“We’re not made. She’s just looking. Two middle-aged guys sitting in the car on the city street—it’s unusual.”
If Cavuto was a bear, then Rivera was a raven—a sharp-featured, lean Hispanic, with just a touch of gray at the temples. Lately he’d taken to wearing expensive Italian suits, in raw silk or linen when he could find them. His partner was in rumpled Men’s Wear house. Rivera often wondered if Nick Cavuto might not be the only gay man on the planet who had no fashion sense whatsoever.
The knock-kneed kid with the raccoon eye makeup was making her way across the street toward them.
“Roll up your window,” Cavuto said. “Roll up your window. Pretend like you don’t see her.”
“I’m not going to hide from her,” Rivera said. “She’s just a kid.”
“Exactly. You can’t hit her.”
“Jesus, Nick. She’s just a creepy kid. What’s wrong with you?”
Cavuto had been on edge since they’d pulled up an hour ago. They both had, really, since the guy named Clint, one of the night crew from the Marina Safeway, had left a message on Rivera’s voice mail that Jody Stroud, the redheaded vampire, had not left town as she had promised, and that her boyfriend, Tommy Flood, was now also a vampire. It was a very bad turn of events for the two cops, both of whom had taken a share of the money from the old vampire’s art collection in return for letting them all go. It had seemed like the only option, really. Neither of the cops wanted to explain how the serial killer they’d been chasing had been an ancient vampire, and how he’d been tracked down by a bunch of stoners from the Safeway. And when the Animals blew up the vampire’s yacht—well, the case was solved, and if the vampires had left, it would have all been good. The cops had planned to retire early and open a rare-book store. Rivera thought he might learn to golf. Now he was feeling it all float away on an evil breeze. A cop for twenty years, without ever so much as fixing a traffic ticket, then the one time you take a hundred thousand dollars and let a vampire go, the whole world turns on you like you’re some kind of bad guy. Rivera was raised a Catholic, but he was starting to believe in karma.
“Pull out. Pull out,” Cavuto said. “Go around the block until she goes away.”
“Hey,” said the broken clown girl. “You guys cops?”
Cavuto hit the window button on his door but the ignition was off, so the window didn’t budge. “Go away, kid. Why aren’t you in school? Do we need to take you in?”
“Winter break, brain trust,” said the kid.
Rivera couldn’t hold the laugh in and he snorted a little trying to.
“Move along, kid. Go wash that shit off your face. You look like you fell asleep with a Magic Marker in your mouth.”
“Yeah,” said the kid, examining a black fingernail, “well, you look like someone pumped about three hundred pounds of cat barf into a cheap suit and gave it a bad haircut.”
Rivera slid down in his seat and turned his face toward the door. He couldn’t look at his partner. He was sure that if it was possible for steam to come out of someone’s ears, that might be happening to Cavuto, and if he looked, he’d lose it.
“If you were a guy,” Cavuto said, “I’d have you in handcuffs already, kid.”
“Oh God,” Rivera said under his breath.
“If I were a guy, I’ll bet you would. And I’ll bet I’d have to send you to the S and M ATM, because the kinky shit is extra.” The kid leaned down so she was eye level with Cavuto, and winked.
That was it. Rivera started giggling like a little girl—tears were creeping out the corners of his eyes.
“You’re a big fucking help,” Cavuto said. He reached over, flipped the ignition key to “accessory,” then rolled up his window.
The kid came over to Rivera’s side of the car.
“So, have you seen Flood?” she asked. “Cop?” She added “cop” with a high pop on the p, like it was punctuation mark, not a profession.
“You just came out of his apartment,” Rivera said, trying to shake off the giggles. “You tell me.”
“Place is empty. The douche nozzle owes me money,” said the kid.
“For what?”
“Stuff I did for him.”
“Be specific, sweetheart. Unlike my partner, I don’t threaten.” It was a threat, of course, but he thought he might have hit pay dirt, the kid’s eyes opened wide enough to see light.
