Stalking the Vampire (14 page)

“Good evening, and thanks for that introduction, Louie,” he said. “I used to be the funniest comic unhanged, until they caught me with my hand in the till…Well, it wasn't exactly my hand, and her full name was Tilly.”

He waited for the audience to laugh. When it didn't, he waved Louie back onto the stage, handed him the microphone, and stalked off.

“Uh…Igor and the Graverobbers are still having a little refreshment out in the cemetery,” said Louie, “so this might be a good time for our Fourth Annual Lee Harvey Oswald Look-Alike Contest. Would the contestants please step up here?”

Five
things
shambled out and stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the audience.

“But they're all moldering corpses!” said a voice Mallory recognized at Nathan's.

“Have you see Lee lately?” Louie shot back.

Mallory decided he'd seen enough of the contest, and he walked out into
the lobby, followed by Felina. No sooner had he gotten there than he saw a lovely, dark-haired woman in a black evening gown, sitting on a chair, crying. She looked totally normal to him, the first normal person he'd seen since entering the hotel, and he walked over to her.

“I couldn't help noticing that you're crying,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I doubt it,” she said with what he took to be a Russian accent, tears still rolling down her face.

“Perhaps I could try, if you'd tell me what's wrong.”

“It wouldn't help,” she said. “Nothing helps.”

“Why don't you tell me about it anyway?”

“My name is Natasha. I am Russian.”

“I guessed as much.”

“You guessed my name?”

“I guessed you were Russian.”

“The crying,” she said knowingly. “All Russians are morbid. All I want to do is die.” She dabbed some tears away with a black handkerchief. “I take poison. I shoot myself. I jump off buildings. I run out in traffic. Nothing works. I am reduced to following Third Chance Louie and Igor and the Gravediggers and the others around, hoping whatever they have will rub off on me.”

“You're saying that you're kind of a camp follower?” asked Mallory.

“Yes,” said Natasha. “But it doesn't work. I am alive, and they want no part of me. Not even,” she added confidentially, “the part men kill for.” Tears began gushing out again.

Mallory had no idea how to respond. “I wish I could help you, ma'am,” he said, “but—”

“No one can help me,” she moaned. “Even Vlad Drachma could not bring me over to the Other Side, and if
he
couldn't…”

“Vlad Drachma?” demanded Mallory instantly. “What do you know about him?”

“I know he has his limitations,” said Natasha. “He can kill dozens of men and women every day, but not only couldn't he break the skin on my neck, he couldn't even raise a hickey.”

“When did you see him?” persisted Mallory. “Is he in the hotel?”

She shook her head. “I met him two hours ago. It was a brief affair. He gave up after half an hour.”

“Where did you meet him?” said Mallory. “How did you know who he was?”

“If you just want to join the”—another sob—“undead, you don't have to go to the Gryphon's Roost. There must be twenty vampires in the ballroom who can accommodate you.”

“The Gryphon's Roost?” repeated Mallory. “Is that where you met him? What is it?”

“A place for assignations.”

“How did you know he'd be there?”

“Mary told me.”

“Mary who?”

“The Roost is also a gambling den, and she's in charge of the slot machines. They call her Mary, Queen of Slots. She told me he's been showing up every night since he arrived in Manhattan.”

“Where is it?”

“On Seventeenth Avenue, between Lust and Sloth.”

“There isn't any Seventeenth Avenue,” said Mallory.

“Yes there is,” replied Natasha. “You just have to know how to find it.”

“Thanks,” said Mallory, starting to walk away.

“Mister?” she called after him.

“Yes?”

“If you see him, tell him I forgive him.”

“I'll tell him,” said Mallory, and silently added:
But I know two detectives who won't forgive him.

He went back into the ballroom to collect Nathan and McGuire. Just as they were leaving, one of the revelers morphed into a huge wolf and began uttering a series of mournful howls.

“Boy, they'll let just
anyone
in here!” muttered a zombie, downing a drink that immediately ran out the eleven bullet holes in his chest.

“So you've got a lead?” asked Nathan eagerly.

