Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  Regardless, two mortals lay dead in my apartment because of my vanity.

  “Yes, I killed him.” That was all I could say, not even allowing myself the luxury of verbalizing the fact that there was little else that could be done, not when a maniac lunges at your throat with nothing short of murderous fury. Or rationalizing that this was not so much a killing as an act of mercy, for it seemed doubtful that Frank truly desired to be the monster he had become.

  Nicole pushed away from the wall. She ran her fingers vigorously through her hair, almost as if she wanted to tear the fine strands out by their fragile roots.

  “I’m leaving,” she said, her voice bland, but steady. I made no move to stop her as she shuffled slowly toward the door. She gripped the doorknob, turned and faced me, eyes glistening brightly. “This is too much, Al. I thought you were cute, nice. I just thought it’d be cool having you as a boyfriend.”

  Without another word, she was gone.

  I stared at the closed door, listening to her footsteps as they retreated into nothingness, the grainy wood spiraling before my eyes until the present asserted itself from someplace far away.

  There were two corpses in my apartment, and they had to be disposed of before a dawn, which would come all too soon.

  I buried Frank in a wooded area just south of Madison , in a place where he certainly would not be found.

  However, other considerations prevented me from disposing of the boy in the same manner. One of the peculiarities I had noticed since returning to America was the preponderance of missing children, their faces ubiquitously posted on milk cartons that pleaded for any information and even offered rewards. The parents of a missing child from Minnesota offered a million dollars for the return of their son.

  Surely, these children were dead, but these people somehow maintained their faith. To me, these parents seemed tragically deluded, and it seemed cruel to subject this poor boy’s mother to the same ordeal. Thus, I left his body where it could easily be found. At least his mother would know her boy was dead, if she cared. Also, I resolved to set up a trust fund for the boy’s siblings and their descendents from one percent of my future earnings, from now to perpetuity.

  I readied for flight in case the neighbors had heard sounds of struggle from within my apartment or if anyone had spotted a shadowy figure hauling an oddly shaped canvas sack over his shoulder or if anyone had filed a missing person’s report over Frank or if the authorities suspected any connection between the boy’s murder and his nightly cab rides between the homes of his aunt and mother.

  Two days later, the boy’s murder was front-page news. I read with interest as the police said they had no suspects, but were tracking down every possible lead. Details of the killing were sketchy. Officially, the police refused to comment on the condition of the boy’s body, though rumors flew rampantly, and his mother went on record as saying her son’s killer was a very sick person.

  And she was right.

  For one week, this was Madison ’s top story, attracting voluminous coverage in the newspapers and on television, but as leads dried up, the media seemed to lose interest.

  Then, one week later, a twenty-year-old technical school coed was found, naked, mutilated, her body rumored to have been drained of blood.

  Chapter 11

  The Inevitability of Hunger

  I feel like you’re jerking my chain about these blood-drained bodies laying around. What was it? Two women? I feel like you’re gonna tell me vampires did it. Did you start to wonder that?

  No, sir, I did not. Even killer vampires fear exposure and do not leave bodies laying about, not when it is so easy to dispose of corpses. Your serial killers, however, they prefer leaving their victims where they can be found, their way of sending a message to the rest of humanity that they are superior.

  So? Didn’t you wanna do something about this, regardless of who was doing the killing?

  Again, no. This was an affair for the local constabulary.

  A bit cold, Farkus.

  No, just pragmatic. My main concern was what it always is, that hunger comes.

  Hunger comes? Whaddaya mean by that?

  You wanted to know what there was to do in the wake of this sad episode, what there was to do with an entire city tensed and on guard. Hunger comes, that is all I can say.

  Nothing is more sure, more certain. The hunger comes with the inevitability of the rising sun, its spidery tendrils climbing up and down my spine, plucking a symphony on my nerve endings.

  A thousand years ago, the hunger would come daily. Now, one fairly small feeding each week is adequate. It’s a weekly event, something to be planned for, but nothing of any great consequence; the act itself takes maybe a minute, while the planning, in a highly public, well populated city, merely consists of deciding which end of State Street to search for sustenance. Certainly, my existence is not comparable to that of say, a shark, which constantly searches for food. However, these two murders in close succession changed the casual nature of my feeding.

  My night off usually meant an excursion to State Street, but on a fairly warm night in early-April, I found this artery silent, the usual coursing corpuscles absent from the street, evidently somewhere they perceived as more safe.

  Of course, the street was not completely devoid of people, but they traveled in packs, seeking protection in their numbers. Several pairs of police officers paced the sidewalks on foot. Other constables drove up and down in their cruisers.

  For the first time since arriving in Madison , my solitary presence on State Street felt conspicuous. A tingle made my whole body shudder, not that the hunger had really asserted itself, just a suggestion that it might if there was no one to be found walking without a companion.

  A bold newspaper headline caught my attention from the inside of a vending box:

  “Madison Mangler Makes More Malevolent Mayhem.”

