The Devil's Been Busy

by J. D. Blackrose

  He held out his hands in mock defense. “Just making sure you haven’t lost your edge.”

  I muttered under my breath. “I’ll show you my edge, vampire.”

  Liam snorted. It was nice to feel normal when everything was off the rails.

  We walked a few blocks and made it to the bus stop where he used to disembark for home. Now, we went the other direction.

  Few people were on the bus at that time, but one college kid flinched when we boarded. I didn’t understand why until I took a second look at Liam. At night, he was nothing less than terrifying, even doing absolutely nothing at all. His skin was drawn and cheekbones hollowed, but his lips were full and barely covered his fangs. As I followed him to the seat, I got a chance to look at his eyes. They glittered like diamonds set in coal, and there was no way anyone could mistake them for human. They were the eyes of monster keeping control of his humanity by a thread.

  That’s when it really hit me that I might have to kill him one day.

  We took the bus to the Cleveland State University stop where I had waited with him many evenings, and where we had taken on two creeps who I had not-so-affectionately named Goatee and Curt, the first because he had a goatee and the second because his name was actually Curt. I’m nothing if not creative.

  The thought of them made me realize what we were doing. “We’re going to find Goatee and Curt, aren’t we?”

  Liam grinned, his incisors gleaming long, sharp, and white in the streetlight. “I thought we should see how they like me now.”

  “Where should we look first?”

  “Let’s wander a bit. I think I’ll know them by their smell.”

  I squinted at my dentally challenged friend. “You can smell them?”

  He winked at me. “Seems to be a perk.”

  I stepped back several feet. “What does my shampoo smell like?”

  He answered promptly. “Almonds and vanilla. I think it’s that one with argon oil that you like.”

  “Dang.”

  We walked away from the university, as if we were headed toward the Flats, then turned onto East 13th Street toward St. Clair. We knew the slugs wouldn’t be hanging out anywhere near ritzy Playhouse Square, so they’d be somewhere between where we were and the Lake. That was a lot of territory, but all we could do was look.

  Or, maybe looking was not all we could do. Liam was up for a little intimidation.

  “Hey,” he called to some teens drinking on the corner of Hamilton Street. The kids shoved their bottles behind them, and several scattered, but one guy and his homies decided they’d stand up to the intruders.

  “Why you down here? This is our territory, whitey,” said their leader while his friends snickered in the background. This wasn’t even a racist thing; the boy called it as he saw it. Liam was paper white.

  Liam took a few steps closer, and the leader stepped back a few steps before realizing what he was doing. He did a little jerk with his neck and puffed up his chest and shoulders.

  “You need to leave, now.” Gotta give it to the little guy, he was brave.

  “No. I don’t. I need you to deliver a message.” Fast as a snake, Liam whipped his hand out and caught the boy by his shirt. The boy’s compatriots took off, running as fast as their legs could carry them. Nice friends.

  Liam pulled the boy close so he could see his fangs and eyes. “A while ago, I ran into a guy with a goatee and a friend named Curt. I’m looking for them. You know where they are?”

  The poor kid pissed his pants, and I felt sorry for him.

  “Hey,” I said to Liam, placing a hand on his shoulder “He’s a teenager drinking on a corner. Gentle.”

  Liam let the boy go. “Pass it around. Tell them I have some information for them and they should meet be at the bus stop up by Euclid and East 22nd.”

  “Oooookay, man. Whatever you say,” stammered the boy, backing away fast. As soon as he was twenty feet or so away from us, he threw his fist in the air. “You freak!”

  “You scared the bejeezus out of him.” I had my hands on my hips and was not happy.

  “I didn’t hurt him, and I didn’t drink from him, and now we can find the creeps we want. Walking around blind wasn’t going to do it.”

  “I’m not sure about this.”

  “Well, get sure, because we’re going to do it again. Come on.”

  I followed, but I stopped after a few feet.

  “What?” he asked, turning to look at me.

  “No more scaring kids.”

  He hung his head, eyes closed, and we stood in silence for several seconds. “Right. You are right, Jess. Keep reminding me. Don’t let me fall over that cliff.”

  “I won’t. Promise. Now, who do we go rough up?”

