Bite Club

by Hal Bodner

  She drove northwest on Holloway, cursing both the planning and transportation commissioners as she negotiated the insanely designed intersection that would allow her to proceed north on Horn to her condo building. She made it without further incident and, shifting into the lowest gear, proceeded up Horn, past Spago restaurant, and made the turn into the driveway of Shoreham Towers.

  At she waited for the valet to park her car and return her keys, Burman mentally reviewed the meeting with Becky and Clive, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Burman realized she was sometimes very difficult to deal with and that she had frequently, through sheer force of will, been able to bully Clive into complying with her wishes. This morning, for the first time, he’d stood up to her, yelling back and forcing her into silence. She had to admit, her admiration for the man had increased tenfold as a result.

  She didn’t agree with Becky and Clive’s view of how to proceed; the notion that West Hollywood was beset with an actual vampire was too ludicrous to accept. Nevertheless, they obviously believed it, and in the face of Clive’s threats she was forced to go along. She had no doubt that if she were to open her mouth in opposition to her colleagues’ plan of action, Clive would have her arrested without a qualm. Becky had assured her that, if Pamela so much as thought of taking any action against them or went public in any way, she’d be waiting with the commitment papers already drawn up, ready to deny that she and Clive had ever seriously considered the notion of a vampire at all.

  Blackmail was what it was. Blackmail.

  She barged past the red-jacketed valet without so much as a thank you, entered the glass double door to the building and stopped at the reception desk to pick up her mail. The top envelope contained an announcement from the West Hollywood Chamber of Commerce regarding the Halloween parade.

  Pamela grimaced. In her heart of hearts, she felt that holding the Halloween festivities prior to catching the killer was a fatal mistake. But neither the mayor nor the city council nor the Chamber could be prevailed upon to see it her way. She’d kept arguing until even she had run out of words, all to no avail. Tonight, the festivities would begin.

  Leaving City Hall, she’d noticed the Parking Authority had already posted No Parking signs on the boulevard. Employees of the Parks Department were standing by to erect barricades blocking the side streets and cordoning off Santa Monica between La Cienega and Robertson. The carts and booths on the center strip of greenery separating east and west bound traffic were already awaiting the wares of local shopkeepers and the stage for the costume contest had already gone up at the intersection of Santa Monica and San Vicente.

  Mentally cursing the foolishness of those with less vision than herself, she entered the elevator.

  Maybe you’re just getting old, Pammy, my girl, she thought as the doors closed for the short ride up to her penthouse. She sighed heavily, noting that for the past several weeks, no matter what she tried to do, she seemed to be frustrated at every turn.

  Putting the debate on the wisdom of holding the celebration behind her for a moment, her thoughts moved to the more practical problems the city would face: crowd control, traffic jams, parking and clean up. She arrived at her floor and exited the elevator, thinking We’re the only city in the country that can manage to clean up after 100,000 people in less than six hours and still can’t manage to time walk signals so that even an Olympic sprinter can get across the street before the light changes.

  Shaking her head at the perversity of running such a unique municipality, she paused in front of her door and fumbled with her keys for a moment, finally unlocking it and proceeding inside.

  She closed the door behind her and stood blinking in the dimness. She had told her maid a dozen times to leave the blinds open and to turn on a lamp when she left, ostensibly so that the plants would have light. In actuality, though she would never admit it, Burman’s eyesight was not what it once had been, especially in the absence of sufficient light; she hated entering a murky apartment.

  Although she admitted to being “the other side of sixty” Burman had always considered herself younger than her chronological age. Over the past several years however, she found it more and more difficult to jog up the hill to her building upon returning from her morning constitutional. At first she’d blamed the slight shortness of breath and the excess of perspiration on her tennis shoes. After irritably trying out and discarding several different brands, she’d finally been forced to admit that at her age she wasn’t quite the athlete she’d been at fifty. Gradually, over a period of about two years, she’d slowed down her previous attack on the hill from a rapid trot to a brisk walk and she now sometimes stopped at Cravings restaurant, ostensibly for coffee but in reality as a subterfuge to mask the necessity of catching her breath.

