by Drew Stepek
“I don’t know.” I put my finger to my temple. Deep thoughts. “Maybe thirty. Just make it warm enough so it doesn’t taste like Clamato. How hot is a body?”
“How am I supposed to know that? Different vampires like different temperatures.” He pushed start on the microwave. “Thirty seconds should be fine.”
That was a really long thirty seconds, so I had time to walk over to him and watch the countdown.
The microwave beeped and he took out the mug. “Dip your finger in. Make sure it’s okay.”
I did and pulled it out quick. “It’s a little hot.”
“Good,” he noted as he walked back to the cutting board, put the mug down and then shook out some chunky powder out of the bag. “I still need to cut the Charlie.”
“Not too much,” I said.
He started chopping the blow with a razor blade. “I’m not an amateur. I’ve been giving y’all samples for years, bro.”
I started to get the itch. Seeing any powder being cut up, whether it was coke or heroin, made my legs feel like dancing, even if I couldn’t stand. If I were human and didn’t have the vampire erectile dysfunction, I would have gotten a boner.
When he was happy with his mincing and sifting, he grabbed the mug and put it under then end of the cutting board. Then he swept the powder into the mug.
“Let it absorb,” I proposed anxiously.
He smiled back at me and grabbed a screwdriver. “Of course.” With the blade, he stirred my milkshake.
“Kind of like Alka-Seltzer, huh? We do it a bit differently in Los Angeles.” The L.A. way was more a show of power than anything else. It was definitely a rush to lure some pimps, thieves, or scumbags into a dark alley, fill their arms with heroin, rip the arms off, and then drink the warm blood mixed with the drugs out of their knuckles. Of course, it was always more bravado than necessary.
“You like the news?” He picked up a remote and turned on the enormous TV.
I stood on my toes to get a comprehensive view of the treat. “Yeah, the news is fine.” I rubbed at my arms. “How long have you been a dealer?”
He surfed through the channels. “I’m not a dealer. I’m the distributor.”
I walked over by him. “What’s the difference?”
He stopped punching the channel up button and tossed the remote onto the work bench. “I get the product and I deliver it to the dealers.”
“That is kind of the dealer of the dealers.” I reached out for the mug.
He grabbed my hand. “It’s not ready yet, bro.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” I chattered, trying to relax.
He flipped his thumbs back toward his chest, pointing out the Lake Travis tank top. “My real job is owning a jet ski rental business at Lake Travis.”
I pointed to the TV. “And, that pays for all of this? You live in a fucking mansion.”
“Of course not, bro. The coke pays—” he opened his arms, “—for all of this.”
I liked my lips and stepped a little bit closer to him. “So, the rental business is just a front?”
“No shit.” He tapped on the side of the mug. “This is good to go.”
I nabbed the mug out of his hand like I was running a marathon and grabbing a bottle of water. “Tell me more.” I didn’t want him to think that I was using the ins and outs of his coke racket as background noise, but it was and I was really only interested in his drugs. I mean, he was my bro, right?
“So, we take eight trucks down to the lake with two jet skis on each trailer the second Saturday of every month. We put fourteen of those jet skis in the water.”
I took a gulp out of the mug. Delicious. “Cool.” I tried to pay attention. I ran my fingers through my shampooed and conditioned hair as I licked a little blood off the mug’s rim.
“The other one we leave in the parking lot, locked down.” He turned and went back to cutting up more coke. His steady hand flip-flopped the powder back and forth with the razor. He smoothed it out and then quickly separated it into four small lines. Then, instead of sucking them into his nose, he destroyed the perfectly constructed bumps and started over again. “The dealers then drive up in a pickup that they took the month before, drop it next to our rental hut and then jump in the new pickup truck that we leave in the parking lot.”
I did the math in my head and took a larger sip of the blood and coke. “So, wait, you move eighty pounds of blow a week?”
With his free hand, he shot me a shaka. “Yeah, bro. Killer, right?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I licked blood off of my teeth and pushed it into my gums for a freeze.
