Gypsy Blood (9 page)

Money for sex.

The concept made sense to the accountant in his soul. The murder didn’t make sense. Why had they killed him? For his blood? What worth was that?

By the time he’d come to this part of the town he’d just wanted to get laid. At that point it was way past a bet. It had grown into a need.

He needed the skin.

Just do it one more time, he’d thought, just do it one more time and get it out of your system. It won’t kill you.

At least they hadn’t taken his knife. He could feel it, cool and sharp in his pocket. Not that it helped him any, now. It was too late now. He was dying.

Or maybe he was already dead. He wasn’t sure.

Death always came late. The hereafter, like any other form of bureaucracy, turned with slowly creaking wheels.

He drifted deeper into the harbor. Moving slowly, like a bullet in a John Woo movie. Even after hitting bottom, the thousand layers of archaeological crud slowly sucked him downwards.

Slowly.

Slowly.

A curious mackerel nibbled at his lip.

He saw the eyes of the mackerel, glinting like reflected glass.

And then the mackerel began to speak.

And down in the darkness, the little that was left of Olaf Richardson, nodded slowly in the slumbering current, nodded and listened as something moved the mackerel’s mouth and began to barter for Olaf’s attention.

The accountant in calculated in the empty vault of Olaf’s soul was as happy as a pig in shit.

Position is Everything

C
arnival reopened the door for Maya and let her back into his home.

“It’s not much, but it’s cozy.”

“I’ve slept in tighter confines.”

I bet she has. Tight and piney.

Carnival smiled his most charming smile. He mentally ran down his list of options. What was the best way to score with a vampire? He hadn’t seen any articles on that particular problem in any of the latest issues of Maxim.

“Shall we talk? I have a little wine. You do drink, don’t you? Or was Lugosi telling the truth?”

“Oh I like a little nip, now and then,” she smiled, showing her teeth. “But I don’t really have the time for it now. It’s late. Dawn’s closer than you might like to think.”

She leaned over and kissed him. It was a good kiss. Sweet and sharp like a caramel razored apple.

Oh, sexy. Can I watch? I don’t get the Playboy channel in here.

“Shut up, Poppa,” the two of them said simultaneously.

They laughed. Carnival was enjoying this. It was fun, having someone who shared your secrets, especially the nasty ones.

Maya kissed him again. Carnival appreciated a woman who took the initiative. There are so many rituals that get in the way - the first date, the meeting with the parents, prom night and choosing the right corsage. It’s nice, every now and then, to have a woman lean over and give you the first kiss. To hold the door for you and invite you in, as it were.

He felt the hard edges of her teeth beneath her lips. He felt the pressure, the want of it. He felt the gentle opening of her mouth, the soft sucking even without penetration, like she could empty him dry without a thought. It excited him in a weird kind of way.

Sure. Like sucking on a machine gun. Dead men jig fastest on the wrong end of the rope. You think death is exciting? Oh my boy, how much I want to teach you.

Carnival wondered about that. Did he have a death wish? Was he in that much of a hurry to find out what was on the other side of that door? Maya slid her lips down along his chin. He stiffened as if she’d offered oral sex. It’s funny how that works for a guy. Maybe it’s biological. We just have to see a woman’s mouth and it’s one of the first things we think of. She slid down to Carnival’s neck. He felt the scabbed over wound in his finger pulsing with need.

“It’s late,” she whispered, leaving her mouth close to his neck. Her tongue and lips and breath made a gentle wet dance across his skin, raising slow goose bumps that pulsed over his carotid artery.

Oh that’s smart. Let the vampire kiss your neck. Why don’t you just stick your head under a plow horse’s hoof and get it over with?

Carnival did his best to not pay attention. It was always tricky, making love with someone watching from inside your chest. It went a little beyond voyeurism. It smacked too much of masturbation.

Ha. You’ll play with yourself tonight, Val my boy. She’s not staying with you. I can smell her disinterest.

“You can have the cot,” Carnival offered gallantly. “I’ll be happy to sleep on the floor.”

His aching back wouldn’t like it but Galahad wouldn’t stand for anything less.

“That’s not necessary.” Maya said.

She pulled away. Carnival leaned a little as she pulled, shamelessly trying to prolong the touch of her lips against his throat.

“I need some place darker.”

He thought quickly. There was a closet with a blanket draped across it. A trunk full of used pocketbooks, most of them moldy. There was a shoe box and a wooden crate. Nothing else came to mind.

“Here perhaps.”

She slid the cot aside.

That’s a woman for you. Moved in and moving furniture. Tomorrow you can go shopping for drapery.

Underneath the cot was a trapdoor. Not like in the movies, with a great iron ring and massive hinges. This one was modern, with a small brass pot handle for a knob. That couldn’t have always been there, could it?

“I don’t remember that being here.” Carnival said.

She smiled. “It’s funny, the things you forget.”

He opened his mouth. He should have said something but he couldn’t think what. His mind was muffled, anesthetized.

“I’ll sleep down here,” She said. “Away from the sunlight.”

“You mean I get to sleep on top of you?”

“If you wish.”

Cute. A bunk bed with the undead. You two ought to write a show tune.

Maya opened the trapdoor. It swung up soundlessly. He still couldn’t remember it being there before. Had she made it? Was it some sort of inter-dimensional portal? Maybe it opened into her coffin.

It’s an escape, and you’re letting her use it. What kind of man are you, to let a woman into your house and then let her get back out? Turn in your secret masculinity handshake to the testosterone watchmen. It’s tutu time for you.

