Fantasy Romance
As the Knight of Valor destroyed the three ghouls coming at him from behind, the first wave of zombies closed in on him.
The Knight screamed as they tore at him.
Leikar ground his teeth, knowing the Knight was a fool.
But he couldn’t not help.
As he emerged from his hiding place, a fire spell was already
on his lips.
Leikar watched the Knight of Valor fight, the man’s sword literally ablaze with the light of the gods.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen, and the holy energy was unlike anything he’d ever felt.
But it was still a losing battle.
Not even a Knight of Valor could stand up to so many undead alone.
DH’s next installment of the Drake Diamond Saga. I like Betty. Unusual for me as vampires aren’t usually my thing.
Part1, Part2, Part 3, Part 4 are available if you want to read them for the first time or get a refresher.
Betty has to rush off to meet Papa Thorne, and she swears to me she’ll be back as soon as she can.
“I’m already a dead man in a cemetery,” I assure her, smirking. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
She smiles apologetically at me, and I catch another glimpse of her fangs. Then she turns and runs off with a superhuman speed that surprises me. Although it really shouldn’t. It occurs to me that I’ve spent the evening with a blood-drinking creature who preys upon the living. I’m not afraid of her, myself. I’ve got no blood to drink. But how would I feel if Betty preyed upon someone like Maxine to meet her dietary needs?
Or Lana?
In all the stories I’d read about vampires, they were monsters. The bad guys. The stories were filled with fear, tragedy, and death until the happy ending where the good guys finally destroyed them. Usually involving a wooden stake and a mallet. Dracula. Nosferatu. Varney.
Maybe they’re not so bad once you get to know ’em.
Of course, I’ve only known Betty for one night. She’s likable enough. Not sure I trust her though.
I’m not the trusting sort to begin with. The trusting sort doesn’t do well in my line of work, for one thing. But that’s not the only reason.
I’d worked on a fair number of kidnapping cases, both as a cop and as a private eye. When making ransom demands, kidnappers almost always say “don’t go to the police or your loved one gets it”. They do that ’cause police have a lot of experience and proven techniques at their disposal for effectively dealing with kidnappers. If you go the police for help, the kidnappers are likely going to wind up behind bars instead of getting paid. So they use fear to keep you from doing the smart thing and going to the professionals who know how to effectively unravel their plans.
Same thing with brainwashing cults. They tell their recruits…their victims, that is…that psychologists are evil. To be avoided at all costs. That’s because psychiatrists and psychologists are really good at recognizing brainwashing techniques, and the cults don’t want that.
So earlier when Betty told me not to think too much about the magic she used on me, or it would stop holding me together, I couldn’t help but see the same pattern. I got to wondering if besides raising me from the dead she cast another spell or two on me.
And then there’s the matter of giving me a place to stay. In her family’s mausoleum. In a cemetery surrounded by a brick wall with decorative wrought-iron spikes and heavy wrought-iron gates. She says she didn’t know I’d be vulnerable to iron. But she knew ghosts were. And I’m not exactly a ghost, but whatever I am, Betty’s the one who cast the spell. I was a desperate experiment, she says. Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe.
I may not trust Betty. Not fully. But for now she’s all I’ve got. For now.
Now that she’s run off, I might as well head inside the mausoleum. She’d said she spent a lot of time fixing up the inside. Might as well have a look.
Right inside the entrance there are some steps down. Not very many. Coming into the crypt is like stepping down off of a porch. First thing I see is a row of plaques on the wall. A bunch of names I don’t recognize, and Salvatore “Sonny” Malone. His plaque is recessed into the marble wall about an inch. The other plaques are flush with the wall. Odd.
I press my hand against his plaque. There a soft “clunk” sound, like a weight somewhere shifting position, and the plaque springs out, flush with the wall like all the others. And the entrance quietly slides closed behind me.
And now there’s not even moonlight. The darkness is absolute, pitch black.
And I can see just fine in it.
Guess from now on the only thing I’ll need a lighter for is my cigarettes.
It’s different, seeing without light. And yet it’s still “seeing”. I can see all the colors and textures and patterns I can see in light. But I see them in the dark, while also seeing that it is, in fact, perfectly pitch-black dark.
Is that hard to picture? Once I figure out how to describe color to someone who was born blind, I’ll have the words.
Past the row of plaques are walls with long recessed shelves. And on each shelf lays someone wrapped in a shroud. Well…this is a crypt.
“Pardon me. Don’t get up. Name’s Drake Diamond. Betty said I could stay here. Hope you don’t mind. It’s just for a few days.”
Nothing. Either Betty was telling the truth about them Resting in Peace, or I’m being snubbed. Hard to say which is more likely.
There are three layers of shelves, from about waist high all the way up to the ceiling. It’s a narrow corridor, only slightly wider than a closet. I don’t recognize the names carved on the shelves either. Three body-length shelves later, about twenty feet, the corridor ends but there’s a stone spiral staircase down.
One rounded flight down, and I find myself in a cozy one-room apartment. No kitchenette, and no bathroom, but that’s okay. I don’t need them anymore.