  Only the mayor and the city council knew her true age, and thanks to West Hollywood’s age discrimination laws, she would be able to hold her current position as long as she managed to both competently perform her duties and convince the city council to renew her contract. Even Daniel Eversleigh, in the depths of their bitterest arguments, had never dared suggest that her advanced years made her less than capable of running the city. And he would never be brave or foolhardy enough to use the information against her. Daniel’s worst nightmares involved Pam’s being struck by a car one morning during a jog and leaving him with the horrendously terrifying task of trying to operate the city himself while searching for her replacement.

  In the darkness, however, when entering an empty room or jogging down the street in the winter predawn hush, Burman often suffered a sense of disquiet. It was typical of her personality that she would always fight back the rising panic, banishing thoughts of rapists and muggers to the dim recesses of her mind, and proceed onward, head held high, with a fearless attitude displayed to the rest of the world.

  But now, in the privacy of her own home, she gave way to the jitters a little and nervously tossed her keys and purse onto the table by the door. She removed her lilac leather driving gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of her burnt-orange coat before taking it off and moved into the living room, tossing it over the back of an armchair.

  She came fully into the room, knocking her shin against the corner of the coffee table. Feeling blindly about in front of her, her hands came in contact with the shade of the floor lamp next to the sofa. She groped for the switch and, finding it, turned on the lamp, relieved at the sudden illumination.

  She turned toward the art deco cherry wood table where she kept her answering machine, preparing to retrieve any emergency messages that might have come in from the Chamber, the council, or countless others.

  She froze, speechless. A wave of inevitability swept over her as her greatest hidden fears were realized. There, on the couch, in her home, was a short, muscular, dark-haired young man wearing the vilest smile she had ever seen.

  Pamela started to scream but only managed to emit a small gasp. Dizziness washed over her; she couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Her eyes darted to the telephone, only inches away from her hand. She moved her fingers towards it slightly.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” commented the young man pleasantly.

  He rose gracefully and began to walk toward her. Pamela fought desperately to continue breathing as the young man took her by the arm and forced her to sit in her favorite chair. He released her and sat back down on the couch.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, Miss Burman, although I know a great deal about you.” His constant smile was about to drive Pamela crazy. “I’m an avid reader of Frontiers, the Gazette and Edge. My admiration for you is boundless. Your name appears in print more frequently than that of the director of the Gay and Lesbian Center. A remarkable accomplishment, don’t you agree?”

  If this is Larsen’s idea of a joke, thought Pamela, silently trying to retain her composure, I’ll kill the son of a bitch!

  “My name,” the young man continued, “is Rex Castillian. Or, at least
, that’s the name you’d know me by.”

  “Castillian?” Burman’s thoughts were awhirl. She knew she’d heard the name but was unable to still her panic enough to concentrate on where or when.

  “Please, dear lady,” he continued. “There’s no need to be frightened. I’m afraid rape and robbery are out of the question. I’m incapable of the former and have no need of the latter.”

  Burman inhaled sharply, ready to scream.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Rex cautioned, wagging a forefinger at her. “That would be an unfortunate mistake. Very unfortunate.”

  “How did you get in?” she finally managed to gasp.

  Rex pretended surprise. “Why, you invited me, of course.”

  “I...invited...you?”

  “At your last City Council meeting, I recall. Let me see if I can remember your exact words.” Rex placed one hand under his chin, feigning deep thought. “Ah, yes! I believe you said something like ‘I just wish I could meet that son of a bitch once. I’d like to give that bastard a piece of my mind. I’d sit him right down in my living room and tell him what I thought of madmen who go around killing people in my town!’ You’ll forgive me if I’ve misquoted you slightly.” Rex smiled again.

