Part 23 (1/2)
”Official guardian angel business, dear. We got a job to do.”
Together they reach Mummy's bathroom. Angie makes sure the seat is down and points in a wide circle at the blue plush carpet all around the toilet. ”Try not to get too much in the bowl, manly man,” Angie says. They close the bathroom door, sealing him inside.
The girls laugh, listening. Behind Angie's head Sara sees the tips of her white wings. Pinning Angie against the wall, Sara sinks her teeth deep into Angie's throat.
Gray. All gray.
But she's seen so much. Done so much. Felt and dreamed so much. Why does a gray nothingness fill her with such unspeakable, icy, curdled horror?
Can't wake up. Of course. But why no vampires? Why no city? No sky, no ground, no ... me.
Her eyes widen. She knows why.
”All right, Morticia. I'll see you again tomorrow night.”
Sara smiles as Benny climbs out of her new Porsche. Multi-kilo deals every night now and he still only knows that silly club nickname. Of course, Sara will never know whether ”Benny” is his real name, either.
She takes her pipe from her purse and warms the bowl for another hit, keeping the flame hidden down low. She always parks close to the front entrance now, paying a bouncer handsomely to watch the car whenever she happens to be inside.
The high is muted by the heroin in her bloodstream but at least the paranoia is under control.
Go inside. Leave the pipe and go inside.
She pries it loose with her other hand. The sleepy c.o.ke bugs travel sluggishly through her veins as she opens the door and floats toward the club.
The couple grams in the bottle can get me through. For now.
She dials her own number from the payphone in the club's vestibule area, punching in her code when her machine picks up. No messages. She fishes for coins in her purse, finding just enough, and calls Miguel. It rings and rings. The answering machine picks up.
”I just checked my machine and you hadn't called,” she says. ”You said you'd be getting some more and I just set up something pretty big ... wanted to know if I could stop by tonight-”
”h.e.l.lo?”
”Jesus. You sound like s.h.i.+t.”
”Yes,” he says. ”So tired, my friend. And cold. I got a fever, I think, but I feel so cold.”
”Mmm hmm. It's called blood poisoning, dear. I told you you had to be more careful with needles.”
So much for fighting the coca, Miguel.
”Uh, look,” she says. ”You said you'd get it. I need it. You got it?”
He wretches. ”No. Can't tonight.”
”No! I need it tonight, see? I've got to be a consistent source or they'll start getting it someplace else. Just let me go instead of you-”
”No. That is not possible. You can call me later. Maybe I feel better then, set up something. I don' know.”
”Fine.” She hangs up.
There is an empty table toward the back of the club. She sits, fis.h.i.+ng her cigarettes from her purse. She lights one, setting the pack on the table and staring ahead at the place where she'd first sat with Alexander and Neil. The purse goes onto her lap- n.o.body will see her reaching into it if she suddenly needs the gun.
The heroin fades from her system in little flutters, like a candle burning out. The crash looms. Powder might put it off until she can get something to even herself out. She fishes the snort bottle from her purse and takes a couple toots, watching the humans on the dance floor.
Animosity and jealousy seep toward her from the crowd. People surge before her, an endless churning of fresh faces, fresh blood.
How many have my product pumping through them right now? Or at least Miguel's. How many got it from someone else?
She takes a few more snorts, tilting back her head to make sure it all stays in.
”May I see the bottle, miss?”
A cop. Obvious from the voice, although she keeps her eyes turned away from him. She stands, pretending not to know he is there, stuffing the bottle into her bra between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as the purse slides off her lap. The crowd closes around her. She makes it a few more steps before the cop pushes through. His hairy hand grabs her shoulder and holds her.
She sits on the hood of the unmarked police car. The detective wears a sport coat from one of those stores that sells tools and cheap furniture; it looks like it was woven from strips of waxed paper. He nods as he speaks to her, peering down as if she's a naughty five-year-old.
”How'd you get in there with no I.D, honey?”
She shrugs. Someone in the crowd might have found her purse by now, becoming the proud owner of a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic and the keys to a Porsche Turbo full of cash, but not her I.D.
All this for two grams, you stupid pigs? Give me a blood test and you'll probably get another two grams.
”Well, whattaya think, Officer Johnson?” the plainclothes cop asks. ”You're the arresting officer. I'm starting to think we'll need to take her downtown. She can have someone bring her I.D. down there so we can book her for real.”
He keeps glancing at her as he talks, like he's trying to make sure she's listening.
I get it, I get it. Why chase the Baby Doll Killer or the Tylenol murderer when you can grab snort bottles in nightclubs?
”I'll let you make the call, detective,” the uniformed cop says. The detective sits next to her on the hood.
”What's your name, honey?” His voice is calm and father-like.
”Tish.” She tugs at her long black sleeve, making sure it covers the pinholes in her arm.
”Where are you from, Tish?”
”Wilmette.”
The detective exchanges a knowing look with the uniformed officer. They both roll their eyes. ”Yeah, we've seen a few girls from the suburbs like you lately. You probably just came into the city, dressed up all wild and looking for excitement, isn't that right, Tish?”
”Uh huh.” She says it in a desperate voice, with drooping ba.s.set-hound eyes. It might help convince them of the innocent little girl bit, but really she is just coming down again.