There’s a desk with a blotter, and a wheeled leather swivel arm chair. On the desk is a crystal decanter and a couple of matching glasses. No filing cabinet. Not sure I need one, but the desk doesn’t look right without it. There’s a coat rack by the desk, too. Across the room there’s a comfy looking sofa and some cushioned chairs. The floor’s even covered by a decent rug. In another corner there’s a wardrobe and a few other cabinets.
Of course, when you fix up a crypt, it’s still a crypt. All four walls are more of those shelves, and there are a few dozen folks interred here, by my guess. And it’s still pitch-black darkness. Something tells me if I wasn’t undead, I’d find it awfully creepy in here.
“Evening, folks. You may have heard me upstairs. Drake Diamond.” I give a slight nod to the crypt in general and touch the tip of my fedora. “Betty assures me none of you will mind my staying here for a few days. If she’s wrong, don’t hesitate to speak up. I’m sure we can work out a reasonable arrangement.”
After what feels like a full minute none of them voice any objections. Yeah, I remember what Betty said, but that’s no reason to be impolite.
After hanging up my coat and hat on the rack, I make my way over to the desk and take the crystal decanter and pull out the knob and give it a whiff. Bourbon.
I pull over a glass and I’m about to pour, but stop myself before a single drop leaves the decanter. Why the hesitation? Because wasting good bourbon is a travesty, and the question just occurred to me: Is bourbon going to be the same, like cigarettes? Or a hollow sensation of its former pleasure, like eating?
Frowning, I recap the decanter and put it down, and put my hands in my pockets. Empty. My matches and smokes are in my coat. Betty’s right. I’ve got no wallet. No keys. No cash. Couldn’t have gotten a room or a bed without bumming more off of her. Macho pride, she called it. Well, dead or not, a man needs his dignity.
“Anyone here mind if I smoke?”
They’re exactly as chatty as they were before. I go over to my coat and fish out my smokes and matches. Six cigarettes left. I’ll have to buy more soon. Maybe later I can find some loose change over in the sofa cushions.
Striking a match, the tiny flame makes the room suddenly oppressively dark. I can barely see a thing. I let the match fizzle out, and I can see again.
I take out another match and do the same thing. Light it, and let it fizzle out. Same thing happens. And again with a third match. Now I’ve got a working theory.
Seems as though when there’s any light at all, even from a single match, I see like I did when I was alive: by light. It’s only when there’s utterly pitch black darkness I can see like the dead.
With a fourth match I light up and take a few puffs, shaking out the match and looking around for an ashtray. None. I’ll have to get one of those. No way I’m even going to try to quit smoking now that I’m already dead.
I crush the match out on the stone floor of the crypt, like Malone once did in my office carpet. Even such a minor desecration makes me feel guilty. I’m just here for a few days. But to these other bones, this is their final resting place. I should be a more considerate guest.
The glow from the end of my cigarette when I inhale is dim enough that my dead-sight still works. Good thing, too. I’d hate to stumble in the dark and knock over the bourbon.
Betty’s words in the diner come back to me: tobacco nourishes death. Well, in my case bullets beat it to the punch, but that’s why I still enjoy smokes while food, which nourishes life, gives me no pleasure.
Booze? That seems like a gray area to me.
Sitting at the desk, I pull over one of the glasses and tap my cigarette ashes into it. Until I get a proper ashtray it’ll do. I’ve made enough of a mess as a guest here. The other glass I set next to the decanter, and pull out the top once again. I carefully pour myself two fingers of bourbon, and set the decanter back down and cap it. Moment of truth.
I sniff the bourbon, and there’s a hint of a bitter, nutty aroma to it that complements it well. I take a sip.
…
I’ve had good bourbon before. Smooth, smoky, and slightly sweet. But now I feel like I’ve just tasted it for the first time. I have no idea what brand or label of bourbon is in this decanter, but this is top-shelf stuff.
I’m not too proud to admit, I’ve got a tear in my eye. With all that I’ve lost, suddenly the little, simple pleasures that I still can enjoy mean that much more.
I sip the rest of the bourbon in the glass very slowly, savoring the taste of each drop. The smoky, nutty, sweet taste sprinkling lightly on my tongue. After I’ve finished my drink and my cigarette, I feel more alive than I’ve felt since I woke up in Betty’s chalk circle.
That’s when I notice the lamps. There are a couple of unlit kerosene lamps here too. One on the desk in front of me, and another one over by the wardrobe, on top of one of the cabinets. They were there all along. I just didn’t notice them until now.
Betty brought all this stuff down here, just so I’d have a place to stay. She may have raised me tonight, but she’s been planning this for a while.
And besides all the furniture, and the most expensive tasting liquor that’s ever graced my unworthy mouth, she also brought a pair of kerosene lamps. So I’d have light down here. To see.
She doesn’t know I can see in the dark? Maybe she really didn’t know about the iron. What else doesn’t she know about me?
Is she wrong about Lana?
