Midnight Brunch

by Marta Acosta

  I armed myself with a pile of rocks and sat on a boulder. As I waited and listened for the strange flying creature, I tried to think through recent events, looking for the simplest explanation that included all the facts. I’d seen a show about a math genius who helped FBI agents. The math genius had talked about information flowing from a source, and going back to the source. I followed the flow back to the appearance of Willem Dunlop and Silas Madison.

  Their visit exposed the family’s secrets and exacerbated my situation with Oswald’s parents. Willem denounced Gabriel. Silas tried to hurt Ian because he’d humiliated Willem, and I’d been reinfected as a result. Silas thought I was a portent of a great new vampire era. If Silas hadn’t canceled our coffee date, I wouldn’t have met Skip.

  If I hadn’t accidentally met Skip, I wouldn’t be here…here in a place with an altered Gabriel, a place where people went missing in the desert and appeared days later, a place where I was distracted by a movie star and given a project that fit my unusual interests, a place where socialites came for radical treatments and blood was stored in a locked wing, a place where my truck suddenly had engine problems, a place with zither music.

  And I thought I was so smart because I’d gone to F.U. Silas wanted me here and not only had I come, but I hadn’t told any of the people who might have helped me. If Thomas was in league with Silas, I was sleeping with the enemy. But Silas was far too clever to trust an emotional vampire, rather than a real one.

  I ran back to my casita. I ate a wedge of boudin noir, and picked up my phone. Mercedes would either be at the club or on her computers at home. “Mercedes, hi.”

  I heard a lot of noise, and she said, “Momentito,” which could mean anything from five seconds to five hours. In a few minutes, she said from a quieter place, “What’s up?”

  “I applied Occam’s razor, and the simplest explanation I came up with is that Silas used Skip to maneuver me here to the Paragon, and that he’s behind the private wing and also connected to Gabriel being here. By the way, I talked to Gabriel tonight and I met his new fiancée, who is a girl.”

  “I didn’t think Gabriel went for queens.”

  “Not a queen, an actual genetically certifiable female, one of the more odious of our gender, a major sissy.”

  “Why would Silas want you at the Paragon?”

  “That, mi hermana, is where I will need the assistance of your giant brain. I can play dumb until you get here.”

  “I know you can,” Mercedes replied.

  Eighteen

  Flunkies and Flying Monkeys

  I n the morning, the phone began ringing before seven o’clock: I answered on the first ring, hoping it was Oswald. “Hello?”

  “Maria Dos Passos?”

  “It’s not Maria, it’s—”

  The woman on the other end identified herself as a reporter with a daily paper. “I want to talk to you about your relationship with Thomas Cook and your recent experiences.”

  She had an insinuating tone that put me on guard. “I don’t have a relationship with Thomas Cook and why are you calling me here?”

  “I’m following up on the report in the Weekly Exposition. Now, about this alleged chupacabra sighting…”

  “No comment,” I said, and hung up.

  I was going to kill Bernie. I would use a dull knife to very slowly and messily dismember him and then I would leave his body parts strewn about the desert to be eaten by his beloved chupacabras.

  “Thomas, Thomas, come here!” I shouted as the phone began ringing again. “Hello,” I answered.

  “Is this Maria Dos Passos? My name is Louie Richardson and I’m a reporter for the—”

  “No hablo inglés. You bye-bye now.” I ended the call and went looking for Thomas even as the phone began to trill again. I picked up the receiver and put it down. Then I dialed the reception desk.

  “Good morning.”

  “Hello, this is Milagro De Los Santos in Casita Twelve. I’ve been receiving calls for a Maria Dos Passos. There is no one by that name here.”

  The receptionist asked me to hold for a moment and then came back on the line. “We do apologize, Ms. De Los Santos. We have a new staff member who thought there had been a mix-up with the names. It will not happen again.”

  “Thank you. I do not wish to be disturbed by reporters of any ilk.” I hung up and tried to remember to look up the word “ilk.”

