by Mark Lingane
The third address was in the south basin. A fast-food joint had been built on the site of an old graveyard, where the first settlers had been buried, and sold food so cheaply it had to be bad. The place was gone. Another pile of rubble, just like the others. Everything around it was untouched. Precision implosion. The block was big. It had been a restaurant, bigger than most. At the rear was a lot of twisted metal, the ruins of a large car yard. Truck tires were heavy on the ground. There was also a lot of blood.
I asked the neighbors when the building had come down. Two nights ago.
No one seemed upset about it. They whispered their concern about the kind of meat that was served. Trucks came in, but not from the slaughterhouse. One neighbor swore she'd heard quiet cries once when she was walking her dog past one of the trucks and the doors were open. "They were human cries," she said.
One old neighbor told me the landlord had never been brought to trial over it. "It was a disgrace," she said. "I challenged him about it one day when I was a young girl. I threw tomatoes at him." She said she'd seen him five decades later and he still looked the same.
Templeton 667 was next on the list, but I knew the story there. That only left one other skin joint in the northwest. I knew what I'd find there. You'd have to be three-parts Republican not to see the connection.
Sure enough, it was another old place that had been operating as cover for the oldest profession for longer than any of the neighbors could remember. Old people told me their grandparents had said the same thing: skinny blond things, all looking the same.
For centuries the good men of the city had been sucked into a well of deceit, which succeeded in turning men with golden hearts into politicians who wanted little else than to line their own pockets and hide the evidence. And then commit suicide when they were found out, leaving their grieving families with nothing more than a half-baked retirement benefit and a bucket load of foul-tasting lies.
Folks understood it, they even played along when it came to election time, but they didn't like it, so they turned the other way and watched the descent of society over their shoulders while tending to their marigolds.
Five places in the city, all nothing but rubble.
I went back to the lovely lady at the government office. There were lease dates. They all expired at the same time: tomorrow night. Phoenix was checking out.
I went back to my office. It occurred to me that I'd completed a circuit of the metropolis. I grabbed my old street directory, ripped out the pages, and stuck them together to make one large map of the city. I thumbtacked it to the wall and marked out the five demolished buildings. I stood back. It was easy to see what was going on. Five points in a ring, just like you might find on the body of a dead, skinny blond thing.
I drew lines connecting the five points. The lines intersected on the Grand Hilltop church. For the first time I felt the cogs clicking into place.
I checked my watch, and gave the tank a call. The desk sergeant said Laura had gone home for the day. She'd only been in for an hour, doing paperwork, and then left citing illness. This meant I could go see her again.
I got the kink out of my head and thought about all the ways I could say I was sorry. In a world where Laura couldn't do any worse than me, and I could never do any better than her, maybe it kind of balanced out. Maybe there was the possibility of a future where we could spend more time together. If she didn't set herself on fire when I suggested it, I'd take it as a good sign.
It had been a good day. Progress with clues, resolution of mind, and a good lunch all combined to lift me.
25
Feeling a spring in my step, I caught a thirty-five to Fernando Drive. The weariness of the days fell away and a smile cracked its way across my face. I rapped on her front door. My eyes flicked over to the pot with the hidden key, and I briefly entertained the idea of using it. But she had said it was for friends, and I didn't know if I currently qualified as one. Maybe within a few minutes that would all change.
A minute rolled past. I gave the door another knock. Then another minute rolled by. I turned away, feeling deflated.
The door unlocked behind me. I spun around, with a heart full of hope. Mina was standing at the door wearing a robe she hadn't had the inclination to fasten. She curled her finger and beckoned me in. I followed hesitantly. She moved, almost floating over the cool tiles, until she was in the middle of the living room. She spun around. Her wrap swung out, revealing parts of her that looked flushed. No secrets on her.
She looked down at her top, or lack of, and sighed. She clenched together the edges of her wrap, partially concealing her body. "Come on, stud, you've seen more playing in the berry patch." She stood tall with her head high. Her injury was still patched, but she was carrying her pain like a radio. "When life gives you melons, wear a low-cut top. What do you want?"
"Laura was getting info."
"Ah, dear Laura, always thinking of others. It's such an attractive quality. But then that's her. All pretty and pure, and so much fun."
Her tone was different. She was no longer selling her intent; her shop was closed. She wandered over to the master bedroom and pushed open the door. She reached into the room and picked up a small envelope from the dresser just inside the door. She sniffed it and smiled. She leaned against the doorjamb and held the letter out casually. I stepped closer and she brought her arm in to her side, causing me to move in even closer. With both of us standing in the doorway to the bedroom, she released her grip on the envelope. She bit her bottom lip. She let her wrap fall open again. She stepped in close and I could feel the heat of her body.
"Hey, big boy, I'd invite you in but the bed's already taken." She looked back over her shoulder.
The identity had me confused for a moment, but then a sick feeling stole into my stomach. I felt myself break out in a cold sweat as realization dawned.