I mean, about my being able to talk to Lana. See her again. As far as I know Betty’s never met Lana. But that whole business about Unfinished Business…I’d give up being able to enjoy bourbon and cigarettes if I could have another chance to…to…
Of course there are tears in my eyes. Crypts are dusty places.
DH’s next installment of the Drake Diamond Saga. I am really enjoying seeing where this is going, and DH won’t give me any hints!
Part1, Part2, and Part 3 are available if you want to read them for the first time or get a refresher.
Final Resting Place
The clouds outside are starting to break up, showing irregular patches of clear night sky. We’re a few blocks away from Frank’s Diner. Not sure where we’re going, but I figure Betty knows. Puddles and wet pavement in the street shimmer in reflection of the intermittent moonlight. I take a deep breath. There’s always that smell in the air, after it rains. It reminds me of my childhood, even if it mixes with the adult smell of cigarette smoke in my nostrils.
I frown. Something isn’t right. “Betty?”
She tilts her head slightly and gives me a coy grin. “Yes, Drake?”
“I just took a deep breath. How is that possible with bullet holes in my lungs?”
She raises one eyebrow at me. “Really, Drake? Don’t get hung up on it. If you think too much about magic it might stop working. And since it’s what’s holding you together, you don’t want it to stop working.”
“Then you’d better give me something else to think about. Because thinking about things that don’t add up is what I do. Cop trained, street honed. Isn’t that what you wanted me for?”
Betty stops walking, so I stop too. She looks me right in the eye, then quickly looks around, and even scans the rooftops. Then she looks me right in the eye again, and beckons me close with her finger. I take a step closer and lean in.
She whispers quiet enough that if someone dropped a pin, the racket might drown out her voice. “I need you to find out Papa Thorne’s daytime resting place.” Before I can say anything, she turns and starts walking at a brisk pace. The clacking of her heels on the wet pavement is oddly quieter than one would expect. Magic? Or just the way she walks?
I catch up to her just as she turns right at the corner, onto Ravenswood Avenue. Almost no traffic. Streets are deserted this time of night. But she’s worried about being tailed. Or eavesdropped on. And not taking any chances.
“Finding him isn’t the problem, Drake. He’s…” She gives an exasperated sigh. “He’s my Master.” She says the word like it leaves a taste in her mouth she can’t spit out fast enough. “He’s the Master of all the vampires in the city. If I needed you to find him I’d just bring you with me. He’s expecting me later. And he’ll get suspicious if I’m late.”
I shrug. “So? Bring me with you. I ain’t afraid of him. Like you said yourself, I ain’t gotta worry about dying no more.”
She gives me an irritated look. “Neither does he, Drake. For the same reasons I don’t. Do you know the first thing about fighting vampires?”
“I suppose I don’t,” I admit, “seeing as how I never thought they were real. You got any pointers for me?”
“Yes,” she hisses. “Find his daytime resting place. Where he goes before the sun comes up. All vampires need one. Direct sunlight burns us. And just like we still need to eat, we still need to sleep.”
We walk a few more paces in silence, other than a gust of wind blowing some leaves and trash along the sidewalk.
“Betty…this might be a touchy subject, but are you and he…”
“Occasionally,” she sneers. “I don’t dare refuse him.” The disgust in her voice is so clear a deaf guy could hear it. There’s rage there too, but that’s less obvious. Easier to miss, unless you’ve got experience reading people.
I let a few more silent paces go by. I need answers, but some questions have to be asked in a certain way. But she seems to realize what I’m getting at and pipes up on her own.
“No, Drake, he’s never brought me to his daytime lair. I don’t think he trusts anyone that much.”
The wind picks up. I turn the collar up on my coat and tug the brim of my fedora down. “You said all vampires need one. Does he know where yours is?”
She frowns. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve tried to be careful, but…he has ways.”
I shrug. “Is there a reason you only have one? Why do you think he only has one? That another vampire rule?” We come to the corner. There’s no traffic, but the light is red. Betty stops, looking down at her shoes, so I stop too.
She doesn’t look up as she answers me. “It’s more than just a place to get out of the sun and sleep, Drake.” The light turns green and she starts to cross, the wind blowing her coat and hair. I follow.
On the other side of the intersection we’re walking alongside a tall brick wall with wrought iron spikes on top. Something about this place gives me the heebies…and I’m already dead. Then I see the elaborate balustrade of the front gates a ways ahead, and I realize where we are.
“Rosehill Cemetery,” she says. She grabs one of the cold iron bars of the gate, and pulls it open with a rusty creak that can clearly be heard above the rising wind. “Come on.”
“This is where you sleep during the day?” Suddenly I feel hackles rising in my neck. I’m on edge. If I still had a heartbeat, it would be hammering against my ribs. Instead it feels like my body is trying to fly apart, and sheer force of will is the only thing holding me together. I grit my teeth and ball my fists.
“No. Cemetery’s too obvious. Any vampire that makes their lair that easy to find doesn’t last long.” She tilts her head at me and raises an eyebrow. “Drake? You okay?”
