Hunger (44 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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“Why not? I'll pay you well.”
“I don't need your goddamned scraps, Deirdre. I'm not some snarling mutt panting after the first bitch in heat I find.” He put his arms down at his sides, his fingers tensed and splayed out. “You don't want to sleep with me. Okay, I can deal with that. But you don't have to offer me compensation. Quite frankly, I don't think I like the games you're playing with me.”
“Ron.” I moved around the desk and touched his arm. “I haven't been playing games. I like you and I trust you.” He pulled away from me and refused to meet my eyes, but I continued. “That doesn't happen very often. I require legal representation and I think you could perform the job to my satisfaction. You may choose to turn the offer down, but I hope you won't. I need your help.”
When he raised his head, his eyes looked sad. “I've always been a sucker for ladies in need,” he said with a reluctant smile. “And you say you're not good at handling people. Let me have some time to think it over, and check on the professional ethics involved. Can I let you know tomorrow?”
“That would be fine, Ron, thank you.” I wrote down Mitch's address and phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. “This is where I'm staying and the number there; don't lose it, I suspect the number is unlisted. Any time in the late afternoon would be a good time to call.”
He folded the paper carefully and put it into his coat pocket. “I'll guard it with my life. And I'll talk to you tomorrow, then. Good night.” He began to extend his hand, then shook his head with a grin and put his arms around me. “What the hell,” he said, kissing me lightly on the lips. “I think you just bought yourself an attorney.”
Chapter 15
T
he buzzing of the intercom interrupted my second attempt to read Max's will. Tentatively, I pushed the button on the phone. “Yes?”
“Miss Griffin? This is Fred. I hope you don't mind the interruption, but I saw Ron leave and figured it would be okay.”
“What is it, Fred?”
“Johnny said you wanted to see him. He's about ready to go home now and said that you told him not to leave until you talked. He's a bit shook up.”
“Johnny? Who the hell is Johnny?”
“The doorman. Shall I send him back?”
“Oh, the doorman, I forgot all about him.” I sighed. I wasn't really ready for another personal encounter. “Yes, Fred, go ahead and send him back.”
A minute later Johnny stood knocking at the open door.
“Come in, Johnny, and close the door behind you, please.”
He walked in gracelessly, a gangly youth, probably no more than twenty-one or two. He seemed so much younger here in my office; not occupying the position of authority at the door had robbed him of his maturity. He had a thick crop of black hair that fell forward into his eyes as he sat on one of the chairs and stared down at the floor. Not wanting to make this meeting too formal, I walked around and sat on the edge of the desk, my legs crossed, one foot idly swinging.
“So, Johnny, how long have you been working here?”
“About six months,” he muttered.
“And do you like it?”
He looked up at me, “Yeah, it's a good job. And I don't want to lose it, Miss Griffin. It's just not fair of you to fire me for not recognizing you.” His face acquired a sullen expression, making him look even younger. “I mean, I didn't know who you were, I was just doing what they said I should.” He glanced back at the floor as if something caught his interest there.
“I am not going to fire you, Johnny. Actually I suppose I should be flattered that you thought I was young enough to need identification.” I had expected he would look up again, but still he stared at the floor. I grew annoyed at his lack of attention and leaned over the desk to see what was occupying his attention. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said, getting up from his chair and kneeling on the floor. “But there's something shiny under your desk. Let me get it for you.”
Before I could protest, he reached and picked up a rather thick shard of crystal. “Here,” he said with pride, “this could really hurt if you stepped on it.”
He put one hand on the edge of the desk and stood up, gripping the glass in his other hand. When he dropped it in the wastebasket, I could see the small cut on his thumb, smell his blood in the air.
“You've cut yourself,” I said breathlessly.
“Yeah, but it's not too bad.” He put his thumb into his mouth and sucked on the wound.
“Ah.” A groan inadvertently escaped my lips, and the hunger within me that had not appeared with Ron raged like a fever through my body. My voice grew deeper, more husky. “Don't do that. Hold out your hand and let me see,” I ordered, moving closer to him. Reluctantly he held his hand out and I cradled it in my own two hands. Our eyes met and he was caught. Before I even knew I had reacted, I pulled him to me. He tensed, then relaxed and smiled, wrapping his arms around me as I kissed him, stroking his thick black hair. My mouth found his neck, and my instincts reacted immediately. I sunk my teeth deep into the vein and his blood washed into my mouth, filling my body with warmth and energy.
