The World on Blood

by Jonathan Nasaw

  "Who—?" Catherine's question was cut short by a blow—or at least by the sound of a blow, and the crack of her head against the passenger side window.

  "You too, bitch. You so much as twitch, your girlfriend's one dead dyke." He jabbed the gun a little harder against Louise's head. "Just drive—I'll tell you where."

  The gunman did not speak again, except to whisper monosyllabic directions—left, right, slow, here—that led them to a fire road deep in Wildcat Canyon east of El Cerrito, where Louise and Catherine were blindfolded and gagged, forced out of the van, hog-tied with a new-smelling rope while standing face to face, then pushed over into the damp grass.

  He had left the motor running; it was all Louise could hear as she lay on her side on the cold ground. Needs a tune-up, she thought irrelevantly. At least she wouldn't be able to hear the sound when he cocked the pistol for the coup de grace she just knew was coming. She wondered if it would hurt, a bullet through the brain, and decided probably not.

  But then the car door slammed and the pitch of the engine changed from a rough idle to a deeper-throated low gear; she heard brush crackling and ground cover crunching—the van seemed to be turning around—and then the engine sounds receded. Louise held her breath—she could hear Catherine's breathing directly in front of her, felt Catherine's chin moving, then a spray of wetness as the other woman spat out her gag.

  "Sorry," Catherine whispered. Then Louise felt the other woman's teeth closing around her own gag, pulling it away from her mouth, working it down her chin.

  "Christ. Thanks. I thought we were dead."

  "He still might come back," Catherine replied. "Why else would he have tied us up like this? Listen, we've got to hurry. Bend your face down, let me try to loosen your blindfold with my teeth."

  A moment later Louise was blinking directly into Catherine's mouth; not long after that they were staring into each other's faces. "You're bleeding," said Louise. "Your forehead's bleeding."

  "I know. He hit me with the barrel of the gun. Hurts like hell." Catherine waited a few seconds for Louise to come to the obvious conclusion. But it was cold out there, colder than she'd expected—she decided a hint was in order. "You know what you have to do, don't you?"

  "Four years, three months, and two days," said Louise dully.

  Catherine understood the reference. "Would you rather end your sobriety by drinking blood, or by dying?"

  "Good point." Louise raised her head, and Catherine lowered hers—there was a surprisingly neat wound at her left temple, just at the hairline. Louise began sucking, but there wasn't enough blood at first—she opened the lips of the wound a little wider with her own lips, then nipped at it with her teeth.

  "Hey, that hurts," Catherine protested.

  "Shhh."

  When Louise began sucking, it was all that Catherine could do not to squirm erotically—she could feel Louise's massive softness pressing against her; as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, with her own chin at her chest she could see the blood flush creeping up above the neck of Louise's moon white chef's jacket.

  A moment later they were free—Louise had snapped the rope as if it were dental floss—and running through the woods, Louise leading the way with her superior night vision, pulling Catherine along by the hand. Suddenly she stopped. "Wait a minute," she said, no longer whispering, not short of breath in the least. "What the fuck are we running away for? Let's wait and see if the son of a bitch does come back—I'll shove that gun so far up his ass we'll need tongs to pull the trigger."

  Catherine drew close to her. "I'm cold, Louise," she whispered. "And I'm scared, and I'm not a vampire."

  Louise put her arms around her. "Don't worry, kiddo, I'll take care of the both of us."

  The big woman's body was pulsing warm—Catherine leaned closer to her. "I feel safer now," she said.

  Louise swiped her forefinger against the other woman's bleeding wound, then licked the finger clean. "Maybe you shouldn't," she whispered. "I mean, you're alone in the woods with a vampire."

  "I'm not afraid of vampires," Catherine whispered in return. Then she rubbed her own hand against her wound until the palm was smeared with blood, and brought it to Louise's mouth. "Hell, I married one."

  FOUR

  There wasn't a great deal of traffic at the Lake Tahoe airport on the last night of 1991, either air or vehicular. Whistler's charter was waved directly to the terminal, and his party met at the curb by a stretch limousine—there wouldn't have been room in the Jaguar for both him and Lourdes, along with Josephina and the twins (her younger siblings, brother and sister), as well as Nanny Parish, the midwife Nanny Eames had insisted on sending along with them, and Plum Rose, the midwife's three-month-old baby.

