
Slight One’s hand snaked behind himself. Towards a weapon in his back pocket, the vampire assumed.
The vampire opened his mouth, bared his fangs.
Adrenaline kicked in for Slight One. In true fight or flight mode, he pulled a large lock blade knife out of his back pocket. He brought it up and out, opening the blade with his thumb. The blade, already in an arc, locked into place with an audible click!
Grunting with effort, Slight One caught the advancing vampire by surprise and actually managed to plunge the knife directly into his left chest. The blade buried a full four inches up to its hilt. The vampire coughed and growled, staggering backwards.
Slight One smiled, triumphant. “Take that, bitch. Fucking die!” He waited, expecting his enemy to fall to the pavement, as dead as Chester. “Fucking die!”
The vampire grimaced in pain, steadied himself on his feet. Slight One watched with a spreading satisfaction, confident this Stranger was dying, his chest cavity filling up with blood. His face fell when the vampire shook it his head, clearing it, as if shaking off a bad dream.
“Now look what you did,” the vampire chided. He gripped the knife embedded in his chest, and with one quick, sharp motion, pulled it out. No blood whatsoever. “You ruined my jacket.”
Slight One tried to not piss his pants.
“I got this jacket for over forty years ago. Do you know how hard it is to find one of these now?”
The vampire lifted the jacket away from his chest, and checked the wound inside. Through the jacket, ruined the shirt, between the ribs, and through the heart. Punctured the lung, too, dammit.
Painful as hell.
He would be fine by tomorrow night, of course, but that was not really the point, now was it? This bottle-blonde twinkle-dee arrogant little bastard had fucking stabbed him!
He tossed the knife over his shoulder. It clinked onto the ground somewhere behind him. Angry, vindictive, he focused on Slight One and surged forward.
“You know why this night has gone so bad for you?” he asked.
Slight One trembled, unable to speak, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
The vampire, slinging off his sunglasses, grabbed Slight One and hauled him up off his feet. “ Because my fangs are real.”
Slight One dangled several inches above the ground and stared downward at the unholy creature beneath him. Black eyes, bottomless.
Remorseless.
Evil.
The type of evil Slight One thought was hip, and edgy, and oh so cool; the type of evil he aspired to. But now he saw what Evil was, now understood for the first time what it took to carry something like that within oneself, and he realized this was out of his league.
His bowels moved involuntarily. The foul stench lifted upwards, and he began crying, blubbering for his life. All he wanted to do was go home.
The vampire, disgusted with Slight One’s cowardice even more than his smell, held him outwards so he did not get any of the loose stool dripping out the bottom of the pants legs on him. He set the hapless human on the ground, then grabbed him by the throat. With a forceful downward pressure, he forced his victim to his knees. He wrenched Slight One’s head back, so he had no choice but to look at him.
Slight One’s eyes bulged in deep, primitive, primordial fear. The last thing he saw in this world was the vampire’s gaping maw, lined with sharp teeth and fangs, descending savagely upon his throat. The vampire clamped down, cutting off respiration.
All that came out of Slight One was a small gasp and a gurgle.
His vision narrowed, the periphery fading to black. For a moment, it appeared as if he was peering down a long tunnel or section of pipe. There was something down there at the end. He could not make it out.
Then, even that fell behind a veil, thickening to black nothingness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Anxious and waiting for a phone call, sleep had eluded Antonio Vargas. Insomnia was his frequent visitor, so this came as no surprise.
He stood on the balcony of his twenty-fourth floor condo, with views of the bay to the west, the airport to the northwest. In the distance lay Point Loma, Ballast Point, and the great Pacific Ocean beyond. Of course, at three in the morning, the airport was dormant, and he could not see beyond the lights of the bay. The Ocean, deep black molasses, remained enwrapped in mystery.
Standing there in slippers, silk pajama pants and a matching robe left untied exposing his thickening middle, the cool night air clung to the hairs on the backs of his hands. Vargas could discern the tiny droplets clinging to his skin.
He could not move forward with his next order of business until he got the call, and he chaffed at waiting. As someone who ran a drug empire that generated three million dollars a day, he had not succeeded by being patient. But El Gecko’s death had come at an inopportune time. Antonio was overextended because of a legitimate real estate deal he had invested in. And with Downing still alive, Vargas found himself in a jam. His buyers were impatient for more product. If they did not buy from him, then they would buy from someone else.
Sighing, he pushed himself off the safety rail and padded inside, leaving the sliding glass door open. He walked across the living room’s thick carpeting and into the open-concept kitchen. He threw melting ice into a glass, poured Diet Soda from a two-liter bottle. Tan bubbles popped and fizzed on top as the darker liquid flooded over the ice cubes until they floated and clinked together.
The irony did not escape him.
He himself did not drink, smoke, or take drugs of any kind. He had tried all these things when he was younger, of course. He kept cigars in his humidor for friends and party guests, but that was it. He took medications prescribed by his doctor. He was no druggie. He just got rich by selling to people who were.
