Night Prayers (23 page)

Allison ran her hand along the tabby-striped fur on her arm and watched Miriam direct her "date" and the two other men to the dressing room.

"Just let the girls slip into something more appropriate," she said, nodding… shooing them forward like children.

Or chickens.

And she always
loved
chicken.

By the time the doot closed on the evening's entrees, Allison had already traded her fur for a jade-green silk, cinched-waist wrap dress — the kind that was always put on the "wishful thinking" list every time she got paid.

Gina and Luci were already waiting inside. Allison heard their piercing giggles followed by testosterone grunts and felt her mouth water to the point of overflowing.

"Be seein' ya, Miriam," Allison said as she headed for the door… only to have Miriam's pudgy little fingers take hold of her wrist and yank her to a stop.

"No, this time we
talk
first… knosh later. Come on."

Allison didn't have much choice as Miriam dragged her back down the hall toward the office. The whole thing reminded her of the
countless
times her mother would drag her downstairs to "perform" for guests when she wanted to be somewhere else.

Anywhere
else.

Just like now.

Allison dug the four-inch heels of her snake-skin pumps into the thin carpet and shuffled into the room.

"Oh… so now she's mad at
me
, like I did something so terrible."

Muttering out loud, Miriam walked to the chair facing the massive oak desk… and picked up what had to be the
ugliest
, flea-bitten cat this side of Santa Monica.

Not even the world's loneliest Furvert would find it appealing.

"Shit, Miriam," Allison said as the tiny woman pressed her face into the bald patches along its spine, "how can you stand touching that? It's so…"

"So
what
, Miss-Now-That-I'm-Dead-I-Know-It-All?" Miriam tossed her head and settled herself
and
the cat onto the desk's executive booster chair.

Allison could hear the animal's thin purr. It even
sounded
ugly.

"Besides," Miriam added, "old ladies are supposed to keep cats and since I'm an old lady I keep a cat. It's part of the picture. And in case you forgot, missy, we're in the illusion business here. Play your part and everything will be hunky-dory."

Hunky-dory? "Yeah, right, thanks, Miriam, I'll remember, now I should really be
—" Another series of giggles crept through the open door, curling around Allison's legs like her very own personal, ugly cat. "— going now, but thanks for the reminder, I'll—"

"Sit down right now, if you know what's good for you, Miss Impatient-pants." Miriam hooked the animal over one shoulder and began kneading her fingers through its thin fur. "Luci just wanted me to tell you that there might be a little trouble with the Preacher-boy. Nothing to worry about… just keep your eyes open. Okay, that's it, you can go to dinner now."

"Wait a minute," Allison said as she walked to the chair the cat had been sprawled in, "what kind of trouble?"

Miriam planted a prune-lipped kiss on top of the cat's head as she lowered it to her lap.

"Like I'm suppose to know what kind of trouble? You think I can read the Preacher-boy's mind like he was a regular Breather?"

"You mean you
can't
?"

"Oh, now she thinks I have powers far and beyond what I should." This time Miriam spoke directly to the animal. When she looked up, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had deepened into gullies. "Why?
You
can read him?"

"No," Allison said quickly. "No, I can't. I'm just worried."

"Like we should — so don't." Shrugging, Miriam lifted her hand and popped something into her mouth. "Gypsy said he thought something might have happened… but, who knows from Breathers? The Preacher-boy could have constipation. Anything's possible."

Her hand moved to her mouth again.

"Luci's taking care of it, so, like I said… don't worry. Just be aware."

Miriam winked and sucked a tiny, black spot off her fingertip. The flea was quickly followed by another. It's body made a tiny popcorn sound when Miriam crushed it between her molars.

Allison gulped. Thoughts of filling the gnawing emptiness in her belly with hot, steaming blood took a back seat to the all too human desire to puke. Was
this
what old vampires did for fun?

"Miriam? What the
hell
are you doing?"

The next flea stopped just short of her lips.

"What? You mean
these
?" Miriam tossed it into her mouth and swallowed. "It's a bad habit I got back in the old country. I know… it's like eating too many barely-sugar drops but…"

Miriam jiggled her head from side to side and popped in another flea.

"My Maker was this Cossack General… and so handsome it made your heart want to stop beating. Here I am, this old widow living alone and what do I find one night when I go out looking for firewood — this beautiful man half frozen in the snow."

She flipped the cat onto its back and snagged three fleas off it's chin without missing a beat,
pop pop pop

"I couldn't just leave him to die out there, could I? So I bring him in and lay him out in front of the fire. Ah, so beautiful… eyes as blue as river ice, hair like corn silk, skin as white as the snow. And the way he made me feel when he
woke
up… hoo, hoo, hoo… just like a young girl again.

"Then he left and I had to look for more than firewood. Times were hard enough back then… the Great Czar was bleeding the peasants more than
our
kind ever could! And sometimes they were so stiff I almost broke my fangs trying to find a vein.

"You want to know how
hard
it was — don't
ask
how hard it was,
that
was how hard it was. There were no peasants… but there were cats. And even when I came to this country
— almost a virgin like you — there were
still
cats.

"There still are, may the Humane Society never get its wish to make spaying mandatory."

Lifting the cat under the front legs, Miriam nuzzled its head out of the way and tore open its knobby throat. It took all of a minute before the slurping took on a "straw in an empty bottle" quality.

Allison watched Miriam toss the empty into the wicker waste paper basket behind the desk and dab at her mouth with a lipstick-stained
Kleenex.

"An indulgence," she said, "but, I figure at my age what's the harm of a before dinner snack? Now, go enjoy and don't worry about the Preacher-boy. Like I said, Luci's taking, care of it. Go…
go
."