“No! No, I’m not okay! I’m dead!” I feel like I’m covered in ice-cold sweat. Freezing rivulets running down my body.
“Drake!” It’s Betty, still holding the Cemetery gate open. She looks real worried all of a sudden. “Drake, listen to me. I can help you, but you have to focus on something. Take out a cigarette, Drake. Take out a cigarette and put it in your mouth.”
Hands shaking, I do as she says, nearly dropping it with my fumbling fingers. Holding it between my lips, I reach for one of the books of matches from the diner. But the wind is too strong. I’ll never be able to light it in this wind.
I hear the sound of Betty snapping her fingers, and the end of my cigarette glows red hot for a second. I taste the smoke in my mouth. My throat. Feel it in my lungs. I inhale the smoke, and I feel alive. Of course, I know I’m not. Not really. But the smoke helps me accept that sometimes what you know isn’t as important as what you do.
“Come through the gate, Drake! Quick!”
I do as she says, and she slams the gate shut. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.
…And she’s terrified of Thorne. So how strong is he?
“How are you feeling now, Drake?” The winds is really picking up. Leaves and smaller bits of paper trash sweep along the ground and against the iron gates. The branches of the trees in the cemetery sway and twist. But I can still somehow hear every word she says crystal clear.
“Better, I guess.” I reach up and take my cigarette out, and hold it between two fingers at my side, flicking it a couple times. The ashes disappear in the wind. “Why are we here, Betty? I gotta tombstone here? You wanted to show me my own grave?”
She gives me that same look she gave me when I woke up on her marble altar, surrounded by candles. Scrutinizing me. Like she’s not sure I’m all right in the head.
“It must have been the iron,” she says.
“The what now?”
“Drake, in those pulp magazines you used to read when you were younger, do you remember any stories about werewolves? About their weakness to silver?”
I manage to sort of nod and shrug at the same time. “I guess so, yeah.”
She points to the heavy cemetery gates. “Old folklore says ghosts can be warded off by iron. Or harmed by it. You’re not exactly a ghost, Drake. But apparently you’re close enough. Being near those gates seemed to…disrupt you, somehow.”
The wind has cleared away almost all the clouds now, and the half-moon casts it’s silvery patina over everything. I raise the cigarette to my lips and take another quick puff, and look towards the tall brick wall all around the cemetery. Those decorative iron spikes along the top must have been what was bugging me as we walked along the sidewalk outside.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
I shrug again. “It’s a trade-off. I’m vulnerable to iron now.” I point to the bullet holes in my chest. “But I used to be vulnerable to lead.”
Betty smiles, and it’s oddly like tasting the sandwich at the diner. My senses are as sharp as ever, but the same sensations don’t mean the same thing. Betty’s a real looker. And despite being Malone’s daughter, she’s got class. But I don’t respond to her charming smile the way a living man would. It’s just as well.
“You seem fine now that you’re away from the gates. Come on. I need to go see Thorne before he suspects I’m up to something. And I can’t take you with me. Let’s hurry.”
Now that the sky is clear, the wind is starting to die down. But for now it’s still strong enough that the trees are swaying and my trench-coat’s flapping. Betty’s dress, too. But she either doesn’t notice or mind. The wind doesn’t slow her down at all.
“Just so I understand: you have to play along with Thorne for the time being, so you don’t want him knowing that you and I know each other?”
“I don’t want him knowing about you at all,” she replies. “That we know each other, who you are, or that you even exist.”
I drop the butt of my smoke to the cemetery path and crush it out with my foot. “Fine. But I’ll need a place to lay low for a bit. After we’re done here I’ll have to go find a flophouse. Or a cheap motel.” I keep forgetting that it’s three years gone by. I’d swear I was only out a few minutes. My office, and the small apartment I had above it, are probably leased out to someone else now.
“I tried to take your needs into consideration.” Betty sounds like she’s apologizing. It strikes me as odd, considering without her I’d still be an inert pile of calcified remains. “To have everything ready for you, so you could focus all your attention on helping me bring down Papa Thorne.” She stops in front of a private mausoleum, and turns to look at me. I look up and see the family name, carved in marble: MALONE.
I’m confused and I probably look it. “Betty, I thought you said no vampires rested in cemeteries anymore.”
“I knew you would need a place to stay once I brought you back, Drake. But Thorne would have found out if I’d rented an apartment, or bought a house. And I spent a lot of time fixing up the inside…”
“Betty…”
“I’ll find somewhere else, Drake. I honestly didn’t know about the iron. But for now you’re far enough away from it here.” She’s right about that. But the gates and the spikes on top of the wall surrounding the place means I’m trapped in the cemetery until she comes back to open the gates for me.
“Betty, didn’t you say cemeteries were a bad idea? Too obvious?”
“For vampires, yes. You’re different, Drake. No one will find you here.”
“You don’t sound too sure of yourself.” She didn’t.
She hesitates for a moment, then nods. “You were a desperate experiment, Drake. I really can’t trust anyone else. But I’d never brought anyone like you back from the Other Side before. You’ve surprised me in a number of ways already, and it’s only your first night back. Even though it was my spell that raised you, I’m still not exactly sure what you are. You’re too solid to be a ghost, and you’re far too smart to be a zombie.”