"She had a few drinks and finally let her barriers down," Mina purred. She laughed as the color drained from my face. "Oh, look at you. You shouldn't keep all those emotions trapped inside."
Visions of the two of them wrapped around each other socked me in the stomach. I could feel an icy grip in my chest, one from long ago that I'd promise myself I'd forget.
"Of course, I could always change my mind," she said. "We could whip up a little party, just the three of us. We'd all get to know each other ... intimately."
My head spun and I staggered back. I pushed her away and turned to leave. "No."
"Honey, I've seen everything under the moon and heard every word there is. Nothing can surprise or offend me except being declined."
Her face turned sour and her beauty dropped away. All I could see was someone who had lived a life of deceit and manipulation. And now she had lured away the most precious person in the world to me. Love wasn't a competition, but I'd lost.
I staggered down Fernando Drive, barely aware of the thirty-five that nearly ran me down. Only the blast of its horn and the diesel fumes almost on top of me woke me from my misanthropic walk. All I could see were images of Mina and Laura. Everything was dark. I was surrounded by a callous forest of thorny recollections. Every memory hurt. Every breath hurt. A thirty-five running over me would have been salvation.
I sat on the top story of the bus with the envelope in my hand. A tear rolled down my face onto the paper. I wiped my eye and watched the world drag by. We were a good hundred feet up. I could jump. Knowing my luck, on the way down flight would reveal itself as a secret power.
There weren't too many people I could call a friend, or even talk to, but I found myself pushing through the doorway into Angelina's little shop. The bell tinkled its little sad melody, but it was the only sad thing about the place. It had been redecorated. The dark colors were gone and bright drapes hung around the room. The cheap knock-off relics had been removed and replaced by rows of flowers, herbs, and New Age books.
I went back outside to check I was in the right place. I was. I pushed open the door again, and there stood Angelin
a in her new outfit.
Her dark hair was tied back and she was wearing dark glasses. A long leather coat hung down to her knees. That said one word to me: chafe. She whipped back her coat and, for the first time, exposed no skin. She wore dark leather pants and a dark shirt loosely buttoned up, showing enough to distract what the rest of her was carrying. She had a huge gun strapped to each thigh, slung low so she could pull them out quickly. She also had a sword strapped to her back, plus assorted weaponry hanging off her belt.
"Expecting trouble?" I said.
"I was thinking about what you said about the people looking for me," she replied. She gave me a sly smile. "Maybe I am."
"I'm sure you'll blend in."
She whipped out the oversized weapons and spun them around, obviously well versed in their weight and execution. If the mechwarriors had found them they would have exploded with the excitement of such provocative firearms.
She jumped around the room, aiming at various plants and pretending to shoot.
"How did you keep the weapons?"
"We hid them." She beamed with inner achievement.
"Where? On the moon?"
"Maybe I'll show you later, if you're nice to me."
A fan in the center of the ceiling was slowly ticking around with barely a sound other than the occasional whip of wicker through the pollinated air. The breeze rolled down gently and caressed the colorful petals. Her outfit was in stark contrast to her new shop, but then maybe that was Angelina: an enigma wrapped up in a conundrum that didn't even know any riddles to break the tension.
She holstered her firearms, folded her arms, and glared at me. My mind drifted away, thinking back to Mina, her appearance as nature intended, and the things she'd said. The thoughts made me feel numb and I had difficulty pulling my mind back into focus.
"Why the change?" I said eventually.
"I've been hiding for too long. It's time to fight back."
I looked around the room again. "With flowers and herbs?"
"You'd be amazed at the damage you can do with a well-placed chrysanthemum bomb." She cast a careful eye over me. "You look like you could use something uplifting. You've taken another beating. On the inside."
"I'm not talking about it." I waved the address at her. "We've got places to go."
"And people to shoot?"
I shrugged. "If you want."
Her face lit up. I hoped her enthusiasm for wonton destruction would rub off on me. At the moment I was tied to the bottom of a well with the water rising up above my chin. The questions of the morning were sitting in the forefront of my mind, ticking away like an unexploded bomb.
The pollen was getting to me. My throat constricted under the allergies. I coughed. "Can I have a drink?"
She poured a glass of water, looking impatient.
I took a sip and stared at her. "You said you lost your parents," I croaked.
"Yes, when I was a baby."
I took another sip. "Who looked after you?"
"I think I grew up in an orphanage until I could escape."
"You think? Do you remember which one?"
"Not really, it was so dull and uninspiring. All those sad faces, staring without hope, the futility of an empty life pounding them into submission. The need. The hunger. The washed-out eyes of disillusionment. And the children weren't much better."
"When did the 'vampire' attack you?"
She paused before answering. An odd expression crossed across her face, the struggle of recollection, not painful but difficult, as if too distant.
"About a year ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. The lights. That evil face. Beautiful, then animal. The pain."
Intensity seemed to set into her like she was burning from the inside. I could only guess what it was like for her. She'd locked everything away in her memory and all she'd been left with was pain, which sat within her without reason or release.
