Not Mac Keenan.
“Stairs are straight out of an old castle from Munich, Germany,” he said with pride. “They once led to a dungeon!”
“How fascinating,” I told him. “But not deductible. Not until you sell your house, and then, of course, the amount will work against your capital gains.”
He was silent as we continued down the stairway. I felt a little dizzy; whatever he had put in the coffee was definitely having some kind of an effect.
“See here!” he exclaimed with pride.
The grand basement room we reached was stone; the walls were lines with various instruments of torture, and I realized slowly that the room had a certain reek to it.
“Sit down, sit down,” he encouraged me. “That,” he said, leading me to a benchlike seat, “is an authentic garrote from the executioner who worked during the Spanish period in St. Augustine. Many a man met a grisly death with this lovely, historical piece.”
“Charming, Mr. Keenan,” I assured him. “You say you’re a show master. So, who is your audience?”
“My audience should arrive momentarily. Just as soon as true darkness falls and the moon begins to rise in the heavens!” he said dramatically.
“You know, Mr. Keenan, I’m a government worker. Nine to five is my usual.”
“But I’m certain your boss wants this problem solved, doesn’t he?”
“All right. I’ll put in for overtime. It’s the government; I may not get it. But you’re right, Mr. Keenan, we do want this situation rectified.”
He smiled suddenly. “You can run right now, Russ-sky. Run right now. They’ll send some other poor schmuck. I like you—I think you should run now.”
“I’m feeling a little tired,” I told him. “Whatever drug you put in the coffee is getting to me now.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” he told me.
He’d been at my side; suddenly he was behind me. He took my wrists, and I heard a snap; I’d been handcuffed. I felt the garrote fall around my neck.
I tsked. “Mr. Keenan. The garrote is period. What’s with the modern handcuffs? It totally ruins your show, you know.”
“Think it of it as theater art—moderne arte!” he said.
It was then that I heard the baying of the wolves. And the screeches that were made by the great cats. I heard noise above me, and I knew the creatures were coming to life. Mac Keenan was indeed a Doctor Frankenstein.
“What are you, exactly?” I asked him. “Werewolf, demon . . . vampire . . . zombie? Are you controlled by others?”
He laughed, delighted. “Ah, Russ-sky, you have been entertaining. I’m sorry, really. What am I? A show master, as I told you. My clients are of the wealthiest and most prestigious families. Most are European, though many are South American and Asian these days. Ah, you’d be surprised by my people from India and the Middle East, as well. Show master, Mr. Russ-sky. All right, a demon, if you will. I have been around a long, long time, as the sayings and songs will tell! I survive off the largesse of my clients, and therefore, you fool, my Publix bill is certainly deductible, and once you see some of my clients, you’ll understand that toothpaste is a work expense as well.”
“I do understand now,” I told him. “And I’d grant you your expenses—if your work was legal.”
“What’s not legal?”
“Well,” I began, but by that time the great cats were making their way down the stairs, snarling and screeching hungrily. There was a jaguar, a lion, a cheetah, and a puma. All stalking into the room, salivating.
No matter what his attempted expense deductions, I was intended as dinner.
“Wait! Wait, my dear pets!” he called out.
There was a thud against the stairway wall, and I looked up to see that a massive wolf was coming down the stairs.
A wolf, and not a wolf. He was going through horrendous and tortuous changes as he made his way. “Russ-sky, meet Max. Maximilian Davenport, werewolf out of Lyons, France. Max—meet . . . well, let’s get honest here, meet your dinner, sir.”
Max took on a full transformation and stood on all fours, howling with pleasure. The cats hissed and scratched the air.
Max started a heavy pad towards me.
“No, no, you must wait!” Mac Keenan said. “Wait, the mistress of darkness approaches with the newest love of her life.”
With that announcement, I felt a rush of air. There seemed to be a flurry of wings in the room, and then they were there. There was a woman—absolutely gorgeous. She was typical of any vampire fantasy ever written, huge dark eyes, dripping lashes, and long dark hair. Oh, and a chest that was brilliantly formed and well displayed in the black velvet dress she wore.
But she wasn’t alone. I recognized Ted and Josie from my office immediately. They both looked well enough.