  I dropped coins into the slot and removed the newspaper—the last one actually, the display copy—and began reading. There was a maniac on the loose, the newspaper asserted, even though the authorities strongly stated their unwillingness to link those two killings with each other, let alone with the similar killing a few months before. The authorities called it a “copy-cat crime,” saying they had no evidence whatsoever that these crimes were related. Still, it seemed the media had chosen to vociferously insist otherwise. These nameless, faceless maniacs known as serial killers seemed all the rage in America, and Madison’s media acted almost like Wisconsin’s capitol needed its own homicidal maniac just to put their city on the map.

  As I stood reading, a rather undistinguished student passed, stopped and attempted to read the headline over my shoulder. I turned, and our eyes met for a mere instant before he continued walking, a decided alacrity to his step. As I watched his gait, a police car moved closer, slowed to nearly a complete stop, the officer behind the wheel scrutinizing me closely. I tucked the newspaper under my arm and moved with my own high degree of alacrity.

  Hunger comes.

  I drove my car into the Frances Street parking ramp, ducked down and waited for nearly an hour until distant footsteps drew my attention. At the far end of my row, a rather mercantile looking fellow in a gray pinstripe suit unlocked a large, black sedan. Quickly, I dematerialized, then rematerialized in the front passenger seat just as he opened the car door. Astonishment flashed across his face for a moment before my gaze met his.

  In less than five minutes, I was in my car, leaving the ramp, having satisfied my hunger, but felt dismay over the clumsiness of the action.

  For obvious reasons, I followed the stories closely, but found it increasingly difficult to find an available newspaper in the usual newspaper boxes. Thus, it became a ritual to buy the first morning paper from a dispenser immediately following shift’s end instead of waiting until the next day when there would be none available. Sometimes, I would lie in wait, watching for the distribution person to refill the box. Then, I would take my newspaper and read in the m
oonlight.

  The killings became an obsession for all of Madison and quickly provided a bonanza for all of Madison ’s cab drivers. And, as if the heightened demand was not sufficient, cab business increased further when the University of Wisconsin started providing free cab rides for students after dark.

  Publicly, the university was able to use the “U-Ride” program as a means to provide positive publicity for itself due to its quick response to a dire situation.

  However, we cabbies knew better. Negotiations had commenced weeks before the first absurdly alliterated headline appeared in the newspaper. Having cut funding to a volunteer-based night-ride program for women, the university realized it had to provide a replacement, and this gave them the incentive to bring that notion to fruition.

  Despite this monetary boon, I was ready for flight at first provocation. As it turned out, supreme good fortune was mine. Frank’s disappearance interested no one; not a single constable visited Co-op Cab with questions as to his whereabouts. The only observed comment was placed anonymously on the sign bearing Frank’s name under the heading “No charges, no advances.” Next to his name, someone wrote, “abducted by aliens.”

  But what of the boy?

  A few days after the news of the boy hit the papers, there was a call at the Silver Dollar, yet another of the many saloons off the Capitol Square . Dexter had said it was for a driver. Actually, it was three drivers. Shortly after pulling alongside the bar’s picture window, Paul Davis, Jane Peronowski and Ken Singleton emerged.

  I knew the trio somewhat. They all drove Friday nights and were members of the infamous “Saturday Morning Beer Drinking Committee,” an aggregation of late-night drivers who, after shift’s end, would drink beer in the driver’s room and discuss cooperative politics, posting their unusually creative proclamations on “Democracy Wall” before departing. They often urged me to join their committee, but of course, I do not drink beer, and their meetings would usually last until well after dawn.

  “Oh, no!” Ken shouted when he climbed into the front seat. “It’s the Count! It’s Count Farkus!”

  “Run for your lives!” Jane shrieked. Paul screamed loudly. The other two joined him, their throaty shouts filling my cab with their beer-and-whiskey-tainted breath.

  Finally, they stopped screaming, their shrieks replaced by near-hysterical laughter.

  “Where may I take you?” I asked, simply acting indifferent to their rude behavior.

  Jane was the first to regain some semblance of composure, reporting that they were going to the Club DeWash.

  “Careful,” Ken said. “It’s the Count. Who knows where he’ll take us or what he’ll do to us.”

  “Yeah,” Paul added, “he got that kid. Count, man, you shouldn’t be leaving your leftovers lying around.”

  Hide in plain sight?

  “Shut up, you assholes,” Jane rebuked. “C’mon. Let’s leave Al alone so we can get moving. We’ve already missed the opening bands. I don’t want to miss any of Killdozer.”

  “No big deal,” Paul said, “missing Art Paul Schlosser.”

  “But if we miss just one note of one Killdozer song,” Jane said, “I’m gonna cut your brake lines.”

  “Won’t matter after the Count’s done with us,” Ken said.

  Without a word, I turned the cab around and proceeded toward the Club DeWash. By then, Paul and Jane were finally quiet. Ken began singing in a deep, gravely voice.

  “Was that Killdozer?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Paul said. “A song called, ‘The Puppy,’ about a real murder case, happened here a few years ago. Real losers. They were bikers, but didn’t have motorcycles. And in court, they kept referring to the victim as ‘the puppy.’ Fuckin’ creepy.”

