“You figure it out.”
They both hung up. He sat for a while, counting the dust motes in a beam of sun. It grew quiet. He heard a buzz. Not the door bell, but softer.
Then he placed it.
It was the sound of the tattooist upstairs working his needle - working his designs while Carnival worked his own.
“Good. Maybe the noise will help keep me awake.”
Chapter 70
The Great Red Robbery
Dennis Lonaghan had worked as a desk clerk at the Third Street Blood Bank for the last three years. He’d been here just long enough to get bored with the whole job but it paid the bills, so he kept on working. At this time of the day, things got pretty slow. He fought to keep himself awake, singing a little song in the back of his mind.
…the bums crawl in, the bums crawl out….
“Look,” Dennis said to the bum who was trying to give blood for the second time in two weeks. “You can’t sell your blood today. It’s too soon since you last gave blood.”
“But I feel strong,” the bum said.
It was always this way. They wanted to push the rules, to sell their blood a little ahead of schedule. They’d do anything for a pint full of sweet oblivion.
Goddamn drunks.
Dennis tried to work on his breathing. His reiki master had warned him about the dangers of shallow breathing. You have to draw it in to the bottom of your soul, hold it for the count of three, and force it up and out through your nose.
Circulation.
It was an important concept, like blood, only through the air.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dennis replied. “You’ve still got to wait until the waiting period’s passed.”
Dennis blamed his shallow breathing on the bums. He’d had to learn to breathe shallowly to avoid their crapulous stench. He wondered if it would be considered politically incorrect to hand out bars of soap with every transfusion they took.
…the bums crawl in, the bums crawl out…
“You’re just too skinny, is all. Somebody as light as you is going to have to wait another three weeks.”
He almost said some bum as light as you, instead of somebody. That would be bad. You can’t call them bums anymore he reminded himself for the third time today.
“It’s the rules. You can’t change what’s written down.”
It was politically incorrect to even call them bums nowadays. Now you had to call them the homeless or houseless. The worst euphemism had been given to him in last week’s sensitivity session. The instructor referred to the bums as the disenfranchised. Now what did that mean? It sounded as if they could no longer sell MacDonald’s hamburgers.
Dennis knew damn well what they called themselves.
Bums.
They knew what they were, and they didn’t bother putting on any airs about it - although it would be nice if they’d put on a little cologne.
…the bums crawl in, the bums crawl out, the bums play pinochle on your snout…
God this job sucked.
At least it was better than that parking lot attendant job he’d left to come here, but not by much. This job was safer. He’d been held up a couple of times at the parking lot. I mean what kind of money did they think they’d get at an unpaved parking lot?
At least here he was dealing with blood. Who the hell would steal blood? Even if they wanted to, there was a security guard standing at the doorway.
“Look, I feel strong,” the bum protested.
He made a pitiful muscle to show how strong he was but his head exploded in mid-flex.
Dennis knew the bum’s head hadn’t really exploded. Heads don’t really explode, except in movies but it erupted into a fast wet rain of blood and bone bits and a gravy of grayish pink brain jelly. And then his skull was open and gaping and his mouth kept moving for at least half a half of a minute like the old bum was still trying to speak.
Dennis couldn’t understand what the bum might be trying to say but it looked to as he was saying – “I’ll show you all the blood you’ll ever need to see.”
“Nobody move!”
A man in a rubber Frankenstein mask came charging into the lobby waving the pistol that had just fired the bullet that had exploded the skinny bum’s head.
Dennis thrust his hands into the air.
“Take the money,” he bravely shouted. “Just don’t hurt any of us.”
The security guard came stumbling into the lobby, kicked by the size thirteen boot of a second man dressed in a Dracula mask. Those are cool masks, a crazy part of Dennis’s mind said but he was too busy shoveling out the contents of the cashbox.
“Take it. It’s just money. We don’t need it.”
A pistol that thought it was part cannon jammed its barrel into Dennis’s left ear. The man holding the pistol was the third robber. He was wearing what looked to be a hockey goalie’s mask with a rubber jammed through it.
“Keep the money, clown,” the third thief said in a very Spanish sounding accent. “We’re here for the blood.”
Why steal blood, Dennis crazily thought.
The winos practically give it away.
And then for some strange reason he reached out and touched the third thief’s rubber machete. He didn’t know why he did it. It was just one of those stupid things you do sometimes. He just had the crazy urge to see if the damned thing was real. Just as quick as that the third thief squeezed the trigger.
Dennis felt a large blast of light escaping from somewhere inside his heart.
He fell to the ground as the three thieves loaded case after case out the door.
Maybe the police will come to investigate the shots, he thought.
But Dennis knew it would never happen. Not on this side of town.
He stared at the blood bubbling merrily out of his brand new sucking chest wound.
In, out. In, out. The bright pink frothiness of a sucking chest wound. It was damn near festive.
He felt his mouth dry out.
I’m thirsty, he thought.
Imagine that. I’m dying of thirst.
