A Dead-End Job

by Justin Alcala

  “Quite the subject jump.” Beth smirked.

  “I’m a wild card,” I said in my best James Dean, cool guy voice. Beth laughed.

  “I’m gonna guess that you’ve recently started dabbling in Chronicles of Darkness,” Nolan guessed. I nodded.

  “Please don’t feel cheated on,” I apologized. “It’s online. You’ll always be my boo, Nolan.”

  “Well ‘den, buddy.” Nolan tried to hide a smile. “You’ll need to talk to Freddy. I’m useless when it comes to modern day monster. It’s dragons and wizards for me.”

  “Freddy,” I groaned. “Uh, never mind.”

  Fredrick L. Waters was a resident gamer. He dressed like Brandon Lee from The Crow and rode on the fact that ten years ago, his screenplay for a vampire movie was made into a pilot that crashed and burned within its first year on cable television. Nerds of little confidence felt it an honor to know someone like Freddy. He was smart no doubt, but so odd that it was taxing. I looked over to Table Nine, where the Goth dorks hung out, and spotted him. Freddy was in a cheap oversized trench coat that had been washed so many times that it was grey. He was plump with long greasy hair. He wore eyeliner and plum lipstick.

  “Well, ders’ your guy, Buck.” Nolan shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Alright,” I said through gritted teeth. “Here goes nothing.”

  “Meanwhile,” Beth spoke up. “I’m going to take Luna here to peruse the gaming shirts to see if anything will fit her.” Beth held out her hand to Luna. “Would you like to go with me,

  Luna?” Luna gave a single bob of her head. “Great. Come on.”

  I casually strolled over to Freddy, who appeared to be in the early stages of setting up Table Nine’s combat map. He didn’t look up as I approached but tilted his head ever so slightly.

  “Speak, mortal,” Freddy pressed in a low voice while lining up a Frankenstein miniature along a graveyard map. Oh God, this was going to suck.

  “Hey, Freddy.” I did a little karate bow. “I needed your expertise on some creature questions.”

  “Do you now?” Freddy added undead revenants to the map. “So, the darkness calls to you then?”

  “Uh.” I paused. “Yes. It definitely calls to me. Say, Freddy, if I were a modern-day werewolf, when would I be able to transform into a savage hunter?”

  “Ha,” Freddy said without feeling. “While it’s true that lycanthropes must transform on certain moon phases, that’s not the only way they change. A real lycanthrope transforms during certain triggers as well.”

  “Triggers?”

  “Yes. Some morph in the presence of silver while others change when their loved ones are being threatened. Each pertains to the lycanthropes’ spirit.”

  “Oh. Makes sense.”

  “Does it?” he challenged. His eyes never left the table.

  “Uh, I think. Say, one other question. Modern day vampires, what’s their story, right? I mean, I’m old as hell, yet need to drink blood. What am I doing all night? Am I waiting in a castle like a spider, hoping my next victim will come to me?”

  “No, not even kind of.”

  “Oh?”

  “Vampires need mortals. Without their blood, vampires are nothing. They must disguise themselves. Wear sheep’s clothing. Only then can vampires insure they will have immortal life and energy.”

  “So, vampires surround themselves with their food?”

  “You wouldn’t understand, but yes.”

  “So, I should go to places where people are?”

  Freddy stomped his fat fists on the table and finally looked up at me. “You wouldn’t just go to places where people are. You need to hunt where your victims are impressionable, susceptible to your advances. Yet, you’re decades, if not centuries old. You have style and a need for decadence that no one can understand. You want to surround yourself with beauty, though you’re confused as to what that still is. So, you’d cast yourself amongst the most alluring mortals in the finest establishments, trying to remember what grace was before you confined yourself to a kingdom of opulence. You are a blood god after all, if you’re to have a prison, a child of the night should have the best.”

  I must have had one of those faces that says, “Are you nuts?” because Freddy flung his hair in his face and continued setting up the vampire lord onto the game board.

  “Well.” I smacked my lips. “Thanks.”

  “Buck.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s more to the night. When you’re ready to truly understand.” He paused and extended what appeared to be a fridge magnet. I glanced the black and red advertisement, which read Fredrick L. Waters, Occult Expert. Below the title was a poorly drawn cartoon of himself with a sword next to his phone number and address. “Return to me.”

