No Rest for the Wicked (10 page)

Drew glanced at me. “That stamp on Lake's hand was from a new club. Don't you think it's too big a coincidence that the club is called Blue Cloud?”

“I think you'd make a halfway decent homicide investigator,” I said, “if it weren't for your known criminal associations.”

“Which is why,” said Drew, typing furiously, “I'm getting us invites to the gig tonight.

Maybe we'll luck into a quick connection.”

“Sounds like a plan.” The faster the better. I'd moved a small TV and VCR into Peter's bedroom so we wouldn't even have to get up to watch the game. Multitasking, I think they call it.

“What are you doing there?” I asked him.

On one of the computers, Drew had an extensive database. The names at the top seemed predominantly Hispanic in origin. I noted that as the database descended on the screen, the names became more and more diverse in ethnicity.

“I'm tracing the vampire bloodline in Los Angeles. It looks like it all started with one source vampire. I'm calling him Vamp Zero for the time being.”

He cursored down and clicked on a box. My name appeared. Above it was the name of someone I didn't know. I half rose from my chair. “Is that the guy that—”

“No,” said Drew. “I mean, possibly. I'm working hypothetically. The same name came up with Freeway and a few Mexican Mafia vamps I interviewed when I was working for Ozone.

Nobody copped to doing you, so I'm only guessing.”

I sat, feeling deflated. I don't know why it was that I really wanted to know who had turned me into what I was. It was like not knowing your murderer. Or your father. It's hard to say which side of the coin I felt about the bastard, whoever he had been.

“You know, it's interesting,” said Drew, staring up at the monitors. Little squares with names on them danced in his shining eye whites. “Mathematically, I've worked out that if vampirism had existed all along and spread and if vampires are immortal, there would not be any humans left. So something must be wiping the vampires out on occasion.”

“Maybe villagers armed with pitchforks?” I suggested.

He glanced at me. “You have a dark sense of humor.”

“Why do you suppose that is? I mean besides the waking up in a morgue with my toe tagged?”

A face. “I'd give anything, you know. I bet a lot of people would.”

That was something that had never occurred to me. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” Drew typed away at his keyboard, head down, not looking at me. I regarded him. He was svelte and good-looking, with that shining black hair all gooed to one side so that he looked
très
chic and clubby. And his eyes were a rich black, with thick lashes, the brows also black and wide. Never mind the nerdy computer geek thing. I'd seen Drew on the streets. He could pull off the look.

Long fingers with broad white nails tapped away. How could he want to be undead?

“She's not worth it, you know. No woman is.”

A quick grin. “Of course
you'd
say that.”

“All right, then; no piece of ass is worth it.”

The wide smile quickly disappeared. “She's not a piece of ass.”

It was a good thing that Betsy's office was well soundproofed, I considered. Drew had an expression on his face that evoked memories of high school renditions of
Romeo and Juliet
. The kind that impassioned, heartbroken young men wore when they stepped off rooftops. “Sorry.

You know what I mean,” I said.

“What about your whoever he is?”

“He had nothing to do with this.”

“But wouldn't it have been worth it? If he were what you are and you weren't?”

He glanced at me again when I didn't answer.

“What's that you're typing?” I said to change the subject.

“I've started a blog,” said Drew. “It's like the
Vampire Diaries
, but I already have over five hundred followers.” His fingers flew, and a scrolling screen appeared on the monitor. Gray, with skulls and bats and red letters, for Christ's sake.

I must have made some sort of sound because he shot an angry look at me and said, “Everyone's a critic.” He tapped away and said, “See, look at all the comments.”

“Comments?”

Drew had entered some sort of information. I could see my name and quotation marks around something I'd said to him. “Hey!”

“You have a question,” said Drew. “See. Cherryblossoms from South Dakota wants me to ask you 'do vampires have souls'? I told her, of course, we aren't sure…”

“You've got to be kidding?”

I pushed him aside and frowned at the questions. One person named personaldirge had asked if I was gay before my transformation or if that had only happened afterward.

“What the hell have you been telling them?” I asked Drew. My hands hovered over the keyboard in bewilderment. “Erase this stuff. How do I work this…”

“Calm down, man. They don't know who you are. And you can't erase it. The Internet is forever.”