  “This isn’t the way to the Club DeWash!” Ken shrieked. Paul and Jane joined in. I had just turned onto West Washington, which led straight to their destination. “Where are you taking us? What are you going to do us?”

  “Please don’t hurt us,” Paul pleaded. “Please have mercy on our wretched souls.”

  The trio again broke into hysterics. Jane patted me gently on the shoulder. “Sorry,” she said. “We’re just being assholes.”

  “Being an asshole ain’t against the law,” Ken said.

  “But neither is being a vampire,” I replied.

  “It sure is when you break our laws.” Paul’s voice rang falsely earnest.

  “The laws of you pathetic mortals apply not to one such as myself.” It was my turn to laugh. And quite loudly as I felt my lips form quite the vulpine smile. “This being the case, you would be wise to show the proper respect and pay the proper tribute.”

  None of the four of us stopped laughing until we arrived at the Club DeWash. They paid the fare and included quite the generous tip.

  ———

  My thoughts should have been exclusively centered upon survival, yet images of Nicole would not stop flashing across my consciousness—no longer Nicole superimposing herself upon Anya. I did see her at the cab company occasionally, gaining the furtive glimpse, which raised my spirits slightly, even if we avoided each other. On those instances, she always bore a queer expression, not so much of fear, but confusion. I simply felt sad, but certainly understood that what she had experienced would overwhelm anyone.

  Oddly, even though we had not had much opportunity to get to know one another, she had indeed awakened something that lay dormant inside me, a very special hunger far more profound than mere blood.

  What was to be done?

  I shuddered while second-guessing myself over the entire Frank Nelson affair, especially the encounter with the prostitute. At the time, I thought I had been discreet. It seemed my actions had been relatively prudent, but in retrospect, my perceptions had been clouded by my own personal vanity.

  Hunger is danger. Existence is risk.

  All I wanted was to taste the prostitute’s orgasm, to taste that which is the sweet metaphor of life, even more sublime than the hot, steaming river of life which courses through the veins of all those mortals.

  She gave me nothing, she herself being the form of life, but the essence of sheer nothingness, not even death.

  My hunger remained.

  At least there was work and much money to be made, even if those infernal U-Rides had come to dominate our business. Yes, all calls are good calls, but most U-Rides were short, and the students very seldom tipped. Generally, those calls took longer to load, and each one generated additional paperwork.

  Thus, when a U-Ride took me east of the Capitol, I did not hesitate to bid when Dexter called an east-side intersection that was a little farther from my destination than most drivers preferred to travel. The intersection was east of U-Ride’s zone of operation. Hopefully, it would be a cash call and not some other account where there is no tip.

  “Count, four-forty-four Kedzie,” Dexter said, adding, “Cash.”

  “Excellent,” I replied, happy to get a call with at least a chance of a tip as well as the opportunity to see some different scenery. The streets were finally clear of snow, but the trees were still completely bare, thus allowing the concrete, steel and plastic of civilization to dominate the landscape.

  My mood was not even altered by the fact that it took a phone call from Dexter to get her out of her house. Sometimes, the passengers watch, sometimes, they do not. It is preferable when they do watch, time, after all, being money.

  A young woman emerged, dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt and sweatpants, a large bag slung over her shoulder. Long flaxen hair cascaded down her shoulders. Even in the dimness of night, she looked rather plain.

  “Where may I take you?” I asked once she was securely inside.

  “The Rising Sun,” she replied. Instantly, I felt regret for making her say that she was going to that message parlor of ill repute just off the Capitol Square . She, in fact, was a regular customer, and even if she had never been in my cab, I was fairly certain the Rising Sun was to be her destination. Still, I h
ad to ask.

  “You guys busy?” Her tone was chipper.

  “Yes. With the publicity regarding those killings, it seems everyone wants to take cab rides rather than walk.”

  She sighed in agreement. “I hope we’ll be busy tonight. I only had two programs in six hours last night.”

  Her frankness was shocking. I certainly had no intention of asking about her work, and if she had told me her destination was 117 W. Main, I would have taken her to the Rising Sun without mentioning the name of the establishment. However, it seemed admirable that she could be honest about her vocation, though many would treat her with disdain. Indeed, the woman was quite genuine; the ride progressed pleasantly as we simply chatted jovially about this and that until we arrived.

  “That will be five dollars,” I said, feeling myself smile, having enjoyed this little interlude between U-Rides.

  “Well, here you go.” She handed me a five and two ones, the notes folded twice upon themselves. “If you’re working late, you might get me going home. I’m Jasmine.”

  I turned and faced her. She smiled and looked directly into my eyes. “My name is Al.”

  “Nice to meet you, Al.” She extended her arm and shook my hand firmly.

  A week later, I got another call for Jasmine, but this time it was a delivery.

  “Count,” Dexter said, “go to the Walgreen’s at the East Side Shop. Pick up a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream and four dozen non-lubricated condoms. Turn your meter on with the time on when you pull up to the Walgreen’s. Take the stuff up to Jasmine at the Rising Sun. Charge her the meter, plus a dollar-fifty handling charge, plus the cost of the goods.”