Part 16 (1/2)
She gritted her teeth and bolted through the dish room door into the back room of the bakery. So now now it's deserted. Of course, bakers work in the middle of the night and the early morning. At sundown the dishwasher would be the only guy still in the building. it's deserted. Of course, bakers work in the middle of the night and the early morning. At sundown the dishwasher would be the only guy still in the building.
She found her way to the stockroom, then out into the alley. She could see the entries to both of their lofts from the end of the alley, and fortunately, no one appeared to be watching from the street. There were lights on in the new loft and she made her way to the door, her legs burning with every step.
She listened at the door-did what she thought of as ”reaching out.” If she focused she could almost hear shapes, depending on the ambient noise. There was someone in the loft-she could hear the heartbeat, industrial music playing in headphones, the shuffling of a body-a light body dancing. It was the kid, Abby Normal. Where in the h.e.l.l was Tommy? He couldn't be far from the loft-the sun had gone down only five minutes ago.
Jody pounded on the door, but the shuffling sounds upstairs didn't change rhythm, and she pounded again, this time leaving a dent in the metal door. f.u.c.k, the kid has the headphones cranked and can't hear a thing. f.u.c.k, the kid has the headphones cranked and can't hear a thing.
Jody s.h.i.+vered, although not because of the cold, but because the hunger was rising in her. Her body telling her she needed to feed so she could heal.
She'd only done it once before, and wasn't sure she could pull it off again, but she needed to get into the loft and leave a lockable door intact. She concentrated as the old vampire had taught her, and gradually, she felt herself fading-going to mist.
Monet was no longer dressed as the statue guy, no longer in character-not that that character, anyway. Now he was the masta-blasta, gansta-rappa, full-ninja-bada.s.s and a bag of mothaf.u.c.kin' chips, bi-yatch-bent on revenge and whatnot. He'd given up mid afternoon on making any money and had gone home to remove his makeup and lick his wounds. He'd taken a vicious a.s.s-whuppin' today, even if it was only to his ego. But now he was rolling with his homies, P.J. and Fly, they would put that bronze m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka down-if he was still around. If he didn't run away like a little b.i.t.c.h. character, anyway. Now he was the masta-blasta, gansta-rappa, full-ninja-bada.s.s and a bag of mothaf.u.c.kin' chips, bi-yatch-bent on revenge and whatnot. He'd given up mid afternoon on making any money and had gone home to remove his makeup and lick his wounds. He'd taken a vicious a.s.s-whuppin' today, even if it was only to his ego. But now he was rolling with his homies, P.J. and Fly, they would put that bronze m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka down-if he was still around. If he didn't run away like a little b.i.t.c.h.
”You strapped?” Fly said, adjusting his do-rag as he drove his ten-year-old Honda Civic with rims worth more than the rest of the car.
”Huh?” Monet inquired.
”Do you have a weapon?” Fly said, enunciating all Royal Shakespeare Company precise.
”Oh, yeah.” Monet pulled the Glock out of his waist-band and showed it to Fly.
”n.i.g.g.a, put that s.h.i.+t down,” said P.J., who was in the backseat, wearing a Phat Pharm tracksuit that was four sizes too big for him.
”Sorry,” Monet said, tucking the gun back into the waistband of his jeans. He'd borrowed the Glock-rented it, really-from a real gangsta in Hunter's Point, who needed it back in two hours or he'd charge another twenty-five bucks. Before he gave Monet the gun, he made him swear that no one would be wearing gang colors, so nothing Monet did could come back on him. Monet had made the a.s.surance, then, after P.J. did a Google search for gang colors, they settled on orange do-rags, since no gang seemed to claim that one.
”Highway Safety Posse, yo,” Monet had said.
”Yo, Stone Tangerine Thugs, yo,” suggested Fly.
”Yo, yo, yo, check it out,” said P.J., with enough hand gestures that any deaf person watching would have thought he had ASL Tourette's syndrome. ”Cheesy Goldfish Crew.”
”Yo, dog, that's so stupid it's not stupid,” Monet said.
”Is that good?” asked Fly.
”Yo, dog, get in character.” Fly was a bad actor. They were all in the same acting cla.s.s.
He should have just hired real gangsters to do this. P.J. was probably going to trip over the legs of his track pants and completely ruin their intimidation.