I'd figured out the arrow keys and was scrolling through comments. One question said, “How do you know if you're evil?”

“Oh fuck.” I puzzled it out and opened the comment.

Dear Mr. Vampire,

I am twelve years old and I think I am evil. My question is, how do you know? Signed,
anon.

“Drew, these are just kids. God knows what kind of trash you're feeding them.”

“It's all PG-13,” he protested.

“Never mind. How do I answer him?”

I ignored the expression on Drew's face as he showed me how to hit the Reply button and type my answer into the box that appeared.

Dear anon. I've met a lot of evil dudes and I can tell you that just the fact that you asked
that question proves to me that you are one of the good guys.

God knows I'd never asked
myself
that question. I hit the Send key. I pulled up one of Drew's chairs and sat down in front of the computer. “Where the hell are their parents?” I scrolled down and found another entry to Mr. Vampire.

Dear Mr. Vampire,

I want to be a vampire! Tell me, how did you do it? Signed, wantstobeavampire
Christ. I was about to reply when I noticed that several of the entries were along the same lines.

“Somebody has to set these kids straight,” I told Drew. “Next thing you know we'll have lines of them down on Santa Monica Boulevard with cardboard signs, asking to be turned.”

“You can make a blog entry,” he said. He did something with the keys that opened a brand new box on the screen. “See, just tell them all at the same time.”

“Good. Good. Great.” I thought for a minute, and then I just started typing, both forefingers punching away as fast as they could go. Tell them the truth, I figured. If that didn't scare them, nothing would.

I always figured I'd go down this way: a bad drug bust, the proverbial hail of bullets…

I didn't even notice Drew moving away and leaving me to it.

Time flew by until Caballo's hand on my shoulder stopped me midsentence.

“Whatchya doing, dog?”

I looked up at him. He appeared sleepy and sated, and he reeked of sex.

“Blogging.”

“Hmmm, okay whatever. It's sundown, you know. Didn't you need to be somewhere?”

“Crap.” I pulled out my phone and checked it, but Peter hadn't called. I punched in his number and was sent straight to voice mail.

I called his office number and got the operator. “Lieutenant Ortiz is not available,” said the bored nasal voice. “I can put you through to his supervisor.”

No way I wanted to talk to Davis. “No thanks.” I hung up, dug out Nancy's card, and called her.

“I'm in Northridge. I've scored a surveillance van and a crew. Peter hasn't been in touch?”

“He isn't at the station, either.”

“Really?” There it was again, that evasive tone. I made a mental note to ask Peter what he and Nancy were up to. “He probably went home to take a nap. He's pretty sick. I'm still planning to meet you back there, right?”

“Right.”

When I disconnected from Nancy, I called Peter again. The call went straight to voice mail again.

You know what I was thinking, right? Okay, maybe you don't. Maybe you don't know just how crazy a fucktard I am yet. I was thinking Peter had called Jonathan up and told him he'd changed his mind. That whatever Jonathan had proposed in the parking lot this afternoon

suddenly seemed to Peter like a really fanfuckingtastic idea. “Peter, where the fuck are you?” I said into the phone. And snapped it shut.

“Where's your ride?” asked Caballo, stretching. Behind him, I saw Betsy appear. She, too, looked overly relaxed, and her hair was mussed. “I didn't see your old beast outside.”

“I could use a lift back,” I told him.

He glanced back at Betsy. “Can Drew drive you?”

Damn. I felt for the geek. I really did.

“Drew, my man, can you do me a favor?”

Drew seemed to be playing another video game. He removed a set of headphones and looked an inquiry at Caballo and me.

“Take the kid along with you, maybe,” Caballo suggested smoothly. “Give him a treat.”

We all piled into the ice-cream truck and Drew drove to Peter's part of town in relative silence. When we got to my designated drop-off point, I climbed out of the van, and then Drew said, “Hey, Adam.”

From where I stood, I could see the corner of the window of Peter's condo. There was a light on, like he was home. But he hadn't called me back yet. I thought of that after-lunch conversation with Jonathan I'd witnessed. Jonathan's hand on Peter's arm. That wholesome all-American face of his pleading his case. I thought of Peter and his obnoxious idea of fair play. I had a bad, tight, feeling in my gut. “What?” I asked impatiently.

