“Hurry up,” she said.
She kept looking over her shoulder towards the horizon. The light was beginning to yellow. Soft, like a photograph pushing through a negative. Sunrise, barging in like an unwanted wedding guest.
Hurry up, boy. Your girlfriend forgot to wear her sunscreen.
She’s not my girlfriend, Carnival thought angrily.
“Hurry,” Maya urged.
“I’m hurrying,” Carnival said. He looped the belt around the dead man’s arm, and back around the chair. A couple of clumsy knots did the trick.
I knew I should have let you join the Boy Scouts.
The two of them started pushing. They got maybe twelve feet when the body slid off the chair.
“It’s not working,” Carnival said.
“Use your own belt on his other arm.”
He didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t see a choice. A minute later the body was tied securely onto the chair. The two of them, vampire and Gypsy, started pushing, making enough racket to wake up a whole graveyard.
“This chair is too noisy.”
“In this neighborhood? If anyone hears us will just think it’s a grocery cart lady.”
She was right, but that didn’t make him feel any better. They kept pushing. It was easier on a downhill slope. It still was noisy, though. The guy bobbed along, periscoping up and down like a clown on a kid’s push toy. Carnival’s pants lagged about his hips like they were getting set to fall off. He wanted to complain but it felt as if he’d been gagged. His throat kept itching. He badly wanted to go home.
“Stop your whining,” she said, like she felt his thoughts. “It’s nearly sunrise.”
“I thought you wanted to see it.”
“That was just something you pushed me into.”
“I didn’t push anybody.”
“Sure you did. Slick, too. Just like when you took this guy. You were smooth. You sure you’re not one of us?”
No. You’re not a vampire. You’re worse. You’re a grave robber, a hypocrite, and you give no respect to your father.
Carnival let go. He was pissed at what she’d said and what Poppa had said. Pissed at how close they both were to the truth. He let go and Maya slipped. He didn’t mean to let go. He was thinking so hard he forgot to hold on to the body. The body kept rolling. It picked up speed fast. There was something hypnotic about the way he looked, rattling on down the hill like a runaway paraplegic, like it would keep rolling forever.
“Catch him,” Maya shouted.
“Why bother,” Carnival said. “He’s headed for the bay. A car might hit him. Better yet, a truck.”
She was okay with that. It hadn’t been her idea to move him in the first place. Carnival couldn’t blame her.
What could the police do to a vampire? Impound her coffin? APB her tomb?
He stared at her, trying to remember when he’d decided he was okay with murder.
“I’m not, you know,” he said.
“Not what?”
“Not one of your kind. I never will be.”
She shrugged. “We’ll see,” she said.
He didn’t like the sound of that but she had a point. Two of them, growing out of her mouth, long and white and sharp. He figured there wasn’t much he could do about it just now.
The guy on the chair rolled up and over one more rise and then down below the horizon. There was nothing left but the distant rolling rattle. Then even that was gone. He probably hit the water. Even if he didn’t there wasn’t that much to tie him to a Gypsy palm reader. It wasn’t like Carnival had left him holding one of his personal business cards.
Death will out, boy. No matter how hard you try to hide it, death will out. Go and ask Macbeth.
“Do you have a name?” Maya asked. “Or just a sign on your window?”
He nearly laughed. He was in love, not stupid.
“I know better than to give the undead my true name. You can call me Carnival, or Val if you don’t like the feel of something that long in your mouth.”
He winked. She ignored his entendre. The distant rattle rolled on.
“Do you want to stay over?” he asked.
She gave Carnival a grin that barely covered her canines.
“Never on the first date.”
Ha. You should have known she’d feed you another line, boy.
Maya stepped into the street light. In a moment she’d be gone. Vanished like smoke on the wind.
“Where else can you go?” Carnival persisted. That earned him another grin. He liked that. He could grow used to that grin.
Ha! A man can get used to boiling in oil, too, but would you want to try?