“Not at all.” He picked up the remote again with the shaka hand and started changing channels.
“No fucking way! That’s like a million bucks a month.”
“Yeah. But it’s not every month, bro.” He stopped at a channel and turned up the volume. “Summer and Spring Break rock. Fall and winter suck. This week is a bust for me. Someone intercepted the drop and took the drugs. I figure it’s the BBP trying to move in to Austin.”
I shot-gunned the rest of the mug and threw my head back to feel the gift coat my throat and enter my bloodstream. I gargled a little bit and sucked the rest of the gum reserve in through my teeth. “Still. I never cleared anything like that. I don’t think all the gangs in L.A. made that kind of money.” The news report caught my ear.
“The parents were left in the living room of the house, both dismembered. If you have any information on Paulina Jenkins...”
I looked up at the TV and brushed at my gums with my finger. There was a picture of Pinball that I guessed was taken of her when was undergoing chemotherapy. She was in a hospital bed with a bowed hat pulled tightly over her bald head.
“…please contact your local authorities. How’s it going over there, Melissa?”
The newscast split to two screens. A reporter in front of Pinball’s parents’ house stood in front of some yellow police tape.
“Things are tense, Don. If Paulina Jenkins sounds familiar, you might remember a campaign in Peoria to raise money for her chemotherapy.”
The other reporter responded.
“Yes. She is a brave young girl. Has her sister turned up yet?”
Two pictures flashed in between them. A picture of Pinball on her bike and younger Bait in a pair of waffle glasses with her arms crossed like an eighties rapper. The words AMBER ALERT faded in below the photographs in red.
“If you have been following this tragic story, the sister, Bailia Jenkins, has been missing for over a year and is presumed dead.”
Cody’s eyes were glued to the television, like mine. “This is so fucked up, bro.”
I handed Cody the mug. “Can I get another one?”
He took it from my hand and headed back to the fridge. “It’s pretty pure cocaine,” he said, “but I guess you can have a little more.”
He was right about the quality. My throat reverberated, sending vibrations out from my chest, through my pelvis and armpits, all the way to my toes and my fingers. I felt like I could shoot lightning from my hands. “This coke is amazing!”
He turned up the volume and opened the fridge again.
“Are there any leads or suspects, and does the Peoria Police Department believe the two cases are related?”
“Of course they’re related,” Cody guessed. He poured the blood into the mug and then closed the door.
“A few people said they saw a strange car in the neighborhood last week when the killings and abduction occurred.”
The other reporter interrupted her. “Although no make or model was given, one underage witness said he saw this.”
The reporter on the scene held up a kid’s drawing. The newscaster from the station said, “Can you pull in on that? I can’t see it.”
The camera pulled in on the drawing. It looked like a classic hot rod with flames on the side.
Cody grabbed the mug out of the microwave and started to walk back to the bench. “Looks like a Hot
Wheels car.”
The reporter on the scene responded. “Although it may seem silly that a murderer and a kidnapper would drive such an unmistakable automobile, several adult witnesses also claim to have seen something strange.”
Goddammit, Eldritch, I thought.
“Melissa, did anyone see anyone around the car?”
The AMBER ALERT text stayed on the screen but the photographs of Pinball and Bait disappeared. They were replaced by an artist’s sketch.
“Several people in the neighborhood have seen strange activity and this unknown male has been seen around the trailer park area for the past month.”
Thankfully, the sketch looked nothing like Eldritch or me. He was fat with rat eyes. If I had seen that guy around the neighborhood, I would have called the cops immediately. He might not have been involved in the abduction of Bait and Pinball, but chances were pretty solid that he was a pedophile.
Cody pointed at the TV. “Nice, mullet, bro.”
“Thanks for the update, Melissa.”
“Thanks, Don. I will keep you updated as this story continues to unfold.”
The screen returned to the studio as Melissa was replaced by the police sketch. Don recapped the details.