  “Lovely. Will do.”

  I hurried away from Table Nine as quickly as I could. Nolan and Nikolai had returned to Table Five and were measuring out the distance between an ogre miniature and Tonak the Barbarian. Nolan dignified me with a smirk.

  “So,” Nolan laughed. “How’d it go?”

  “As well as the Hindenburg’s last flight.” I shook my head. Nicolai and Nolan laughed. As I digested what just happened, I felt a tug on my pant leg. I looked down to see Luna with an oversized ruby shirt that said, Dear Mr. Dungeon Master, Please don’t kill my character. I grinned.

  “It was the smallest shirt they had.” Beth hung her hands on her hips. “It’s a little bit of an upgrade from the ripped grey top, which I will burn once you leave.” I put my hand on Beth’s shoulder.

  “Thanks, Beth,” I said, appreciative. “I owe you one.” Beth waved me off. “On that note, Luna and I must be off. I should get her a proper meal, after all.”

  “See you next week?” Nolan inquired.

  “If you peasants can get past the ogre,” I said in my best impersonation of an old crabby wizard. “Then Sarsicus will be there.”

  Shortly after, Luna and I were loading back into the car. There was a long checklist of things to do. I needed to get her fed, settled, and feeling safe. That was going to be tough, seeing that I lived in an apartment that was one murder short of feeling like a haunted hotel. I’d start by using the emergency fifty-dollar bill in my glove compartment to raid a fast-food menu. I also had research to do if I wanted to find Dillinger. The wily vampire probably had something against vampire hunters trying to kill him. I’d need to act fast.

  As we picked up McDonalds, I thought about what Freddy had to say. If Dillinger really was like the vampires of role player’s lore, then I had an idea of where he might be. If my suspicions were correct, then I had a lot of work to do. So, along with a werewolf chewing a mouthful of French fries in the passenger seat, I put the car in drive so that I could kill a vampire for the Grim Reaper.

  Yeah, you heard it right.

  9

  I expected judgment from Luna when we returned to the flat but living in a crate must have made her far more forgiving than most. Upon entering, Luna sniffed the air, scanned my crooked bookshelf, and then walked over and picked up a ceramic Wolverine book end, ignoring the roach on the linoleum. I showed her the bathroom, and then brought out some old sheets from my closet, making her a makeshift bed on my secondhand couch. Luna sat on the plaid blanket chewing the last of a fried apple pie. I had work to do but I didn’t want to be rude, so I flipped on the television, searching for the best basic cable had to offer.

  “I need to do a little work on the computer,” I explained while pointing to a Chips episode. Erik Estrada was chasing a bad guy through the streets of Los Angeles. “You can use this—” I handed her the remote control. “—to watch anything you want.” Luna took the remote, curled up under the blanket, and watched wind blow through Erik Estrada’s beautiful angel hair. By the time I pulled out my laptop and powered it up, Luna was sleeping.

  I started to research the many trendy, highbrow attractions Chicago had to offer. I sorted through private boat tours, fine dining establishments, and ni
ghtclubs that might be a chic vampire fit. If Freddy was right, then John Dillinger would be looking for someplace that spoke to his old style, but still had plenty of young pretty necks to suck on. It wasn’t long until I found it.

  The Violet Hour was a swank cocktail lounge in Wicker Park that posed as a luxurious speakeasy of old. It had only just recently opened back up from the pandemic. The front door was disguised as the boarded-up entrance of a condemned building with a single light bulb dangling from its front. If you knew what you were looking for, you could enter the dim interior decorated in high-backed sapphire chairs clustered around marble bars. The lounge sold cocktails that cost more than most meals and played early twentieth century jazz. A reviewer even posted that they spotted Al Capone drinking bourbon there. It was right up Dillinger’s alley.

  The plan would be to scout the place out, and if I somehow was right, track Dillinger to his home. Once I knew where he lived, I’d go all Abraham Van Helsing on him. If I was wrong, I’d investigate the list of other possibilities I found like the vintage Drake Hotel or classical Chicago Cut Steakhouse. This was a game of cat and mouse. It could take days.