I grit my teeth and look over the stone construction. “Betty, I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and you can count on me to bring down Thorne. But…I do not want to share a mausoleum with your father.” Dead or not, we’d make lousy roommates.
Betty looks confused for a second, then smiles. “He’s not in there. There’s a plaque with his name on it, but the police never found his remains after Thorne’s men murdered him.”
I have to think it over for a few seconds. “Well, in that case, I guess it’ll do. For now.”
Betty reaches up with both hands and tweaks one ornate carving while pressing inward on another. The heavy marble slab swings open revealing granite stairs leading down into a dusty crypt.
“I don’t suppose the other members of your family interred here will mind me crashing the place?” I ask a little nervously.
“I doubt they’ll say a thing,” she replies with a chuckle.
“Betty, I wasn’t cracking a joke. Whenever I see my reflection, I see a skeleton. And you don’t have a reflection at all. And the only reason there’s any spring in my step is that you can apparently do amazing things with candles and chalk.”
She frowns. “Fair enough. All kidding aside. Every Malone in the family mausoleum was given a proper burial. As a fairly skilled necromancer…and you are proof that I am…I can tell you that it’s next-to-impossible to do anything with someone who was given a proper burial. You and I are the only up-and-around dead here. Everyone else should be Resting in Peace.”
DH finished the next part in the Drake Diamond Saga. I like the set-up for this character, but I am biased. hard not to be excited about what DH is working on, but I could see a series of fun, snarky, gritty stories about an undead detective. Flesh out the world. The people in it.
Part1 and Part2 are available if you want to read them for the first time or get a refresher.
Frank’s Diner
Outside, the gray sky matched the wet pavement. Cold, dirty puddles covered the sidewalk beneath dim, flickering street lights. I fished my pack of smokes out of my pocket, raised it to my lips, and took one between my teeth and pulled it out. I was about to light up when I remembered my manners.
“You want a smoke?” I’d never been raised from the dead before. Wasn’t familiar with the etiquette. Figured the least I could offer Betty Malone for bringing me back to the World of the Living was a cigarette.
“Sure, thanks.” I hold the pack out and she takes one between her fingers. I notice her nail Polish is the exact same shade of red as her lipstick. She holds the cigarette up and stares at it for a second. It lights itself, tiny curls of smoke raising from the now glowing end, and she gives a slight smirk and puts it between her lips.
“Neat trick.”
“Want me to teach you?” She raises an eyebrow at me, with a coy smile.
“I’ll stick with my lighter, thanks.”
“I thought you lost yours.”
She’s right. I remember being hit in the jaw by an entire side of beef at the end of someone’s arm, sending me, my thirty-eight, and my lighter in three different directions. And then some bullets decided to move into my chest cavity, ruining the whole neighborhood.
“Damn. Guess I’ll have to start carrying matches until I can get a new one.”
“We’re not to far from Frank’s Diner,” Betty says. “You can get some there. It’s just as well. Doubt you’ve got the patience to learn magic anyway.”
Betty’s probably right. I never believed in it before. Now, with my reflection in the puddles below an eyeless skull grinning back at me, it’s kind of hard to remain a skeptic. But time spent learning how to light my smokes with a snap of my fingers is time I’d rather spend tracking down Thorne.
Frank’s Diner is one of those places you can tell exactly what it is from the outside, and the inside is just what you’d expect. Hash browns, steak and eggs, grilled ham and cheese sandwich…you can have whatever you want as long as it ain’t fancy. Its open late, and never very crowded. There’s a few other customers there, getting their late night fix of greasy food and cheap coffee. Betty picks us out a few stools at the counter, down a ways from the other patrons. First thing I do when I sit is pocket a few books of matches, and strike one to finally give myself a light.
Seconds later, Maxine appears with an order pad and a pen at the ready. Forty-something, dishwater blond hair up under a hair-net. Been a fixture at Frank’s for all the years I’d been eating there. An incurable gossip, she’s both a good source of information, and a bad source of misinformation. On a number of my past cases, I’d come to Maxine to check what she’d heard. Can’t always trust her info, but it’s a place to start.
“And what can I get you folks tonight? The apple pie’s fresh, and we have…Drake? Drake Diamond!” It would be cliche to say she looked like she’d seen a ghost. But saying she’d seen an old acquaintance back from the dead doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
“The usual, Maxine. And a slice of that apple pie, too.” I tap some ashes from my cigarette into a tray and turn to Betty. “You want anything?”
“I am positively ravenous,” she smirks, narrowing her eyes. Maybe bringing a vampire to a public place was a bad idea. But then she says, “Pastrami on rye, and a cherry cola.”
“One pastrami on rye, cherry cola,” she says as she scribbles on her pad, “and Mr. Diamond’s usual: black coffee and a fried egg sandwich with ham and Tabasco sauce.” She winks at me. “And a slice of pie. I’ll be right back.”