“Vlad!” Josie said with dismay. As I said before, she’s a cute kid.
“Dinner is served!” Mac Keenan said angrily. Shall I shove the chair out a bit for you? Vampires first, werewolf second, and the cats—they will clean up the mess.”
“Josie!” I said.
“Mac . . . the chimp destroyed half my face. When Maria-Teresa came to the hospital . . . oh, sorry, Maria-Teresa, Vladimir Oginsky, I had to invite her in, and I had to allow her some blood and . . . then they declared me dead, and, well . . . here I am. Forgive me, Vlad, please?”
She was so pathetic.
“I was dying, too,” Ted apologized. “It seemed a good choice.”
“Where’s Aubrey?” I asked.
“Oh, well, she was really a big girl in excellent shape. I’m afraid that when we brought her out, we weren’t paying enough attention. Max was really hungry. He even ate the bones,” Mac Keenan explained. “If you all had left my grocery bill alone, things might have been fine. Give all these fellows, native and alien, and—hm, otherworldly?—enough raw meat and pig’s blood, and they stay pretty well satisfied. It’s your fault—you IRS people, and the government.”
“I’ve traveled some,” I told him. “We have our problems, but it’s still the best place to live.”
“Great. He’s a patriot,” Mac Keenan groaned. “You’ve been fun, Vlad, but . . .”
Josie started toward me. She licked her lips and I saw her fangs. She’d been such a cute girl! All brown eyes and long brown hair, she looked like a kid, but she was twenty-six and one of the best math people I had ever met.
The beautiful woman, Maria-Teresa, let out a cry of fury. “I am mistress, and I go first!” she announced. Josie quickly scrambled back; Ted—who hadn’t been that close—stepped back as well with a quick leap. He knew his place. I was glad.
Maria-Teresa smiled as she came toward me. She licked her lips and sat on my lap. She was hot, on fire. She crushed her breasts against me and gave me a soulful look with those nearly black eyes of hers. “I’ll try to make it sweet and erotic, sweet and to die for . . . you’ll not mind in the least.”
I felt her fangs slide into my neck.
I’d have let it go on a little further, but I still wasn’t sure just what the arsenic might have done to my system.
Ah, the arsenic. I guess it gave a taste to the blood.
She pulled back, staring at me with confusion and dismay. She started to turn to Mac Keenan, angry. “What is this—” she began.
She might have been beautiful, but I knew—she was pure evil, and there was no negotiating a settlement here.
I burst free from the handcuffs and thrust my neck forward with a tremendous lunge, freeing myself from the garrote, and knocking Maria-Teresa senseless. Not good enough. I caught her head and gave it a massive twist, breaking the neck instantly. Of course, she was a vampire, and that wasn’t enough. I twisted harder, until the head came free. It popped with a rather horrendous squishing sound. At least, though, no blood splurged all over the place.
She was old and evil; a pile of dust and ash burst upon us all, clouding the day.
Max, the old werewolf, howled, tucked his ta
il between his legs, and backed away. It sounded as if he was crying, the way he whimpered.
Josie and Ted just stared at me, openmouthed.
“She made you, so the spell should be broken,” I told my two coworkers. “You should no longer be blood-sucking servants of Satan.” I shook my head with disgust. “That’s horrible behavior for government agents. You should be ashamed! Get upstairs, I’ll get you both back to your hospitals. And Ted, if you die, you die, and that’s it.”
They were in shock, of course. They nodded, and stumbled their way to the stairs. I didn’t think Ted was going to die—they would think he’d had some miraculous cure.
I looked at Max, the werewolf. There was something so sad about him. I hate to see any dog with its tail between its legs.
“Snap out of it, Max!” I said. My tone was actually a damned good bark.
In a split second, Max was entirely human.
“I think your ailment might be psychosomatic. Look at you, you don’t even have any hair on your chin! Get to a doctor—I’m giving you one chance, and I mean it. Dr. Jimenez, on Main Street, is a wonderful shrink. One chance, Max, you see that doctor tomorrow. I’ll be following up on you.”
Max was out of the room and up the stairs, nodding as he went, moving faster on two feet than he had ever managed on four.