“A girl can go anywhere she wants to. It’s a great big old night. There’s room enough for everyone.”
Nice. A vampire who believes in free will.
“Come on,” Carnival coaxed. “I’d like you to stay over. I promise to dust.”
He gave her his most winning smile. It’s a hard smile to resist. He practiced it daily, along with his shrug. She tilted her head like she was thinking about it. He prayed she was.
Be careful what you wish for, boy.
He wasn’t proud. He’d take a date any chance that he got. Even a vampire.
“All right,” She said. “Let’s go.”
He smiled all the harder. A yes to a first date and he’d only had to kill one guy for it. Who says gypsies don’t have any luck?
And yet, he wondered what Olaf thought about how things ended up.
Chapter 9
Slam Dunk Sunk Funk
Death is a little like luck. It always runs out and there seems to be never quite enough of it to go around. No matter how dead a body gets, there’s always a little life, hovering close to the bone and deep in the blood.
Olaf Richardson lay in the water, in the darkness, cradled by the numbing hand of death. He could see himself, looking at himself from somewhere far off behind an unseen curtain.
A curtain he’d just passed through.
He felt his body strapped to that ridiculous office chair, bumping along like a cheap roller coaster until the wheels slammed hard against the rim of the wharf and he tipped up and over and into the waiting ocean.
Splash.
Two points.
Sinking downward, still bound to the office chair.
He felt strangely prophetic. He’d told his wife that this was how he expected to go. How he wanted to die, sitting in an office chair, engrossed in a heap of statistics and spreadsheets, calculating the drift and accumulation of a client’s meager fortunes. Dead in an office chair. He’d told his own future but he sure hadn’t seen it happening quite like this.
The water rose about him. He felt himself sinking into the churn and muck of the harbor. A thousand soiled condoms and drifting chunks of feces drifted about him. Even now the accountant in his soul tried to process them, to make some sense and find a pattern out of what had happened.
Was this my fault, a part of him wondered? He’d been a good father, a dutiful husband. He hadn’t cheated on her, except this one time. And he hadn’t even done anything?
Why had he thought he could?
It had been a bet, a stupid fucking bet. Billy and that chuckle headed bastard Thomas, they’d bet he wouldn’t have the nerve. Go get some skin, they’d said. Go grab yourself a piece of skin.
Then, when he’d challenged them to come out with him, to find themselves a woman, they’d chickened out. High on a green stinking cloud of righteous self-indulgent indignation, Olaf had made his way out into the darker side of town. Down to the Fish Hook area where you could count on purchasing a cheap stolen DVD player or maybe getting a tattoo of a high titted mermaid or maybe even getting your palm read - the seedy part of town, where you came to find a woman who would fuck you for money.
Money for sex.
The concept made sense to the accountant in his soul. The murder didn’t make sense. Why had they killed him? For his blood? What worth was that?
By the time he’d come to this part of the town he’d just wanted to get laid. At that point it was way past a bet. It had grown into a need.
He needed the skin.
Just do it one more time, he’d thought, just do it one more time and get it out of your system. It won’t kill you.
At least they hadn’t taken his knife. He could feel it, cool and sharp in his pocket. Not that it helped him any, now. It was too late now. He was dying.
Or maybe he was already dead. He wasn’t sure.
Death always came late. The hereafter, like any other form of bureaucracy, turned with slowly creaking wheels.
He drifted deeper into the harbor. Moving slowly, like a bullet in a John Woo movie. Even after hitting bottom, the thousand layers of archaeological crud slowly sucked him downwards.
Slowly.
Slowly.
A curious mackerel nibbled at his lip.
He saw the eyes of the mackerel, glinting like reflected glass.
And then the mackerel began to speak.
And down in the darkness, the little that was left of Olaf Richardson, nodded slowly in the slumbering current, nodded and listened as something moved the mackerel’s mouth and began to barter for Olaf’s attention.
The accountant in calculated in the empty vault of Olaf’s soul was as happy as a pig in shit.
