Consultation with a Vampire - 01

by Patrick E. McLean

  "Eh? Scotch? I do not understand. You are in grave danger,” he said as he put his hand on Topper's shoulder.

  "You don't get it, pal. You are interrupting." Topper moved between the man and the girl with whom he had so recently and irrevocably fallen in love.

  “She means to harm you.”

  “She could harm me a little, right? I mean, just a little nibble. She's totally into me.” Topper argued, unaware that he was arguing for his death.

  “[The only pleasure I would take is in your death],” Madeleine said with a smile that twisted Topper’s tortured heart in knots.

  “You see! You see what she said? Now leave us alone so we can pitch some woo!” Topper said, jumping up and down and waving his arms in frustration.

  “That’s not what she said.”

  “C’mon, she used the word ‘pleasure.’ I heard her, and you heard her.”

  “Not exactly. Now, I require a meeting with your master.”

  “Master? I don’t have a master.”

  “Edwin Windsor.”

  “Oh no, Frenchy, you’ve made a mistake. I don’t swing that way. Now run along and play with your collection of imported cheeses.”

  “My little friend, please. You have no other choice. You must come with me.”

  That did it. Topper lunged right for the man's crotch, which was tightly encased in leather. With blinding speed, yet an air of nonchalance, the man in velvet brought his hand down on top of the advancing dwarf’s head.

  There was a thud, then a thump, and Topper lay unconscious on the dirty pavement of the alley. The man looked down and said, "You did not listen. You are in grave danger." He looked to the girl and said, “This is all your fault.”

  She stuck out her tongue and then pouted. If Topper had still been conscious, his loins would have burst on the spot.

  The man tucked Topper underneath his arm and walked into the night.

  Topper came to and asked, “Are you going to carry me through the air?”

  “Heavens no. We will take the limousine,” he said, pointing at the car that waited for them at the mouth of the alley.

  The next morning, at precisely 8:30, Agnes answered the phone. What is remarkable about this is that the phone had been ringing since she had walked in the door at 7:30. With great and customary restraint, she had ignored it for an hour. After all, business hours are business hours. Standards must be maintained.

  “Good morning. Windsor and Associates. How may I be of service?”

  Topper’s voice shrieked from the earpiece. “Agnes! Jesus Christ, Agnes! Why haven’t you answered the phone? I’ve been calling since 7:30. Hell, I’ve been calling all through the night. Don’t you check voice mail? Shouldn’t you have a hot line or something?”

  Blasphemy, what a wonderful way to start the day, Agnes thought.

  “Good morning, Topper. Aside from the obvious and unavoidable, what is the matter with you this morning?”

  “I’ve been kidnapped!”

  “Really,” Agnes said with a total lack of concern. “I would’ve thought you lacked the requisite air of child-like innocence that the term calls for. And yet ‘dwarf-napped’ doesn’t work either. It somehow loses all urgency and merely suggests a low-to-the-ground, saccharine-cute kind of sleepiness.”

  “Agnes, I have been kidnapped by Vampires!”

  “Well, of course you have,” she said in the tone a favorite aunt would use when encouraging her nephew’s pirate fantasy. “Hold the line for Windsor.” With a gleam in her eye, she placed the phone on hold and bustled into Edwin’s office.

  When Edwin looked up from behind the vast expanse of his desk, Agnes said, “It appears that your lawyer,” she said, uttering the word “lawyer” with obvious and practiced distaste, “has run afoul of a pack, a coven, a herd, a flock – whatever the plural may be – of vampires.”

  Edwin raised an eyebrow.

  “Even now, he insists that he is in their foul, sinister, and quite possibly imaginary grip.”

  “Vampires?” Edwin asked, trying to understand.

  “Line one,” Agnes said with great mirth. As Edwin reached for the phone, she asked, “Shall I set up interviews with other law firms?”

  Edwin’s hand paused on the handset. Again, his eyebrow climbed his forehead.

  “Edwin, I beg of you. Leave the debauched dwarf to his just (and evidently drug-addled) deserts. Surely, you deserve legal counsel that will match your own professionalism.”

  “He has talent, Agnes,” Edwin countered logically.