“Yeah,” said Mallory. “I met a woman who saw him just two hours ago.”

“Can you trust her?” asked McGuire. “I mean, she belongs to
him
now.”

“Not her,” said Mallory. “She only wishes she did.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's a difficult story to believe, even in
this
Manhattan,” said Mallory.

“So where are we going next?” asked Nathan.

“It could be a little problematical,” said Mallory. “Do either of you know how to get to Seventeenth Avenue?”

“It sounds like it's under the river,” said Nathan.

“Fifteenth Avenue I could probably find,” added McGuire. “But Seventeeth?”

“I know where it is,” said Felina.

“Why do I anticipate a negotiation?” said Mallory dryly.

“Two cockatoos and a killer whale,” said the cat-girl.

“One hot dog from Greasy Gus's stand on the corner,” countered Mallory.

“And a hippopotamus,” said Felina.

“One hot dog.”

“Wrapped in a bald eagle.”

“One hot dog.”

“Oh, all right,” she sniffed. “But you're mean to me.”

As if on cue, Igor and the Gravediggers began playing “Mean to Me,” as Mallory and his unlikely team walked out past the “Many Happy Returns” placards and headed off toward Seventeeth Avenue.

It took Felina five minutes to choose between hot dogs—there were two of them, identical in every way as far as Mallory could tell—and another five minutes to lead them through winding streets the detective never knew existed to the tall building that housed the Gryphon's Roost on its top floor.

“Nathan,” said Mallory, “I want you to stay down here and guard the door, just in case he's inside and makes a break for it.”

“Only if you call me Scaly Jim.”

“Sorry, Jim. My mistake.” He looked at McGuire. “Bats, you might as well stay here too. If Drachma tries to get out, give Jim a hand. If he tries to get in, sprout your wings, fly up there, and give me a little warning.”

“It's not that easy,” said McGuire. “I have to get out of my clothes first, or I can't flap my wings.” He grimaced. “The last time I did that, I was arrested for indecent exposure before I could make the change.”

“Find a way,” said Mallory. “Come on, Felina.”

“Why are you taking
her
?” asked the little vampire.

“Because I've never found anything she's afraid of, except maybe missing a meal.”

Mallory entered the building, held the door open for Felina, and the two of them walked to an elevator.

“Where to?” asked the uniformed operator.

“Up,” said Mallory, looking at him as if he were a few bricks shy of a load.

“Let me rephrase that. What floor?”

“The one with the Gryphon's Roost.”

The elevator shot up, forcing a startled grunt from the detective. Felina just grinned and purred. “I like elevators,” she confided.

“I can't imagine why,” said Mallory. “You can't eat them.”

“Sixty-sixth floor—the Gryphon's Roost,” announced the elevator operator as the doors slid open.

Mallory and Felina emerged into a large foyer, paneled with dark wood. To their left was a bar, to their right a casino. Mallory went to the casino, followed by the cat-girl. A large fat man with a bushy mustache had pushed all his chips to the center of a craps table. “Ah, what the hell,” he said. “I feel lucky.” He then proceeded to add his diamond ring, his Swiss watch, and his ruby tiepin to the pot.

“I'll match that,” said a sullen-voiced green-skinned ogre standing at the foot of the table.

“I'm not done,” said the man, starting to climb out of his clothes. As he removed each item, he folded it neatly and placed it next to his pile of chips. The ogre studied the clothes, then pulled out a five-hundred-dollar bill and added it to the pot. The now thoroughly naked man picked up the dice and began shaking them above his head. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes!” he cried.

“Shoes are going to be the least of baby's needs if it comes up snake eyes,” noted Mallory.

The man rolled the dice. They immediately vanished under his pile of clothes. He raced around the table, pulled up a shirtsleeve, and announced that he'd hit a seven and was the winner.

“Let me see that!” said the ogre, walking to the side of the table.

“Too late!” said the man, picking up the dice.

“
How
late?” said the ogre in a thundering voice, as his body began expanding. Suddenly he was fifteen feet tall and staring down at the naked fat man.