The cats growled at me. I growled back. They instantly froze back into their taxidermy positions, nothing more than dead meat.
Then I looked at MacDonald Keenan. “Scare tactics, sir, will not keep the IRS away. We all need roads and schools, and like I said, I don’t make the laws, I don’t decide the taxes.”
He stared at me, all tense, looking as if he might explode like a bomb any minute.
I thought he might have a heart attack on the spot. That wouldn’t have been good for my career—or the reputation of the IRS.
“What, what . . . what are you?” he asked me.
“An agent of the U.S. government,” I told him proudly. “All right, all right, you know why I love my job so much? A lack of prejudice. My parents came from Russia. But their parents came from . . . oh, well, it won’t really mean much to you, but they came from a little planet in a far distant solar system known as Aslinovia. It was a great place, until people of different colors started fighting against one another. The beiges, as we were called, were all but massacred. My folks got out. We settled in one place, and then my dad read up on the United States. Not perfect, but trying. So we came here. I served in the military, and I looked for a government job. They hired me at the IRS. Anyway, we weren’t so different on Aslinovia. And we’re not so different here—just a little stronger, physically, and mentally. So, here’s the thing, MacDonald Keenan. You’re going to jail, of course. You’re going to jail for the injury and death your so-called employment has caused others.”
“No one will believe—” he protested.
“Oh, yes. By the time I finish, they will,” I assured him. “You’re a horrible murderer, Mac.”
He shook his head. “You’ll never prove it.”
“Oh, I believe I will. But that doesn’t matter, Mac. I’ll get you one way or the other.”
“How?”
“Just like they got that other monster, Al Capone. Because you see, if you happen to get out of the murder charges, well, then . . .”
“Then what?” he demanded.
“I’ll be just like Elliott Ness,” I told him with a broad smile. “All right, so, maybe, in your circumstances, the Publix charges might be justified, but some of those others . . . Mac! What did you take me for, a fool? You’ll go down like many a man and monster, for income tax evasion! The Publix bill—now, of course, I’d let that go. But the Hermione’s Whorehouse is out, I’m afraid. And God knows, sir, where you’ve gotten half your income. I will be investigating that next! Damned vampires—the majority of your clientele, I believe. They’re the worst. So hard to pin down—and their banking! Disastrous. But I will find your hidden income, MacDonald Keenan. I will. I am a law-abiding man descended from legal aliens, and I will proudly do right for this country! And, of course, there are only two truisms in life for any man,” I told him.
“Oh?” he said, still looking shocked and frozen.
“Death and taxes,” I assured him. “Death and taxes.”
Table for Two
JEFF RYAN
“You know, Bernice,” I said, “one of the great things about taking you to a restaurant is we always get a nice parking place out front.” Bernice agreed, checking her face one last time in the rearview mirror, then tapping the dangling handicapped parking sign.
Sure enough, we got a spot right out front. I raced to the passenger side to do my gentlemanly thing and open the door for her. With practiced ease, I then grabbed the snow shovel from the car’s backseat and eased her out of her bucket seat. I gave the shovel a quick wipe down with a Handi Wipe and tossed it in the backseat. “Italy, here we come!”
Casa Antoni’s was the best Italian restaurant in town, and Bernice loved Italian food. She watched the Food Network all day long, and was always pointing out in our talkbook which ingredients I should bring to her. But as good a cook as she is, we both still love to try new things. We’d hit all the pizza places in town—delivery, of course. But a place as nice as Antoni’s was sit-down.
We walked past the tables on the outside terrace. It was Tuesday, so it wasn’t that crowded. We chose a Tuesday because Bernice heard that Tuesdays were the best day to go to a fancy restaurant, since the chefs had time to give your meal extra attention.
When they saw Bernice, two of the patrons ran away, yelling what they always yell. One fainted in his (it looked like) penne a la vodka. “Hey, knock it off,” I said to them. “How’d you like it if I said something rude about your lady?” I patted Bernice on one of her elbow carbuncles, and we went inside.