He sipped, felt the slightly acrid taste wash over his tongue and cascade down his throat. He gulped down half the glass right then.
Pure Nirvana.
Vargas retraced his path across the living room carpet, glass cradled in his hand at waist level. He stepped back out onto the frigid balcony. The lights of the Gaslamp glowed beneath him with pulsating energy, though the streets were mostly quiet now.
To the north, the area known as Banker’s Hill, where commercial and residential real estate merged and commingled, the lights were sparse. Looking right, his gaze drifted eastward, to a huge black hole in the night. Very few lights at all. Balboa Park, sleeping the night away. On the other side of the park rested the San Diego Zoo.
He sipped again, unsettled. He realized he was frequently unsettled these days. Insomnia. Tension headaches. Increased irritability. Stomach problems, too. Dyspepsia was a bitch. Getting worse.
Merely maintaining his status quo, just keeping what he had, had become a full time job. Doing what he enjoyed, the actual deals, had almost become incidental to that. The deals were easy. He only dealt with people he knew and had dealt with successfully before. He brought money; they brought drugs. He bought the drugs, and sold to his buyers down line. Hell, he was more like an Amway distributor than a drug dealer.
He again thought of getting out of the life. He had toyed with the thought a lot lately. Let someone younger and hungrier fight for the scraps. Sure, there could be a vacuum left if he split the scene, but nature abhors a vacuum. The others would be happy to fight over it. He could anoint his own successor, and retire to a non-extradition country. Easy peasey.
Antonio already had his “out” whenever he decided to use it.
&
nbsp; He had deposited fourteen million dollars, discreetly of course, over time in a bank in Costa Rica. He had bought that two bedroom, two bath bungalow on the beach just a few miles outside Puerto Limon, on the Atlantic side of the country.
A leather duffle hidden in his closet contained over forty thousand dollars in various world currencies, some toiletries, a handgun, and a change of clothes. He could grab the bag; leave everything in the apartment.
Be gone before anyone knew.
Instead of heading to the San Diego airport, which is what everyone on both sides of law enforcement would expect him to do, he would slip across the border at Otay Mesa or Calexico – NOT at San Ysidro - take a taxi a few miles to the airport, and pay cash for a flight to Costa Rica. He could be beyond American jurisdiction in a matter of minutes, and safe in his bungalow in less than eight hours.
As long as Vargas greased a few palms with the local officials, he could live there the rest of his life. American Law Enforcement would never touch him.
The wind kicked up, chilling him. He balanced his glass on the safety rail and pulled his robe around him. He tied the silk belt – it was actually more sash than belt – around his waist. It did not help.
The cell phone in his robe pocket lit up and vibrated in its staccato bzzt – pause pattern pleading for Vargas to answer. His hand snaked into the pocket, grabbed the phone and retrieved it. He grasped his glass off the railing as his thumb punched the button on the phone he now pressed to his ear.
“Vargas.”
At the other end of the line, Rick Oakley spoke. “Here’s what we know, sir.” Vargas listened, knowing Oakley would likely answer all his questions without him having to ask them.
“Is there anything else?” Vargas asked when Oakley completed his report.
“No sir.”
“When he’s done, send him to me.”
“Understood, sir.”
Vargas pressed the END CALL button without even looking. He sat down in one of the lounge chairs on the balcony. He sipped his drink, staring blankly out across the city nightscape.
He felt better now. Rudy had taken his pinch like a man and not told the cops anything. Vargas had figured that’s what would happen, but Rudy had never been arrested before. And you simply don’t know if a tough guy is truly tough until everything turns to shit, the world slides sideways. In times of adversity, people show the world precisely who they are. Rudy Valdez had proven himself worthy as far as Antonio Vargas was concerned.
Yet sleep still eluded him.
As a younger man, this had never been a problem for him. The more successful he became, the more plotting and strategy he had been forced to employ. Now, his entire life seemed like nothing more than one long chess game. He couldn’t go to the bathroom, or get laid without running a mental checklist of how it might affect the rest of his day, the rest of his week.
Hell. No wonder he couldn’t sleep.
His bed, a gigantic California King, squatted comfortably in the middle of his bedroom. Two women slept there. One white, and one Latina, both of them spent. Vargas could not remember their names, but he had appreciated both their enthusiasm, and their willingness to work together. But even after that delightful interlude, true peace still escaped him. They had fallen asleep on either side of him, and he knew the girls would welcome him back, all warm bodies, caressing hands and legs, soft kisses.
And yet he continued sitting in his chair on his balcony, staring out across the city at three in the morning. He considered yet again the matter of Reginald Downing. This sneaky bastard had infiltrated his organization. What a con he had perpetrated. Everyone had been fooled, Vargas included.
And that’s really what hurt most of all. Vargas had considered Downing – in the guise of Jorge – as more than simply an employee. He had considered him a confidant, and even a friend. Downing had deceived them all, plotting their downfall. What’s worse, Downing had all the intel to build a Federal case that would put them all in prison for life, perhaps send some to Death Row.