“He is a Caucasian or Hispanic male, around two hundred and fifty pounds, between five-foot-five and five-foot-ten. If anyone has seen this suspect please call the Peoria Police Department or your local authorities at—”
Cody muted the TV and then brushed my second helping into my mug. “Jesus. What kind of dirtball kills a family and then steals their kids?”
“It was only one kid,” I corrected him.
“But the other girl was missing, too.”
I didn’t share any more intel with him at first. I felt sweat beading up all over my body. To not make him suspicious, I walked back over to one of the gutted jet skis and had another look. Then, I finally said, “It was probably the kids’ real father.”
“The father is dead, bro.”
I changed the subject. I was leading on that I knew more about the case than I should have. “Why don’t you have a line?”
He waved me away. “No. I’m in The Program, bro.”
I stood up from the jet ski. “The Program? Are you like CIA or something?”
“What? No.” He picked up the pound of coke and started wrapping it back up. “I’m in Narcotics Anonymous. How could I be in the CIA? Look at all this coke.” When he was satisfied that the package was re-wrapped properly, he walked back over to me and handed me the mug.
“Narcotics Anonymous?” I grabbed the mug. “Cocaine isn’t a narcotic.”
“RJ, what the fuck are you talking about, bro?”
My eyelashes batted in double time as I took a sip of the new mixture. The cocaine was unbelievably pure and strong. “Are you a fucking narc? Only narcs don’t know the difference between narcotics and other drugs.”
Unfazed by my paranoid turn, he walked back over to the open jet ski and tucked the bag back in. “Maybe you’re the narc, bro.”
I put up my fist. “I’m not a narc. It wouldn’t make any sense for me to be a narc, either. I’m a fucking vampire.”
Cody pulled his vape out of his front pocket. “You said you weren’t really a vampire.”
“I’m not. I’m like—” I wiped sweat off my forehead with my wrist. “I’m like a fiend or like a walking abortion.” I sucked down the rest of the drink.
“Whatever,” he said, dismissing me. He walked over to a brown leather couch on the other side of the garage and sat down, pointing to a matching recliner next to it. “Come sit down, bro. You don’t look so good.”
I went back to the cutting board. “Fuck, man.” Strangely, I already forgot that I drank all the blow that he cut up. Then, I paced around the garage, evaluating all the jet skis. Evaluated is putting it lightly. I might have been circling them like a buzzard. “Yeah, man.” I shook my head again with my tongue out. “This business of yours is awesome. Fucking brilliant!” I bent over to try and get a good look at the operation. “Can you open this one up for me?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned on another huge TV on the coffee table in the center of his garage living room.
“Yo! You got another TV out here, Mack?” I tried to flatter him. “Shit, son.” I have no idea why but when I got really wired and the world was spinning, I started talking street. “That’s what’s up, right?”
In an attempt to drown out my lunacy, he cranked up the volume again. “I think you need to relax, bro. I remember the first time I did coke.”
I slid in between jet skis and made my way over to him. Thankfully, he wasn’t watching me. For all intents and purposes, I was doing a clumsy version of the Thriller dance. “What does that mean, homie?” I sat down on the recliner.
“It means you’re spazzin’ out, bro.” He clicked open a soda. “That’s why I stopped doing coke.”
I folded my legs under my butt. “Oh, that’s right. Big man. You’re a quitter.”
He lifted the remote and muted the new TV. He opened his mouth to speak and then my new phone vibrated in my back pocket, sending me to my feet. I stood on the chair, fumbling to get the phone out of my pocket. I looked at the screen for a second. The words were all jumbled around. I thumped my finger against it. It didn’t do anything. “Oh, shit,” I shouted. “Fucking screen is upside down.” I turned it around. “Please swipe to unlock? Okay, master. Whatever.” I laughed to myself as I looked to the couch.
Cody yawned and turned the TV back up. “You want some water or something?”
“Naaaaaa, I’m all good.” I clicked the text icon. “Nice!” There was a message from Eldritch. I read it aloud: “We are elated you are safe. We are as well.”
I read what I originally texted him because I couldn’t remember what I had written. “Oh, that’s right.” I typed back.