I was expecting the maitre d’ to be a middle-aged man with a mustache; instead, it was a young, thin, attractive woman. Me and my prejudices! “Can I help you?” she said, looking down at her appointment book. “Table for two, please; uh, keep looking down,” I said. She looked up. Why is it that when you ask someone to do something, they always do the opposite? People!
I didn’t expect her to try to jump through the window to escape. Luckily for her, the window didn’t break. I helped prop her up (no broken bones or bloody nose), and was reaching for my hyperventilation bag (which has smelling salts in it as well: I come prepared!) when she started to revive. Her name tag said “Melani.” Pretty name.
“Melani?” I asked, pronouncing it like Melanie, hoping I got it right. “Hi. I know, we’re not your normal customers. But we tip well, and we’re both wearing shirts and shoes.” Bernice dangled hers, one at a time, through a slat in her burlap. A little liquid sloshed out of the second one. Technically they were three-gallon Tupperware containers, but Bernice had wide feet and has a hard time finding a good fit. These were her good shoes: the knock-around ones for the house are slitted so the fluids can sluice out.
“Get out,” she whispered. “Oh, God, get out of here!”
“I hate to play the lawsuit card here, but you don’t have a reason to deny us service. We’ve been through four suits so far, and we’ve won them all. We’d really just like a table, please.” Sotto voce, I added “We’ll be done in an hour. Bernice eats fast. You’ll see.”
I suggested a corner table, and Melani mutely agreed. It was set for four, and while Melani was clearing the extra settings I snagged the nicely folded napkins: one to tuck down Bernice’s muumuu, one for her lap, and one for cleanup. Bernice put her elbows on the table, and a jet of pus from a boil squirted over the rolls. Time for the cleanup napkin! The rolls were excellent, by the way, crusty and hot, and we used lots of butter.
It was purposeful that I sat myself against the wall looking out, and Bernice looking at the wall. “I’m jealous: you get to look at the beautiful fresco!” I pointed out. Honestly, I also seated us this way because it would draw less atte
ntion. Still, the people at the table next to us finished eating early. They knocked over their chairs while leaving: I righted them. Rude!
“Do you . . . do you know what you want to order?” Melani asked, crying a little but controlling herself rather well, considering. I liked that she was waiting on us herself. Bernice hopefully didn’t notice it was because the waitresses were . . . hesitant to approach.
“I’ve got to try the shrimp scampi,” I said. “I love shrimp! And Bernice is going to have . . . hmm . . . the lasagna verdi, how many servings are left?” Melani tearfully said she could check. “Just warm up however many servings are left in the pan, and bring them all. And as a side, two orders of fettuccine Alfredo, please.”
“This is a great place, isn’t it?” I said. “Such ambiance!” Bernice agreed, whipping out the talkbook to point to “Excellent,” the top of the like-dislike scale. Things have been much easier since we put together the talkbook. She doesn’t need to try to talk, which is difficult because of the combination of cleft palate, lip keloids, and dental issues.
Bernice then pointed to “notebook,” which I dutifully handed over to her. (The pages get too greasy and discharge-y if it stays in her pockets. Good thing we laminated the talkbook!) She gripped a pencil in one flipper and began to write.
I kept my game face on, but I had a bad feeling I knew what she was going to ask. The two of us have an . . . unusual relationship, one where we don’t often get out to restaurants or shows. She knows why, but I just can’t bring myself to be cruel enough to remind her. No woman needs to hear that, especially from the man she loves. So, we end up in situations like this, where I just know people are staring at us.
There was a family eating across from us, mom, dad, and a five-year-old boy. B wAnT ThAT, she had written, with an arrow aimed at them. (Which confused me at first, because when I held the talkbook the arrow pointed at a picture of a man playing a little accordion!) “Of course, of course,” I said. “I want kids, too, with you. But you know our circumstances.”
The little boy saw Bernice pointing and scooted off his seat to come over. His parents tried to stop him, but kids are intrepid! “Are you a nice monster?” he asked. She gets this a lot: kids love her. She turned, and the slat in her muumuu opened. It exposed a stripe of her zebra hide, which is the cute nickname we have for the brown and pink intertrigo fungus that lines her torso. Also, Brad’s little arm and leg popped out.
Blood Lite II: Overbite Page 3