So Allison went — rocking slightly side to side as if the room were on a storm tossed ocean liner.

"Such a good girl we got," her cat-draining sister purred. "You're gonna do just fine."

Right, Allison thought — keeping it to herself, I'll be just fine. Besides, what the hell can the Preacher-boy
do
to us anyway? He's nothing but a hypocritical, sanctimonious —

Mica's thin face appeared in her mind's eye.

And she sneezed.

Violently.

Mica wiped his nose off on the back of his hand then gently polished Jesus's silver-plated belly with the dish towel. He'd bought the crucifix for $5.00 American
— a real bargain — the weekend he and Gypsy spent in Tiajuana.

A year ago Christmas.

When Devils and Demons existed only in the pages of his Bible and Gypsy had still been within reach of redemption.

And the living was easy.

Outside, the metal garbage can next to Mrs. B's back door hit the asphalt drive and rolled. Mica wouldn't have given it a second's thought if the night had been windy.

But it wasn't.

They
were out there. Mica knew that as certainly as he knew the Lord was watching over him.

Use BOTH eyes tonight, Lord, okay?

Mica tightened his grip on the crucifix and did an abbreviated version of the Twenty-third Psalm.

"The Lord is my Shepherd and I will fear no evil. Amen." Taking a deep breath, he traced the death agony cast into Jesus' face and nodded. "
He
knew what He had to do to Save mankind… and so do I, Lord. I really do."

When the garbage can smacked against the side fence, Mica jumped and pressed the crucifix into his belly. Things like this weren't suppose to happen. Not in
real
life.

Once the blood stopped pounding in his ears, he heard the slow rhythmic shuffle of feet heading toward the trailer.

They
were coming.

Mica stood up and faced the poster-paint cross he'd hastily drawn
(Why the hell did I use RED?)
on the trailer's only door the moment he got home — pressed Jesus's visage into his skin hard enough to leave a negative impression, and squared his shoulders.

The scar on his forehead tingled like it was on fire.

Ready, Lord.

But he still almost peed himself when the knock came.

"Mica, dear? Are you there?"

Mrs. B! Thank GOD
! "Yes ma'am… yes, I'm here!"

The busted door latch rattled but didn't open.

"Oh, good. Can I come in?"

"Sur —"

Mica's hand stopped a half-inch away from the knob. In the eight years he'd lived there, Mica had never seen the old woman up past nine o'clock unless he accidentally woke her coming home… or on New Year's Eve, when she allowed him to drag her up to Hollywood Boulevard to toot horns.

Yet here it was — Mica glanced over at the VCR — 2:48 in the morning and she sounded wide awake and full of vinegar.

The knock was a little louder… a little more demanding this time.

"Mica, dear," Mrs. B said through the door, "aren't you going to invite me in?"

invite me in

Mica backed away from the door until his butt ran into the opposite wall. He'd squirmed through enough B-grade horror movies to know a vampire had to be
invited
into a person's home.

The first time.

Whoever…
whatever
it was knocking on his door, it wasn't Mrs. B.

"Dear? Hello?"
knock knock knock
"Are you all right?"

Mica turned the crucifix around until Jesus faced the door and held it out at arm's length.

"I'm fine, Mrs. B. I was… asleep. I really don't feel very well right now."

"Oh, you poor thing. Let me in and I'll brew you a nice cup of tea."

Liar!

Mica raised the crucifix until it overlapped the painted cross on the door.

"You can't come in," he whispered, "I refuse you entry to this place. Begone unclean spirit and trouble the Lord's servant no more."

Mica heard what sounded like the rushing wind sweep over the trailer, rocking the worn stabilizers from side to side… then heard nothing else. Still holding the crucifix out in front of him, Mica pressed both it and his ear up against the door.

Nothing… no sound.

He couldn't even hear the traffic out on Cherokee. It was as if the trailer had been wrapped in cotton batting.

"Mrs. B? Are you still out there?"

A perfect imitation of the old woman's off-key twitter filtered through the thin door and sent an icy shiver racing down his spine.

"Well, of
course
I'm still here, dear. Where would I go?"

"To hell," Mica answered. "You can go back to hell."

"I'm originally from Jersey," the voice corrected. "I told you that."

Mica closed his eyes, squeezing out the inappropriate tears and twisted his face into the still damp paint.
Lord… protect Your servant in his hour of need
. The scar-cross sizzled.

"
YOU
didn't tell me anything!" he shouted. "Get the fuck out of here you soulless blood-sucking demon! In the Name of the Father! And the Son! And the Holy Spirit I
command
you!"

He could hear gentle applause coming from the other side.

"Very impressive, dear." It
was
Mrs. B's voice… the same voice that had offered him lemonade on hot days and hot cocoa with marshmallows on cold ones and croaked out a honky-tonk version of
Happy Birthday
for him each November. "Now why don't you stop acting like God's personal ass-wiper and let me the fuck in?"

It was Mrs. B's voice — only the spirit inside had changed.

Something hit the door with the force of a jack-hammer, hurling Mica back across the room. Wisps of smoke rose from the wood surrounding the painted cross, sending the smoke detector on the ceiling into a shrieking fit.

"Make haste, O God, to deliver me—" Mica shouted over the alarm… over the frenzied pounding…

… over the sound of claws shredding laminated wood.

The crucifix felt like a steel bar in his hands. "— make haste to
help
me, O Lord. Let them be
ashamed
and
confounded
, that seek after my soul! Let them be turned backward and put to confusion, that desire to do evil to me!"

The pounding stopped so abruptly that if it hadn't been for the smoke alarm Mica would have thought he'd gone deaf.