Stalking the Vampire

by Mike Resnick

  “I wish I could help you,” said the zombie. “But the only person I know here is my lawyer.”

  “What's a lawyer, and can you eat one?”

  The zombie shook his head. “It'd take you forever to clean it first.”

  He wandered off, and when she turned back to Mallory, she saw the detective handing a five-dollar bill across the table to one of the servers on the other side and receiving a small box in exchange.

  “What's that?” asked Felina.

  “It's for you,” said Mallory. “Animal crackers.”

  She sniffed at the box. “They're just cookies.”

  “True,” he admitted. “But you can bite each of their heads off. That ought to keep you happy for a while.”

  She opened the box and pulled out a cookie shaped like an elephant, then bit off its head. She flashed Mallory a huge smile, and then proceeded to bite the heads off a lion, a zebra, and a rhinoceros.

  “You'll behave yourself now?” said Mallory.

  “These are fun!” said Felina, decapitating a gorilla.

  “You didn't answer me.”

  “Yes, I did. You said, ‘You'll behave yourself now?’ and I said, ‘These are fun.’”

  “You didn't answer the question.”

  “That's not part of the rules,” said Felina.

  “It's part of my rules,” said Mallory, taking the box back.

  “Yes, I'll behave myself,” said Felina.

  “Well or badly?”

  “One or the other.”

  “I didn't quite hear that,” said Mallory, pulling the box back out of reach as she grabbed for it.

  “Well,” said Felina.

  Mallory handed her the box. “Don't eat ‘em all at once,” said the detective.

  “I won't,” promised Felina. “I'll eat them one at a time, right after each other.”

  Mallory felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned to face its owner. He almost wished he hadn't.

  Confronting him was a tall, burly man, though Mallory thought “men” might be more accurate, since he seemed to be composed of numerous disparate parts, each sewn together with the stitching still visible. He had one blue eye and one brown, one cauliflower ear and one small delicate one, a huge skull with a tiny chin, one arm longer than a basketball center's, the other shorter than a jockey's, and equally mismatched legs and feet. He was dressed all in black, with a turned-around collar.

  “Good evening, friend,” he said in a deep voice. “Billy-Bob Lazarus is the name—the Reverend Billy-Bob Lazarus, to be precise. You look to me like a man who longs to be born again.”

  “I haven't gotten over being born the first time yet,” said Mallory.

  Billy-Bob Lazarus threw back his head and laughed. “That's a good one!” The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. “Now, friend, are you sure you don't have a secret driving desire to join my Born Again Brigade?”

  “If I do, it's so secret it hasn't informed me yet,” said Mallory.

  “Would you like to discuss it?”

  “My secret desire or your brigade?”

  “Don't make light of being born again, friend. We all do it, each in our own way.”

  “Hard to argue that, given the crowd here,” said Mallory. “But I'm afraid I'm not interested.”

  “Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?” said Lazarus.

  “Yeah, there is,” said Mallory. “Tell me where I can find Vlad Drachma.”

  “Room 666 of this hotel,” came the answer. “Now, how much would you like to contribute to our poor box?”

  “He's right here at the Gonquin?”

  “Damned if I know,” said the Reverend. “Personally, I never heard of this Drachma before.”

  “But you just told me he was in this hotel,” said Mallory irritably.

  “You said you'd join my Born Again Brigade if I told you where to find him. You never said I had to be right.”

  “Go away.”

  “Hey, we have a deal!” protested Lazarus.

  “I never said you had to be right. You never gave me a time frame. I'll join in another eighty-three years.”

  “I'll hold you to that,” promised Lazarus, walking off to hunt up fresh blood. Or, thought Mallory, exceptionally old, tired blood.

  Mallory began circulating through the room, passing himself off as a lawyer with an inheritance for Vlad Drachma, but no one knew the vampire in question, or at least no one was willing to admit to knowing him. He'd spent about twenty minutes when the music stopped and Third Chance Louie came out again, microphone in hand.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” he said. “That was just what the coroner ordered. Revelers, let's all give Charlie and his Dead Enders a hand.”