  “How about Snuggles?” His face split into a grin.

  Now, that was an idea I could get behind. We crossed a couple of streets, getting a little closer to the Lake, until we saw the row house where Snuggles dealt his poison. Everyone knew about Snuggles, but no one did anything to him because he had chased out all the competition. Even the cops found it easier to deal with one thug instead of three, so they made arrests on a quarterly basis, kept an eye on the purity of the stuff he was selling, and tried to keep kids away. I wasn’t blaming them. It was, honestly, a good plan.

  That didn’t mean I had to like him. I’d watched some friends fry their brains on his heroin and heard of too many drug deaths where the cops found the bodies in the streets. If we could ruffle him up a bit, I’d consider it a public service.

  Snuggles was a large man. Jabba the Hut size large, with a penchant for beer. He never touched his own product, but he swilled beer six packs at a time. As a result, he had the unfortunate habit of belching every few seconds. I was never sure how’d he gotten the nickname Snuggles, but no one called him anything else.

  “Stealthy or head on?” Liam asked me, as we watched the ebb and flow of users and pushers in and out of his house. I got my arsenal situated.

  “Fuck stealthy.” I strode across the street, hatchet in one hand, bat in the other, other goodies in my backpack.

  Liam caught up. “With you, it’s always head on.”

  “No need to bring my sex life into this, Liam. Now, be a good vampire and put your scary face on, would ya?” Liam grunted, and I turned to see what he’d done. His fangs were down, and he must have deliberately cut his tongue because they dripped blood down his shirt. His eyes were that unnerving black diamond glitter and, new to me, he’d grown long claw-like nails. Nice. If I didn’t know he was such a pussycat, he’d scare the shit out of me.

  Liam took the lead, and one look at his face made anyone standing on the steps, the porch, or sidewalk step aside. He gave one good growl, and they scattered.

  A deep voice echoed from inside the house. “Who’s the animal out there scaring off my customers? Is that you, Jimmy, showing off your tongue piercing again? That’s unsanitary, you know. Buuuurrrrrrrrppp!”

  We opened the screen door and walked right in.

  Snuggles sat in a Laz-e-boy chair that must have been special ordered to hold his bulk. Dollar bills in a multitude of denominations lay in piles around him, as well as envelopes of white powder. A small rat of a man kept the inventory organized. When rat-man saw Liam, he backed into a corner, holding a bag of smack like it was magic fairy dust that could make the monster go back under the bed.

  Snuggles couldn’t move so he pulled the lever to sit up, and said, “What the hell? What the fuck are you? Who are you?” He guzzled the rest of a beer and belched.

  That was my cue.

  “Hey, Snuggie. My name’s Jess, and this here is Liam. He’s in a bad way. His plastic surgeon messed up, and he’s pretty ticked about it.”

  “What the fuck is he? He want some stuff? No problem. First bag free.”

  I swung my hatchet in a circle like a lifeguard’s whistle. “No, no drugs. We want you to do something for us.”

  Snuggles may have creased his eyes. It was hard to tell.
“You want a favor?”

  “We want you to let Pascal know we’re back in town.”

  “Don’t know a Pascal.”

  “Oh, don’t lie to me Snuggle-buns. Everybody on the dark side of the street must know Pascal.”

  “Not getting involved.” The rat-man in the corner tittered in agreement.

  I shrugged. “Liam?”

  Liam moved with a leonine grace toward Snuggles and licked his fangs. That was all he had to do.

  “You’re one of Pascal’s, aren’t you?” Snuggles asked, pushing his bulk back in the chair with his arms like he was trying to get away. “Why can’t you find him yourself?”

  “It’s sad, but we’ve had a difference of opinion. A small family squabble and we misplaced his cell number.”

  “Fine. I’ll put the word out that you’re looking for him. But don’t think I’m going to forget this, girlie. Don’t come around here again.”

  “I’ll come here as many times as I want.” I picked up a bag from the floor, opened it, and dumped it all over the floor. Rat-man leapt forward to stop me. I sliced with my hatchet, and his pleather jacket shredded on one arm. I sliced again, and the other arm split right down the seam. I turned sideways, brought the hatchet down from his throat to his belly in lateral fashion, and every button on his shirt popped off, revealing a hairy chest that made me recoil.

