Footfalls approached the washroom. I hastily shut off the water, shook my hands vigorously and wiped them on my Levi’s. Just as I pulled the door open, someone pushed from the other side.
His stocky presence towered over me. Fresh scars, lurid and red, covered his face and hands. I tried to walk past, but taking me by surprise, he grabbed my arm and spun me around. The door swung shut and we stood staring at each other.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he said, his fingers tightening around my biceps.
Be diplomatic, I thought. And get out of that bathroom as quickly as possible. I was extremely aware of the mirror just a few feet away, though it lay not in this man’s line of sight.
“I am sorry,” I replied. “I do not know what it is you are talking about.”
“Bullshit!” he replied. “You do know what it is I’m talking about. That call at Witte! How the fuck could you beat me on that call? You were behind me. I saw you. You were behind me!”
“But I turned onto Frances while you stayed on University.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “I got the light at Frances and Johnson. I merely got lucky.”
“How the hell could you have magically appeared at Witte? And on the right side of the street!”
“As I just said, I hit the green light. It was nothing more than good fortune.”
“Maybe I should write you up,” he said.
“On what grounds?” Though it best served my interests to remain calm, I was beginning to get angry; this lout would not bully me. “There were no one-way streets to use as a short-cut. There were no fire lanes or driveways with signs saying ‘no thru traffic.’ I did not ram the cab through the back entrance and then come out the other side. It was a race, and I beat you, but simply because I hit the traffic lights at the precise time.”
My explanations soothed not this fellow, but his rancor mattered not, for it was time to end this charade. I would simply break through his puny grasp, shove him aside and go finish my paperwork.
Then, for no apparent reason, he turned toward the mirror, and I knew what he saw. Next to his image was a mere vague outline of a human-shaped form and a black, leather jacket, somehow magically suspended in the air.
“What the fuck are you?” he gasped.
“A fellow cab driver,” I snapped, then slapped his hand away and stormed out of the bathroom to the driver’s room to complete my paperwork and go home, just as always. I took a spot before an adding machine in a far corner, making curt greetings to Kern and a rather hefty fellow named Truck. The two sat opposite each other, chattering energetically.
I ignored the two, pouring over my waybill, working as quickly as possible. The work almost complete, Kern’s high-pitched yodel drew my attention.
“Well, look what the cat done drug in,” Kern said. “Frank Nelson! How the hell are you?”
Reflex action drew my attention toward the doorway where stood my belligerent fellow driver, now marked as Frank Nelson, his bulk obscuring most of the opening, his countenance every bit as cheerful as a block of granite. “Kern, Truck,” he grunted.
“Long time, buddy,” Truck said with a warm smile. Frank’s expression remained intensely blank, eyes staring straight ahead.
“Hey, Frank,” Kern said, jerking his thumb toward me, “you know the Count?”
“Yeah,” Frank said, finally smiling. “I know ’im.” He finally turned, his gaze boring into me as if to see right through me.
Chapter 7
Testimony of the Ostrich
Christ! Time to disappear, I’d say. What the hell happened? I thought your victims don’t remember ’cuz you hypnotize them or something.
Let me explain. Normally, they do not remember, but sometimes recall is possible. For instance, there was a London prostitute whom I had dined upon about a hundred years ago who had a sudden attack of recall. This breakthrough occurred when she spied me riding in an open-air carriage one warm evening after I had spent an enjoyable outing at the symphony with a pair of acquaintances. When the carriage had passed the corner where she attempted to peddle her wares, she saw me, and immediately her face went through several rapid contortions of puzzlement, fear, more confusion, then finally recognition. The woman ran in front of the carriage, forcing the driver to come to a sudden stop.
“Guvnor!” she screeched. “Show yourself! I know you’re in there. You can’t hide.”
We simply ignored her for the moment. My acquaintances, Igor Petrenko and Claude LeBlanc, both antique dealers with whom I had done much business, looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders, then looked at me and smiled knowingly.
