Part 10 (1/2)
His expression was still disturbing. ”But tell me, Mr. Fleming, and with all truth, what would it mean if there are such things? What would it mean to you?”
”I'd have to think that one over.”
”I already have. I've thought a lot about it. We have this bright world of daylight, predictable and comfortable to us. Normal. But what do we do when something happens that simply does not fit into that world and makes us conscious of another world altogether, existing and blending closely with our own? A world we can but glimpse and then dismiss as a fantasy, a world we cannot sanely accept, for that would doom our complacent security. Its citizens are beautiful monsters, to be feared or laughed at as at a dream. But if their reality were to be proved to you, how would you react? You can deny it or accept the truth. One keeps your illusion of your world safe and the other... well, your hand might hesitate tonight before it turns out the light. How can you slumber in peace when you cannot see what the darkness conceals? Our eyes blink against it, our ears hear things that might be moving, our skin s.h.i.+vers and antic.i.p.ates crawling things beneath the covers. Within that dark, which is as sunlight to them, they watch and bide their time until sleep takes you; they sense it as we sense the heat and cold. They approach, marking you, stealing your heart's essence to strengthen their own Undead bodies, and when the dawn comes they're gone... and one more part of your soul is gone with them.”
It was past time to leave. The man knew too much and yet too little. He was perceptive enough to know there were other reasons besides a bogus book to inspire my research. Maybe he hoped I would confide in him, show him the marks on my throat and ask for help. That was out. I was not under any restraining hypnotic suggestion from Maureen, but I did have a share of common sense. Even if I told him the truth about vampires, it would do no good. He was the wrong sort to unlearn all the nonsense he had sitting on his shelves, such truth would endanger his illusions just as he said.
He read my face correctly and knew he'd gone too far too soon. Cultivating acolytes takes time. ”I'm sorry, I do ramble on a bit.”
”That's all right. It was very interesting, but I have to be going. Thank you very much for letting me read the book. I really appreciate it.”
”Not at all,” he replied, shaking hands. ”I hope you'll come again?”
”Sure,” I lied.
Social conventions sometimes come in handy. We smiled, said the usual things, performed the expected rituals, and pretended all was right in the world. It was for me as soon as I stepped out into the brisk March dusk to walk home. Braxton's outlook on reality was enough to throw anyone off center. If nothing else, he personified my own fears of vampirism and made me realize how groundless they were. Compared to Maureen, Braxton was far more frightening.
The relations.h.i.+p Maureen and I shared was hardly consistent with the popular image of vampire and victim. Our love-making was astonis.h.i.+ngly joyous and normal, and if at its climax she drew a little blood from me what did it matter as long as we both enjoyed it? Maybe she wasn't a typical vampire, maybe there were others just as dangerous as Stoker's creation. I did not know.
I never mentioned Braxton to Maureen; I didn't want her to know about my fears, especially now that they'd been dispelled. She needed my love and support, not my insecurities. After a very short time, the incident faded from my memory.
Chapter 5.
AGAIN TAKING REFUGE in a large, anonymous hotel under a different name, I stopped for the day in Indianapolis. My car was left several blocks away in another hotel's garage. Not the best kind of subterfuge, but I was hoping Braxton was not that good a detective. My hopes panned out or I was lucky again; the next night I was back in the familiar and relative sanity of Chicago. My first stop was Bobbi's place.
I waved at the night clerk as usual, he nodded back, turned to a pillar near his desk, and resumed talking to it. This sort of behavior makes me curious, so I walked over to see what made the pillar such a fascinating conversationalist. Leaning against it, just out of my line of sight, was the house d.i.c.k, Phil. He was a medium- sized, slightly tubby man in an old derby and a loose collar. He didn't look like much, but Bobbi said he could take care of himself and knew where to go for help if he needed it.
He saw me and nodded. ”Morning, Fleming. You up early or out late?”
I shook his calluses. ”I'm always out late. How's business?”
”Slow, but there's the weekend coming up.”