  “But at what cost, Edwin? At what cost?”

  Edwin picked up the phone, ending their exchange. “Windsor here.” Edwin held the handset away from his ear as Topper shrieked, “E, you'll never believe it. I have been kidnapped by Vampires!”

  “You are correct. I do not believe it.” Edwin used measured tones that in another person would sound like boredom.

  "Okay, okay. I know how crazy it sounds, but Vampires! Edwin, I swear. They're real."

  From the phone in the lobby, Agnes said, "Have you confused pale skin and an overabundance of eyeliner with mythological creatures?”

  “No, I SWEAR! C’mon, E. You gotta talk to these people; otherwise, they are going to kill me.”

  Agnes fired another salvo: “You have only yourself to blame. Don’t come crying to me now that you must sleep in a coffin of your own making.”

  “Honest, Edwin, it wasn’t my fault,” Topper said.

  As Edwin listened to the banter between Topper and Agnes, he detected a note of true fear in his lawyer’s voice.

  “They said they couldn’t get an appointment any other way. The guy... what’s his name? Something French. Da Chevy, Da Shoe, nah, nah. DeChevue, that’s it. He said he called and called, but Agnes never answered. She never returned his messages. He said he lost patience, and then he told me a long, boring story about how he’s immortal and how he has patience on a scale that I would never understand. Blah, blah, blah. And let me tell you, Edwin, this guy has to be immortal to take that friggin’ long to tell a story. You know, if the sun hadn’ta come up, I think that lispy French faggot would still be talking.”

  “Agnes, do you know anything about this?” Edwin asked.

  “I simply assumed the man was deranged, or a teenager playing merry hod with telephonic high jinks.”

  “You did not deliver a message to me?” Edwin asked.

  “Edwin, people who call for an appointment in the middle of the night are not serious people. Business hours must be maintained.”

  “Agnes, people who call for an appointment in the middle of the night can be serious people in other time zones.”

  “Yes, well, he was French, and I didn’t like the sound of him. It is a secretary’s job to interpose.”

  “Interpose?” Edwin asked.

  "Yes, like a faithful squire diving in front of a crossbow bolt to save his lord and master, I interpose myself between you and the absurdities of the world," Agnes said, her voice rising to fever pitch.

  “Hey! HEY!” Topper interjected. “I don’t mean to interrupt your office meeting here, but I’m in trouble.”

  “Oh, Topper,” Agnes said. “When are you not in trouble?”

  Edwin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Topper, are you unharmed?”

  “Unharmed? E, I’ve been kidna– taken hostage! My dignity is wounded. Very, very wounded.”

  “Physically, are you in good condition?”

  “I think this ordeal is going to stunt my growth. C’mon, what do you want me to say? I’m pissed. And they ain’t got nothing to eat in this joint.”

  “What are their demands?” Edwin asked, hoping to bring this conversation to some kind of actionable conclusion.

  “Oh, right. They want to schedule an appointment. They say they’re not going to let me go unless you meet with them. I told them Edwin Windsor does not negotiate with terrorists. I mean, I know you negotiate with and for terrorists all the time, but it just seemed like the thing
to say.”

  “Fine,” Edwin said. “I will meet with them. We will stand by for a call after—” Edwin could scarcely believe that he was going to utter such a word for such a reason. “Sundown,” he said, to finish the thought.

  “You gonna give in to their demands?” Topper asked.

  “Here, I must agree with the foul little man,” Agnes said. “You must not reward their behavior.”

  “For all we know, this is a simple misunderstanding. It will not hurt me to meet with these people,” Edwin said. But somewhere, deep in the recesses of his brain, the dark thought that it might hurt them surfaced. Edwin shook his head to clear it of such nonsense. Vengeance was not an activity in which a serious man partook. There was no profit in it.

  When the call was concluded, Agnes said, “I will not, I will not, allow you to go gallivanting off into the darkest night for some midnight rendezvous with disturbed individuals who believe themselves to be vampires. And I especially will not allow it with French vampires.”

  “But what about Topper?”

  "The Half-Hostage? Let him rot, I say. Good riddance to the small nuisance."