Betty watches Maxine hustle off and turns to me. “You two have a history?”
“Nah. She winks at everybody like that.”
“Good. Don’t get too involved with the Living, Drake. You’re not one of them anymore. It wouldn’t end well for either of you.” She crushes out her lipstick-stained cigarette in the ashtray.
“Sounds like the voice of experience.” I don’t mean to pry, but it never hurts to throw out a line. You never know what you might catch. Betty looks at me and shakes her head.
“Not me. I’m not the same as you.” She glances around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping, and lowers her voice. “You’re Undead, Drake. You were Dead, then I undid your death. That’s what Undead means. That’s not what I am. I was never Dead. Not entirely. No one Undid anything that had happened to me to make me what I am.”
I purse my lips into a frown as I try to recall what I know about vampires. Nothing, that’s what. I never believed they were real. There were some stories about them in a few of the pulp magazines I read as a kid, but I’m guessing those were more full of misinformation than Maxine on a bad day. But I think I get the basic idea.
“I’m Undead. You’re the Living Dead.” Betty thinks about that for a second, then nods.
“Yes. And there are Rules for each of us. But the Rules I have to follow aren’t the same as the Rules you have to follow. And the consequences for breaking our rules aren’t the same. You don’t have to drink blood or avoid direct sunlight, like I do. But trying to reestablish the close personal relationships you had when you were alive…will turn you back into a sack of bones.”
“I…what?” It takes me a minute before I realize my cigarette has fallen into my lap.
Maxine comes by and gives us our sandwiches and drinks. “I’ll be back with your pie in a sec, hon!”
Betty waits until she’s gone, then speaks. “Acquaintances are fine: people you worked with, or passing familiarities,” Betty takes a bite of her pastrami, then continues, “But interacting with any close friends or, worse, loved ones, risks undoing the magic keeping you intact. I doubt I’d be able to bring you back again after that.” She somehow has a way of speaking clearly even while she chews her food. “So…if you and that waitress had anything beyond casual meaningless flirting, every word she says to you…or that you say to her….increases the risk of you getting sent back the the Other Side.”
Taking a bite of my own sandwich, I chew in silence for a long time. This is a lot to to take in. The sandwich isn’t very satisfying, even though it’s dripping with Tabasco. I swallow, washing it down with a gulp of coffee.
“I don’t remember being dead. I just remembering dying. Three forty-four magnum rounds to my chest, and the next thing I know I’m sitting up on a marble altar surrounded by ritual candles. You say I’ve been dead three years but I didn’t feel any time passing. Now you tell me I can only have professional relationships, or superficial ones. Any real genuine human connection…could end me?”
Betty shrugs. “With the Living, yes.” She takes another bite of her pastrami, speaking with her mouth full. Still, she manages to pronounce everything flawlessly. “You know how people who’ve lost a close friend or relative sometimes regret an apology never made, or a hatchet never buried? Something important that needed to be said or resolved, but they never did, and now it’s too late?” I nod, taking another bite of my sandwich. It’s not bland or tasteless. It’s just that I don’t seem to enjoy the taste anymore. I don’t dislike it either. It’s just…a sandwich.
“Turns out that’s one of reality’s biggest Rules: if you’ve got something important to say to someone, you have to say it while you still have the chance. Once they die, or you die, anything left unsaid stays unsaid. And you died, Drake.”
“I didn’t die. I was murdered.”
She shrugs again. “Getting murdered is one way of dying. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still bound by the Rules, Drake. I know there’s a lot of ghost stories where there’s a spirit that’s restless from some Unfinished Business, and needs it taken care of before they can pass on. And those are just stories. If you wanted to Finish your Business, you needed to do it while you were still alive. I’m not trying to rub it in, Drake, but you’re not alive anymore. Any Business you left Unfinished is going to stay that way. You’re not allowed break that Rule.”
Lana. I never told her…I never…she…
And now it’s too late. I should…should’ve said…should’ve let her know. But it’s too late now. I’m…gone.
I put the fizzed cigarette from my lap into the ashtray and light up a new one, inhaling deeply. It’s rich and satisfying in a way the sandwich wasn’t. I look up to see Maxine is back.
“Here’s your pie, hon! And the check. Now, don’t you worry. You take your time and enjoy, and just take care of it at the register on your way out. Glad to have you back in town, hon!” She hustles off, other diner patrons to see to. I’m just another customer. A familiar one, maybe, but just a customer.
And that, apparently, makes her safe.
The pie is warm and sweet. The crust is crispy, the apple filling just right. It’s just not…satisfying. It’s as if I no longer enjoy warm and sweet. Take no pleasure in a crispy pie crust. I take another long drag off my cigarette. Now that feels good. Betty’s slurping up her cherry cola through a straw until nothing is left in the glass but ice.
“I thought vampires drank blood,” I whisper.
“We do,” she whispers back. “But we still need to eat and drink. The blood doesn’t replace the need for other nourishment. It’s an additional requirement.”
“What about me? Do I need to eat?”