  “See, what we have here is a failure to communicate, Snuggley-poo. I can come here and do what I want, take what I want, and demand that you do things for me. In return, you get to keep all of your blood on the inside of your body.”

  A man with a gun popped around the corner from the kitchen. Liam heard him before I did, of course, so it was no shock that when I turned, Liam already has his fangs in the guy’s throat. I took the gun, holding it by two fingers like a dead mouse. “Gosh, I hate these things.”

  Liam sucked enough to make the man faint from blood loss, stopped himself, wiped his fangs with the back of his clawed hand, and said, “Yuck. Users taste disgusting.”

  Snuggles belched loudly and downed another can of beer. Or, tried to. I tossed the hatchet and knocked it clear out of his hands. “Do we have a deal, Snuggly-dums? You understand where we are coming from?”

  Snuggles nodded, murder in his eyes.

  “Thanks, baby. That’s all I wanted.”

  I retrieved my hatchet and did a little pump fake at rat-man as we left. He squealed and went back to his corner. As we left, Snuggles yelled, “You won’t be so sure of yourself during the day, princess, when your pet can’t keep you safe.” We kept walking, but inside I acknowledged that was true.

  “Anything else you want to do?” Liam asked, face back to normal.

  “What about your super sense of smell? Is it telling you anything?”

  He tilted his head, nose in the air. “Too many smells down here. Garbage, urine, body odor, bleach, and a soupcon of Chinese food.”

  “Emperor’s Palace is a few blocks away.”

  “That must be it.”

  “Think we should come back tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Let’s stop to drop this gun somewhere safe.” Before I drove home, I emptied the bullets and threw them in a sewer, then I stopped by the police station and handed it in, telling them I found it on the street.

  Chapter Six

  I was remembering Liam’s crack about users tasting bad as I stared at the museum restaurant. When I went to the museum, it was hot dogs, hamburgers, and soggy fries. Boy, had the museum upgraded. One of Cleveland’s most famous chefs, Simon Bruell, had opened a trendy bistro featuring seasonal ingredients and a variety of choices, including the kids’ favorite, the “build your own pizza” option.

  “How do we explain why we need an egg?” asked Officer Bob.

  “Leave it to me.”

  Officer Bob seemed good with that.

  I spotted someone wearing a nametag, and by that weak evidence alone, I assumed she worked at the museum. No one had ever excused me for being too smart.

  “Miss? Can I speak to the kitchen manager in the back, or the chef?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Can you?”

  I cleared my throat. Patience. Patience. “May I?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. I don’t work here. I work nearby and was getting lunch.”

  I blinked. Blinked again. Officer Bob chuckled behind me.

  I turned on my heel and approached another person, wearing an apron and a name tag. “Excuse me? Sir, we need to get an item from the kitchen. Can we talk to the manager?”

  “You can get anything you want, long as you pay for it,” the guy said.

  “I know and I’ll pay for it, but I need something specific.”

  “What do you need?”

  “An egg.”

  “We cook eggs, no problem.”

  “I need a whole, raw one.”

  “Go ask Gary, the one wearing the apron with the tie. Maybe he can help you, ‘cause I sure can’t. Who the hell comes to a restaurant and buys a whole, raw egg?” He looked at Bob. “Are you her escort? Keeping her safe?”

  Officer Bob adopted a serious face. “Yes, I am. On special duty to keep her from hurting herself. We like to let her out now and then.”

  I smacked Bob on the shoulder.

  “Good luck,” said the man to Bob, clucking his tongue. “Tough gig.”

  “Tell me about it,” Bob replied. I hit him again.

  Pretending like I couldn’t hear them chatting about what a job it was to “watch” me, I left Bob and approached Gary. “Excuse me, sir? I understand you are the manager of the restaurant?”

  “You have something to complain about? You didn’t like your grilled cheese? Your kids hated the vegetable soup you made them get? What is it?”

  “Grouchy. Yikes. No, I’m not here to complain about anything. This is a lovely restaurant.”

  Gary, who also had a nametag, said, “Sorry. What can I do for you?”

  “I need an egg.”

