Immortality Is the Suck (33 page)

231

Chapter Twenty-five

Not to belabor the obvious, but I'm not given to carefully considered

introspection. On the contrary, what would pass as “thoughts” in my head

would probably read as wildly bouncing Ping-Pong balls to most.

Even the monster growl of dual carbs between my legs, working her

through the traffic, couldn't calm the wildly careening thoughts; I think it's fair

to say that my emotions, not my misfiring brain, drove us all the way up the 1

to the bluffs overlooking the Malibu surf.

If I had died that night in the Marina warehouse, Peter would have been

better off. I swear this had not occurred to me until that moment. Or, better, if

I had died in Iraq. I think the only reason I didn't drive into the sea or just sit

there waiting for sunrise was I wouldn't allow myself to damage my Harley.

The old bitch didn't deserve me any more than did Peter.

Instead I made my way back to Hollywood, parking in the spot I'd found

and diving into the corner of the lower subbasement of the Motion Picture

Academy Archive building like an animal going to ground.

I was down there for a while.

Okay, if there are any undead reading this, a word to the wise. Don't try to

starve yourself to death. The survival instinct kicks in and your ability to

discriminate erodes with every passing minute. Pretty soon you'd suck blood

from a rat if you could catch one. So when I heard footsteps on the concrete

stairs coming down to my level, I didn't even consider who it might be or why; I

only considered how to immobilize them quickly enough to feed.

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Whatever he was carrying fell to the ground when I grabbed both his

wrists and twisted them behind him, shoved him against the wall, and planted

my fangs on his clean neck. Clean, cold neck. Clean, cold, undead neck.

“What, no kiss hello?” rasped Caballo.

I drew back. I could drink from him, but it wouldn't satisfy me for long. “I

smell blood,” I said.

“On the floor.” Caballo was able to work his way free. He pointed at the

containers that had rolled over by the mattress.

About fifteen minutes later, I swam up from the haze to find myself lying

on the mattress, two empty blood containers and a smiling young man beside

me.

“Shit, man. When did you last eat?”

“The night of the big bust.”

Caballo made a face. “Idiot. You should have called me. I'd have hooked

you up.”

His skin was sleek and plump. He'd lit the candles that I still had standing

along the wall and his round muscles shone like a young god's in the light. He

lay a hand, experimentally, on my thigh, but I moved away. I might be ready to

drink blood, but sex was still too remote and painful for me to think about.

“Where have you been getting your blood?” I asked him.

“Your computer geek,” said Caballo. “He's got some kind of medical license

so he can buy it wholesale.”

“Drew? Isn't he in jail?”

“He cut a deal. We work together now. Betsy and him and me. We are the

'Righteous Ones.'”

“Sounds like a comic book,” I observed dryly.

“I came to ask you to help us. Those two, they can't fight worth shit, man.”

“I'm really not interested in vigilante justice,” I said. “Thanks for the offer.”

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233

“It's not vigilante, we offer a service. For a fee. Drew figured it out. He has

a whole sliding scale and everything. We are like bounty hunters, man.”

“Skipping bail shouldn't result in having one's blood sucked,” I said. I

rolled over on my stomach and said to the wall, “I just want to be left alone.”

“Man, Betsy said you'd be a dick. What else you gonna do with eternity,

man? Lay here in the dark feeling sorry for yourself?”

“That was sort of the plan.”

“Well, that plan sucks. Eternity is a long fucking time, and you got an

obligation. You could be dead.”

“I had kind of hoped to be.”

I was surprised by a sudden hard slap on the back of my head. “Selfish

prick,” said Caballo. He rose and walked off, flinging a couple of slim cardboard

cards at me. They fluttered near my feet and I picked one up. It was a business

card. White on black with a cell phone number.

“Call me when you feel like being a man,” said Caballo. It seemed his

ascending footsteps echoed in my little room for a very long time.

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Chapter Twenty-six

Eternity is a very long time to sleep on a mattress that smells like a wino's

urine. I hauled my sorry butt out into the night the next evening to find a new

mattress. Or, at least one that didn't stink or have bugs.

Since resale of used mattresses is illegal, it was an easy acquisition. The

local junk yard wasn't open, but I heaved the thing easily over the fence,

leaving the freaked and insane guard dogs frothing and yowling behind me.

I found a wooden table in there too. And a couple of chairs. Then I slipped

an envelope under the door with a decent amount of cash.

I didn't give my actions much thought. I have found it easiest not to

question myself, and so I didn't. I went to a surplus store and found a small,

gas-powered generator for sale. A couple of khaki-colored wool blankets. A cup

and a plate.

The following night I went to a 7-Eleven and bought a magazine to read by

my tiny lamplight. And an ashtray. You can make a huge pile of ashes in an

eternity of smoking, you know.

The third night I bought a broom.

The fourth night, I bought a prepaid phone and called Caballo. “I've been

thinking…”

* * * * *

He and I crouched on the rooftop of a Public Storage warehouse. The night

was almost bright as day. Streetlights reflecting off the marine fog created an

eerie illumination much like a black light.

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235

He'd changed from his ubiquitous white T-shirt into a black one and wore

fingerless gloves. The scabbard of his sword slung over his back. I knew that

somewhere on his person he'd sequestered other arms, as had I. But they were

only backup. Our real weapons were ourselves.

“Betsy,” said Caballo, and grinned. “That girl can't shut up, man. Pretty

soon she's got me feeling every po' little black child in America needs my help.