“Count Farkus,” Petrenko said, “I had no idea. Consorting with a woman of this type. I never would have expected this from you.”
LeBlanc laughed. “Our dear Count has always been full of surprises. You know this woman?”
I made a show of flashing a relaxed smile. “It would seem, if I do not, I shall soon.”
The prostitute moved to the side of the carriage, studied us, then pointed accusingly at me. “You! You’re the one.” She turned to my associates. “This one’s a pervert, he is. He bit me on the neck. Left teethmarks. They stayed around for a week.”
A whip cracked in the night. The woman squealed. As the carriage lurched forward, I tossed a few coins at her feet. I never saw this prostitute again and quite frankly, never worried. Even though the amnesiatic effect of my “attack” had apparently worn off, which can happen, though only rarely, it was obvious that she simply was unable to comprehend what had happened to her.
Therefore, there seemed little need to pay much heed to Frank’s reaction. If he had remembered what had happened, he certainly would not believe that he had encountered a “mythical” creature such as myself. More likely, Frank would attribute the memory to overconsumption of alcohol or some of those hallucinatory drugs these young people seem so compelled to ingest these days.
Not that this situation could not present hazards, but considering that this secular society finds such notions the height of absurdity, it seemed hiding in plain sight was still the best option. Surely, this fellow would simply not believe he had been attacked by a vampire. Perhaps, he would think me a homosexual who, as the Americans would say, had made a pass at him.
Once again the folly of vanity, you say? Perhaps, you just might be correct on that point.
Be that as it may, for the time being, I would wait and see if the situation developed further. My greatest concern at that time was making money, and again, my destiny was on the road.
It was on the road, as a matter of fact, where I had experienced my own rush of memory regarding the prostitute, even though I had not thought about her for quite some time. It was a passenger who aided this process, pointing out the tart’s contemporary counterparts, peddling their wares just a few blocks east of the Capitol in a rather sleepy residential area just up the street from the Madison Gas and Electric coal-burning plant.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing at a pair of women standing on the corner, smoking cigarettes and pulling their long coats close to them to guard against the mid-March cold. “Christ, people pay them? They’d have to pay me.”
Indeed. It did seem obvious that these women would have little appeal to all but the most desperate mortals. Even in the darkness, the unsavory nature of these women’s personas was easily apparent. One woman was a Negro, and emaciated to the point of cadaverous. The other was blonde and plump, her flesh puffy and sallow. Unsavory indeed, but not necessarily without their utility. But I jump ahead of myself.
Though Kern had told me March was quite a busy month due to continuing inclement weather and because every weekend featured some high school athletic tournament, on a particular Tuesday, it seemed most of my shift was spent idle in cab stands. Tacitus accompanied me through this tedium though it seemed only a matter of time before the paperback would find itself torn asunder. Having completed The Twelve Caesars, it seemed time to reread Annals of Imperial Rome, t
hough sadly, Tacitus, with his highly bureaucratic approach, simply could not provide the entertainment of the more personal histories of Seutonius.
Another cab parked in front of me at the Concourse Hotel taxi stand. The driver emerged and walked toward my vehicle. Praise to those who might deliver me from my boredom. It was Kern, whose presence, much to my surprise, had seemed to become less intolerable.
“Hey, Count,” Kern said, as he climbed inside and stretched his long legs across the back seat of my cab.
“Good eeevening,” I replied in my best “count” voice, drawing a hearty laugh from Kern. “I am grateful of your presence. This is quite a slow night.”
“Tell me about it. And the airport really bit the big one tonight.” He exhaled loudly. “And nobody’s been murdered lately, so people ain’t scared to walk anymore.”
My hand reached for the book sitting atop the dashboard, fingers twitching, ready to rip and tear. I pulled my arm back. “I imagine there is an inverse relationship between warm temperatures and our level of business. May I presume that business is appreciably slower during the summer?”