Chapter 10
Position is Everything
Carnival reopened the door for Maya and let her back into his home.
“It’s not much, but it’s cozy.”
“I’ve slept in tighter confines.”
I bet she has. Tight and piney.
Carnival smiled his most charming smile. He mentally ran down his list of options. What was the best way to score with a vampire? He hadn’t seen any articles on that particular problem in any of the latest issues of Maxim.
“Shall we talk? I have a little wine. You do drink, don’t you? Or was Lugosi telling the truth?”
“Oh I like a little nip, now and then,” she smiled, showing her teeth. “But I don’t really have the time for it now. It’s late. Dawn’s closer than you might like to think.”
She leaned over and kissed him. It was a good kiss. Sweet and sharp like a caramel razored apple.
Oh, sexy. Can I watch? I don’t get the Playboy channel in here.
“Shut up, Poppa,” the two of them said simultaneously.
They laughed. Carnival was enjoying this. It was fun, having someone who shared your secrets, especially the nasty ones.
Maya kissed him again. Carnival appreciated a woman who took the initiative. There are so many rituals that get in the way - the first date, the meeting with the parents, prom night and choosing the right corsage. It’s nice, every now and then, to have a woman lean over and give you the first kiss. To hold the door for you and invite you in, as it were.
He felt the hard edges of her teeth beneath her lips. He felt the pressure, the want of it. He felt the gentle opening of her mouth, the soft sucking even without penetration, like she could empty him dry without a thought. It excited him in a weird kind of way.
Sure. Like sucking on a machine gun. Dead men jig fastest on the wrong end of the rope. You think death is exciting? Oh my boy, how much I want to teach you.
Carnival wondered about that. Did he have a death wish? Was he in that much of a hurry to find out what was on the other side of that door? Maya slid her lips down along his chin. He stiffened as if she’d offered oral sex. It’s funny how that works for a guy. Maybe it’s biological. We just have to see a woman’s mouth and it’s one of the first things we think of. She slid down to Carnival’s neck. He felt the scabbed over wound in his finger pulsing with need.
“It’s late,” she whispered, leaving her mouth close to his neck. Her tongue and lips and breath made a gentle wet dance across his skin, raising slow goose bumps that pulsed over his carotid artery.
Oh that’s smart. Let the vampire kiss your neck. Why don’t you just stick your head under a plow horse’s hoof and get it over with?
Carnival did his best to not pay attention. It was always tricky, making love with someone watching from inside your chest. It went a little beyond voyeurism. It smacked too much of masturbation.
Ha. You’ll play with yourself tonight, Val my boy. She’s not staying with you. I can smell her disinterest.
“You can have the cot,” Carnival offered gallantly. “I’ll be happy to sleep on the floor.”
His aching back wouldn’t like it but Galahad wouldn’t stand for anything less.
“That’s not necessary.” Maya said.
She pulled away. Carnival leaned a little as she pulled, shamelessly trying to prolong the touch of her lips against his throat.
“I need some place darker.”
He thought quickly. There was a closet with a blanket draped across it. A trunk full of used pocketbooks, most of them moldy. There was a shoe box and a wooden crate. Nothing else came to mind.
“Here perhaps.”
She slid the cot aside.
That’s a woman for you. Moved in and moving furniture. Tomorrow you can go shopping for drapery.
Underneath the cot was a trapdoor. Not like in the movies, with a great iron ring and massive hinges. This one was modern, with a small brass pot handle for a knob. That couldn’t have always been there, could it?
“I don’t remember that being here.” Carnival said.
She smiled. “It’s funny, the things you forget.”
He opened his mouth. He should have said something but he couldn’t think what. His mind was muffled, anesthetized.
“I’ll sleep down here,” She said. “Away from the sunlight.”
“You mean I get to sleep on top of you?”
“If you wish.”
Cute. A bunk bed with the undead. You two ought to write a show tune.