Did you know that the BBP is here? Let’s fucking kill those fucking assholes.
I looked over at Cody again. He was steadily pressing the up and down buttons. I looked at the TV. He was browsing the guide.
“Hey, bro!” I tried speaking his language. Apparently, he didn’t understand street. “Can you arrange a meeting with the BBP, bro? I totally hate those pricks. They framed me and got a lot of my friends killed, bro. You gotta help me out here, bro.”
I cracked my neck on either side. Then I strutted back to the work bench and looked down at the cutting board. Once again, I remembered that I already did all the coke that Cody prepared for me. “Fuck!” I picked up the plastic board by the handle and hurled it at the garage door.
“Come on, bro.” Cody got to his feet and turned off the second TV. “What’s wrong with you?” He walked to the front side of the garage and picked the board up. “Why don’t you go into the front yard and start yelling that you’re all coked out?”
I flicked my tongue against the inside of front teeth and changed up my lingo a smidge. “That sounds killer, bruh.”
He whizzed the cutting board at me like it was a throwing star. “I’m being sarcastic, bruh.”
The board hit me square in the shin. I grabbed my leg. “That might have hurt if I wasn’t a vampire. Can we meet up with the BBP or no?” I lifted one of my hands to gauge interest. “Yes?” Then, I lift the other, sliding it up and down as if the answer was on a scale between likely or never going to happen. “Orrrrrrrrr no?”
Cody walked past me, stretching his arm behind his back. “I’m not sure if that’s a great idea.”
I caught him by the strap of his tank top. “Please. You gotta help me out.”
He pulled away as his tank top ripped a little. “I don’t really know them that well. Besides, bro, they are in the middle of this, like, turf war—”
I let go of him. “Haaaaa. Turf war.” I was really close to breaking into a turf war routine a la West Side Story, but before I started snapping my fingers, I decided to put my hands in my pockets. “I can handle them.” I felt around in the new jeans. The poc
kets felt like they were filled with felt. “Hey, did I thank you for these jeans, bro? They’re totally epic.”
Cody reached the door and clicked off two of the three garage lights. “Go to bed,” he suggested. “I’ll see what I can do.” He pointed to the corner. “There are couple of bloody steaks in the fridge that Brax and I were gonna grill. Enjoy.”
He shut the door and locked it behind him.
I yelled back. “As if I can’t kick that door down.”
“Please don’t,” his muffled voice returned.
I looked at the phone. It was locked again. “Swipe to unlock,” I read. I walked over the fridge and opened it. I took the steaks off the plate one-by-one started sucking the blood out of them.
PeRRy dAbblEs in hEroin.
I clicked on the message icon on the phone and then wrote:
Bro. Eldritch. We are TOTALLY going to start a turf war with the Perrys. IN AUSTIN! I’m so pumped. I wanna do like push-ups to prepare.
New message.
You’re in pretty good shape, so you should be fine. Me? Probably not in as good of shape. You’ve seen me fight though, bro. I’m fucking tight as shit and mean as a fucking badger, bro.
New message.
Pound 4 pound, I can fist fuck the hell out of any of those pussies. You know it. YOU FUCKING KNOW ME, BRO! All about being a badass. Fuckin’ A.
New message.
I used to run a gang. A badass gang. I was the leader. This is gonna be awesome, bro. Me and you. Perrys. Battle of the century. Several gladiators enter the ring. Two exit. RJ Reynolds and fucking BJ Eldritch.
New message.
That would be dope. Me RJ. You BJ. Fucking blow job all over their faces, bro. Totally in the zone. Totally ready to light fucking Austin on fire, bro. We should sell tickets. Fucking FIRE!
New message.
Better call the Austin Fire Department because the kid is hot, bro. Man, this thing is hard to type on. It doesn’t matter. I am gonna take that fucker’s head and just smash it into a million pieces.
New message.
Imagine Linnwood’s smug fucking face when I am like totally scalping him. Bring matches and gas or something. I’m gonna rip off the top of his head and light his brain on fire, bro.