“More, take more,” the inner voice coaxed. Max's presence was strong, and his craving for life pushed me further, urging me to gorge myself upon this young body. “Drink,” he whispered with a dark joy. “Take it all, take it all.”
Johnny's grip on me began to weaken, and I could feel the strength fading from his limbs with each swallow I took. His body trembled against mine.
With a great effort of will I slowed on the pulling of Johnny's blood, gradually weaning myself of its intoxicating taste. Removing my mouth, shuddering at the shock of its removal, I tried to ignore the inner wail of disappointment and anger, concentrating instead on the live warm body I held against me. Johnny swayed slightly; his eyes were closed, his mouth curved into a small sensual smile. I moved away from him, held his face in my hands, and called his name softly.
“Johnny, open your eyes.” When he did, I continued. “Nothing happened here. Can you remember that? Nothing happened.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “nothing happened. I feel funny. Can I sit down?”
I smiled at him. “Sit. Let me get you something to drink.”
When I came back with his drink, his eyes were more focused and the dreamy expression had faded from him.
“Here,” I said kindly, handing him the glass, and watched him drink it in one gulp. “Do you feel better now?”
“Yeah, I guess so. What happened?”
I laughed, attempting to put him at ease. “You cut yourself, remember?”
He nodded slowly. “It's kind of funny, the sight of blood never bothered me before.”
“Well”—I shrugged—“these things do happen.”
“Yeah.” He still sounded confused, but stood up abruptly. “Can I go now?”
I made eye contact with him again, and he showed no fear, no recognition of what I was. “You most certainly can, Johnny. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Why, for being so diligent in your work.”
He returned my smile. “Gee, thanks a lot, Miss Griffin. See you later, huh?”
Hoping that would be the last of the interruptions that evening, I returned to my desk and the reading of the will. I advanced only a page, however, before there was another tentative knock on the office door.
“Damn,” I said under my breath, then louder, “come in.”
“Am I interrupting?” Fred walked halfway through the door.
“No, what the hell, come on in, everyone else in the world has been here tonight.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “You really are having a bad day, aren't you?”
I gave an exasperated smile and pushed my hair back from my face. “No, the day was fine. It's the night that's been a problem. Honestly, how did Max ever get anything done?”
Fred laughed. “Max never slept and was almost always here, day and night. Most places like this never see the owner; they have managers and assistant managers to handle the day-to-day affairs. But Max did everything himself. We all wondered when he would break . . .” His voice trailed off.
Max's death and the murders he had committed to earn him that death were public knowledge. That he truly was what the papers called him in jest, the Vampire Killer, had been kept secret. I knew the effect his deeds had upon my life and Mitch's, but had never given any thought to what others might think. It might prove interesting to get Fred's version of the story.
“You think it was the tension, then, the pressures of his life, that drove him to kill those people?”
Fred smirked. “I think the man was crazy; you only had to work for him for a month to see that. But I'd never have believed him a killer.” He gave a small chuckle. “I wouldn't have thought he'd want to dirty his hands that way.”
“So you believe he was innocent?”
“Hell, no, I think he did it. Don't you?”
“I know he did it, Fred. I heard it from his own lips, and Max, for all his faults, rarely lied to me.” I laughed bitterly. “There were many things he didn't tell me, but when he spoke, he spoke the truth.”
Fred nodded. “Yeah, he was like that. It was always the things he didn't say that got you.” He glanced around the office and shrugged. “Anyway, I guess it was bound to happen, but it sure was strange, both him and Larry being carried out of here dead. And you know, the place was packed for months afterward, people sneaking in to visit the cellar and the office as if they were shrines or something. You'd think they'd stay away after all that, but we were turning them from the door in droves.” His eyes shifted away for a minute and then came back to rest on me. “Speaking of the door, you did a good job on Johnny.”
“Excuse me?” I jumped at his comment and knocked the folder on the floor. “What about Johnny?”
Fred moved down on his hands and knees to help me pick up the scattered papers.