  Most of the revelers applauded politely. Three of them threw severed hands in the direction of the band, which bowed and walked off the stage.

  “That's just the beginning, folks. Coming up in a few minutes, all the way from Bucharest, is the hottest band on the Continent, Igor and the Graverobbers.” More applause. “But first, fresh from his record-breaking run at the Shady Glen Memorial Home, here's Morty Pickman, the funniest comic hanged!”

  A pudgy zombie walked out, the remnants of a noose around his neck, wearing a tux that was a little too tight and a little too old, and took the microphone from Louie.

  “Good evening, and thanks for that introduction, Louie,” he said. “I used to be the funniest comic unhanged, until they caught me with my hand in the till…Well, it wasn't exactly my hand, and her full name was Tilly.”

  He waited for the audience to laugh. When it didn't, he waved Louie back onto the stage, handed him the microphone, and stalked off.

  “Uh…Igor and the Graverobbers are still having a little refreshment out in the cemetery,” said Louie, “so this might be a good time for our Fourth Annual Lee Harvey Oswald Look-Alike Contest. Would the contestants please step up here?”

  Five things shambled out and stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the audience.

  “But they're all moldering corpses!” said a voice Mallory recognized at Nathan's.

  “Have you see Lee lately?” Louie shot back.

  Mallory decided he'd seen enough of the contest, and he walked out into the lobby, followed by Felina. No sooner had he gotten there than he saw a lovely, dark-haired woman in a black evening gown, sitting on a chair, crying. She looked totally normal to him, the first normal person he'd seen since entering the hotel, and he walked over to her.

  “I couldn't help noticing that you're crying,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I doubt it,” she said with what he took to be a Russian accent, tears still rolling down her face.

  “Perhaps I could try, if you'd tell me what's wrong.”

  “It wouldn't help,” she said. “Nothing helps.”

  “Why don't you tell me about it anyway?”

  “My name is Natasha. I am Russian.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “You guessed my name?”

  “I guessed you were Russian.”

  “The crying,” she said knowingly. “All Russians are morbid. All I want to do is die.” She dabbed some tears away with a black handkerchief. “I take poison. I shoot myself. I jump off buildings. I run out in traffic. Nothing works. I am reduced to following Third Chance Louie and Igor and the Gravediggers and the others around, hoping whatever they have will rub off on me.”

  “You're saying that you're kind of a camp follower?” asked Mallory.

  “Yes,” said Natasha. “But it doesn't work. I am alive, and they want no part of me. Not even,” she added confidentially, “the part men kill for.” Tears began gushing out again.

  Mallory had no idea how to respond. “I wish I could help you, ma'am,” he said, “but—”

  “No one can help me,” she moaned. “Even Vlad Drachma could not bring me over to the Other Side, and if he couldn't…”

  “Vlad Drachma?” demanded Mallory instantly. “Wha
t do you know about him?”

  “I know he has his limitations,” said Natasha. “He can kill dozens of men and women every day, but not only couldn't he break the skin on my neck, he couldn't even raise a hickey.”

  “When did you see him?” persisted Mallory. “Is he in the hotel?”

  She shook her head. “I met him two hours ago. It was a brief affair. He gave up after half an hour.”

  “Where did you meet him?” said Mallory. “How did you know who he was?”

  “If you just want to join the”—another sob—“undead, you don't have to go to the Gryphon's Roost. There must be twenty vampires in the ballroom who can accommodate you.”

  “The Gryphon's Roost?” repeated Mallory. “Is that where you met him? What is it?”

  “A place for assignations.”

  “How did you know he'd be there?”

  “Mary told me.”

  “Mary who?”

  “The Roost is also a gambling den, and she's in charge of the slot machines. They call her Mary, Queen of Slots. She told me he's been showing up every night since he arrived in Manhattan.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On Seventeenth Avenue, between Lust and Sloth.”

