X-Rated Blood Suckers

by Mario Acevedo

  Coyote's truck rattled beside the curb outside the alley. I got in and slouched on the bench seat.

  Coyote narrowed his eyes. "¿Somos amigos, no?" We are friends, no? "You should've shared."

  "You can share this." I gave him the bird and motioned to get going.

  The old Ford sputtered onto the freeway. The jostling of the truck and the dreamy haze from dinner made me sleepy. I remembered the woman's trim body under mine. I could've had my way with her. The longing for the heat of female skin turned my thoughts away from the yuppie woman and toward Veronica.

  Her ripe body was more delectable by comparison. An affair with Veronica could seriously complicate my investigation.

  A worthwhile risk.

  We arrived at a confusion of concrete and asphalt where the Santa Monica, Golden State, Santa Ana, and Pomona Freeways tangled together. We exited and clattered down Whittier Boulevard

  through a neighborhood marked with signs in Spanish. Young people clustered under streetlamps or in the doorways of the tienditas—small, corner markets. Spray-can graffiti murals declared the area as Atzlan.

  "Where are we?" I asked. "East L.A.?"

  "Technically we're in Boyle Heights."

  A homeless man pushed a shopping cart heaped with his junk possessions.

  "More upscale, vato."

  We turned on Euclid and after a few blocks headed onto a short street that dipped into a wash. Coyote halted at the top of the incline.

  He pointed. At the bottom on the right, past the other ramshackle houses, was a sagging chain-link fence along the cracked sidewalk. Behind the fence and next to a ravine was a small home cobbled together from discarded materials.

  "Your palace?"

  "Símon, ese. The queen of England once asked to stay, but I had to turn her away. We're not zoned for royalty."

  Coyote shut the engine.

  "Why are we stopping up here?" I asked.

  Coyote pointed down the hill. "You wanna push again?" He meant letting the truck coast to start.

  "What if it stalls out and we're stuck at the bottom?"

  "Then we push uphill, pendejo."

  We dismounted. The one streetlamp was broken but no matter, with my vampire vision I had no problem seeing through the darkness. Shoes dangled from the power lines.

  I grabbed my bags and followed Coyote over the sidewalk and through an opening in the fence. The yard was dirt, rock, trash, and weeds. Piles of dog crap here and there. Frayed corrugated fiberglass sheets were tacked against the wall of his house. Roof joists jutted unevenly from under the eaves. We could've been in any Third World slum.

  A large dog's skull rested on a metal stake like a warning.

  "What's that about?" I asked.

  "Some culo up the street was hassling me about parking in front of his house. One day he sicced his rottweiler after me." Coyote patted his belly. "I ate the best tamales for a month."

  A dim yellow light shone through a curtained window by what I guessed was the front door. I smelled frijoles simmering in boar's blood. A short roof extended over the door and a slab of concrete to make a small porch. Coyote stepped up to the porch and peeled back a sheet of fiberglass siding. He reached through and opened the door from the inside. The door swung open, and the dim light washed over Coyote. The aroma of blood and frijoles got stronger.

  I followed Coyote into a kitchen. A blackened stockpot, the source of the aroma, sat on a battered gas stove. An illuminated happy face lamp rested on the windowsill. Bags of pinto beans and rice lay against the wall along with a pile of rat traps.

  I dropped my bags on a table covered with faded red-and-white-checkered contact paper. One of the table legs was splinted with a crooked two-by-four.

  "Maybe you recognize my home from last month's Architectural Digest," Coyote said. He hooked a loop of coat hanger wire over the knob to secure the front door. A threadbare woman's knit sweater hung from a nearby nail.

  "You have a woman?" I asked.

  "Had," replied Coyote.

  "Chalice? Vampire?" I couldn't imagine a woman of any kind stepping foot in this squalor.

  "More than a chalice," Coyote said. The lines on his face deepened. "Era mi vieja." She was my old lady.

  "She lived here?"

  "We had a different place."

  Good for her. "Your vieja's name?"

  "Heather."

  The idea of a woman named Heather shacking up with Coyote was so ridiculous I wanted to laugh out loud. Any girlfriend of his would've been a hag. Heather was the name of a coed, rosy-faced and plump as a strawberry. "Where is Heather?"