  My roommate was examining the skin under his eyes in the bathroom mirror. “Why aren’t you answering the phone? It could be my agent.”

  “It’s not your agent. Reporters are calling because there’s a story about us and a chupacabra in the Weekly Exposition.”

  “Really? Do you have a copy?”

  “No, I don’t…,” I began saying as the doorbell buzzed. I went to the front door and opened it a tiny crack. “A package for Milagro De Los Santos,” said the delivery guy.

  “Thanks,” I said, signing for an oversized manila envelope.

  I closed and locked the door and programmed the phone to forward all calls to the message service. Then I made myself a drink of blood and coffee. It was an awful combination, and I only choked down half a cup before pouring the rest down the drain.

  Inside the envelope was a copy of the Weekly Exposition. A note was attached to it with a paper clip. “Friends forgive friends. Your friend, Bernie.”

  I unfolded the tabloid and a shock went through me. There was a large photo of Thomas kissing me outside the casita the morning after Bernie and I had rescued him from the sidewalk.

  “He could have gotten my good side,” Thomas said.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “No,” he said, but he grinned.

  I picked up a small barbell and held it aloft. “The truth or you won’t have a ‘good side.’ ”

  “I swear I didn’t know, but I, uh, didn’t not know.” When I waved the barbell menacingly, he stepped back and added, “He’s a tabloid writer. What did you expect—that he liked us for our conversation?”

  “Actually, yes,” I answered, feeling monumentally stupid. I looked at the tabloid. If it had featured some chica other than me, I would have thought it was hysterical.

  The major headline was “Latin Lovebirds Tormented by Chupacabra,” and a subhead read, “Love Cursed by Deadly Winged Monkey-Monster.” A photo of Thomas hugging me was captioned, “Thomas Cooks Up Passion with Spicy Hot Tamale.” Another of us examining the sheep’s carcass said, “Latin Lovers’ Beloved Pet Goat Pancho Slaughtered.”

  At least my face was blurred and I was identified as “Maria Dos Passos.”

  “Do you think that anyone can tell it’s me?” I asked anxiously.

  “Are you kidding? You look like every other Mexican girl, and your features aren’t in focus.” He didn’t mean this as an insult and I didn’t take it as one. Thomas pointed to a shot of us looking into the night sky at an ominous winged creature. “This is the best one. We look good together.”

  “I like this one,” I said, indicating a photo of us at Lefty’s. “I hardly ever get my hair to do that flip.”

  We were silent as we read the preposterous story. According to Bernie, Thomas had spotted “Maria Dos Passos” in a Fanta commercial and fallen instantly in lust. We had incurred the wrath of the chupacabra by accidentally killing one of its spawn on a drug-and-tequila-fueled road trip to Ensenada.

  This fictitious Maria had been a popular extra in Mexican soap operas and regularly prayed to St. Magnus of Füssen, the patron saint of protection against vermin, to keep the chupacabra from harming her. “How could Bernie do this after I corrected papers for him?” I said, and flopped down onto the sofa.

  “It’s a good story,” Thomas said. He went to the phone and dialed. I listened to him talk to his manager. Evidently both were overjoyed with the positive coverage. When Thomas was finished, he sat by me and grinned. “The story’s getting picked up internationally. People are asking for interviews.”

  “You can’t possibly
think this is good!” I told him how my F.U. acquaintances would fall over laughing at this piece.

  Thomas straightened up. “Milagro,” he said in a husky voice that sent shivers through me, “let me explain something to you. They might laugh in public, but at night when they’re with their boring stockbroker boyfriends, they’ll be fantasizing that they’re you, in my bed.”

  Even though I knew he could turn on his sexual energy like a spigot, I was as mesmerized as a Boy Scout in a sorority house on naked pillow fight night. “I…um…”

  He placed his finger over my lips. “You ought to thank Bernie. He said you were hot.”

  “Thomas, I seem like an idiot in that article.”