“I helped him and that redheaded hag load their stuff into a truck.”
Rivera looked her up and down. She couldn’t have weighed ninety pounds. “He hired you to help him move?”
“Just little crap. Lamps and stuff. They were like, in a hurry. I was walking by, he flagged me down. Said he’d give me a hundred bucks.”
“But he didn’t?”
“He gave me eighty. He said it was all he had on him. To come back this morning for the rest.”
“Did either of them say where they were going?”
“Just that they were going to leave the City this morning, as soon as they paid me.”
“You notice anything unusual about either of them—Flood or the redhead?”
“Just day dwellers, like you. Bourgeois four-oh-fours.”
“Four-oh-Fours?”
“Clueless—Pottery Barn fucktards.”
“Of course,” Rivera said. He could hear his partner snickering now.
“So you haven’t seen them?” the kid said.
“They’re not coming, kid.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know that. You’re out twenty dollars. Cheap lesson. Go away and don’t come back here, and if either of them contact you, or you see them, call me.”
Rivera handed the kid a business card. “What’s your name?”
“My day-slave name?”
“Sure, let’s try that one.”
“Allison. Allison Green. But on the street I’m known as Abby Normal.”
“On the street?”
“Shut up, I have street cred.” Then she added, “Cop!” like the chirp of a car alarm arming.
“Good. Take your street cred and run along, Allison.”
She shuffled off, trying to swivel nearly non ex is tent hips as she went.
“You think they left the City?” Cavuto asked.
“I want to own a bookstore, Nick. I want to sell old books and learn to golf.”
“So that would be no?”
“Let’s go talk to the born-again Safeway guy.”
Four robots and one statue guy worked the Embarcadero by the Ferry Building. Not every day. Some days, when it was slow, there were only two robots and a statue guy, or on rainy days, none of them worked, because the silver or gold makeup they used to color their skin didn’t hold up well in the rain, but as a rule, it was four robots and one statue guy. Monet was the statue guy—the ONLY statue guy. He’d staked his territory three years ago, and if some poseur ever showed up, he had to meet Monet on the field of stillness, where they would clash in the motion-free battle of doing absolutely nothing. Monet had always prevailed, but this guy—this new guy—was really good.
The challenger had been there when Monet arrived in the late morning, and he hadn’t even blinked for two hours. The guy’s makeup was perfect, too. He looked as if he had really been bronzed, so it was beyond Monet why he would choose to get his collections in Big Gulp cups that he’d jammed his feet into. Monet carried a small portfolio case, with a hole cut in it where tourists could stuff their bills. He had primed his money hole with a five today, just to show the challenger that he wasn’t intimidated, but the truth was, after two hours, he hadn’t made half of what he saw the newcomer take in, and he was intimidated. And his nose itched.
His nose itched and the new statue guy was kicking his ass. Normally Monet would change positions every half hour or so, then stand motionless while the tourists taunted him and tried to make him flinch, but with the new competition, he had to stay still as long as it took.
The robots on the promenade had all assumed pos
es from which they could watch. They only had to hold still until someone dropped cash into their cup, then they would do the robot dance. It was boring work, but the hours were good and you were outside. It looked like Monet was going down.
Sundown.
He felt like his ass was on fire.
Tommy came to to the sound of a riding crop being smacked against his bare butt and the rough bark of a woman’s voice.
“Say it! Say it! Say it!”
He tried to pull away from the pain but couldn’t move his arms or legs. He was having trouble focusing his vision—waves of light and heat were rocketing around his brain and all he could really see was a bright red spot with waves of heat coming off of it and a figure moving around the edges. It was like staring into the sun through a red filter. He could feel the heat on his face.
“Ouch!” Tommy said. “Dammit!” He pulled against his bonds and heard a metallic rattling, but nothing gave.