“Yeah, but that don’t necessarily mean you’ll be making much less money. There’s fewer calls, but there’s fewer cabs, so it evens out. There’s lots of out-of-towners coming in for classes and conferences. A whole month, there’s the big graduate school for bankers. That’s a thousand bankers per two-week session, all coming here to party. Unfortunately, they don’t party like they used to.”
Dexter’s crackling voice broke the radio silence. “Count, where are you?”
I lifted the microphone from its cradle. “Concourse.”
“Count, you have a personal at the Six-oh-two Club for Nicole. She works here.”
“Ten-four.” Indeed, but why ask for me?
“You dog!” Kern said, mock anger and real envy in his voice.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hey, man, surface. Don’t be drowning in the bottom of the pool.” Kern shook his head back and forth slowly. “She’s the prettiest woman in the fleet. And straight too. Not many of those floating around.”
“Ah, well,” I replied, “it would seem that if you have got it, you have got it.”
“Sure, Count. Whatever you say. Must be that Old World charm thing.” Kern winked then slid from the cab.
Nicole, having been watching from the large picture window at the front of the bar, emerged just as I pulled up. She sat in the front seat, her scent most apparent, the beat of her heart loud and strong.
“Hi, Al. Glad they were able to send you.” Her voice was relaxed though her words were ever so slightly slurred.
“Thank you for requesting me. It has been a terribly boring night thus far. Where may I take you?”
“Home.” She sounded tired. “Three-twenty-one North Hamilton. Right at Ham and Gorham. Sorry it’s such a short fare.”
“Ah, but all calls are good calls, and you, as a fellow driver, will surely tip me well.”
“Depends on how well you service me.”
I let her last remark pass. Hopefully, she was being facetious. The image of Kern and the old woman who had asked him if he wanted to earn an extra dollar came to mind. “So, you live right by James Madison Park? It must be nice to live in such proximity of such a nice beach.”
Nicole laughed. “Haven’t lived here too long, have you Al? The lakes are awful for swimming, all choked with weeds and algae. And at night, there’s too many bums. Besides, I’m not a beach person. I like the night, just like you do.”
“The night does have a beauty all its own,” I replied.
“It does.” She reached for the book on my dashboard. “Tacitus? Didn’t know you were into Roman history.”
I nodded. “Certainly. I greatly appreciate the parallels between Rome and the United States . And the Romans themselves are just so fascinating.”
“Sure, but you’d never know reading Tacitus.” She tossed the book carelessly onto the dashboard. “He’s accurate, and he grounds his histories well in terms of who was counsel, who were tribunes at what particular time. I had to read him for a class. God, talk about dry.”
A growl escaped my throat. “Indeed. If Tacitus were not already dead, I think I might be tempted to kill him.”
Nicole laughed lightly like the wind. “You do have such a unique way of putting things. I’ve got this book that might interest you. It’s a five-hundred-year-old edition of Seutonius’s The Twelve Caesars. It’s a beautiful, leather-bound volume. In Latin.”
“I am impressed.”
“Well, you should be.” Saucy laughter escaped her lips. “My father gave it to me. He was a classics professor. I’d love to show it to you sometime.”
“I would like that,” I said, immediately sorry that I had.
After a short ride, we arrived at her house, a white Georgian mansion surely chopped into several flats. Nicole reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a charge slip. I handed her my clipboard and pen and turned on the interior light. As she filled out the charge slip, her scent wafted into my nostrils, a chorus of beer, vodka, sweat and cigarette smoke, not so much competing, but somehow combining to form a whole that was more appetizing than one would normally think, for above it all rose the aroma of her flesh, which was faintly sweet, while not at all acrid. I took a deep breath and closed my ears to the pounding of her heart.
As she handed me the clipboard, her fingers lightly brushed the back of my hand, causing the hairs to stand on end. She faced me, eyes wide and so very, very brown.