Crazy bitch.”

Across from us, the door to another warehouse opened. A figure emerged.

Stout and, from our angle, seeming very short. He was soon followed by a slim

figure whose high heels clacked loudly on the concrete as they walked.

“That's them,” said Caballo. Still in his crouch, he crept toward the lip of

the roof.

“How do you know?” I whispered.

He grimaced. “I can smell it.” He ran a few short feet and, silent and swift,

leaped over the side of the roof.

I followed.

It was so easy I was almost embarrassed. Caballo held the man while I

forced his companion back into the warehouse where she seemed almost eager

to show me the tapes and photos and computer equipment they'd been using

to broadcast their garbage to the world.

Flash a little demon visage at a pedophile and it's amazing what they'll tell

you.

Caballo enjoyed sucking the man's blood and spitting it out on the ground

for a while, until the guy started to get dizzy and realize where this would end.

The woman had fainted dead away a couple of times. Something about the way

I smiled at her with all of my fangs seemed to do it.

They were practically begging us to drive them over to the place where

they'd hidden the boy. Caballo made a call then, and Betsy showed up. In a

dark suit and prim little bun, carrying a handbag and looking just like an angel

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of mercy from social services. She took the boy's hand and led him to the

nearest police station.

Caballo turned his bloody smile back to the man. The woman fainted

again.

We chucked them in the back of the truck and I followed Caballo to Parker

Center, where we left them tied up on the steps, a tidy box of evidence nearby.

As we were leaving, I saw a small crowd of people swarming from the station,

exclaiming at the delivery.

A man in a suit with sandy hair looked up and over when I started my

bike. Peter's gaze met mine.

“Let's get out of here,” I said to Caballo.

* * * * *

Caballo sat at my wooden table, watching me pace. We hadn't bothered

with the lights.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“You did a good thing tonight.”

“If you say so.” I lit a cigarette and tossed the match three feet to land

precisely in the center of the ashtray. I'd had time for a lot of practice lately.

“So you wanna fuck?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“You're so hard you're gonna bust.” He indicated the thickness between

my thighs.

“I'm on the wagon,” I said. “My dick gets me in more trouble than it's

worth.”

Caballo gave me a wise look. “Eternity is a long time, man.”

“Eternity is an illusion. I'm taking it one day at a time.”

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237

“Suit yourself.” He got up and went to the door. “So, about the gig with

Betsy and the geek. You in?”

“Sure,” I said. “What else do I have to not live for?”

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Chapter Twenty-seven

You'd think I'd feel a little better about things after that, but the next

night I woke in my familiar slump. I didn't rise off the mattress, turn on the

lamp, or even light a cigarette. I just lay there in the dark and felt myself drift

like a mote of dust.

Immortality. It's like fog. Sometimes it's thick and sometimes it's thin but

it never moves anywhere. It has no agenda, no definite goal. It just is.

I was lying on the mattress, imagining I could hear the gaping maw of the

giant, uncaring universe, when I did hear, very definitely and not my

imagination at all, a man's footsteps on the stairs.

A human man, or at least the smell of adrenalized blood, and the rapidly

thumping heart would indicate that.

By the time he'd reached the last riser and turned toward my room, I'd

recognized Peter. He stopped in the doorway. His familiar silhouette.

“Hello?” he said, scanning the room with his flashlight. The beam didn't

find me as I was crouching in a corner.

He stood there for a minute. Then I heard him sigh. He turned as if to go.

“Wait,” I said. My voice sounded weirdly rough.

“Adam?”

“Hold on,” I said. And I went over and turned on the generator. It hummed

for a minute and then the two lights switched on.

Peter and I stared at each other. Fuck, he looked good.

His expression was impossible for me to read. But then he blinked and

looked around, swiveling on one heel. “You cleaned,” he said. “Sort of.”

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239

I hadn't made
that
much of an effort. There was that stack of boxes in one

corner that might have been there since ABC studios kept their film vault here.

I'd only shoved them to the side. I saw his gaze go from the boxes to the

mattress to the table I'd found.

“You don't have to live like this,” he said.

“I'm not living,” I said. “I am maintaining my undead existence.”

He gave me a quizzical look.

I didn't want to explain my whole moral conundrum, the flat fog of

immortality, to him because it was embarrassing and too melodramatic.

I should have known that Peter would figure me out without me having to

say a word, though. “Well, if you think you need to be miserable, I'm not going

to argue with you,” he said. “But if you want me to come down here again,

you'd better get a sofa. A radio, maybe. To listen to the game.”

Something warm made itself known inside me. Something small and

glowing and fragile. Like a tiny light. “Okay, well, I guess if you want to come

down here.”

“Figured since you've been kind of out of the loop, you wouldn't have

heard. But we finally got the DNA back from your CI's wounds. And those other

bodies we found.”

“You ran DNA?” That was Peter for you. Thorough.

“Yeah. It wasn't yours, of course. We still haven't got a match on it.”

“You might try the Mexican database, I heard a few things.”

“Thanks. I never thought it was you.”

“I know.”

“But I figured you'd like to know that nobody else has to wonder either. If

you were worried. Oh, and I brought something for you. Hang on.” He sprinted

out the door; I heard him as he climbed all three flights and then, after a few

minute, came running back down. He jogged into the room carrying one of

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those coolers you'd take to a football game under one arm, an office file box