  I put down the laptop after an hour of note taking. Luna was snoring and snarling in her sleep. I wondered what the hell Dillinger wanted with her. A wise person once said that it’s easier to build strong children than it is to repair broken men. I rarely looked back on my childhood. There was no good reason. Psychoanalyzing every time my old man decorated my face with a black eye or every night I went without dinner because Ma had to choose heat over groceries didn’t change the fact that it happened. I never wanted to admit that my upbringing had any power over me.

  Now, as I glimpsed at Luna, my past scared me more than ever. I couldn’t imagine what Luna, or whatever her real name was, might have been through in her short time on Earth. I was pretty sure the girl was a legitimate werewolf. I didn’t know how you inherited the condition, but her first change alone had to have been a shock. All the movies I’d ever watched made the transformation look like a front row seat to a House of Pain concert. What that had to do to a child’s psyche was dizzying to think about.

  Then there was the fact that she had been a prisoner, locked away in a crate. Luna, without saying anything at all, suggested that the other crated were-women harmed her somehow. I had to imagine that they weren’t the only transgressors. She had been transported like feral cattle. Chances were that her emotional wellbeing wasn’t her captors’ priority.

  What did the future hold for a little girl forged in flame and branded by pain? If I couldn’t upend my life after a laughably easy childhood compared to Luna’s, then what chance did she stand? Maybe I was projecting my own contrite guilt on the girl. Maybe she could right the wrongs she’d witnessed. I hoped for her sake and my own that she was stronger than I was.

  That dark thought led to another. It dawned on me that typically, once I started honing on my next target, I’d fantasize about how to spend my contracted money. There were overdue bills on my coffee table. I’d often pay in advance as it could be months before my next hit. This job was different, though. There was no money involved. Payment was a possible extension of my eternal soul on Earth instead of the fiery pits of Hell. While that was far more important than cash, it still begged the question as to how I was going to pay rent. Not only was I behind, but I now had Luna to look after for a while. I was a shit role model already.

  It was getting late. The poor kid was exhausted and wouldn’t likely wake up until morning. I debated whether or not I should start scouting this evening, but it didn’t feel right to leave Luna alone without an explanation. She could rise in a panic, murdering all my neighbors. Besides, I still needed to restock my inventory, clean out Old Lilith, and figure out how to reload her. I wasn’t given any extra ammunition, nor did I think I could purchase Magic-Death Bullets at Denny’s pawn shop.

  After a round of pushups and the last of my prescribed Zoloft, I decided to call it a night. I left a single kitchen light on for Luna, then locked all the doors, including the one to my bedroom. I dragged my clothes cabinet in front of the door in case Luna decided she felt a little wolfish and placed a pistol under my pillow. I imagined that regular parenting wasn’t as hazardous, but then again, I’d seen those little monsters at the park. They were vicious.

  10

  When my eyes opened back up, The Grim Reaper was standing above me. He had a colorful Hawaiian Lei around his neck. Gripped in his bony hand was Old Lilith, now back in scythe form. He lifted the wood handle as if to strike. I withdrew the pistol under my pillow. The Grim Reaper snickered. I pulled the trigger and a joke flag sparked out with the word “Bang!” imprinted across its red surface. The Grim Reaper shook his head.

  “You, sir, are an oxygen thief,” The Grim Reaper sighed. “Jumbo was wrong.” He struck down at my head with inexplicable speed.

  I leapt from my bed in a cold sweat. The room was empty. A labored hum from a cranky air conditioner was the only sound in the room. I looked at the clock. It read 3:02AM. I put an ear to my blockaded bedroom door. I could hear Luna lightly and ever so sweetly snoring the way that only kids can. I wondered at what developmental age snoring turned into lawn mower sounds. I fell back into bed and stared at the ceiling. It took some time to persuade my body to return to sleep, but eventually I went down.