  “There isn't any Seventeenth Avenue,” said Mallory.

  “Yes there is,” replied Natasha. “You just have to know how to find it.”

  “Thanks,” said Mallory, starting to walk away.

  “Mister?” she called after him.

  “Yes?”

  “If you see him, tell him I forgive him.”

  “I'll tell him,” said Mallory, and silently added: But I know two detectives who won't forgive him.

  He went back into the ballroom to collect Nathan and McGuire. Just as they were leaving, one of the revelers morphed into a huge wolf and began uttering a series of mournful howls.

  “Boy, they'll let just anyone in here!” muttered a zombie, downing a drink that immediately ran out the eleven bullet holes in his chest.

  “So you've got a lead?” asked Nathan eagerly.

  “Yeah,” said Mallory. “I met a woman who saw him just two hours ago.”

  “Can you trust her?” asked McGuire. “I mean, she belongs to him now.”

  “Not her,” said Mallory. “She only wishes she did.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “It's a difficult story to believe, even in this Manhattan,” said Mallory.

  “So where are we going next?” asked Nathan.

  “It could be a little problematical,” said Mallory. “Do either of you know how to get to Seventeenth Avenue?”

  “It sounds like it's under the river,” said Nathan.

  “Fifteenth Avenue I could probably find,” added McGuire. “But Seventeeth?”

  “I know where it is,” said Felina.

  “Why do I anticipate a negotiation?” said Mallory dryly.

  “Two cockatoos and a killer whale,” said the cat-girl.

  “One hot dog from Greasy Gus's stand on the corner,” countered Mallory.

  “And a hippopotamus,” said Felina.

  “One hot dog.”

  “Wrapped in a bald eagle.”

  “One hot dog.”

  “Oh, all right,” she sniffed. “But you're mean to me.”

  As if on cue, Igor and the Gravediggers began playing “Mean to Me,” as Mallory and his unlikely team walked out past the “Many Happy Returns” placards and headed off toward Seventeeth Avenue.

  It took Felina five minutes to choose between hot dogs—there were two of them, identical in every way as far as Mallory could tell—and another five minutes to lead them through winding streets the detective never knew existed to the tall building that housed the Gryphon's Roost on its top floor.

  “Nathan,” said Mallory, “I want you to stay down here and guard the door, just in case he's inside and makes a break for it.”

  “Only if you call me Scaly Jim.”

  “Sorry, Jim. My mistake.” He looked at McGuire. “Bats, you might as well stay here too. If Drachma tries to get out, give Jim a hand. If he tries to get in, sprout your wings, fly up there, and give me a little warning.”

  “It's not that easy,” said McGuire. “I have to get out of my clothes first, or I can't flap my wings.” He grimaced. “The last time I did that, I was arrested for indecent exposure before I could make the change.”

  “Find a way,” said Mallory. “Come on, Felina.”

  “Why are you taking her?” asked the little vampire.

  “Because I've never found anything she's afraid of, except maybe missing a meal.”

  Mallory entered the building, held the door open for Felina, and the two of them walked to an elevator.

  “Where to?” asked the uniformed operator.

  “Up,” said Mallory, looking at him as if he were a few bricks shy of a load.

  “Let me rephrase that. What floor?”

  “The one with the Gryphon's Roost.”

  The elevator shot up, forcing a startled grunt from the detective. Felina just grinned and purred. “I like elevators,” she confided.

  “I can't imagine why,” said Mallory. “You can't eat them.”

  “Sixty-sixth floor—the Gryphon's Roost,” announced the elevator operator as the doors slid open.

  Mallory and Felina emerged into a large foyer, paneled with dark wood. To their left was a bar, to their right a casino. Mallory went to the casino, followed by the cat-girl. A large fat man with a bushy mustache had pushed all his chips to the center of a craps table. “Ah, what the hell,” he said. “I feel lucky.” He then proceeded to add his diamond ring, his Swiss watch, and his ruby tiepin to the pot.