  Selene met the limo at the front door of Whistler Manor. Barefoot, her long hair falling loosely around her shoulders to the shawl she'd pulled over her long white nightgown, carrying a jangling iron ring of keys, she reminded Whistler of Esther in Bleak House. "Happy New Year, Dame Durden!" he cried, holding out his arms for a hug. "Is the north wing open? As you can see, I've brought along a few friends."

  "Who are currently freezing their tropical asses off," pointed out Lourdes.

  Selene hurriedly ushered the little party inside and led them down the hall to warm up in the keeping room, where a fire blazed in a hearth large enough to roast a full-sized St. Bernard—standing up. Half an hour later, after the Drinks had been warmed sufficiently with hot cocoa, she showed them to their rooms in the north wing, and installed Nanny Parish and Plum Rose in the maid's room that adjoined the master bedroom in the south wing.

  When she returned to the keeping room, Whistler and Lourdes presented Selene with her Christmas present, a virtual pharmacopoeia of Virgin Island roots and herbs, grasses and mushrooms from the Weed Woman who served the vampires of Santa Luz. Piaba and ton-ton, powdered gully root and dried psilocybin, cowback, mandrake, and of course the famous Granny scratch-scratch, all in miniature colored glass apothecary jars and banana-leaf bindles, packed with excelsior in a compartmented wooden crate: it was a Hickory Farms Holiday Basket From Hell.

  Selene was touched, but she only gave Whistler a peck on the cheek—Lourdes got a full-Selene, the enveloping hug that always left both women humming blissfully. "Thank you, dearie," said Selene. "This was too thoughtful a gift, and took too much time, to have been Jamey's idea."

  He started to protest; Selene took his hand. "Now hush, you know it's true. Your idea of a Christmas present has always been a Rolex from the duty-free shop at the airport, Jamey. Don't get me wrong—a Rolex is a Rolex." She winked at Lourdes. "I have a safe-deposit box full of them back home."

  Lourdes held up her left wrist in reply—a new Rolex with a diamond band; Whistler shrugged sheepishly.

  Selene gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "And now if you'll both accompany me to the bungalow, I'll give you your Christmas presents."

  "Do you have any idea what this is all about?" Whistler muttered to Lourdes as they crossed the velvety lawn that sloped down towards the lake.

  "Not a clue."

  At the bottom of the lawn, just before the white crescent of beach, they turned right; as they followed the narrow path through the woods they could see light in the second-story windows of the bungalow; somebody was playing a Chieftains CD up there, and the Celtic music was appropriately druidic, groaning uilleann pipes and sawing fiddles, merry tin whistles and soaring flutes, and the heavy thump of the bodhran drifting out over the wintry woods.

  Figures appeared in a window above as they reached the rustic wooden door; laughing voices called "Happy New Year" as someone leaned out the window and tossed a bucket of confetti into the air; it drifted down over them like psychedelic snow.

  The music stopped, then started again; they trotted up the stairs, brushing confetti from their hair and shoulders, to the unmistakable, inescapable strains of the immortal Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians playing "Auld Lang Syne." Selene opened the door at the top of the stairs, th
en stepped back. "Well I'll be damned," she heard Whistler exclaim, and followed Lourdes into the room in time to catch the expression on her face when she caught sight of Selene's Christmas present to the couple.

  Christmas presents, rather—three of them. Sherman Bailey in black tie—full vam-pie regalia, with the whites of his eyes glowing ruby red. Beside him, Catherine, in a loose witch's gown of deep forest green, her Lucy-red ringlets falling about her white shoulders, her bosom plumped up prettily. And behind them both, her cropped head rising from a crimson robe that could have covered a Volkswagen, her eyes quite as red as Sherman's, a broadly beaming Cheese Louise.

  There was a pewter goblet on the mantelpiece over the small gas-fire hearth. Selene took it down and carried it carefully over to Whistler. "Will you take a cup of kindness yet?"

