Vampyres of Hollywood

by Adrienne Barbeau; Michael Scott

  I had to hand it to her, she was one cool number. “You know these guys, I take it,” I said.

  She crossed over to her assistant, who was still holding the tray in her shaking hands, and took it from her. “Sit down, Maral,” she said, “and pour yourself a glass of cognac. Everything’s under control.” Then she turned back to me and the jerk I still had a grip on. “Thomas is my business partner, the head of development at Anticipation. That’s Neville Travis.” She motioned to the skinny guy with an addict’s sniff, standing just inside the doorway. “DeWitte’s boyfriend and the former director of Hallowed Night. And the one with the arms and facial hair is what passes for Thomas’s security. Anthony, right?”

  Mr. Beefcake gave a short nod up and down.

  “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this,” I said. “I’m going to let go of your arm, Mr. DeWitte, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut until I check Anthony for weapons. If you say anything, if you move, I’ll cuff you.” I let him back down to the ground. “Good. Not a sound. Now you can have a seat if you want.”

  He kept quiet but stayed standing. I patted the bodyguard down and plucked a Skorpion vz.61 submachine pistol from his belt—a ten-round fully loaded Skorpion. He was also carrying a Taser, a NATO military switchblade, two extra ten-round clips for the Czech gun, a flat boot knife strapped to his right calf, and a brass knuckle-duster. No wonder he was wearing combat pants. He could have used a suitcase. I dropped them all on the couch beside me and slipped the knuckle-duster onto my left hand. It fit like a glove. “You looking to do a lot of jail time, Anthony?”

  “Naw, man, that’s a belt buckle. Look, it’s got a screw and everything.”

  “Well, that’s creative. I thought you were going to tell me it’s a paperweight, like all the other muscles who shop the Web.” I pocketed the knuckles and examined the Skorpion. It had been converted to full automatic—850 rounds per minute. Very illegal. “You got a license for the gun?”

  DeWitte answered me. “It’s my gun. I have the license in the car. Anthony just carries it for me for protection.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting arrangement. Not sure how legal it is. What else do you carry to protect your boss, Anthony? Got a pocketful of Trojans?”

  Ovsanna burst out laughing.

  I put the gun on the desk behind me and turned back to DeWitte. I was on shaky legal ground, but DeWitte didn’t seem to know it. The weapons cache and the illegal submachine gun gave me a little playing room.

  “All right, Mr. DeWitte, you seem to be the one with the agenda. Seems to me, you and your friends are trespassing, maybe with intent to do harm. I’ll give you a chance to correct that impression. Why are you here and what’s going on?”

  “I came to talk to Ovsanna.”

  “With your boyfriend and bodyguard. And an arsenal? Wasn’t going to be a friendly chat, was it?”

  “None of your damn business,” he snapped.

  “It is actually,” I said mildly. “I’m investigating a murder at Anticipation Studios and here you are threatening Ovsanna Moore, who just happens to be the head of Anticipation Studios. Your boss. So tell me, where were you this morning between eleven o’clock and one?”

  The question caught him completely off guard, and even through the coke—or maybe amphetamine—haze, I watched as the seriousness of the situation began to sink in. “I was in my office,” he said eventually.

  “No, you weren’t,” Maral said immediately. “I called your secretary before noon and she said you were having breakfast at the Abbey and then scouting locations in Boys Town. We got to the office at one thirty and Jesus hadn’t even parked your car yet. You had to have just driven in.”

  Real old-fashioned hate blossomed in DeWitte’s eyes. “I was out all morning on business.”

  “What sort of business?” I pulled out my notebook. “I’m going to need names and addresses.”

  “You cannot seriously think I had anything to do with—”

  “You are the head of development in a studio that had connections with the three dead stars, then one of your own FX staff turns up dead, and a few hours later I find you threatening the head of the studio. With hired help carrying concealed weapons,” I added. “I can think a lot of things.”

  “I didn’t know he had those knuckles.”

  “Let’s start with where you were this morning, and then we’ll move on to why you’re here.”