  “You must have been treated very badly to have such low self-esteem. Can you get my agent on the line and also order breakfast?”

  I was happy to call his agent, because I had some questions to ask her about my deal with Skip. She was ecstatic about the tabloid story.

  So was Skip, who showed up in the afternoon with a toohip-for-words publicist dressed in a severe black suit. The publicist looked me up and down and pushed her huge black-rimmed glasses up her designer nose. “You should have consulted with me before casting. I would have gone a different direction. Not so obvious.”

  “I was not cast,” I said, spitting out every word as if it was a sharp thing. “I am a real person.”

  “Mmm,” she said critically. “A little more class and a little less sass would be good for interviews. Don’t worry—we’ll get you a coach.” She turned to Skip. “You know that civilians are always hard to work with.”

  “I know,” he said. “But we didn’t plant the story. We just lucked out.”

  “Skip, I do not consider this luck,” I said, wanting to smack the little creep. “I am in a real relationship, you know. I also feel that being associated with a chupacabra sighting in a tabloid will damage my credibility as a serious author.”

  “Milagro, lighten up,” Skip said. He turned to the publicist. “We can replace her with an up-and-comer. Any suggestions?” They quickly became engrossed in discussing a love interest for Thomas.

  Silas couldn’t have scripted all of this, could he? Skip seemed genuinely excited about the publicity for the movie, and I had to believe it was a real project.

  I needed to rant so I called Bernie. I left a blistering message about his mendacious nature, his ethical chasm, his questionable use of the semicolon, and his penchant for excessive alliteration.

  I locked myself in the office and pretended that I was working. I picked up Brideshead Revisited and read the last pages. As I closed the book, I felt better. Charles, Sebastian, and Julia had survived foolishness, self-destructiveness, and broken hearts, and had matured. They had lost their innocence, but not their hope.

  It was time for me to take control of those things that I could control, and one of those things was my truck. I was so eager for confrontation that when the doorman swung open the door to the Paragon, I dashed directly into the man in the wheelchair.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said as I recovered my balance. “I didn’t look where I was going. Are you hurt?”

  “Fine,” he said, his voice muffled through the gauze around his mouth. “It’sss okay.”

  I was across the lobby before I felt a chill go through me. It was only the bandages that had caused the sibilant s, I told myself as I kept walking.

  Charles was at the concierge station. He was taking a long time with a guest who wanted to know all the particulars about winter vacation packages. I occupied myself by watching all the smooth and tan people who glided across the stone floor.

  I stood patiently for ten minutes before I began tapping my toe, glancing at my wrist (before remembering that I didn’t even own a watch), and sighing impatiently.

  The concierge occasionally glanced at me sympathetically but otherwise seemed in no rush to conclude his tedious conversation. I determined to wait as long as necessary and began singing “Las Mañanitas” softly. Mercedes had told me that singing the chirpy song three times through was guaranteed to cause madness in listeners.

  The guest succumbed by the second chorus, and I stepped forward with an innocent smile. “Charles, how are you?!”

  “Hello. I hope you have been enjoying your stay at the Paragon and all our amenities.”

  “It’s been beyond fab. I would like to get my truck back, though.”

  “It’s not ready yet.”

  “I’d like to talk to the mechanic. Why don’t you give me the name and number of the garage and I’ll handle this myself.”

  I saw the panic flash in his blue eyes and knew he was thinking of a lie.

  “He works exclusively for the spa and private clientele,” he said, stroking his beard. “He hates being disturbed and our agreement with him requires that we, um, not disclose his information.”

  Leaning close, I looked up at him and said, “I’m holding you personally responsible for taking my truck. Get it back to me by tomorrow. Or I will be really upset with you, Charles. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell the mechanic to expedite the repairs.”

  “Good. Now I’m off to my massage.” Although the massages were not pleasant, I felt as if I was doing something to gain control over the bloody visions. As I walked to the treatment room, I checked the door with the uniforms and laundry, but it was locked.

  In the massage room, I quickly changed into a robe.