Maya climbed down the ladder. Carnival tried to sneak a peek but there wasn’t enough light to see what lay below.

“You want me to come tuck you in?”

“Ha,” she smiled at that. “You wish.”

Then she swung the trapdoor closed. He tried to open it but it refused to budge. It didn’t look heavy. It was just a couple of sheets of cheap plywood nailed together as far as he could see. If he had a pry bar he might force an entry.

 
Fegh. Rhett Butler would kick it down. So would John Wayne.

“They’re both dead, Poppa.”

Carnival went to the bathroom, filled a glass of water half full and set it by his bedside in case he woke up thirsty. He lay down on the cot, wondering how the trapdoor had come to be. Maybe it was a transporter. Step down and arrived somewhere else.

Ha! Beam me up, Bela.

Carnival smiled. He imagined Maya, laying down in the darkness beneath him. He wanted to get up and tap dance. Maybe sing a little song of happy joy. All those damn fool things a man feels he has to do when he’s been bitten by the bug of love. Down there, just beneath his bed. Heh. It’s good to be on top.

Ha. You’re not on top. Not by a long shot.

“Shut up, Poppa.”

Who holds the knife, boy?

Carnival closed his eyes. He tried to sleep but nothing came. He tried fantasy, thinking about a vampire’s kiss. It didn’t help. Unfulfilled horniness is a crappy anesthetic. He lay awake staring at the ceiling. The itch on his neck nagged like a forgotten duty.

Who holds the knife?

It was a good question.

Carnival wished in vain for an answer he could trust.

Lost Sleep

Y
ou can see a lot of truth on a bedroom ceiling, amidst the cracked plaster and the undusted cobwebs. Amidst the juiceless fly carcasses cluttered about the bottom bowl of a ceiling light shade, the shadows and half smoked memories, truth smeared like a lunatic’s finest finger painting, fractal images of vaguely conjured thought.

Oh Gypsy poet, sing me your sweet agony. I will fetch my guitar and we will annihilate melody together.

“Poppa, I’m trying to sleep.”

You’re talking to a ghost about vampire love. How restful can that be?

Carnival’s mind raced. What was he thinking? Kissing a vampire. Inviting her into his home. Holding her hand. Killing for her.

You know what your problem is, boy?

Carnival’s neck itched. He tried not to dig at it.

You sleep too much.

Carnival saw it again. The knife easing into Olaf’s throat like it belonged there. Like it was supposed to be. Was he dreaming? Had he fallen into sleep?

Do you know what sleep is?

He saw the shout of blood shooting out from Olaf’s throat like a wave born in a man’s neck.

Sleep is just a rehearsal for death. You close your eyes, you breathe slowly, and you let the day fade away.

Carnival saw the look in Olaf’s eyes, fading away. Like a photograph of nothing, developing in a strange slow motion.

What does that sound like to you, boy? What does that sound like to you?

Carnival heard the patient lapping of the waves, a black fathomless hound waiting to be gorge itself on Olaf’s emptied out body.

Death, boy. Sleep is death. The night is death. The ocean is death.

Like a lonely cup, waiting to be filled.

Why do you think there are so many waves on the water? The ocean is always waving goodbye. The sailor is forever lonely, the sea is made of tears, not salt.

Carnival sat up.

“I killed him, Poppa. Goddamn your poetic mystical bullshit. There’s blood on my hands.”

That’s why God made soap, my Val. Ask Pilate. He could tell you.

“Not all the soap, Poppa. Not all the soap, nor all the sea water.”

He flung his hand out, knocking the half full glass of water to the floor. It spilled and shattered.

Now look. You’ve broken your cup. You’ve spilled your water.

“He’s dead, Poppa. Dead and gone.”

Not gone. No one goes anywhere, not really.
Newton
knew that. There are other worlds than these. He’s moved on. You’ll see him again. Sooner than you like.

“What does that mean? Why do you keep saying that? I’ve never killed anyone before.”

Never killed anyone? So how did I get here?

Carnival fell into an uneasy sleep, wondering that very same question.

He drifted into sleep around four am. A dream took him hard. He was in a car and the door handles were welded shut and the steering wheel turned itself. The dials and gauges were burning red eye sockets, watching him; the wiper blades were bayonets sweeping grimly across the windshield. He rolled down a long highway with street signs that looked like shouting mouths, moving somewhere way past the speed limit.

You’ve broken your cup.

There was a body in the car, sitting beside him. It was Olaf. He was trying to talk to Carnival only his mouth wasn’t moving. The wound in his throat flapped like a pair of great black lips. Like bat wings. The lips make a sound like the flop of a punctured tire. There’s words hiding behind the flat rubber sounds but Carnival couldn’t make them out.

You’ve spilled your water.

And then Carnival was hanging from the limb of an ancient jack pine. The wind rattled through his body like there wasn’t an ounce of meat left on his bones but none of that bothered him. What bothered him most was that he didn’t know where Maya was. And even though this was just a dream, this last thought bothered him most of all.

Who holds the knife?

Carnival sat up suddenly, awakened by the sound of a giant mechanical bee buzzing in the walls. It sounded like the grandfather of all electric razors. Like a giant power cable, sizzling in the darkness, a fuse burning down and down.

He knew that sound.

It was the tattooist, upstairs. It was the sound of his electric needle, buzzing steadily like the burring of a patient electric drill. If the lights had been on they would have flickered.