  "For Auld Lang Syne?" he replied, grinning. The goblet in his hand was brimming with blood so fresh it was all but steaming. He took a sip and handed it to Lourdes.

  "For Auld Lang—" she began, but stopped herself. "No. A better toast: Blood make us one."

  "Blood make us one," each vampire proclaimed in turn. Then Selene took out her green notebook, and they set to work.

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  ONE

  August Fetterman, Esq., of the firm of Broadbent, Fetterman and Bennett, was two generations removed from the Fetterman of the letterhead, but as part of the firm's charter, any Broadbent or Fetterman or Bennett of direct lineage who could drag him- or herself through an accredited law school and then pass the bar was assured of a partnership. And since his recovery Augie had even come within a whisker of actually practicing law, if only to interview his wealthiest hereditary clients in his richly appointed corner office before passing them on to one of the associates.

  Or, as was the case on this sixth day of January 1992, playing Sim City on the computer with a member of the technical support crew. It was an exercise in terror for the Simians—nuclear plants next to schools, that sort of thing—but a lucrative one for B.F.B., as Augie was billing his time to an oil company at two hundred dollars an hour.

  Augie was a little surprised when his secretary buzzed him—he had inherited her when his father died, and she had never quite mastered the new phone system. "Yes, Evelyn?"

  "You have a call, Mr. Fetterman," came the quavery voice over the speakerphone. "The gentleman who prefers not to give his name."

  "All right, I'll take it." He dismissed the techie with a wave of his hand. "And, Evelyn, why don't you put the call through and then take off for lunch… No, dear, it's perfectly safe for you to hang up. The blinking light means he's on hold—we won't lose him unless you push the button again before you hang up. Attagirl."

  He picked up the receiver. "J.W.! I thought you were in the Virgins… Oh yes, it hit the fan the very next meeting… What do you mean, am I your attorney? I'm one of 'em—we're handling that offshore trust in the Caymans for you… No, anything you tell me can be considered privileged communication… I suppose so. Let me check my schedule…"

  Putting Whistler on hold, he pushed his considerable girth back from the massive teak-topped desk (Augie no longer resembled the young Robert Morley of Nick's description: since giving up blood the year before Whistler he had turned to sex and eating, bought his condoms by the case, ran a tab at Just Desserts, and by now could pass for the Morley of the Beat the Devil period), rose from the creaking leather chair he'd inherited from his father along with his creaking secretary, and left his office to check his calendar on Evelyn's desk, then picked up the receiver there.

  "Yeah, I could do it, but it would help the confidentiality thing if I billed you… Two hundred—but that would include the travel time… Shall I bring one of my associates?…" He laughed dutifully. "I don't know if we have any with big tits—we're not allowed to look anymore. Besides, you know that's not my type…" Another laugh. "Yes, you do know my type. Unfortunately, the 'I swear, your Honor, she looked eighteen' defense rarely works any more in statutory cases."

  Humming a Grateful Dead tune to himself, Augie took his overcoat—a beautifully tailored black wool with long lapels that rolled with a satisfying swell across his respectable belly—down from the mahogany coat rack, wrapped his gray-on-gray muffler around his neck with a flourish, and strolled out to the twenty-second-floor elevator lobby, where one of the associates was just stepping into a down elevator and trying to pretend he hadn't seen Augie coming.

  "Going down there, son?" Augie called heartily. Once in the elevator he let the kid push the Lobby button, waited a floor—21—then stuck out his hand, still heartily. He did not, however, remove his calfskin glove. "Don't believe we've met. I'm August Fetterman." Of the letterhead Fettermans, asshole. 20, 19, 18.

  "An honor, sir. I'm Hershey. Neil Hershey." 17, 16, 15.

  "First-year associate, Neil?" 14, 13, 12.

  "Yes, sir." 11, 10,9,8.

  "Want to try for a second year?" 7, 6, 5.

  "Yes I do—sir. "4,3,2, 1.

  "Then the next time you see a partner coming, hold the fucking door." Lobby.