"You sure you've never seen Jorgen?" The change caught her off guard.
"I haven't met him at all. I promise."
"I said 'seen.'"
"Do we have to stand around with the questions all day? There are bad guys to shoot. Let's go."
She nearly dragged me out of the shop in her enthusiasm for retribution. She locked the door and turned to face me. "Where did you park?"
"I don't have a car."
"Why not? Time is of the essence."
"Nothing important should ever be rushed."
"That's all fine and dandy, but you're not the one in the fancy footwear." She lifted the cuffs of her leather trousers and revealed a set of black, studded stiletto boots.
Sometimes the right words just aren't there and all you can do is look disappointed.
"Surely you don't expect me to wear flat shoes. What kind of message would that send? Killing vampires requires, I assure you, that you look fabulous."
"We'll take a thirty-five."
She looked down the street to the distant bus stop. "No. We'll take a taxi. You can sit in the front and do the stupid talk-thing with the smelly driver."
Hitching a dimbox was straightforward. The first one came to a screeching halt the minute she aimed her twin guns at the hapless driver.
We passed through the lowlife areas on the way to the broker's address. The depressing sight of destitute people who'd sold everything, and now were selling themselves, darkened my already pensive mood. They lined the streets and alleyways, but slid away as we rolled past. I watched them from within the sanctity of the metal cocoon of the taxi. The thin glass barrier didn't make it less real, and I could feel the desperation begin to seep into me.
The driver pulled over near the address and made haste with his overcharged fare, leaving us to traverse the final hundred yards on foot. Angelina bounced along with her fingers itching and her palms scratching close to her weapons.
26
The Cashing In pawnshop was closed, evident by the open/closed sign flipped around on the door. The metal grill was up out of the way, but the door was locked. Angelina knocked until the solid door shook, but there was no response.
I took a quick look around before whipping out the Remington picklock and slipping it into the lock. The door swung open into a dark chamber of an office. It smelled bad. Something despicable had happened here.
Angelina tried to squeeze past me through the door, showing almost uncontrollable determination and effervescent excitement. She flicked on the lights to reveal a room full of people's possessions, now scattered over the floor, and mostly broken. The glass on the central counter had been smashed. There were traces of blood on the jagged glass, as though someone had been thrown through it.
Angelina armed herself and stalked around the room.
"Will those guns work against them?" I said.
"You think these creatures are new? They've been around as long as we have, maybe longer, living in our nightmares, chasing us, torturing us. We had to learn how to fight back. Our survival depended on it. So now we have these." She wheeled around, leveling the guns at me. "Weapons that'll wipe their conceited smiles off their stupid, pretty little faces."
She gave me a small smile before continuing with her exploration. She hadn't gone a couple of paces before she tripped up on the dead proprietor and fell face down on the blood-soaked carpet. He had been badly mutilated: ripped open and disemboweled. Angelina gasped in horror. I doubted she'd volunteered for this kind of thing, but you never can tell what dark lessons they pedal down at the asylum.
"Do you think he's dead?" she stammered, scrambling backward.
"I do." I continued my search through a filing system, ripped open and now scattered over the floor. "Haven't you seen dead people before?"
"Not as such. I've seen undead. But he just looks like a piece of meat." She lifted up his dead hand and let it thump back onto the carpet. She did it again.
Remember she's on loan from crazy school, I reminded myself. Angelina was lucky she was easy on the eye. It allowed her to get away with
almost everything.
"Careful," I said. "You might resurrect him."
She went to move away from the prostrate corpse, but something caught her eye. She crouched down and ran her finger around his neck. There was a gold chain so fine it was barely visible. She unclipped the tiny clasp and slipped it off. A small brass key hung from the chain.
"We'll take it with us," I said. "It has to have value."
"I was thinking the same. It's such a plain thing, but he kept it hidden."
"I've got it." I waved a piece of paper at her. "Jorgen's card." It had been trampled on, ripped, muddied and bloodied, but I could still make out the copperplate lettering of his name.
"Whatever the key opens must be out back." She slid aside a dark curtain and disappeared into the small room behind the shop. She called out, her voice distant and hollow.
I followed her voice. The small room behind the curtain was dark, but I could make out rows of shelves stacked to the ceiling, packed with thousands of items. Some were lying in the open; some were obviously secreted in severe steel lockers, all rivets, welding, and disenfranchised attitude. The aged patina on the metal indicated the guy had been in business a long time. There was a small table to the right with a half-eaten sandwich, and a knocked-over chair.
A few steps past the table was a wall of small drawers. I grabbed the brass handle of the closest one and slid it open. It was full of index cards. I pulled out the first card. It was dated seventy-seven years ago. I opened another drawer to the left. A hundred and twenty-eight years ago. No one was coming back for these possessions. Why had he kept them? There were several more drawers, also to the left but higher up. I wondered how far back they stretched. If historians ever found this place they'd have a field day.