That was when he made most of his tips. As long as the trysting couples were quiet about it, he was conveniently blind and deaf; disturb the other guests and the offenders were out on their ears.
”Good luck, then. Listen, could you do me a favor?”
”Depends.” His face was as carefully blank as the lobby's marble floor.
”There's been a couple of guys following me...”I gave him an accurate description of Braxton and Webber and an inaccurate account of their activities. ”They've already pestered my folks and I figure they might try bothering Miss Smythe next.”
”They can try.” The only thing Phil liked better than bribes was kicking pests around.
”I'd appreciate it if you kept your eyes open.” I stuck my hand out in farewell and we shook again briefly. He pocketed the sawbuck I slipped him with the discreet manner that made him so popular with the other hotel patrons.
”I will do that,” he promised. The only thing Phil liked better than bribes and kicking pests around was to be bribed to kick pests around. ”Please tender my regards to Miss Smythe.”
Phil and the clerk resumed their discussion, which had to do with the merits of various betting parlors in the city, and I completed my journey to the elevator. The operator put up a good imitation of being awake and he took me up to Bobbi's floor.
”She's got guests tonight,” he told me.
”Anyone I know?”
He shrugged and opened the doors. ”They look the fancy type to me.”
That could mean anything. I stepped out and immediately picked up the loud thrum of conversation down the hall. Bobbi had mentioned her plans for a little party a few days ago. Her idea of a little party meant inviting only half the city, not all of h.
The door swung open at my knock and a dangerous-looking female barred the way in. She sucked in a lungful of smoke from a skinny black cigar and let it blow out her nostrils to corrode the air. ”Well, speak of the devil.”
Not knowing how to respond to that one, I waited for her to stand aside, only she didn't, and hung on to the doork.n.o.b to look me over.
She had well-powdered white skin stretched over her bones, and dark eyes, which were made larger and darker by a liberal use of makeup. Her hair was jet black, shaped like a helmet with thick, severely cut bangs that just covered the eyebrows.
The rest was leveled hard against her jawline. If any single hair dared to rebel, it had been rigorously dealt with by a dose of lacquer.
She wore something box shaped and bright purple, with green sequins edging a deep neckline that didn't suit her long face. The talons she affected were another bad choice, as they accentuated the developing witchiness of her fingers. They were painted the same color as her wide mouth: a deep maroon. I put her down as a case that was determined to look a young and sophisticated twenty no matter what her actual age. As far as I could tell under the war paint, she'd just edged her way over forty.
She'd finished a.s.sessing me as well, took a step backward, and swept her hand in a gesture to indicate I could pa.s.s. We locked eyes for a second and she smiled. It was no more than a thinning of the lips, but it expressed her contempt as plainly as if she'd spit in my face.
Then Bobbi said my name, threw her body against mine, and we forgot about everything else for a few moments.
”You should have called.” Her mouth was very close to my ear and I enjoyed the tickling of her breath. ”I didn't know when you'd be back.”
”I like surprising you.”
”It is easier to catch them out that way,” the woman said agreeably.
Bobbi pulled back a little, but kept her arms around me. ”Jack, this is Marza Chevreaux. She's my accompanist.”
I had wondered what she was. ”How do you do?”
”Not as well as you, dear boy,” she drawled sweetly, and held out her hand, forcing me to relinquish my hold on Bobbi in order to take it. It wasn't a fair exchange; her fingers lay briefly and limply in my palm and then recoiled to be better occupied at playing with the chain of her long necklace. She smiled again, took a step backward, pivoted on the same movement, and left us.
I hoped she was out of earshot and opened my mouth, but Bobbi beat me to it.
”You don't have to say it, I already know.”
”I never saw her at the club.””Slick didn't like her.”
”Fancy that.”
”She really is a good accompanist, once you get past all her dramatics. We're a good team and I got the station to agree to have her play when I sing.”
”She said 'speak of the devil'; should my ears be burning?”
”A couple of the girls were wondering who I was dating, and I can't help but talk about you. Because of Slick, Marza doesn't think much of the men in my life, but she'll come around once she gets to know you.”