  He glanced quickly at Neville Travis and then away. “I was doing research for an upcoming movie,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “In Hollywood.”

  “Where in Hollywood, Mr. DeWitte? Let’s be a little more specific.”

  “A club on Santa Monica Boulevard.”

  “In the middle of the day? What kind of club? What’s the name?”

  Another glance at Travis. “It’s called Rough Trade.”

  “Tommy!” The cokehead Ovsanna had called Neville Travis spoke for the first time and stepped farther into the room. “You promised you wouldn’t go there anymore!”

  “Oh, grow up, Neville. And shut your mouth,” DeWitte shot back.

  Rough Trade. I turned to Ovsanna with an inquiring look.

  “It’s a private S&M club between La Jolla and Sweetzer. Hidden entrance, you wouldn’t find it if you didn’t know where to look. And no, there’s nothing we’re filming that needs that kind of location.”

  I turned back to DeWitte. “What time were you there?”

  “I got there around ten A.M. and left about one.”

  Jesus. Almost three hours of sexual sado-masochism. I wondered if he was giving or receiving.

  “So I’m assuming you weren’t alone. Anybody there who can verify this?”

  Neville looked like he was going to burst into tears. “Not Jeanne Paul, Thomas. Just say it wasn’t Jeanne Paul!”

  “You were at work, you silly little twat. What was I supposed to do? Nobody works me over like Ms. Marat. You should take some lessons from him.”

  “So you were with this what…guy? Girl? This Ms. Jeanne Paul Marat? Will he—she—remember you?” I was getting irritated.

  “Of course he’ll remember me. I am not unremarkable. And he’ll certainly remember the three-hundred-dollar tip I gave him.”

  “You bitch!” Neville hissed.

  “Besides, there were other people there and Anthony was waiting at the bar.”

  I turned to Anthony, who nodded. He was blushing. “People asked me to beat them,” he mumbled, sounding genuinely embarrassed. “Offered me money, too.”

  “Should have taken it. It’s a better gig than the one you have here,” Ovsanna said quickly.

  “Okay, well, all that will be easy to check. What are you doing here now, Mr. DeWitte?”

  Color touched his cheeks and flowed along his neck. This guy had a temper problem, what Sheila Stein calls control issues. “Ovsanna fired Neville off the set of Hallowed Night this morning!” He made the announcement in that breathless voice newscasters reserve for presidential resignations.

  “Yeah?” I glanced at Ovsanna. “I presume that Ms. Moore, as head of the studio, can do that?”

  “She can’t—,” DeWitte began.

  “She can,” Ovsanna said. “I’ve got a health and safety issue with directors doing coke on set. My health and safety.” She frowned. “But I told you this morning that Travis had been fired. Why are you here now?”

  “Neville went back to the set to pick up the rest of his things and that geriatric guard wouldn’t even let him on the lot. Said he needed a drive-on from production. When he tried to get through the gate, Gant pulled a gun on him, for Christ’s sake! Told him he’d shoot him for trespassing.”

  Good for Gant, I thought.

  “Neville called me and I had to drive all the way out there to fire him. A huge waste of my time.”

  “You fired Officer Gant!” Ovsanna snarled. The angles and planes of her face subtly altered as the pleasant, innocuous mask fell away. I suddenly
realized how she had survived so long in Hollywood. This girl was a fighter. She looked over at Maral. “Sort it out. Now.” She looked back at DeWitte and I swear the whites of her eyes turned red for a moment. “You work for me, Thomas. You do not give orders and you do not fire my employees. How dare you!”

  “God damn you, Ovsanna, you don’t have the—”

  I tried to regain some control of the situation. “Answer my question, Mr. DeWitte. You came here to…?”

  “To talk some sense into Ovsanna.”

  “Threaten her, you mean.” I turned to Ovsanna and nodded toward the center courtyard. “You three—don’t move. I don’t want to have to pull my gun.” I walked through the French doors and out into the cool night. Ovsanna followed me. She was smiling.

  “I have to apologize, Detective Ki—may I call you Peter?”

  That took me by surprise. I nodded.