  I woke up again around dawn. It was no use trying to force myself down again, so I dragged the dresser from my door and started breakfast: instant oatmeal and a mushy banana I’d stolen from a hotel lobby. Luna was still asleep on the couch. I tried my hardest to be quiet, but the microwave beeps and coffee in the air was likely too much. Luna shuffled into the kitchen. I smiled and handed her the browned banana. I half expected her to throw it at my head, but once again, Luna was merciful. She gulped down the banana in two bites. I pushed the steaming bowl of Insta-Oaties across the kitchen table. She sniffed it before taking a test bite. After squishing it around her cheeks, she added sugar and finished the bowl. I waited for her to clean up with a fast-food napkin before trying my hand at some diplomacy.

  “So,” I lit a cigarette. “You can understand me, right?” Luna winced as secondhand smoke hit her face. I waved it away, then in an act of divinity, crushed the death stick into an ashtray before it hit the filter. I took a sip of coffee and tried again. “Sorry, but you can understand me?” Luna nodded. “Well, that’s the most important part. If you understand me, then I’m going to assume then that you can talk, but just choose not to.” Luna gave me a blank stare. “Regardless, let’s get this out of the way. I apologize. I’m a terrible example of an adult. I smoke, drink, and live in an apartment that a frat boy would scoff at.” Luna’s eyes shifted back and forth between the crushed cigarette and my stained ceiling. I don’t know why, but for the first time in a while, I felt uncomfortable. I was exposed for who I really was, a dried up, repressed murderer living in a rat’s nest. I took a breath and braved on.

  “With that being said.” I took another sip of black mud. “I thought it over and it would be best if you went with me today. We have a lot to do, so if you feel like you’ve eaten enough, I can find you a towel to shower, and then we can hit the streets. Is that okay with you?” Luna put her finger to her lips and puffed them. She tottered back and forth for a moment before nodding. “Great. Shall we get started then?”

  After finding a mostly clean towel, waiting on Luna to shower and then dress, we were on our way in the sedan. The sun was still raw and colored Chicago in an early orange. We stopped at a ruddy gas station, and as we filled up, I raided the station’s basic overpriced grocery aisle. After buying cereal, milk, donuts, and laundry detergent, we were back in the car and headed to Gamer’s Pair-of-Dice. Derek was unlocking the door while chewing on a breakfast sandwich when I arrived.

  Finally, he was quiet.

  I tried to be as quick as I could, collecting the clothes that Beth had promised to bring over. True to her word, Beth had left two garbage bags of children’
s clothes along with some kid’s books and toys with Derek. I waited for Luna to use the store’s bathroom to choose some new clothes, avoiding Derek by pretending to read the back of new role-playing book, until she emerged. She was wearing a pastel blue shirt with matching flower printed shorts.

  “Look at you.” I smiled. “You’re a real kid now.” Luna covered her buck teeth, but the ends of a smile curled from behind her fingers. Back in the car, we headed north through the dismal Chicago rush hour. I wanted to scout out The Violet Hour and compare it to the notes that I’d found online. Traffic aside, the morning was an ideal time to visit, as there’d likely only be a skeleton crew in the building in charge of cleaning and taking deliveries. I parked across the street along the corner of North Damen Avenue and Wicker Park Avenue near a playground. I pushed Luna on the swing a few times before letting her take over. She eyed the city, her gaze darting at cars and people from the safety of the park gates. Once I saw that she was content, I slunk past the park fence to the sidewalk to case the place. The building was old with boarded up windows and doors. I though it seemed like an ideal place for a vampire to live.

  Like clockwork, the stock trucks came in one-by-one. I watched as a blond employee, who looked like a Ken Doll with his plastered hair and perfect complexion, pushed open a steel trap door from the sidewalk to let the beer guy in. Ken Doll watched like a smiling hawk as the beer man wheeled in several kegs down to the basement. When the beer guy returned to the surface with an empty dolly, Ken waved goodbye and watched the delivery man and his ten-footer drive away. Ken then secured the trap door and double tested the handle to ensure it was locked. Talk about employee of the year.

  Not much else happened after that. I continued to take in little details. The front wall of the building was spray painted with vibrant cartoon skateboarders and a depiction of a radio pouring out musical notes. It was quality urban art that I suspected was commissioned given its detail. In the background of one illustrated scene was a depiction of a smirking Prohibition-style gangster with a thin mustache. My instincts told me that the image was just a little too coincidental. I was on the right track.