  Coyote's aura tightened in sadness around him like orange shrink-wrap. "She went to the place all humans go when they get old and die, ese."

  "What was Heather—"

  Coyote cut me off. "You'll sleep downstairs." This conversation was over. He pointed to the short, narrow door on the wall adjacent to a stove.

  "You have a basement?"

  "I told you I lived in a palace." Coyote unfolded a towel covering a stack of flour tortillas on the counter by the stove. He turned one of the stove handles with a set of pliers and let the gas hiss.

  "Where are you sleeping?" I asked.

  Coyote motioned at a tattered curtain hanging over the threshold to another room. "In there."

  He struck a match and tossed it into one of the burners. A fireball whooshed and settled into a blue ring of flame. Coyote set a tortilla over the lit burner.

  When the tortilla began to smolder, Coyote picked it up and bounced it in his hand to let it cool. Folding the tortilla, he spooned from the stockpot to make a burrito. He offered it to me. "Unlike you, I'll share."

  "No thanks, I'm full."

  "No kidding, buey." Ball-less asshole. Coyote chewed the burrito. Some frijoles dribbled down his shirt and onto the floor. He bent over to pick them up. He brought them to his mouth and stopped. Coyote glanced back to the sweater, sighed, and tossed the beans into the sink. Maybe one of Heather's rules had been "No eating off the floor," and this act of cleanliness was his homage to her.

  Coyote pulled the small door open and stooped to enter. "Bring your shit, ese."

  The creaking, wooden stairs—made offence posts, plywood signs, and lumber scraps—led to a basement with a low ceiling.

  A string dangled from a ceiling bulb, but there was no point in turning it on. The dirt floor was swept smooth. Cabinets and a workbench cluttered with tools stood along one wall. A big sturdy table sat in the middle of the room. A gray metal coffin rested on the table.

  "Heather?" I asked.

  "Chale. What am I, a ghoul? That's your bed, ese."

  In that case, tired as I was, this coffin looked more inviting than a Posturepedic mattress.

  Coyote plodded up the stairs. "I'll see you mañana." He closed the door.

  I put my bags on the workbench and climbed on the table to inspect the coffin. Knowing Coyote, I expected mice and roaches to spring out when I opened the lid. But it was empty, smelling as it should, like stale vampire. No crumbs anywhere from midnight snacking. The satin lining was dry and free of stains. Nothing worse than sharing a coffin with a bed wetter.

  I changed into pajamas, folded my street clothes on the table, and stepped into the coffin. I wiggled my hips to settle into the lining, laid back, and stretched my legs and arms. I yawned and reached to close the lid. I let sleep overtake me until a rustling and the squeaking of wood awoke me.

  What was that? I wondered how long I had been asleep. I opened the lid only enough to grope for my watch. Even though I had night vision, I liked pressing the stem of the Timex and watching the face glow. Time was 6:40 P.M. Saturday. I had been out awhile.

  Pushing the lid open, I felt refreshed and invigorated enough to arise vampire style, keeping my body rigid and rotating upward on my heels. But I had forgotten about the low ceiling and thumped my head. Dust sifted over me.

  Massaging my forehead, I climbed out of the coffin and sloughed off the dust. Th
e floor above groaned as someone, I assumed Coyote, moved about the kitchen. I sniffed the odor of rodent blood. Breakfast? I hoped not.

  During my sleep, the details of the investigation had circled my head like orbiting moons, distant, yet exerting their pull. As I got dressed, I realized who might provide information that I needed.

  Veronica Torres. There was one question I had forgotten to ask her.

  I got my cell phone. Reception in the basement was lousy. I climbed the stairs, and when I got a good signal, dialed her number. Voice mail picked up. I said hello and added, "Veronica, did Roxy Bronze leave any files that the police missed? If so, call."

  Call regardless, we need to get together.

  I entered the kitchen and was overwhelmed by the smell of animal flesh and spicy peppers.