The red hot light went away and was replaced by the blurry form of a female face, a blue face, just inches away from his own. “Say it,” she whispered harshly, spitting a little on the “it.”
“Say what?”
“Say it, vampire!” she said. She whipped the riding crop across his stomach and he howled.
Tommy squirmed against his bonds and heard the rattling again. With the spotlight moved away, he could see that he was suspended by very professional-looking nylon restraints to a brass, four-poster bed frame that had been stood on end. He was completely naked and evidently the blue woman, who was dressed in a black vinyl bustier, boots, and nothing else, had been whaling on him for some time. He could see welts across his stomach and thighs, and well, his ass felt like it was on fire.
She wound up to smack him again.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tommy said, trying not to screech. He only realized then that his fangs were extended and he’d bitten his own lips.
The blue woman held up. “Say it.”
Tommy tried to keep his voice calm. “I know you’ve been doing this for a while now, but I’ve only been awake for about a minute of it, so I have no idea what you are asking me. If you slow down and repeat the whole question, I’ll be happy to tell you what ever I know.”
“Your safety word,” said the blue woman.
“Which is?” Tommy said. He noticed for the first time that she had enormous boobs spilling out of that bustier and it occurred to him that he had never seen big blue boobs before. They were kind of mesmerizing. He wouldn’t have been able to look away even if he weren’t strapped down.
“I told you,” she said, letting the riding crop fall to her side.
“You told me what a safety word is?”
“I just told you what it is.”
“So you know it, then?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then why are you asking?”
“To see if you’re at your breaking point.” She seemed to be pouting a little now. “Don’t be a dick, this isn’t my specialty.”
“Where am I?” Tommy asked. “You’re Lash’s Smurf, aren’t you? Are we at Lash’s?”
“I’m asking the questions here.” She snapped the riding crop against his thigh.
“Ouch! Fuck! Stop that. You have issues, lady.”
“Say it!”
“What is it? I was asleep when you told me, you stupid bitch!” He was wrong, he was able to look away from the blue boobs. He snarled at her, something coming up from deep inside him that he didn’t even recognize—something that felt wild and on the verge of out of control—like when he first made love with Jody as a vampire, only this felt—well, lethal.
“It’s Cheddar.”
“Cheddar? Like the cheese?” He was getting beating because of cheese?
“Yes.”
“So I said it. Now what?”
“You’re broken.”
“’Kay,” Tommy said, straining against the heavy nylon straps, understanding now what he was feeling. He was going to kill her. He didn’t know how yet, but he was as certain of it as of anything he had ever known. Grass was green, water was wet, and this bitch was dead.
“So now you have to turn me,” she said.
“Turn you?” he said. His fangs ached, like they were going to leap out of his mouth.
“Make me like you,” she said.
“You want to be orange? Is this another Cheddar thing? Because—”
“Not orange, you nitwit, a vampire!” she said, and she snapped the riding crop across his chest.
He bit his lips again and felt the blood running down his chin. “So for that you needed all the hitting?” He said. “Come over here.”
She leaned up and kissed him, then pushed away hard and came away with his blood on her mouth. “I guess I’m going to have to get used to this,” she said, licking her lips.
“Closer,” Tommy said.
16
Being the Chronicles of Abby Normal: Completely Fucked Servant of the Vampyre Flood
OMFG-W00T! I have failed, left my duty undone, like so much dog poop on the gloaming sidewalk of the tragedy that is my life. Even as I sit here at the Metreon Starbucks, writing this, the froth slaves seem to move like silver-eyed zombies and my nonfat, soy Amaretto Mochaccino has gone as bitter as snake bile. (Which is like the bitterest bile you can get.) If there wasn’t a totally hot guy two tables away, acting like he doesn’t notice me, I would weep—but real tears make your mascara run, so I’m staying chilly in my despair. Your loss, cute guy, for I have been chosen. Suffer, bitch!