  “You!” Pamela realized who the young man was in a flash.

  “At your service.” Rex made a little seated bow, not bothering to rise from his position on the couch.

  “Now, Miss Burman,” he began, “we have much to talk about.” He leaned forward, the grin vanishing from his face to be replaced by an expression of serious intensity. “I understand,” he continued, “that you don’t believe in vampires...”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The West Hollywood Halloween celebration was in full swing by nine-thirty Friday evening. Santa Monica Boulevard was jam-packed with people. The sidewalks were so crowded with the overflow from the bars that pedestrians were forced to walk in the street. Although only about a third of those present were in costume, it could be said that the quality of the costumes more than compensated for the number of those in street clothes.

  West Hollywood’s costume parade had been a tradition for many years, beginning long before the City was incorporated in 1984. What started out as a one-night opportunity for men to appear publicly in drag rapidly blossomed, with the addition of costume contests in the individual bars, into a huge informal promenade of people up and down the boulevard from dusk into the early morning hours.

  Imelda Marcos strode regally along the median strip in her black gown, a huge stack of shoe boxes precariously balanced in each hand, while Cruella de Ville stomped down the street, shoving people out of her way and dragging a huge stuffed Dalmatian daubed with blood-red paint on a rope behind her. Scarlet O’Hara was also present, complete with five o’clock shadow, causing not a little consternation amongst the masses as they were forced to duck to avoid being nailed by the curtain rods sticking out from her shoulders as she gaily pirouetted, trying to show off her dress by making it flair out attractively. Of course, West Hollywood’s Halloween Parade wouldn’t have been complete without the requisite number of Blue Nuns, an entire convent-full of which were reeling down the street, having liberally partaken of mass quantities of their namesake.

  The non-drag costumes were equally as original. Phineas Fogg lounged near the doorway to Rage with a woven wicker basket around his waist, complete with an eight-foot diameter papier-mâché balloon overhead and a little Passepartout puppet. The Flintmobile, two lesbians in bare feet dressed as Barney and Fred, careened madly down the sidewalk, the Stone Age car forcing people further out into the street. The Justice League of America, six stunning young men and one woman, made an appearance for a while but an hour later the satin-clad Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern and Aquaman, disappeared into Studio One for an evening of dancing and...whatever. Their physiques were so spectacular that no one seeing them could doubt that capes – and tights – would be shed by dawn.

  The theater and movie queens had outdone themselves this year. Liza was present in abundance—in top hat and tails, black stockings and cabaret fringe. On the sidewalk outside Mickey’s Bar, a three hundred pound drag queen with a microphone, red wig and scaly green satin tail blocked foot traffic and loudly proclaimed herself to be “Ethel: The Little Merman.” A pink satin-clad Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, complete with a Saran Wrap bubble, majestically proceeded down the Boulevard tapping people on the shoulder with her star-tipped wand and asking whether anyone had seen her lost munchkins followed by Tippi Hedren, trapped in her telephone booth, and fighting bravely against crazed stuffed seagulls attached to the booth with wires.

  The usual assortment of zombies, clowns, ghosts, ballerinas and witches could also be spotted, but in West Hollywood such costumes were just a teeny bit brighter and more flamboyant, and showed a little more bare skin, than one could see anywhere else. There were dozens of people, all male, dressed as female pop stars: Madonna, Lady Gaga and Beyoncé. Every founding member of the city’s Chamber of Commerce had conspired to march down the main thoroughfare dressed as huge milk cartons, their faces protruding from the cartons’ sides, with whimsical descriptions of how they had been “lost” stenciled beneath in turquoise Magic Marker.