“Well, apparently you can eat. I honestly wasn’t sure about that, before. But as far as needing to?” She shakes her head. “No. You’re not the Living Dead, like me. You’re Undead. It’s a subtle distinction.”
“But apparently a profound one,” I say.
She nods. “I’ve heard it said that to the Undead, all food tastes like ashes. Is it true?”
I take another drag from my cigarette and shake my head. “Nah. I can taste it just fine. All the flavors, all the textures. It’s all still there. I just don’t enjoy the flavors or textures anymore, you know? But cigarettes?” I stop to take another deep inhale and let it out slow through my nostrils. “Those are just like they always were.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” she says, taking the guest check between a finger and a thumb. “Food nourishes and sustains Life. You’re not alive, so it doesn’t do anything for you. But tobacco is tied to Death. Now that you’re Undead you may actually get some kind of nourishment or energy from it.”
“Let me get that,” I say, pointing to the check, and grateful to have something so mundane to talk about.
“Drake, you were murdered by one of Papa Thorne’s thugs.” So much for mundane topics. “Did you really think that when I found your remains that you were buried along with your wallet? And that it was full of cash?”
“Err…hmm.”
“Swallow your macho pride, Drake. I’m paying.”
DH finished an opening to his story Undead Gumshoe. We met in a creative writing class, and he has been writing for as long or longer than I have. This blog and my own endeavors have inspired him to write again, and I am excited he’s letting me share this update!
Ace of Diamonds
Even though the August heat had already won the battle, the air conditioner in the window of my third-floor office refused to give up when faced with a lost cause. I could sympathize. No offense to the appliance’s hard work, but I needed to find another way to cool off. Something involving ice cubes in a glass. Maybe a little bourbon poured over ’em. Checking the bottom drawer of my desk leads to the discovery of a bottle that’s still half full. No ice or glasses though. Shame, but it’ll have to do.
A couple of swigs later I put the bottle down and loosen my tie. It’s important to look professional when a client could come in at any time. Or so I’m told. Which is why I’ve stopped caring about my tie.
Clients have been scarce since Boss Malone started scaring ’em off. Apparently he doesn’t like me getting enough honest work. Fair enough. I don’t like him getting plenty of dishonest work. Guess it’s my fault for starting our feud, busting up his money-laundering and diamond-smuggling operations the way I did.
Maybe calling it a feud isn’t right. I’m still breathing when a lot of folks think I ought to be a dead man. All Malone’s doing is scaring away my clients. Maybe he’s enjoying killing me slowly.
That’d fit his twisted mob boss code-of-honor nonsense. I may have shut down his operations, but I couldn’t get enough evidence to prove he was the brains behind ’em. It cut off a big hunk of his revenue stream, but he’s still a free man. So now he’s cutting off my revenue stream, but I’m still breathing.
Like I said, killing me slowly. So he can enjoy my suffering. Well I don’t give up that easily. You and me, air conditioner. Together, we’ll show ’em.
A knock on the office door wakes me up. I guess smooth bourbon on a hot August day wasn’t the best way to stay awake. The dark outside the windows tells me I’ve been out longer than it felt like. A distant rumble of thunder counters that it might just be dark clouds gathering rather than nightfall.
Maybe feeling competition from the thunder, the knocking turns to pounding. Adrenaline sobers me up quick as I take my thirty-eight out of its holster and clear my throat. Looks like I may have given Malone too much credit. To enjoy watching an enemy die slowly requires patience, after all.
“Come in,” I say, ready for it to be some of Malone’s goons. The knob turns and the door opens….
…And It’s Lana, my secretary. I put my thirty-eight back in its holster.
“Lana, what are you still doing here?”
“Working late. Your case files are a mess, Drake.”
“Lana, there are no case files. There are no cases. Go home.” I’ve told her she’s fired a half-dozen times this week. Not that there’s anything wrong with her work. I just can’t afford to pay her anything without clients. She refuses to listen.
Lana prattles some nonsense about ordering more paper clips and file folders, but she takes a pen and a piece of scrap from my desk and writes: FIRE ESCAPE GO NOW
She makes urgent gestures towards the windows, but keeps her voice calmly discussing office supplies. Damn it, there’s no way I’m running away to save my own ass while she’s still here.
I nod, take another pen, and write: YOU FIRST. And while you’re at it, keep going. Don’t come back, Lana. You’re one in a million. Find someone who deserves you.
Someone else clears their throat this time. Ignoring the feeling of a sinking ball of lead in my stomach, I look up at the open door to see none other than Boss Sonny Malone himself casting his shadow. Well, well. Either he wanted the pleasure of pulling the trigger himself, or he didn’t trust his boys to do the job properly.
“Mr. Drake Diamond,” he grumbles, “Private Investigator.” He squints at me, and looks around my office like he’s disappointed in it. His lower jaw thrusts out and he frowns like he’s chewing on earwax.