”This is it,” Fly said, pulling off the street, right up onto the sidewalk of the Embarcadero by the Ferry Building. ”That him?”
”That's him,” Monet said. There was no one around but the occasional pa.s.sing car, but the new statue guy still stood there.
”Remember,” Fly said. ”Walk. Don't run up. Just walk, like you got all the time in the world. Use your sense memories.”
”Right, right, right,” Monet said. He and P.J. got out of the car and quickstepped across the bricks to where the statue guy was running his game. d.a.m.n, he was good, didn't even flinch.
As he reached the statue guy, Monet raised the Glock and the barrel connected with the statue's forehead. ”Bi yatch!” There was a dull clank.
”Whoa,” P.J. said. ”n.i.g.g.a really is a statue.”
Monet tapped the statue, three dull clanks. ”Yep.”
”But he got all that money in his shoes,” P.J. said.
”Well, take it, stupid,” Monet said.
”Yo, step off, Monet. I'm not the one that got upstaged by a statue.”
”Shut up,” Monet said.
P.J. was grabbing handfuls of bills out of the Big Gulp cups at the statue's feet and shoving them into his pockets. ”Must be a G here, G.”
”Yo,” Monet said. ”Help me get the statue into the car.”
P.J. stood and got one shoulder under the statue and tried to lift it, while Monet tucked the gun in his pants and got under the other. They dragged the statue only a couple of feet before they had to set it down and catch their breath.
”Motherf.u.c.ker heavy,” P.J. said.
”Would you guys come on!” Fly screamed from the car, totally out of character now.
”f.u.c.k this,” Monet said. This whole thing was just too embarra.s.sing. He'd paid rent on the gun, hadn't he? He drew the Glock from his waistband and squeezed one off at the statue.
”s.h.i.+t,” P.J. said, ducking. ”Are you crazy?”
”Bi-atch need to learn a-” Monet's comment was choked off.
P.J. stood up and looked back. There was smoke streaming out of the bullet hole in the statue, and in the second he watched, it had formed into a hand and grabbed Monet by the throat. P.J. turned to run, but something caught the hood of his tracksuit and yanked him back off his feet. He could hear Monet gagging and choking. Then he felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck and he felt suddenly light-headed.
The last thing he saw was Fly peeling away in the Honda.
17.
Being the Chronicles of Abby Normal: Newly Baptized Minion of the Children of the Night Bow before me, skeezy mortals, for now I see you for the pathetic little rodents that you are. Scurry before my dazzling darkness, daysters, for I am your mistress, your queen, your G.o.ddess-I have been brought into the fold-I am Abigail Von Normal, NOSFERATU, b.i.t.c.hes!
Sort of.
OMG. It was so f.u.c.king cool-like coming twice with Skittles and a c.o.ke. I was in the loft, s.p.a.cing into my jams on my MP3 player. I had downloaded the latest Dead Can Dub CD (Death Boots Badonka Mix) at the Starbucks and it was totally transcendent. I was transported to an ancient Romanian castle, where everyone had done X and was dancing totally chill and sensuous (with perfect hair). I was grinding a free-form booty dance on the armchair-perfecting my dance gestalt-when I saw some smoke coming in under the door.
(I can't wait to dance with Jared to this new CD. He's so going to love this move I do. That's what I love about dancing with gay guys. If they get wood during a booty dance, you can just take it as a compliment, not an agenda. Jared said that if I was a guy, he would totally suck my d.i.c.k. He can be so sweet.) So I pulled out one of my headphones and I was like, ”Whoa, fire in the staircase-sucks to be me.” There's only one exit, so, you know, blackened Abby coming up.
But the smoke formed into a pillar, and then it started growing arms and legs. When I saw it had eyes I ran into the bedroom and shut the door. I wasn't trippin' or anything, just totally calm. But it wasn't like when your friends hold your hair while you puke and tell you it's just the drugs and you'll be okay-so I went for the safe thing of locking the door so I could a.s.sess the situation. Then the door just 'splodes into splinters and there's the Countess, totally naked, standing in the doorway with the k.n.o.b in her hand. And she was totally hot, except that her legs were all f.u.c.ked up, like they were burned or rotted or something.
So I'm all, ”You totally wrecked your deposit.”