“I believe it's just after one o'clock, sir,” said the fat man meekly. “I'll tell you what: Why don't I just roll the dice again?”

“I'll tell
you
what,” said the ogre. “Why don't you tell me what you really rolled?”

“Twenty-seven, sir,” said the fat man.

“They only go up to twelve.”

“I'm seeing spots before my eyes. It must be the height. Why don't we just call the game off? I'll take my clothes and money and go home, and the table's all yours.”

“You can go,” said the ogre.

“Thank you, sir,” said the fat man. He reached out for his pants and the ogre slapped his hand away.

“I said
you
can go. Everything else stays here.”

“At least let me take my shorts. It's chilly out there.”

“You can have one sock,” said the ogre. “I wouldn't want it said that you went home with nothing.”

The fat man seemed about to argue, then sighed, grabbed a sock, and made a beeline for the elevator.

“What are
you
staring at?” said the ogre to Mallory.

“I was just wondering why someone hasn't signed you up as a power forward,” answered the detective.

“Why should they?” asked the ogre, suddenly shrinking back down to six feet in height.

“Beats the hell out of me,” said Mallory. “Forget I asked.”

“You here to shoot craps?” asked the ogre.

“No. I don't even carry a gun.”

“A comedian,” snorted the ogre, suddenly losing all interest in Mallory.

The detective looked around the casino. There were poker and roulette tables, plus some games he'd never seen before that seemed to draw their share of elves and goblins. Finally he saw a pretty woman in her late twenties or early thirties emptying a slot machine. She had long dark hair, a nice but not exceptional figure, and she wore a lavender pants suit. Mallory walked over to her.

“Yes?” she said, staring at him.

“Excuse me, but are you Mary, Queen of Slots?”

“That's me.”

“Good. My name is Mallory. A friend of yours told me you might be able to help me.”

“If you want a loan, go to a bank.”

“I want information,” he said. “A woman named Natasha said you might be able to tell me something about Vlad Drachma.”

She stared at him. “You a cop?”

“No, I'm private.”

“You working for Natasha?”

He shook his head. “No, she just told me that he hangs out here.”

She nodded. “Every night.”

“What can you tell me about him?” asked Mallory.

“He's one of the undead.”

“What
else?
”

“He's old,” she said. “
Very
old.”

“Can you be a little more specific?” said Mallory. “Fifty? Sixty? Seventy?”

“Try a few thousand,” she replied.

Mallory frowned. “How does he get around?”

“He's manages,” said Mary. “There's just something about him that says you shouldn't mess with him.”

“What does he look like?”

“It varies. If he hasn't eaten…well, drunk…he looks like a dried-up old man of ninety, but he's still got that air about him.”

“And when he
has
drunk?”

She shrugged. “He's still old, but a few of the wrinkles are gone, and his color's a little better. He could pass for seventy.”

“Does he bring his dates here, or pick them up here?”

“He always comes in alone,” said Mary. “Sometimes he's alone for the whole time. Sometimes someone—usually a woman, but not always—will walk over to his table and visit with him. He doesn't ever invite anyone, but they seem, I don't know,
attracted
to him.”

“Hey, Mister!” called a voice from the bar. “If you can't control your cat, the both of you are gonna have to leave.”

“Excuse me,” said Mallory to Mary. He turned, walked out of the casino, and entered the bar. The bartender, a balding, burly man, merely pointed at the ceiling. Mallory looked up and saw Felina perched on a crystal chandelier.

“Felina,” he said, “come down from there.”

“I like it up here,” she said, shifting her weight and making the chandelier sway. “Listen to it jingle.”

“
Now!
” said the detective firmly.

“You never let me have any fun,” she pouted.

Mallory turned to the bartender. “Can you make a brandy alexander?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“She'll have one without the alcohol.”

“That's just cream,” said the bartender.

“Right.”

The bartender shrugged, reached behind the bar, pulled out a glass, and filled it with cream. Mallory set it on the bar.

“Come down in the next five seconds and you can have it,” he said, gesturing to the cream.