If only they’d left me a pint, he thought, as he tumbled into the slow drowning pond of oblivion.
Chapter 71
And Not a Drop to Drink
Maya felt the thirst already.
She laid in her coffin, staring up at the picture spiked inside the lid, a little girl in renaissance clothes.
Is that me, she wondered? Why couldn’t she remember?
She focused on something she could remember.
Carnival.
The little bastard had better have a feast ready for her. She was parched. The membranes of her mouth seemed to crackle like old photographic negative paper. She shouldn’t be this thirsty. Not yet.
It was the dirt. As long as she slept away from her dirt she would get thirstier and weaker. Day by night by day.
Who was doing this to her?
The red voice spoke inside her.
Do you know what to do, it asked.
Yes, she thought. I know what to do.
Chapter 72
He Ain’t Jefe
Did you ever have one of those dreams where every door that you opened lead you to another door?
Carnival felt he was living in one of those dreams, right about now. Every step he took seemed to lead deeper into a quicksand pool he was busily trying to fill.
When you are up to your ass in alligators, it is important to remember that you originally set out to drain the swamp.
“Right Poppa. Thank you for your wisdom. You are a constant compass in the chartless void of my existence.”
You read too much. You ought to watch more television. What are you thinking about, any ways?
“Hedgehogs,” Carnival smiled. Not an honest one but close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades. “Hotchikochi.”
At a time like this you’re thinking about your stomach? You are weak, boy. As weak as hammered dog snot. One day I will beat you.
“Not on yo
ur best day, Poppa. Not on your best day with reinforcements.”
Be careful what you wish for.
Carnival used a thick stick of schoolhouse chalk to sketch another magic circle on the ground. He scrawled a series of yellow arrows, all about the perimeter, pointing outward.
Watch where you’re pointing those arrows.
“Don’t worry, Poppa. A curse is a kind of arrow. You shoot it at who you aim at. I’ve got pretty good aim.”
It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.
Chollo came barging through the door. He took one look at Carnival’s circle and stepped straight back.
“Hola, vato. Commesta Carnie?”
Chollo gingerly stepped back into the room. He didn’t like any of this sort of shit, even when he asked for it.
“I didn’t know you were busy.”
Poor Chollo. It couldn’t have been any worse if he’d caught Carnival engaging in intercourse with a rotted corpse.
“That’s disgusting.”
“You ought to talk. Look at your face.”
Chollo looked in a wall mirror and grinned. He was wearing a Halloween hockey mask with a machete jammed through it.
“Emergency brain surgery?”
“Un-huh,” Chollo replied.
“It probably didn’t take.”
Chollo smiled a tight fuck-you kind of grin.
“You got the stuff?” Carnival asked.
Wow. This is exciting, like Miami Vice. You ought to be wearing a snappy white polyester leisure suit.
Carnival smiled. “Maybe I need some gold chains and wraparound sunglasses.”
“Who are you talking to?” Chollo asked.
“My ancestors,” Carnival replied, with a mysterious leer.
Chollo took a step backwards. “So do I need a password? Can I come in?”
“You’re in already. How do you do that, anyway? Do you have a spare key?”
“The doorman let me in.”
This one must be Rom, he loves his secrets so much. He wouldn’t give you a straight answer if you tortured him with Oprah reruns and alcohol-free beer.
Chollo handed Carnival a plastic bag full of blood.
“How long has it been out of the fridge?”
“Not long. Don’t worry. It’s fresh. Feel it. It’s cold.”
Carnival felt it. Chollo wasn’t lying. The blood was cold.
Chollo grinned like a cat in parakeet heaven. “We stole a refrigerator truck. Blood might smell a little like deli salami, but it’s fresh.”
“Fresh is good. Salami might not hurt. It adds to the taste,” Carnival said.
Chollo made a face.
“Did you see my new piece?”
He was trying to change the subject by showing something new to Carnival. It looked like a gun. That flat stainless steel that bluntly stated that this was a piece of equipment solely designed to take men’s lives.
“Smith and Wesson, brother. A four inch .357 magnum.”
Carnival tried his best to look impressed. He and guns had never got along very well. He liked to keep as far away from them as possible.
That’s a good plan, boy. Guns are dangerous, not like blood demons and vampires.
“This is the big bastard. Ninety five percent stopping power, first bullet out of the barrel.”
“What happens the other five percent of the time?” he asked.
Chollo cocked the pistol. It made an evil sounding snap.
“Bullet number two,” Chollo said. “Ninety five plus ninety five equals a zero percent chance of survival, every time.”
Must be new math. It is good to know you can count on your thug.
“What would a gun like that do to a vampire?”
Chollo looked at Carnival.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
Chollo looked at Carnival and shrugged.
“You’re the expert.”
Carnival grinned ruefully.
“Good to know.”
“Let me work on it. You need stakes, and silver bullets?”
“The silver bullets are for werewolves. Stakes are for the barbecue. You’re going to need something bigger than that, I think.”
“Let me work on it.”