  Coyote stood beside the table, scooping bloody lumps out of a bucket and cramming them into a meat grinder. "Buenos tardes, flojo." Good afternoon, lazybones. "I'm making rat chorizo. Know what my secret ingredient is?"

  Industrial waste? I shrugged. "El amor?"

  "Love? You're a funny guy, ese." Coyote laughed. "No, the secret to good rat chorizo is to leave the tails on." He plucked a tail from the bucket and slurped it like a strand of spaghetti.

  I wondered if the cuisine had killed Heather, not old age. Looking to the nail by the door, I saw that the sweater was gone.

  A percolator with hot coffee sat on a front burner. Coyote kept bags of human blood in his refrigerator. I heated one in the microwave. I filled a tall cup with coffee and blood. After toasting a couple of tortillas, I tore them and dipped the pieces into my drink, doing my best to ignore the stink of Coyote's sausage making.

  While he busied himself with rat chorizo, I filled a basin with warm water to wash and shave.

  My cell phone buzzed. I had a text message from Veronica. She didn't waste words. Her reply was: YES

  I texted her back: WHEN CAN I GET THE FILES?

  A minute later she answered.

  NOW

  Chapter Twenty

  VERONICA TEXTED ME her address in Hollywood. By the time Coyote dropped me off at her place, it was already after nine. Since Veronica had asked me to visit on a Saturday evening, and remembering she had said earlier we'd get together for dinner, I inferred that her offer included breakfast as well. Being the optimist that I am, I brought along my overnight bag and condoms.

  Her home was in a two-story four-plex in pastel green stucco. Lush grapevines, thick as quilts, draped the walls. Small balconies with wrought iron railings jutted from the upper levels. The fragrance of jasmine shrubs and orange trees wafted through the night air like incense.

  I scoped the area with my contacts out to check one last time for suspicious auras. The coast clear, I put my contacts back in and climbed the short concrete steps.

  Veronica's address was curiously 5l8 1/4. I entered a tiled breezeway and stepped around small palms and ficus plants growing in terra-cotta pots. Newspapers wrapped in plastic bags and junk mail were piled in one corner.

  Her apartment was to the left at the top of the stairs. I rapped on a scuffed and tarnished wooden door. Veronica peeked through the small window at eye level. The dead bolt clicked and the door opened. An aroma of apricot-scented shampoo escaped.

  Veronica wore white shorts and a loose short-sleeve blouse with a jungle print and stood barefoot on the oak floor. She had the burnished, muscular legs of a dancer.

  With a nod, she beckoned me in. Expecting a hearty embrace and a lusty kiss, I was surprised when she kept a cool distance when she led me inside.

  The floor creaked as we walked under a Moorish arch separating the front room from a dining area. I set my bag on a dinette table. There wasn't much furniture. Some mismatched chairs and a couple of end tables with flowering planters on top. The corners and walls were crooked from where the building had settled over the years.

  Veronica's mood puzzled me. She didn't act nervous, the way someone would if anticipating trouble. Not that I suspected her, since my vampire sixth sense detected no threat. Just to make sure, I examined the room again. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  So why the frosty act? Maybe Veronica had heard bad news. Maybe she didn't feel well. Or maybe she was being fickle in the way women can be and resented my intrusion into her life. In any case, I'd peruse Roxy's files and leave. Good thing condoms have an expiration date.

  Veronica waved that I follow her into the kitchen. She pointed to a document box sitting on the counter by the refrigerator.

  Her expression stiffened, her face a protective mask. "Felix," she said without prompting, "lo siento." I'm sorry.

  "For what?" I replied. We both spoke in Spanish.

  "I was eager to see you. To invite you into my home," Veronica explained. "But when I put the box there for you, it hit me what your visit was really about."

  "You mean Roxy's murder?"

  Veronica stared at the floor and nodded. She gathered stray hair behind one ear. It was a gesture that betrayed her struggle to maintain composure. "After Roxy was killed and I knew no one was serious about investigating her murder, I promised myself that she would get justice."

  Veronica looked out the kitchen window. I wanted to remove my contacts so I could witness the animated display of her aura expressing her inner turmoil. I expected to see her lower lip quiver and the shine of tears in her eyes.