Felina leaped into the air, did a triple somersault, and landed lightly on the bar right next to the glass, which she picked up and began lapping.

“No animals on the bar,” said the bartender.

She hissed at him, but jumped to the floor before Mallory could take the cream away.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” said Mallory, slipping the bartender a bill. “Keep the cream coming and she'll behave.” The bartender pocketed the money. “As long as I'm here, maybe you can tell me a little about one of your customers.”

“Who?”

“Vlad Drachma.”

“He's a strange one, that old guy,” said the bartender. “Looks like a strong wind could blow him over. But one night a bunch of trolls came here after a bowling tournament—I think they were using gremlins as the pins—and somehow or other one of them challenged him to an arm-wrestling match. I thought the troll would bust his arm in half in less than a second, but damned if he didn't win, and then beat every other creature in the house.” The bartender shook his head in wonderment. “Strange old guy.”

“How long has he been coming here?” asked Mallory.

“Just a few days, but we're his regular place now.” He pointed toward an empty booth. “That's his.”

“You mean that's where he usually sits?”

“That's his for the next year. He put five thousand dollars down to rent it. It's reserved for him, and no one else can use it. That's what I mean when I said we're his regular joint.”

“What does he order to eat or drink when he's here?”

“Nothing. He just sits there with a glass of water. Far as I know, he's never taken a sip.”

“What does he talk about?”

“It varies. He knows a little something about everything, but nothing seems to interest him. Strange old guy. Looks harmless enough, but there's something about him, something that says no matter who you are, no matter how tough, you'd better not mess with him. Probably he's made up in wisdom what he's lost in vigor. You don't live to be as old as him without being pretty damned sharp.”

“Any chance he'll be back tonight?” asked Mallory.

The bartender shook his head. “He was already here earlier tonight. He doesn't show up twice in the same night.”

“Thanks,” said Mallory. He walked over to Drachma's booth. “Felina, stop playing with your cream and come over here.”

The cat-girl turned her back to him.

“If I have to come get you, I'll pour the rest of it out.”

She walked over to him with a sullen expression on her face and a death grip on her glass.

“No one's sat here since Vlad, right?” said Mallory to the bartender.

“Right.”

“Felina, crawl around on the booth and see if you can get the scent of the man who was here last.”

“I don't have to,” replied the cat-girl. “I can smell him from here. He's very old.”

“You'd recognize that scent if we find it again?”

“Yes.”

“And if we pick up his trail, could you follow it?”

“If you bought me two sparrows, a dove, and a buffalo.”

“We'll negotiate later. But you can identify his scent, and if you find it again you can definitely follow it?”

“Yes.”

“Let's put you to work right now. Can you follow it to the elevator?”

She took a few steps toward the elevator, then stopped. “He didn't go this way.”

“Is there a set of fire stairs around here?” Mallory asked the bartender, who pointed to an Exit sign just past the foyer. “How about there?” asked Mallory, pointing the way to Felina.

As before, she took a couple of steps and stopped. “He didn't go this way either.”

“I think I'm going about this ass-backward,” said Mallory. “Why don't you follow his scent and tell me how he got out of here?”

She sniffed the air a few times, then walked toward an open window. “This way,” she said.

“The son of a bitch
flew
here!” said Mallory. “Damn. So much for following his trail.”

He walked back to the casino and approached Mary, Queen of Slots.

“Does he have any other hangouts that you know about?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He's been in the country less than a week,” she said. “How many could he have found?”

“Has he ever mentioned a particular mortuary?”

“No.”

“Damn,” muttered the detective. “There must be dozens in town. I guess I'll have to do it the hard way.”

“Not necessarily,” said Mary.

“Oh?”

“It's possible that there's another way to go about this,” she said.

“I'm willing to learn,” replied Mallory. “Enlighten me.”

“You're wondering where a dead thing goes,” said Mary.

“Right.”

“But that's only part of his character,” she continued. “It's true that he's one of the undead. But he's more than that.” Mallory frowned, trying to follow her line of reasoning. “I saw you just dope it out over in the bar. He's also a bat—and where would a bat go to relax and hang out?”