So Downing had to die, die, die. There was no going back. Even if he wanted to, he could not. His rivals, who already knew he was vulnerable now, would see it as weakness, and weakness around drug traffickers is like blood in shark-infested waters – it turns into a feeding frenzy.
Vargas did not like killing cops. It guaranteed law enforcement on your neck with relentless intensity. Cops considered an attack on one as an attack against all.
He considered alternatives, explored contingencies. He made a few more momentous decisions. Once done, he had a viable plan that tied up all loose ends.
For the first time in a long time, he felt rather good about things. Now all he had to do was work his plan. He held his cold glass up to his mouth and tilted backwards, draining the rest of his glass.
The showerhead exploded projectile water droplets downward into the vintage claw foot tub. The water warmed almost instantly, and was steaming up the bathroom mirror in less than a minute.
Stripped naked, the vampire stepped into the tub and closed the shower curtain around him, enshrouding himself in a plastic cocoon. Blood and makeup ran down his face and body, turned to rivulets coursing their way down his legs, off his feet. The cloudy water circled the drain once, maybe twice, before gurgling its way downwards through the pipes.
It had been after four in the morning when he finally pulled his Lexus to a stop in the parking area reserved for residents near his apartment. Still covered in sticky blood from earlier when he threw the two corpses into that nearby dumpster, he considered his options.
Checking quickly to make sure no one was out, he dashed at vampire speed from his car and up the stairs to his dark apartment door. There was no bulb in the light fixture above. He had taken it out long ago. He silently turned his key, opened the door a split, and dodged inside, a wisp of smoke, not really seen, only half-sensed.
Locking the door behind him, the vampire peeled off his bloody clothes as he walked. The punctured muscle in his chest twinged tenderly as it stretched and moved when he shucked off his jacket, and then his shirt.
Holding the garments in his hand, the vampire strode into the bathroom. Two laundry hampers waited by the door, side by side. The one nearer was for his regular laundry. The far one, lined with a plastic bag, was for clothes he needed to burn or otherwise dispose of. He tossed his clothes in this last one, then hooked the edge of the front of one foot on the heel of the other boot, and heaved upward.
His stocking foot came out easily. Standing on one leg, he raised the other foot upwards and inwards, making his legs look like he was creating the number 4. He grabbed the toe and heel of the remaining boot and pulled.
He inspected the boots closely. Some blood splatters remained, but nothing major. He placed them by the door, then peeled off his leather pants. Somehow no splatters had contaminated them.
Naked, the vampire moved to the toilet. He had not peed since waking up, and he had fed recently, so the need was great. He aimed towards the water and let go. What came out was not urine in the human sense. His body had ingested and filtered the plasma in the blood, so what came out was actually a more intense lemon yellowish fluid, thicker than water, almost syrupy. There was no pain in urination for him, as one might expect if a human eliminated such a viscous fluid. Rather, the vampire only felt a relief similar to what he had experienced in life. He wiped the last globules, which tenaciously hung to the underside of his penis, with a square of tissue paper.
As he finished up and his thoughts turned to taking a shower, a faint but familiar pressure in his lower abdomen made itself known. The vampire smiled. Of course, he thought. I’ve fed, and my last meal, already digested, must be eliminated.
He turned around and sat down on the toilet. He relaxed, clearing his mind. He realized this was an apt metaphor for his entire vampire existence. A lot of it was similar or the same, except for those parts that were different. And oh, those parts that were different...
The vampi
re realized he had finished defecating. Like billions of humans before him, he wiped, tossed the paper in the toilet. He stood up and reached out for the handle to flush.
His eye drifted down to the water. In it, submerged, was his scat. Intensely black, semisolid, and thick. Like roof pitch or road tar, with red tendrils drifting out, digested blood infusing into the surrounding water in the bowl. It looked just the same as it had been for over a hundred years.
No change at all.
The first time he had seen his own stool after he had been reborn to the night, he had been shocked and frightened. He was sure something was terribly wrong. He was certain some strange malady afflicted his body. Well, of course a strange malady afflicted his body. And of course, something was indeed terribly wrong. He was a vampire.
He had immediately gone to a library. Large cities like Hoboken, right across the river from New York, had libraries open very late indeed. Some of the finer ones even had separate reading and smoking rooms. One could even order a scotch or a whiskey, if one was so inclined. One could spend several hours in the evening in one, large, quiet, baroque room of the library, sip whisky (or scotch!), smoke a cigar, and read newspapers, magazines, or books. One would be left alone in peace. One could wile away half the night there, if one was so inclined.
The vampire had calmed himself during the walk to the venerable old building. He had wondered briefly why it was that library buildings, no matter what their true age, always looked old, stodgy, and ready to crumble at any moment? Walking in out of the night, he had asked the librarian on duty for the Medical Reference section.
She had glanced up blandly from her bookkeeping work, then her mouth fell open in shock. His fedora brim pulled down low, he had tilted his pointed chin downward to cover his eyes from her. If she had seen his eyes, she would have screamed. Then he would have had no choice but to kill her.