  Instead, her jaw hardened, and that was it. This was the limit of sadness she would allow herself to show. My attention in this case had been so centered on Roxy Bronze that I had forgotten she was Veronica's lieutenant in the campaign to stop Project Eleven. Veronica picked the fight with the Los Angeles City Council and its millionaire patrons not only out of principle but also to win. She was no one's wallflower. Veronica jumped into the fray like a tough, seasoned paratrooper.

  Roxy had provided money, and the sexy, scandalous angle the media craved, but it was Veronica's nerve and drive that marshaled the community and turned the city council on its heels.

  "I haven't thought about those files since I brought them here." Veronica said this in a monotone, as if testifying under oath. "Despite my best intentions, my duties at Barrios Unidos, my family obligations…"

  "I understand," I replied. "Life gets in the way. A murder investigation isn't a hobby, especially this one. That's why people hire me."

  Veronica gave a smile of thanks. She stood beside me, close enough that she brushed my arm. I could feel the heat of her skin.

  I removed the box's lid. Thick hanging folders were braced from the sides. "How long have you had this?"

  "Since a couple of weeks before Roxy was killed."

  Several months, then. "This could be considered withholding evidence from a murder investigation," I said.

  Veronica shook her head. "I'm not withholding anything."

  "What do you mean?"

  "After her death—her murder rather—the cops raided Barrios Unidos to look for evidence," Veronica replied. "All they said was 'Show us Roxy's desk.' They emptied the drawers. They took everything: personal photos, pens, even a box of paper clips." In the excitement of telling me the story, Veronica returned to her quickstep Spanish. "I was surprised the detectives didn't scrape the gum stuck under her chair."

  "What about Roxy's computer?" I asked.

  "They confiscated that. And we had to give them permission to go to our Internet service provider and dig through our emails. The assholes deleted half of our archives just to be pricks." Veronica turned away and rubbed her forehead, as if the memory hurt.

  "How did you end up with the box?"

  "After we stopped Project Eleven and got done celebrating," Veronica said, "Roxy and I decided to consolidate the files, which at the time were scattered all over the office. We'd see what to keep or toss out. I took the box, thinking I would go through it when I got the chance. But I never did."

  "Where was the box when the police searched Barrios Unidos?"

  "In the trunk of my car. Had they asked,
I would've given it to them." Veronica shared a look troubled by anxiety. "Roxy was dead. A lot of rich people were happy about that. The cops were only there to purge anything that could further embarrass the politicos behind Project Eleven."

  I ran my thumb along the thick stacks of papers inside the hanging folders. "It'll take a while to go through this. Good thing I brought my toothbrush and jammies."

  "Your jammies?" The anguish in her eyes gave way to a twinkle. She gave a sardonic laugh. "Okay, you want to stay up all night and play detective, that's your business. You are the professional. But first we get dinner. I'm starving. There's a place down the street that stays open late. We'll talk about something else besides this." She pointed to the box.

  Veronica put on sequined flip-flops. We went out and stood in line at a restaurant decorated with bamboo awnings and tiki torches. She chewed a tablet of Nicorette gum and clasped my hand. Her silver rings singed me and I repositioned her hand so that her forearm rested on mine.

  I had to skip the first table the maître d' offered, as she wanted to sit us with my back against a mirror. How long would it have taken Veronica to notice in the reflection that she dined alone?

  I settled for a corner booth. No mirrors. One candle.

  Veronica asked for margaritas. We split an order of swordfish with mango chutney and potato cakes. I tried my best to match her appetite, but without a drenching of blood, even a gourmet offering like this tasted as bland as cold, unsalted oatmeal.

  Veronica kept with the margaritas while we chatted about life, her family, and movies. I didn't mention it, but my thoughts kept rolling back to what might be in Roxy's files.

  Veronica stopped midway through her third drink and pushed the glass away. "I surrender. Coffee?"

  We had the house blend, which sans blood, tasted like muddy water. Veronica nibbled on cheesecake.

  On the way back to her place, I kept her on my left side so when we walked arm in arm, her silver wouldn't touch my bare skin. Climbing the stairs to her apartment, she slipped and I caught her.