I had to leave Lord Flood to his own devices last night, but before I left, I confessed my undying love for him. I am a hopeless hose beast. All I had to do was say good-bye, but no, I just barked it out. It’s like he has this power over me—like I have an eating disorder and he’s a package of Oreo Double Stuff cookies. (I don’t have an eating disorder, I’m just skinny because I enjoy eating mass quantities and then yakking it back up. It’s not a body-image problem. I think my system has always wanted to live on a liquid diet, and until I’m brought into my Dark Lord’s loving embrace, then it’s Starbucks for me.)
I have been trying to call my Dark Lord and the Countess all day on their cells, but I kept getting voice mail. Well, duh—they’re vampires. They won’t be answering the phone. I’m such a tard sometimes.
So I went to the old loft early this morning, in fact even before dawn. I should be, like, made a Brontë sister for coming up with a story to get out of the house that early, but I wanted to talk to the master before his slumber. Thing was, the scary drunk guy and his huge cat were gone, but so were my master and the Countess. Everything had been moved except the statue of the turtle and the Countess.
So I rolled out, headed for the new loft I rented, when I spotted two cops sitting in a POS brown car. I knew they were vampyre hunters right away. It must be the master’s dark powers rubbing off on me. There was a big fat gay cop and a sharp-faced Hispano-cop.
So I was like, “Could you guys look any more like cops?”
And they were like, “Move along, little lady.”
So I was forced to point out to them that they were not the boss of me and then I proceeded to humiliate them by verbally bitch-slapping them until they cried. What is it about the crusties? Their minds work so slowly that you have to, like, prompt them to stand up so you can slap them again until they faint like the little wuss-bags that they are. I never want to be crusty. And I won’t be, because my Lord will bring me into the fold and I shall stalk the night for eternity, my beauty forever preserved as it is, except I’d like a little bigger boobs.
Anyway, I wandered around on Market Street and up in Union Square to give the cops enough time to slink off to lick their wounds, then I returned to the master’s street to check the new loft. This time there was this Asian guy sitting across the street in a Honda, looking all Manga-cool, but it was obvious that he was watching the loft door. He didn’t look like a cop, but he was definitely watching, so I stopped and pretended t
o watch the sculptors work who have the space under the master’s old loft. They are these two crusty biker guys, but they do some amazing shit. They’d left the garage door open so I stepped in.
They were putting dead chickens on wires and dipping them in silver paint, then hanging them on sticks by the wires.
So I was all, “What the fuck, biker? What are you doing?”
And one of them was like, “It’s almost the year of the cock.”
And I was all, “Don’t be gross, you crustacious fuck. You pull that thing out and I’ll pepper-spray you until you fry.” (You have to be stern with weenie waggers—I’ve been exposed to on the bus over seventeen times, so I know.)
And he was like, “No, it’s the year of the cock in the Chinese zodiac.”
Which I knew, of course.
“We’re making statues,” said the bigger biker, who was named Frank. (The other one’s name was Monk. He didn’t talk much, which might explain the name.)
So they showed me how they took real dead roosters they bought in Chinatown, ran wires through them to pose them, then dipped them in a thin metallic paint, then put them in this big tank and attached electric clips to them. They pass some current through the clips and the current attracts bronze molecules or something to the metallic paint. It’s like instant bronze rooster. I thought about the statue of the Countess upstairs and got a little creeped out.
So I’m all, “You ever do a person?”
And they were like, “No way, that would be wrong. You’d better go now, because we’re behind and don’t you have school and stuff?”
So walking out, I saw the Asian guy checking me out and I was like, “Hey, it’s almost the year of the cock. Shouldn’t you be out shopping for one?”
He looked really nervous, but he kinda grinned. Then started his car and drove off, but he wants me, I can tell, so he’ll be back. I hope he wants me. He was so cute—in that Final Fantasy Thirty-Seven way. What I’m saying is, the Sex Fu is strong with this one.
You Suck Page 12