“Betsy said eight o'clock. Don't forget.”

“I'll be there.”

“And Adam?” He adjusted the rearview mirror. Oddly, he seemed to be talking to himself more than to me.

“Yeah?”

“Love is worth anything.”

Poor oblivious dude. “Sure it is,” I said.

* * *

I used the key to open Peter's door. He'd given it to me a few months ago.

“What's this?” A regular sized house key and a little one, looked like to a mailbox.

“I thought you should have your own key.” He was busy with something on the stove. I'd
come out of the shower and found the pair of keys on a ring sitting next to my wallet.

“Why?”

The spoon clattered into the pot. Peter just standing there, looking at the stove, not
moving. “I don't know, Adam. Just take it, okay?”

“Sure.” I slid it onto my ring of keys.

Of course I hadn't used it. If Peter weren't home, I had no reason to sit around in an empty condo. And if he were, he'd hear my big feet stomping up the stairs and open the door before I was there.

Tonight I took care to walk quietly for reasons I avoided examining too closely. They were there, though, bubbling away in my imagination like a lava pit.

Jonathan's clean brown hair with the long bangs hanging in laughing eyes, gazing up at me from where he lay on Peter's bed. Peter next to him, his expression serious.

Adam, you should have knocked.

You gave me a key so I wouldn't have to knock
, I'd tell him.

But you never used it
, he'd say.

If you gave me a key, I'd use it
, Jonathan would say.

I know you would
, Peter would say, and then they'd kiss. Just before my head exploded.

But I found Peter asleep on the sofa instead. Facedown, one arm flung off the side so his knuckles touched the floor. His snores sounded like a garbage disposal grinding up hamburger.

“Hey, buddy, wake up.”

There was a tissue box on the floor beside a huge pile of crumpled, used tissues. A glass half-full of some sickening looking green liquid that I guessed was probably cold medication.

Peter's skin was hot to the touch, and he sniffled and groaned against the material of the sofa cushion, then opened one bleary eye.

“Did I fall asleeb?”

“Yeah, looks like. I've been trying to get hold of you for the past hour.”

“Dammit.” He pushed himself upright. His hair was askew and his eyelids were swollen and red. His nose was swollen too, and raw at the end as if he'd been blowing it all day long. His lips were chapped, and he licked at them as if his mouth were dry.

“Can you ged me some wader?” he said.

I went off to the kitchen to do so, and when I came back he was on the phone to Nancy.

“Yeah, Adam's here. I'm sorry. I fell asleeb,” he told her. “Whad time do you want to meet?” He listened some more. From a pile of debris on the table he sought and found a couple of gel capsules. He threw those into his mouth and downed the water I gave him in one go.

“Okay, we'll see you then.” He hung up.

I sat down next to him on the sofa. His body was like a hot water bottle when I wrapped an arm around him. “How long till Nancy gets here?”

“She's driving down from Simi, so maybe forty-five minutes.”

I pulled him against me, feeling him up with one hand. From the hard muscle of his bicep to his forearm to his waist. Peter didn't have an ounce of fat on him. “That gives us plenty of time,” I said against his ear.

Peter wheezed and then he shook his head. “I can't, Adam. I can barely breathe.”

He wanted it as much as I did. I could feel his want when his hips shoved toward my hand and his head turned toward my mouth. He wheezed deeply. “I can't kiss you,” he apologized.

“You don't need to. Just lie back,” I said, giving him a little shove. I undid his slacks and got hold of him. His breathing squeaked a bit when I rolled my tongue around the head of his cock, and he wheezed and moaned, hips jerking as I sucked him down, rolling my tongue around his length a few times. His hand fell on my hair, and he gasped a few times more. His prick was hot, and his belly, when I pressed my nose in there, was hot, and his balls were hot and hard and ready to go almost immediately. I slid off with a pop and whispered, “You want me?”

He sniffled and nodded. “Yeah.”

It took seconds to get him turned around and onto his knees on the area rug, both his arms spread out on the sofa cushions.