  “I'll match that,” said a sullen-voiced green-skinned ogre standing at the foot of the table.

  “I'm not done,” said the man, starting to climb out of his clothes. As he removed each item, he folded it neatly and placed it next to his pile of chips. The ogre studied the clothes, then pulled out a five-hundred-dollar bill and added it to the pot. The now thoroughly naked man picked up the dice and began shaking them above his head. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes!” he cried.

  “Shoes are going to be the least of baby's needs if it comes up snake eyes,” noted Mallory.

  The man rolled the dice. They immediately vanished under his pile of clothes. He raced around the table, pulled up a shirtsleeve, and announced that he'd hit a seven and was the winner.

  “Let me see that!” said the ogre, walking to the side of the table.

  “Too late!” said the man, picking up the dice.

  “How late?” said the ogre in a thundering voice, as his body began expanding. Suddenly he was fifteen feet tall and staring down at the naked fat man.

  “I believe it's just after one o'clock, sir,” said the fat man meekly. “I'll tell you what: Why don't I just roll the dice again?”

  “I'll tell you what,” said the ogre. “Why don't you tell me what you really rolled?”

  “Twenty-seven, sir,” said the fat man.

  “They only go up to twelve.”

  “I'm seeing spots before my eyes. It must be the height. Why don't we just call the game off? I'll take my clothes and money and go home, and the table's all yours.”

  “You can go,” said the ogre.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the fat man. He reached out for his pants and the ogre slapped his hand away.

  “I said you can go. Everything else stays here.”

  “At least let me take my shorts. It's chilly out there.”

  “You can have one sock,” said the ogre. “I wouldn't want it said that you went home with nothing.”

  The fat man seemed about to argue, then sighed, grabbed a sock, and made a beeline for the elevator.

  “What are you staring at?” said the ogre to Mallory.

  “I was just wondering why someone hasn't signed you up as a power forward,” answered the detective.

  “Why should they?” asked the ogre, suddenly shrinking back down
to six feet in height.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” said Mallory. “Forget I asked.”

  “You here to shoot craps?” asked the ogre.

  “No. I don't even carry a gun.”

  “A comedian,” snorted the ogre, suddenly losing all interest in Mallory.

  The detective looked around the casino. There were poker and roulette tables, plus some games he'd never seen before that seemed to draw their share of elves and goblins. Finally he saw a pretty woman in her late twenties or early thirties emptying a slot machine. She had long dark hair, a nice but not exceptional figure, and she wore a lavender pants suit. Mallory walked over to her.

  “Yes?” she said, staring at him.

  “Excuse me, but are you Mary, Queen of Slots?”

  “That's me.”

  “Good. My name is Mallory. A friend of yours told me you might be able to help me.”

  “If you want a loan, go to a bank.”

  “I want information,” he said. “A woman named Natasha said you might be able to tell me something about Vlad Drachma.”

  She stared at him. “You a cop?”

  “No, I'm private.”

  “You working for Natasha?”

  He shook his head. “No, she just told me that he hangs out here.”

  She nodded. “Every night.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” asked Mallory.

  “He's one of the undead.”

  “What else?”

  “He's old,” she said. “Very old.”

  “Can you be a little more specific?” said Mallory. “Fifty? Sixty? Seventy?”

  “Try a few thousand,” she replied.

  Mallory frowned. “How does he get around?”

  “He's manages,” said Mary. “There's just something about him that says you shouldn't mess with him.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “It varies. If he hasn't eaten…well, drunk…he looks like a dried-up old man of ninety, but he's still got that air about him.”

  “And when he has drunk?”

  She shrugged. “He's still old, but a few of the wrinkles are gone, and his color's a little better. He could pass for seventy.”

  “Does he bring his dates here, or pick them up here?”

  “He always comes in alone,” said Mary. “Sometimes he's alone for the whole time. Sometimes someone—usually a woman, but not always—will walk over to his table and visit with him. He doesn't ever invite anyone, but they seem, I don't know, attracted to him.”