Maya opened the trapdoor. It swung up soundlessly. He still couldn’t remember it being there before. Had she made it? Was it some sort of inter-dimensional portal? Maybe it opened into her coffin.
It’s an escape, and you’re letting her use it. What kind of man are you, to let a woman into your house and then let her get back out? Turn in your secret masculinity handshake to the testosterone watchmen. It’s tutu time for you.
Maya climbed down the ladder. Carnival tried to sneak a peek but there wasn’t enough light to see what lay below.
“You want me to come tuck you in?”
“Ha,” she smiled at that. “You wish.”
Then she swung the trapdoor closed. He tried to open it but it refused to budge. It didn’t look heavy. It was just a couple of sheets of cheap plywood nailed together as far as he could see. If he had a pry bar he might force an entry.
Fegh. Rhett Butler would kick it down. So would John Wayne.
“They’re both dead, Poppa.”
Carnival went to the bathroom, filled a glass of water half full and set it by his bedside in case he woke up thirsty. He lay down on the cot, wondering how the trapdoor had come to be. Maybe it was a transporter. Step down and arrived somewhere else.
Ha! Beam me up, Bela.
Carnival smiled. He imagined Maya, laying down in the darkness beneath him. He wanted to get up and tap dance. Maybe sing a little song of happy joy. All those damn fool things a man feels he has to do when he’s been bitten by the bug of love. Down there, just beneath his bed. Heh. It’s good to be on top.
Ha. You’re not on top. Not by a long shot.
“Shut up, Poppa.”
Who holds the knife, boy?
Carnival closed his eyes. He tried to sleep but nothing came. He tried fantasy, thinking about a vampire’s kiss. It didn’t help. Unfulfilled horniness is a crappy anesthetic. He lay awake staring at the ceiling. The itch on his neck nagged like a forgotten duty.
Who holds the knife?
It was a good question.
Carnival wished in vain for an answer he could trust.
Chapter 11
Lost Sleep
&
nbsp; You can see a lot of truth on a bedroom ceiling, amidst the cracked plaster and the undusted cobwebs. Amidst the juiceless fly carcasses cluttered about the bottom bowl of a ceiling light shade, the shadows and half smoked memories, truth smeared like a lunatic’s finest finger painting, fractal images of vaguely conjured thought.
Oh Gypsy poet, sing me your sweet agony. I will fetch my guitar and we will annihilate melody together.
“Poppa, I’m trying to sleep.”
You’re talking to a ghost about vampire love. How restful can that be?
Carnival’s mind raced. What was he thinking? Kissing a vampire. Inviting her into his home. Holding her hand. Killing for her.
You know what your problem is, boy?
Carnival’s neck itched. He tried not to dig at it.
You sleep too much.
Carnival saw it again. The knife easing into Olaf’s throat like it belonged there. Like it was supposed to be. Was he dreaming? Had he fallen into sleep?
Do you know what sleep is?
He saw the shout of blood shooting out from Olaf’s throat like a wave born in a man’s neck.
Sleep is just a rehearsal for death. You close your eyes, you breathe slowly, and you let the day fade away.
Carnival saw the look in Olaf’s eyes, fading away. Like a photograph of nothing, developing in a strange slow motion.
What does that sound like to you, boy? What does that sound like to you?
Carnival heard the patient lapping of the waves, a black fathomless hound waiting to be gorge itself on Olaf’s emptied out body.
Death, boy. Sleep is death. The night is death. The ocean is death.
Like a lonely cup, waiting to be filled.
Why do you think there are so many waves on the water? The ocean is always waving goodbye. The sailor is forever lonely, the sea is made of tears, not salt.
Carnival sat up.
“I killed him, Poppa. Goddamn your poetic mystical bullshit. There’s blood on my hands.”
That’s why God made soap, my Val. Ask Pilate. He could tell you.
“Not all the soap, Poppa. Not all the soap, nor all the sea water.”
He flung his hand out, knocking the half full glass of water to the floor. It spilled and shattered.
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