  Ka-whooosh: the bronze doors parted, and Augie marched out of the elevator without looking back. I'm a simple man, he thought, grinning to himself. A simple man with simple pleasures.

  Augie's white Eldorado was fully loaded, from the climate-controlled cabin to the computerized seats that conformed to the shape of his ass at the push of a button. The sound system was about a year ahead of the curve, state-of-the-art-wise—before leaving home a few minutes after three, he stacked six Grateful Dead discs in the CD player next to the built-in refrigerator in the trunk, then pushed Random on the dashboard panel as he pulled out of his Hillsborough driveway. "Friend of the Devil" was the first song that came up—Augie laughed out loud.

  It took him almost five hours to reach Tahoe—he could have done it in a little over three, but at two hundred bucks an hour, where was the incentive? He tried not to speculate on the nature of Whistler's business on the ride up—as an attorney it made absolutely no difference to him whether his client was drinking blood or not. As a recovering vampire, though, it was his obligation to look at it somewhat differently.

  So why, he wondered, as he turned into the long gravel driveway winding down from the highway to Whistler Manor, was the very thought of it making his heart pound so?

  He parked the Caddy under the fragrant grove of pines and followed the flagstone path around to the front of the manor. Whistler was waiting on the front steps.

  "Glad you could make it, Counselor."

  "When the client calls…" They clapped each other's shoulders vigorously like two old soldiers who hadn't set eyes on each other since the Crimean War; Whistler led him to the dark cavernous kitchen of the lodge.

  "Sorry about the venue—the keeping room is being renovated. But we won't be disturbed here," said Whistler, indicating the bar stools arranged around the central butcher-block table. Overhead a collection of pots and pans and implements hung from the ceiling beams like so many shiny stalactites. "Do you need to freshen up first?"

  "Took care of that at the gas station."

  "Something to drink?"

  "Rum 'n' cola, hold the rum." Augie draped his coat over the back of a bar stool, then sat down quickly before the weight of the coat over-tipped it. Whistler took a can of Coke from the refrigerator, filled two tumblers with cloudy crescent moons of ice from the ice maker, then divided the Coke as evenly as he could between them. It was a nostalgic gesture they both recognized: when they were vampiring together, they used to divide bags of blood that way: one guy pours, and the other takes his pick.

  Augie took a sip. "Ah, that's better. Am I going to need to take notes?"

  Whistler shook his head.

  "So what can I do for you, my old friend?"

  "You drew up the V.A. charter and bylaws, correct?"

  "I did."

  "Do you have any copies?"

  "There's only one—it's on one of Nick's protected disk
s."

  "But you remember it?"

  "Word for word, I should think."

  Whistler tinkled the ice in his glass by way of tribute. "Just a few questions, then. First: is there anything anywhere in those documents that says you can't have a slip—that is, that you can't drink blood and still be a member."

  "Of course not," Augie replied. "That would go against everything the twelve-step programs stand for."

  "But there is a clause that forbids any member from divulging the nature of the fellowship to someone outside it?"

  "Without the unanimous consent of the membership. You know that."

  "Just checking. Now are there any penalties spelled out for someone who would commit such a heinous act?"

  "You mean drinking blood, or divulging the nature of the fellowship?"

  "Divulging, divulging."

  "Up to and including expulsion—it would be left to a vote of the membership."

  "Great. Thanks, Counselor." Whistler reached across the corner of the butcher block and shook Augie's hand formally.

  "Wait a minute, that's it? Just three questions, that's all you wanted to ask me?"

  Whistler nodded.

  Augie was still incredulous. "Jamey-o, at two hundred bucks an hour, this is going to cost you a grand a question."

  "Oh, more than that," replied Whistler, turning back from the sink. "I've booked you a suite at the Gold Dust—can't have my attorney turning right around and trying to drive back tonight."

  "If you insist," grinned Augie, relieved: apparently someone had warned Whistler of a possible confrontation with Nick, and he'd just wanted to be sure where he stood vis-a-vis the fellowship—or perhaps he might even have a counterattack planned. Still he couldn't deny a sense of uneasiness as Whistler showed him out the back way. And perhaps an element of disappointment as well, though he was not about to admit that, even to himself.