  The judging of the costume contest would take place at midnight. Even at this early hour a white unicorn, several cross-dressing Klingons, and a group of five muscle studs wearing little more than artistically placed feathers were lined up at the raised stage on Santa Monica and San Vicente vying for a good spot in the contest lineup. The West Hollywood Cheerleaders had already assembled at the rear of the stage, ready to kick off the competition with a stunning display of their gymnastic talents guaranteed to amaze and astound the crowd. Unbeknownst to the cheerleaders, the small group of leather boys gathered at the foot of the stage had not come to cheer them on to greater acrobatic feats but rather to see who would win the betting pool as to how many wigs would vacate the heads of the cheerleaders during the first five minutes of the routine.

  Both Pamela Burman and Clive Anderson were slated to be judges this year, along with Daniel Eversleigh and the city council, Ed Larsen, Charles Partridge and several other prominent business owners. The Chamber of Commerce, wise for once, had made certain to place Daniel Eversleigh’s and Pamela Burman’s chairs at opposite ends of the stage to keep them from trying to kill each other. During last year’s festivities, the two city officials had been seated adjacent and had had one of their famous arguments. Pamela had triumphed after ripping a four-foot-long stuffed dildo from the front of one of the nearby reveler’s costumes and trying to bludgeon the mayor to death with it—all to the delight of a nearby Entertainment Tonight camera crew and to the unending chagrin of the Chamber.

  Becky arrived at the judges’ stand at quarter to ten, relieved to find Clive already there. She’d called the Sheriff’s Station every hour on the hour until just after quitting time, but there had been no news of either Troy or Rex Castillian. Finally, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, she’d collapsed exhausted at her desk, waking up at seven to call the Station for the latest report. There were no new developments.

  She’d been unable to get in touch with Clive since she’d left the Coroner’s Office at five-thirty and hoped desperately he’d have good news when he arrived at the contest. Rushing home, she’d showered, changed into her costume and called Chris. Getting his machine, she instructed him to meet her at the stage at ten o’clock for a pow-wow. She’d also tried unsuccessfully to reach Pamela at home and ended up leaving her a duplicate message.

  Fighting her way through the crowd to the stage, witch’s hat askew, Becky had run into Carlos in the guise of Shanda Leer.

  “Have you heard from Ms. Burman?” he yelled over the heads of a female John Wayne and a bottle blond devil in a sequined G-string and red leather harness.

  “No!” shouted Becky. “Is she here?”

  She shouldered her way through the costumed crowd towards Carlos. Her path was bloc
ked by a group of five drag queens in bright pink polyester pant suits and blond wigs carrying For Sale signs. One of them stopped her and thrust a pink business card into her hand. Automatically, she glanced down at it and couldn’t help smiling at the legend: PMS REALTY. IT’S THE RIGHT TIME OF THE MONTH TO BUY A HOUSE! By the time she looked up again, Carlos was being slowly borne away by the crowd.

  “I’ve been trying to reach her since she left the office,” he called.

  “She’s probably giving someone hell for watering their front lawn with a hose!” This was in reference to the West Hollywood’s water conservation ordinance Pam had passed during the first year of the California drought.

  Carlos smiled. “Probably. See you at the contest.”

  A huge, male Brunhilde in a blond fright wig and horned helmet cut off their view of one another. Becky waved anyway and moved off, clutching her broomstick.

  When she reached the judges’ stand, Becky noted that Pamela was uncharacteristically late. She clambered up onto the platform and waited with barely controlled patience for Clive to give some last-minute instructions to one of his deputies. Finished, he turned to her with a worried expression and, taking in her costume, raised an eyebrow in query.

  “The Gingerbread Witch,” Becky explained. “It gives me an excuse,” and so saying, she plucked off one of the candy canes she’d attached to her skirt, neatly removed the cellophane wrapper and stuck the curved end into her mouth.

  “Shouldn’t you have kept the cupcakes in front?” Clive asked. “You know you’re going to end up sitting on them.”

  “Huh?” Becky looked down at her costume. “Oh, the skirt slipped.” She tugged at it until the more easily damaged candies and cakes were properly in front.

  “Any news?” she asked Clive once she was finished adjusting everything.

  “No,” Clive said. “Well, nothing good anyway.”