  “Peter. Thomas can be excitable. He reacts rather than thinks. But I don’t think he’s a killer.”

  “I agree. And I assume his alibi will check out. That’s not one he’s likely to be making up. And it’s certainly one of the more interesting alibis I’ve gotten in my time.” I glanced back inside. Travis and DeWitte were having a lovers’ spat and it looked like Travis was winning. DeWitte must definitely be on the M side of his S and M proclivities. “What do you want to do?” I asked. “Press charges for trespass, unlawful entry, threatening behavior? Nothing’s going to stick, but it will interrupt their plans for the evening.”

  “No. I’ve got to work with Thomas. In spite of his personality, he’s good at what he does and I need him for the studio. I’ve got Japanese investors coming in three days’ time. They’re looking to put millions into Anticipation; I need the studio running smoothly. It’s bad enough I had to fire my director in the middle of the shoot. I can’t afford any more upsets and I can’t afford any bad press. I’d prefer to keep this evening quiet.” She turned to look at me, eyes huge and dark in her face. “Can you do that for me?”

  I nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Thank you, Det—Peter.”

  “Okay then, I’ll confiscate the weapons and let them go. And I’ll check out DeWitte’s alibi in the morning—just in case.”

  Ovsanna’s smile was startling. She tipped her chin at DeWitte. “Look at him; he’s been standing since he walked in. His butt is probably raw from whipping. I’ll bet it’s too painful to sit. I think his alibi will hold, believe me.”

  “I’ll get rid of them, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “You haven’t had your coffee yet. Or your cognac. Would you mind staying a little longer? I’m sure Maral would appreciate the sense of security your presence offers.”

  She’s a damn good actress. I couldn’t tell if the invitation was a genuine plea for protection for her assistant or something a bit more personal for her. It was already nearly eight o’clock and there wasn’t anything else I could do on the Cinema Slayer that night. Ovsanna reached out and touched the back of my hand. Something like static must have crackled between us because, for a moment, I thought she’d cut me again. “Are you in a rush?” she asked.

  “No…no, not really.”

  “A girlfriend to go back to? Or a wife you’re rushing home to?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “Boyfriend?” she asked, but in a voice that suggested she didn’t really mean it.

  “No boyfriend.” I laughed.

  “Then stay for a while. We’d both feel more comfortable if you did.”

  Both of them? Was she coming on to me or was she telling me they were a couple? Or was she just asking me to stay a little longer? A real detective would know. Maybe if I stuck around, I could do some more detecting and figure it out.

  “All right, I’ll escort the boys off the premises and stay awhile. Put Ms. McKenzie’s mind at rest.”

  “Good. We’ll have coffee and cognac in the library.”

  Cognac with Ovsanna Moore in her library. Wait till my mother hears this.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I liked him. He was smart and capable and not hard to look at.

  I spend all my days in an industry populated by people who occasionally approach the complexity of two dimensions. I was beginning to discover that Detective Peter King was a fully rounded personality, and in truth, I’ve always been a collector of people.

  And he was funny. That’s always been the clincher for me.

  As a rule, vampyres don’t have a lot of humor in their lives. Hundreds of years of watching humanity suffer at its own hands tends to diminish one’s capacity for fun. It’s hard to stay in the moment when you’ve got an overview of nearly five hundred years of religious crusades, racial genocide, and garden-variety annihilation in your immediate memory—even when it’s not your genus that’s been suffering.

  I’ve seen the research—usually in glossy magazines with single-word titles—that suggests women go for men who are physically attractive or ruggedly handsome, though in truth I’ve always been wary of a man who looks prettier than I do. There are certainly women who are attracted to the size of a man’s assets—either physical or metaphorical. But if there is one defining factor that most women agree on, it is that they are attracted to men who make them laugh.

  I have always loved laughter. And if I look back over my lovers through the centuries, they shared one thing in common: they managed to make me laugh, Daumier and Molière, Goldsmith and Sheridan, and even Melba. I’ve never been attracted to the stage comic or the movie comedy actor: they tend to be morose characters.