  "Hmmm," Edwin said.

  "You do not agree?"

  "No, no," Edwin said. "It's not that. I was just wondering how long they could manage to hold on to him."

  "We are discussing Topper, are we not? That vile little creature, lawyer, scurrying piece of vermin extraordinaire? You believe he can put up some kind of credible resistance?”

  "There is a saying common among the Japanese: ‘Even an inchworm has half an inch of spirit.’ And while it would not surprise me if I found that Topper had been banned from that nation of polite, restrained people."

  "Well, they are decent people; of course they would," Agnes muttered.

  "But if Topper were an inchworm..."

  "He certainly is a pest of some stripe.”

  “He would find some way to have an entire foot of spirit, not merely half an inch."

  In spite of herself, she had to agree. It was grudging admiration, but admiration all the same.

  After Topper hung up the phone, he looked at the fat, shaven-headed man who had brought him into the room to make the call and said, “Y’know, you are ugly. Some people say that kind of thing as a joke, but you? Sunshine, you are sloppy-bucket-of-ragged-assholes ugly. I mean, you –”

  The man’s expression did not change as he walked across the room and matter of factly clubbed Topper across the side of his head with one of his fleshy arms. “Quiet” was all he said.

  “Owwwwwww! You prick; that was my ear!” Topper shrieked.

  The second blow knocked Topper from the chair. The fleshy man stepped on the middle of Topper’s stomach, slid a fabric bag over his head, and pulled the drawstring tight. Predictably, Topper reached towards the bag. When he did, the big man bound the small lawyer’s hands together with a zip-tie. It was all very efficient and matter of fact, as if the large man had done it a thousand times before — which, of course, he had.

  As the fleshy man watched Topper struggle to catch his breath, he said, “You no talk now.”

  Topper struggled to his knees, turned to where he thought his captor was, and said, “You hit like a girl.”

  The big man grunted. It might have been a laugh. He picked Topper up with one hand; carried him to a small, windowless room; and threw him in.

  As Topper landed, he smacked his head on a cold tile floor. A river of obscenity poured from his mouth. This stream of invective was so vile, so powerful, that it is a wonder it didn’t light the bag on fire.

  The fleshy man shut the door and locked it. He didn’t pay attention to the little man’s shrieked curses. He knew that a day or so without water would shut him up. But the big man had underestimated Topper.

  Most people who’ve been kidnapped, blindfolded, zip-tied, and thrown in a cold, dark room would give up hope. But not Topper. You see, he didn’t really have much hope to begin with. For his whole life, he had been made fun of and beaten on because he was different.

  It wasn’t just his size. If you’re small and cute, everybody loves you. But Topper was small and smart. Worst than that, he was born to make an argument. So, argue he did. He’d fought his way through every major obstacle in his life, regardless of whether or not that was the best strategy. So, his current situation wasn’t a problem. It was an inconvenience.

  He worked on the plastic of the zip-ties. Back and forth, little by little, wiggle by wiggle. Even when the edges of the cheap plastic cut into his wrists and drew blood, he kept on.

  Another person might have worried that he was being watched. But Topper didn’t care. If they were watching, that was their problem. He’d masturbate just to make them uncomfortable. And if they weren’t watching, that was their problem too. Because he wasn’t going to stay put. In fact, Topper was so pissed, it was all their problem.

  Eventually, Topper stood up, lifted his hands above his head, and slammed his wrists into his stomach. The zip-tie flew from his wrists, making a snapping sound. He clawed the fabric bag away from his head and looked around the room. It was pitch black so, for Topper, his visual situation hadn’t changed much.

  “This is just great,” he said, not despondent, but just pissed off. Just getting warmed up. He patiently felt his way around the floor. Well, patiently for Topper, which means he crawled until he smacked his head into something. A moment’s inspection revealed the obstacle to be drywall.

  “Really?” Topper asked. “You gotta be shitting me. Drywall? You’re gonna trap a guy with drywall? You’re not gonna trap this guy with drywall.” Then he put his fist through the wall. Light streamed through the hole. Topper saw an empty hallway lined with doors. “Better than here,” he said. Then he clawed at the hole until it was big enough for him to squeeze through.