“Be careful,” I warned him, “there may still be some glass down there. Johnny found a piece and cut himself.”
“No problem.” He handed me the papers and I put them into the top drawer.
“What about Johnny?” I repeated, eager for his answer.
“Well, I don't know what you said to him, but whatever it was, it worked. He walked in like he was going to his own hanging and he walked out with a big smile on his face. We've had trouble with him before; he's not exactly the smartest person alive. I mean, he does pretty good as long as he doesn't have to make any decisions on his own. Anyway, I think he thought that you were going to fire him. I take it you didn't.”
“No, of course not. I'm not legally the owner yet, so I'm sure that any decision of that nature would be a little premature.”
“Not the owner? But Max left the Ballroom to you. How could you not be the owner?”
I saw no need to discuss with Fred the possibility of my declining Max's estate. “I haven't signed the papers yet.”
“Oh, if that's all, that's no big deal. Anyway, I don't want to take up much more of your time. I just wondered if you'd like me to get the staff together tomorrow for a meeting, you know, to meet you.”
“So that I won't be turned away again for lack of identification?”
“Yeah.” He gave me a broad smile that I returned. “Is tomorrow too soon, do you think?”
“Probably. Tell me, who's been employed here the longest?”
“That dubious honor belongs to me, Miss Griffin. I was the first person Max hired. I've always hoped to be the one to lock up when we close for the final time.”
“Look, call me Deirdre, please. This Miss Griffin address is beginning to annoy me. It makes me feel positively ancient.”
He gave me a sly look. “As if anyone would think you were old. I don't believe you've aged a day since the first time I saw you.”
“Inside, I feel like Methuselah. But let's forget about age. Tomorrow evening I want to meet with you about how the Ballroom is being run and how you would like to change it. And if you have any suggestions about an appropriate manager”—I gave him a calculated look, thinking he would probably want the job, and, that even if I didn't like him very much, he would be good at it—“please say so. I don't plan on devoting my entire life to this place—one night a week should do just fine.”
“Great,” he said, and went to the door. He turned around again before leaving. “You know, Deirdre, I've sort of been dreading your return, hoping that you wouldn't come back. You and I never really clicked before, and I blame a lot of that on Max's attitude toward you. You were untouchable—none of us was allowed to refer to you by anything other than Miss Griffin, as if you were goddamned royalty or something. Jesus, I remember a time when a waitress was fired on the spot for some derogatory remark about you. She didn't say it to Max, of course, but he heard everything, saw everything. Lange's a lot like that too. But you seem different, warmer maybe, more approachable, or”—he gave an ingratiating smile—“maybe you're just better looking than I remembered.” Then he shrugged, seeming embarrassed. “Well, anyway, that was a pretty long speech. I really only wanted to say that I'm glad you're back now, and I hope you'll stick around for a while.”
“Thank you, Fred. Good night.”
 
By the time I arrived outside Mitch's apartment that night, it was after three. The night was cold and clear and the moon was full. I rummaged around in my purse and found the crumpled pack of Players I had brought from England. One cigarette was left—it had lost a little of its tobacco, and was crooked—but I straightened it out with my fingers. Sitting down on the steps of the brownstone, I lit it and inhaled both the smoke and the night air deep into my lungs. I stretched my legs out in front of me, enjoying the feel of the tightening muscles and the warmth of Johnny's blood flowing through my body, rejuvenating and energizing. This is the best time, I thought, when the overpowering hunger is gone, the hunting successfully completed, the feelings of youth and life renewed.
I should have gone into the apartment, but the night seemed peaceful and I remained sitting on the steps. The smoke from my cigarette curled thickly into the still air; I blew on it playfully and, as the smoke dissolved into nothingness, replayed the evening in my mind.
It had been a strange night, to say the least, and a busy one. Of all the events, the one that I tried to hold closest was the fact that Mitch had indeed recovered. That, I reminded myself, was the reason I had returned. Even shouldn't things work out between us, and I still didn't see how they could, he was cured; I had helped him recover his life. His demons had been effectively dismissed, even though mine were still snapping at my heels, tearing at my throat. I sighed and tossed the burning cigarette into the street, watching the flurry of sparks as it hit. Then I stood up, brushed off the back of my cloak, and reached in my purse for the key to the door.

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