  “Ask the cook to make you an egg.”

  “I need a raw egg, whole.”

  Now it was Gary’s turn to blink.

  “Get the hell out of my restaurant, lady. Hey, Officer.” He was speaking to Bob. “This lady is making a ruckus. Can you get her out of here?”

  My palms itched. I tried to ask nicely. I was polite. I reconsidered my tone. Yes, I was polite. But, now, I needed one goddamn egg. I spied the swinging doors to the back and sprinted toward them. Gary sprinted after me, managing to grab onto my knitted sweater, catching a thread on his watch, falling to his knees. I pulled forward like a bull in a china shop, towing Gary along behind me so fast that he tumbled to his stomach.

  I did my best Iditarod impression and pulled my sled, I mean, Gary, through the doors into the kitchen. He screamed the whole time.

  “Get her! Get her! She’s crazy!” he yelled.

  The cooks and dishwashers gave me a lot of room at first. “Pardon me, I need a raw egg. Where may I procure one?” I asked. One of the guys, at the salad station, pointed to a large stainless-steel fridge. “Thank you,” I said.

  While I was being polite, Gary had gotten to his feet, pulled hard to disconnect his watch from my sweater, and red-faced as a beet, jumped on me and threw me to the floor. I grabbed a pot on a low shelf and swung over my head, making a weak connection with his cranium.

  “Help me! Don’t just stand there!” he screamed at his team, holding his hands to his head. The staff jumped into action. One grabbed at my wrist, trying to wrestle the pot from my hand. Another one grabbed my ankle and only succeeded in pulling off my sneaker. Gary pushed up to a sitting position, rubbing his noggin’, and that gave me the opportunity to make a break for it. I dropped the pot, forgot my shoe, and ran toward the fridge.

  “Lady, watch out there’s…” yelled a guy in a traditional chef’s hat.

  I wiped out like a cartoon character, feet flying, and landed hard on my back.

  “Oil,”
he finished. “It’s greasy near the stove.”

  “Got it.” Despite my bruises, I shoved myself to my feet, determined to walk the next few steps to the fridge. I was stopped by a button-popping, hyperventilating, red-faced Gary.

  “You will pay for this mess! Where is that cop? I want her arrested!”

  I took a deep breath. “Gary, look, I’m sorry, but I need a whole, raw egg to do an exorcism on a fox spirit who is inhabiting a small Japanese woman.”

  Gary stared. “You really are off your rocker.”

  “I get that a lot,” I said. I reached around him to open the fridge door, but he moved again, blocking me.

  “This is totally not necessary, Gary. Give me one egg, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “No. That cop isn’t helping so we’ve called the police.”

  “Oh, good. I love Captain Morgan.”

  “The rum? Is that what this is? You’ve been drinking? You don’t smell like rum. You smell slightly fishy.”

  “That’s Juro.”

  “I don’t know that liquor, but it doesn’t matter. Stay here and don’t move.”

  “Can’t. Sorry about this.” I grabbed Gary by the arm, pulled him toward me in one fast move, and had him in a headlock before anyone else even twitched.

  “Stay still or Gary sleeps with the fishes,” I said in my best mafia impression. No one moved. I swiveled around, opened the fridge with my one free hand, and spied my target, a twenty-four-count carton of eggs.

  “Ugh!” I let Gary go and held my head where he’d hit me with a jar of jam that he’d managed to retrieve from the door shelf. The jam, strawberry, must have been one of those organic, locally jarred things because the glass was quite fragile and broke on my head, pouring jam all over me, my hair, and my clothes. It was then that I noticed that Gary’s watch had unraveled my sweater row-by-row and it was now a crop top.

  I pushed Gary away from me, and he slipped on the jam, sliding like a runner into home with red goop all over his pants, along with slivers of glass. He smashed into a bread oven.

  I shook out the glass shards from my head, finger-combed my jam-sodden hair, reached into the fridge, and removed a single egg. “Excuse me,” I said, remembering to be polite, and I stalked out of the kitchen, having no idea where my sneaker was, so I left with one shoe and a jam-slathered white running sock. Given that, saying I stalked might not be accurate. I limped out of the kitchen, truth be told.