“Let me know when you’ve got something.”
Chollo had at least two more guns on his person, although they weren’t readily visible. Chollo never went anywhere without packing at least three pistols.
“Don’t go to a party without bringing enough for everyone,” He’d say.
Chollo had a gun for every occasion. Like one of those old time carpenters, with a plane or chisel for every cut, Chollo believed in being prepared. Carnival firmly believed that if he asked Chollo for an atomic howitzer, he would reach into a box or a pocket or the trunk of his car and hand him one.
“So what you need the blood for?”
“I’m feeling a little anemic.”
“Hey, don’t crack wise. I’m just trying to break the ice is all.”
“I like ice. Stay away from the fucking ice.”
“Fuck you.”
“Snappy comeback.”
A voice interrupted.
“Would you like a drink? I have made some lemonade.”
Carnival looked up. It was Momma, wearing her downstairs sailor lady disguise. She had a couple of glasses pincered between two of her fingers, and a jug of something yellow in her other hand.
“Thanks,” Chollo reached for a glass. “Stealing blood is thirsty work.”
She vanished into the kitchen, as quickly as she’d appeared.
“Who’s that?”
Carnival thought about lying, but opted for the truth.
“My mother,” he said.
There was no point in lying.
“Nice. She looks a lot like Stevie Nicks.”
“Don’t be getting dirty thoughts about my mother.”
“Hey, she’s hot.”
Chollo drank half the glass of lemonade, then made a face like he’d drank molten glass.
“Yuck. What the hell is that?”
“Lemonade.”
“It tastes like rat piss.”
“Be nice. My mother made it.”
“Okay, so she looks hot but she cooks like crap.”
“Cut her some slack. She’s been dead for some time now.”
Chollo’s eyes got big. A dead Stevie Nicks lookalike was more than he could deal with.
While they were talking Chollo’s crew kept unloading box after box of blood.
“Where do you want us to put this, jefe?” One of them asked.
“Just set it on the kitchen floor next to the fridge.”
“Jefe?” Carnival asked.
“Means chief.”
Carnival nodded.
“How come they’re carrying so many and you’ve only got those few?”
“One of rank’s many privileges.”
“They don’t come ranker than you, Heavy.”
“That’s jefe. Means chief.”
“Right you are, Jeffy.”
“Jefe.”
“Hefty?”
The boxes kept coming.
“Hey I don’t know if I haven’t got enough room in my refrigerator for all this.”
“You should have planned ahead. It’s a good thing one of us can think of these things.”
Two more guys come trundling up with a new refrigerator. Carnival smiled. “Man, you think of everything.”
“Think of it as trading stamps. With every truckload of stolen blood each customer is entitled to a free stolen refrigerator.”
“I didn’t think they still made avocado green refrigerators.”
“Do you want to get picky?”
“That’s what keeps me coming back here. The fast and friendly service.”
He looked at Carnival, suddenly serious.
“You’ll do what you promised?” He asked. “You’ll take care of Enrico? The bastard who’s been putting it to him.”
; “Don’t worry,” Carnival pointed to the circle. “Did you bring the other thing I asked for? From the pet store?”
“Sure.”
He snapped his fingers. One of his crewmen brought in a small shoe box that was growling.
“Ugly little thing,” Chollo said. “What do you need this for?”
“Everybody needs a pet.”
Carnival opened the shoebox and grinned at the creature inside.
“What do you need a little pig like that for?” Chollo asked.
“Not pig,” Carnival corrected. “Hedgehog. Hotchikotchi. I need it for the curse.”
Chollo sighed, like Carnival had just lifted a Chrysler from off of his back.
“So you’re handling it? The situation, I mean.”
“I’m handling this one. He’s in prison, Chollo. You know there’s always going to be a bigger bastard, especially in there.”
“One bastard at a time, homes. One bastard at a time.”
Carnival nodded.
“It’s already begun.”
Chollo looked a little surprised.
“How’d you know I’d do it?”
“Never had a doubt.”
He held his hand out. “Blood,” he said. He meant it like blood brother but Carnival couldn’t help his reaction. The word blood bothered Carnival.
Chollo noticed.
“Sorry, homes. So what you want this shit for?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Ask what?”
Chollo grinned. Carnival looked at him hard.
“No one was hurt, were they?”
Chollo’s eyes darkened like stones in the bottom of a river. Carnival knew what the little man would say before he said it.
“Blood washes blood, hombre.”
It was hard to argue with the truth.
Chapter 73
Hotchikotchi Justice
Warren Bassie sat upon the open toilet, groaning like a mouse giving birth to a mountain.
“This is your fault, fuck face,” he snarled at Enrico.
He squeezed and tensed one more time
There was nothing but agony.
Fuck.
He needed to have a shit.
He’d scored some Exlax from the infirmary. He’d chewed up a whole package full. They didn’t work for shit. That would have been funny if he wasn’t feeling so absolutely bad. It felt as if somebody had crammed a very large pineapple up his bunghole.
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