  Almost as angry as he was the day he was born, he fought his way free through an opening that was just a little too narrow for him. Then he stood up and dusted himself off. “Okay, assholes, now it’s time for some serious mayhem.”

  Topper walked down the hallway, opening all the doors as he went. They were all hastily constructed holding cells. But the only people they would hold would have to be pretty damn docile. Not tough-guy survivors like him. Behind the last door on the left, he found another captive.

  The Good Lord helps those who help themselves, but Topper was feeling more generous than God. He ripped the hood off the captive and was greeted by a pale, squinting, scared face.

  “What’s ya name, Sportsfan?” Topper asked.

  “What?”

  “I said, what’s your name?”

  “My name is Sam,” Sam said, very confused.

  “Okay, Sam. Do you want to die here?”

  Sam’s eyes focused on a point behind Topper’s head. “But she was so beautiful. Where did she go?” For a moment, Topper felt a pang in his heart. She was beautiful. She was beautiful, peaceful, everything Topper had ever wanted. But then the anger flared up in his heart. He thought of the flabby man who had thrown him on his ear in that crappy cell. He got angry, and the anger washed him clean.

  “Yeah, she was a real looker. If we see her, we’ll be sure to rape her on the way out. Now, c’mon, we’re going.”

  “But Madeleine, she told me to stay.”

  “Yeah, yeah, dopey, but we got an appointment, a very important appointment.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. Topper understood why they didn’t waste money on bars. What kind of mumbo-jumbo, hocus-pocus bullshit was this? Is this what they tried to work on Sam? Topper wasn’t having any of it. He stayed angry. Because if there was one thing Topper liked more than getting laid, it was getting revenge.

  With a massive hard-on for revenge, Topper pushed through the heavy metal door at the end of the hallway. Docile as a lamb, Sam followed behind him.

  Topper soon reached a wall made of large, gray stone blocks. “Jesus, they upgraded a castle? C’mon, Sam. We’re gonna find a window or some stairs.” As they wandered
through the maze of the remolded interior, it became evident that the interior had been redone many times over the years. The crappy, modern, drop-ceiling holding pens surrounded by drywall reminded Topper of office cubes. The older, more substantial plaster and lath walls had wooden doorways and transom windows. The battered wooden floor was sometimes covered with carpet and sometimes bare.

  Topper wasn’t afraid he would run into the fleshy guy who had thrust a bag over his head. He wasn’t woozy anymore. He had sobered up and was eager to share the pain of his hangover. But the big man was nowhere to be found. No doubt he was off somewhere gorging himself on a six-pound sack of gummy bears.

  When they found the stairs, Topper figured they were home free. Sam began to whimper, “No, no. They’re down there. Definitely don’t want to go down there.”

  “Shh, ya crazy bastard,” Topper whispered. Sam’s eyes rolled around in his head wildly, but he shut up.

  As they came to the next floor, Topper heard a muffled voice in the distance. He crept along a hallway, coming closer and closer to the speaker. A flickering light streamed out through a half-opened oak-paneled door. When Topper got close enough, he recognized the voice as belonging to that French bastard who had kidnapped him. Vampires. Fucking vampires, Topper thought. His thoughts swerved dangerously close to Madeleine again, and he found himself going loopy and soft in the brain. He needed the anger back.

  Farther down the hallway was the next flight of stairs. This meant he would have to pass by this doorway to get out. But, really, why go? She had to be around here somewhere, didn’t she? Sam whimpered, and Topper’s anger flashed up again. “Shhhh,” he hissed.

  Topper peered around the doorway. There sat DeChevue, in a room filled with velvet and candelabras. He was talking on an ornate, old-fashioned telephone. The divan on which he rested himself faced the hallway. If he hadn’t been looking at his manicured nails, he would have been staring straight at Topper.

  Heart hammering madly in his chest, Topper slid back into the darkness of the hallway. As he struggled to get ahold of himself, he heard DeChevue say, “No, no, no, Monsieur. Your office will not do at all. No one of my kind would run the risk of being trapped in a large glass box in the sky, waiting for the sun to rise. I am comfortable only in the Earth.”