  Triveni tapped on the door and came in, her ankle bracelet jangling. “How’s it shaking, girlfriend?” she asked in her normal voice.

  “I’m fine. Sorry I’m late.”

  “No sweat,” she said as she put a match to the smudge stick.

  “How’s work going?”

  She rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this big-resort scene. There are some perks, though. In our staff meeting they announced that we’re getting two days off, full pay, in a week.”

  “Really? That’s very generous.”

  “Yeah, the whole place is going to be shut down for a private party for some members of the Diamond Club.”

  “Why would the resort need to shut down for special guests?”

  “The hell if I know. Maybe they’re having a nudists retreat. Maybe they’re having a greasy old orgy. Now shut your trap and meditate.”

  When I returned to the casita, I was thankful that Skip, Thomas, and the publicist had left. I mixed a few drops of blood with water in a wineglass; most observers would’ve assumed I was drinking rosé. I wrote and sipped, sipped and wrote.

  Thomas came in late, waved good night, and went to bed. I stared at my phone, wishing Oswald would call, even if it was only so I could listen to crackling noises and shout that I loved him.

  When everything at the spa was quiet, I slipped outside and went for a long run. The daytime hues of taupes, browns, and grays turned into grays and blacks at night. As Bernie had said, there was something alien, harsh but beautiful, about the desert. It felt as if I was the only one on the planet.

  On my return route I circled the area where we had found the sheep. After a few minutes of searching, I located speakers hidden behind rocks and shrubs and also some kind of light projector. That explained why the shadow of the flying creature hadn’t had a radiant outline. That desert rat, Bernie, had rigged the whole show.

  Everything I’d done recently was off balance. I’d allowed Bernie and Charles to deceive me because I thought them amiable. I hadn’t really objected to Thomas blackmailing me. I couldn’t accept Gabriel’s wishes and wanted to hold an intervention for him.

  My only comfort was deep, dreamless sleep.

  I was in a marvelous, cozy place, delighting in the smoothness of the luxury sheets and the squooshiness of the down pillow, and just drowsy enough to be blissfully unaware of how screwed up my life was, when I heard a nasty buzzing sound. I opened my eyes as Thomas shoved me and said, “Door.”

  I shoved him back, and then he pushed me so ha
rd that I almost fell out of bed. I whacked him with my pillow, saying, “Treat me better, you jerk, or I will kick your exfoliated and waxed ass!” I grabbed a Paragon robe and looked at the clock. Who would show up at seven in the morning?

  A bellhop stood at the door, shuffling from foot to foot. “Miss De Los Santos, there’s a person at the front desk to see you.”

  “This early? I told them I wasn’t to be disturbed by the media.”

  “Yes, we know, but this lady kept insisting and she is…um…kind of scaring people.”

  I sighed. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Let me shower and—”

  But a golf cart came rolling down the path and stopped at my casita.

  The bellhop driving it looked humiliated. I couldn’t help smiling when I saw the petite woman with the oversized sun hat and the designer shades step out of the cart. She said to him, “Make sure my room is ready when I return. I want still water, not carbonated, and for goodness sake, don’t have any potpourri around.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Paragon employees drove away so fast, gravel spun up.

  Nineteen

  Bleed me Alone

  E dna looked the picture of Paragon chic. She wore a pale aqua blouse over flowing slacks that were a shade deeper. She removed her sunglasses, and the hat cast a shadow over her face, making her amazing eyes look more mysterious.

  Affection filled me and I wanted to grab her and hold her close. “Hello, Edna, won’t you come in? How did you find me?”

  “Young Lady, you were right.”

  “Really,” I said, brightening up. “About what?”

  “That if I waited long enough you would make a spectacle of yourself.” She pulled out a copy of the Weekly Exposition and handed it to me as she came into the casita. “What are you doing here? You said you were in the City.”

  “I have a job rewriting a screenplay, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

  Someone yawned loudly behind me and I remembered too late that I had an unauthorized roommate.