  So I love to laugh. It takes me out of myself for brief flashes of time. That’s why I stayed with Voltaire as long as I did. His lovemaking wasn’t very satisfying—thin blood—but his wit was.

  This life—this vampyre existence—is not a life that encourages relationships. As a rule, vampyres don’t have a lot of romance in their lives, either. Desire, yes, passion and lust certainly, but not romance. Once I get aroused and the Change takes over, I could care less about candles and flowers. Or having a “relationship.” It’s all much baser than that, and that’s fine with me.

  Relationships are difficult for my kind. Vampyre couples do exist—look at Theda and Charles—but they are rare indeed. In the main we are solitary creatures. We take lovers from the human world, but these tend to be brief affairs, lacking in emotional attachment. They have to be. We’re faced with two choices when it comes to humans: avoid relationships or Turn the ones we love.

  I once thought it was easier to create another vampyre than it was to watch a human age and die. But the very act of creation often changes the nature of the person, and far too often the human I fell in love with was not the vampyre I created. Watching a loved one grow old is never easy; waiting while faculties fail and limbs weaken is extraordinarily difficult—especially when the passing decades have no effect on yourself. Ultimately, I have always told my human partners about my true nature and given them the choice. Surprisingly, many of them chose not to Turn. I’ve often wondered if they felt resentful as they aged and I remained untouched by time. Circumstances have often forced me to leave my human lovers as they aged, but I have always—with only one tragic exception—managed to return to be with them at the end.

  There is a mythology that those of my race are without pity. It is not entirely untrue; there are many amongst the vampyre who believe that humankind are little better than slaves or food—or both. And it is also true that long life tends to give one a different perspective, a detachment that might be easily mistaken for indifference. Some of the world’s greatest scientists, thinkers, and industrialists have been vampyre. They have used their extra-long lives to stunning effect, to change and better man’s lot.

  Loneliness is the curse of the vampyre.

  I have heard stories of the incredibly old—those whose lives extend into millennia—who have simply chosen to end their lives. As vampyres age, they change, their physical bodies alter, skin hardens, spines exte
nd into tails, nails harden into claws, teeth lock into position and do not retract. They become demonlike and gargoyle in appearance, and they are, I am convinced, the source of the demon legends. But this appearance guarantees a reclusive existence, and eventually these aged vampyres—the Ancients—grow lonely. Most simply stop feeding and starve to death, and drowning is not uncommon. In my lifetime, I’ve met three Ancients, each one two millennia old, and none were even vaguely human. But I’ve not encountered one in a long time. Solgar is now the oldest vampyre I know in America, and from conversations we’ve had I estimate him to be around one thousand years old. He claims to have ridden with Geoffrey Martel, who later became Geoffrey II, and I’ve no reason to doubt him. In all the years I’ve known him, first in Vienna, then Paris, London, Chicago, and now L.A., I’ve never known him to have a companion, a lover, catamite, or even close friend. And I’ve known him for nearly two hundred years.

  I could not live like that.

  Above all, I needed companionship…and laughter.

  And Peter King made me laugh and that was intriguing. Somewhere at the back of my mind a tiny warning bell went off. I would have to be careful with this one.

  “Detective King will be staying for coffee, Maral,” I said as King escorted DeWitte, Travis, and Anthony out the back door. He handed each one of them a business card and then waited while they climbed into DeWitte’s Rolls and watched them drive away. “Would you make a fresh pot, please?”

  She bent over the table to pick up the coffeepot, her mouth pursed in anger. Maral doesn’t like it when I make new friends.

  I came and stood behind her, resting the palm of my hand on the back of her neck and allowing a little of my heat to flow through my flesh. I could feel a shudder run down her body. Bringing my mouth close to her ear, I whispered, “We need him. We can use him. We need to get to this killer before he strikes again.” I brushed strands of blond hair off her forehead and turned to see Peter King standing in the open doorway. I knew what it looked like—he’d seen me caressing Maral, my lips against her face. No doubt he’d already heard the stories about the Scream Queen and her assistant and their quirky relationship. This would just add to the confusion.