“You know, Al....” Her voice trailed off. Her heart began to beat faster. “I’d love to show you my father’s book. How ’bout you come over this weekend if you’re not doing anything. I’m a pretty good cook. I’ll cook you dinner, and you can look at my father’s book.”
Motherless spawn of Satan! This American woman had just asked me out on a date. And to think that Henry James’s Daisy Miller was considered forward!
“Nicole,” I began. “I must say I am very flattered by your attention. Very flattered indeed. But I just cannot reciprocate.” Indeed, my purpose was to make money and not get distracted by the first attractive woman who showed an interest in me. Besides, the mere sight of her caused a flood of unwanted images—of Anya, her lifeless eyes staring upward, her exquisite body mutilated.
“Ohmygod, you’re gay! Maggie told me you were. She said you make her gaydar go off like crazy, but I didn’t believe her.”
This provoked laughter on my part. Obviously, her best friend, housemate and fellow Co-op cabbie could not have been more incorrect, in fact, could not even venture to provide any reasonable speculation about my sexual orientation. It did occur to me to play along with this charade, but that might provoke attention from those of the male gender, and I would again find myself in this situation.
“No, I can assure you that I most definitely am not a homosexual.”
“You’re just not interested. I’m just being a pest.” Her pained voice trailed off. She turned away from me and reached for the door handle.
It could have been quite easy and infinitely prudent to let her think anything she wanted, but the pain in her voice was obvious, and it touched me. These mortals do find rejection hurtful, most likely because they have so little time with which to find a mate.
“You remind me of someone,” I said finally, wanting to ease her pain and realizing that, in fact, she did interest me perhaps just a little.
She touched my arm. “Some bitch who dumped you? Hell, I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “No. She’s dead. Not to go into too much detail, but she died saving my life.”
Nicole pulled her arm away and pressed both hands to her chest. “Fuck! Shit, I’m such an idiot. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Nicole, it is not your fault. You had no way of knowing. Please, do not feel badly.”
“Well, I guess I better let you get back to work, huh? Look, you wanna talk about it, I’m a pretty good listener.
You know where to find me.” Without another word, she was gone, but the sweet scent of her flesh lingered in the cab for what seemed like a long time, mocking me, paralyzing me.
I remained parked outside Nicole’s residence for a few minutes before finally departing, my lips shouting a curse in a long-dead language. No distractions! Dalliance was not my purpose.
Yet, I could feel something awakening inside the very core of my being, a very unique kind of hunger. And this lack of self-control on my part angered me. I had shut down that part of me. Surely, I could be able to choose the time when again that would no longer be denied to me.
Later that same shift, driving down East Main, I again saw the harlots, smoking their cigarettes, waiting for customers, and it did occur to me that they might indeed have a certain utility. Yes, utility was an appropriate term, for it seemed that they could be a tool for my use, albeit an extravagant tool, but a tool nonetheless for me to use to assuage my hunger in an impersonal way that would minimize my distractions and keep my hunger under control.
An hour after sunset, on a night free from my hopefully temporary indentured servitude, I parked my Toyota a few blocks away and used the locomotion of my own two feet to seek out these ladies. The Negress was nowhere in sight. The blonde stood on the same street corner, smoking a cigarette, the smoke intermingling with her own breath, visible with each exhale. At close scrutiny, her faux fur coat looked ratty and of little defense against the cold, which was probably fairly mild, unless one had to stand in it for hours at a time. I made a show of pulling my leather jacket close to my body, though even the most severe cold merely provides a slight stinging sensation, like beams of the sun when it is low on the horizon.
“Need to be warmed up, honey,” she said in a hoarse, unalluring contralto as I approached. I turned and looked directly at her. Her face was covered with a hardshell foundation cover, but still looked very pale. Close scrutiny revealed dark roots in her blonde hair. Thick lines circumscribed several circles around her plump neck. She opened her coat enough to show ample cleavage.
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