Seconds pass like hours, and nothing happens. Lana’s discreetly glaring at me for the audacity of being in my own office, in my own chair, behind my own desk. The nerve of me. She’s a good secretary, so I know for a fact she can read the words “YOU FIRST” and know what they mean. I do some glaring of my own right back at her. It doesn’t work. Meanwhile, Malone is just standing there, opening his mouth, then closing it again. He does this a few more times, and I realize he’s trying to say something but can’t seem to get the words out.
The lead ball in my stomach untwists. I reach for a cigarette…slowly. Malone doesn’t react. His hands are in his pockets. It occurs to me that he may not actually have a gun on him. Of course, his goons do. Maybe he told them to wait downstairs.
I put the cigarette in my mouth, light it, and take a long slow drag. I exhale through my nose, blowing two columns of smoke down my face, then lean back in my chair.
“Lana,” I say calmly, “go put on a pot of coffee.”
“Drake!”
“Lana, you know it’s polite to serve coffee for our…” Guests? No. “…clients.”
Malone looks at the floor. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything.
Lana’s eyes go wide for second, then narrow. She looks at Malone, then at me, then back at Malone. She frowns, and walks out past Malone. He’s still staring at the floor and doesn’t seem to notice she even exists. In a few moments, I hear her fussing with the coffee-maker.
Malone continues frowning at the floor. His nostrils flare.
“Mr. Malone, can I offer you a seat?”
He finally responds, looking me in the eye.
“I’d rather stand.” I give a half-shrug to show that’s fine by me.
“Cigarette?” He nods. I take one and hold it out for him. He takes it and I flick my lighter, holding it out at arm’s length. He lights it and raises it to his lips, taking a few puffs as he starts pacing. Several times he’s got his back turned to me. Tempting. But I ain’t no cold-blooded murderer.
“I’ve always hated you, Diamond.”
“Feeling’s mutual.”
“I…I need your help.”
“And yet you open with how you’ve always hated me.”
“Well….I have.”
I shrug. He’s being honest. That’s worth something, I guess. I lean forward and put my elbows on the desk, arms crossed. My chair creaks.
“Well, Mr. Malone, I’ve got to tell you, business has been so bad lately I’ve been thinking of getting out of the private investigations business altogether. Maybe you should go to someone else with whatever problem it is that you have.”
He stops pacing and turns to face me, hands in his pockets, cigarette hanging from his lips, shoulders slumped.
“My daughter’s been kidnapped, Diamond.”
“So go to the police.”
“I can’t trust the police.”
“I thought you bought the police.”
“I thought so too, Diamond,” he snarls. “Turns out those rat bastards can be bought by anybody.”
I can’t help but chuckle a little at that. “Well ain’t that a damn shame,” I say through a smug grin. “When you can’t trust a cop on the take, who can you trust?”
“The kind of man who quits being a cop when he learns all the others are bought.”
I take a drag and exhale it out my nostrils again.
“Isn’t that why you hate me, Malone? Because you couldn’t buy me?”
He frowns thoughtfully, then nods. “Yeah. But I got no one else I can to turn to for this.” He drops his cigarette onto my rug and crushes it out with his foot, thoughtlessly smearing hot ash into the carpet fiber. Classy.
Lana nudges the door open with her foot, carrying two ceramic cups and a pot of fresh brewed hot coffee. She looks at me, and I can tell what she’s thinking. I’ve just known her that long.
Her plan was to throw a pot of scalding hot coffee right into Malone’s face, and maybe follow up by hitting the back of his skull with a cup, then we’d make a break for it out the fire escape. But I’ve taught her the practical virtues of eavesdropping. She overheard about Malone’s daughter. I frown at her and shake my head “no” ever so slightly. She nods and approaches my desk, not looking at him.
Malone’s not the kind of guy who opens up easily about his own vulnerabilities. And here he is doing just that to me, one of his bitterest enemies. Lana wisely chooses not to make it even harder for him by making him do it in front of an audience. She puts the pot and cups down on my desk, and leaves without saying a word. Good girl.
Of course, what I’d like for her to do is go somewhere safe and stay there. Like maybe back home to Nebraska. But she never had the good sense to back down from a dangerous situation.
If Malone even noticed she’d come and gone, he shows no sign of it. He’s got a faraway look in his eyes, and not a happy, wistful one.
“Can I offer you some coffee, Mr. Malone?”
“I don’t care, Diamond.” He thrusts his hands into his pockets.
I shrug. “It wasn’t a sincere offer. I just wanted to hurry this along to the part where you get the Hell outta my office. If you wanna sulk because you hate me but need my help, I’m gonna start charging a sulking fee.”
“You’re enjoying this aren’t you, Diamond?”
“Enjoying this!?” Bourbon I enjoy. A leisurely cigarette after a meal I enjoy. A Drama Queen wasting my time I do not enjoy. “Did you hear the part where I want you the Hell outta my office? Or did I accidentally say that part in Mandarin Chinese?” That would be particularly impressive, on account of my not knowing a word of it.
Malone grits his teeth and his face turns beet red. He smashes his fist into an open hand. “I want to know where she is! I want her back! I want whoever took her to suffer!”
“I’m not one of your goons, Malone. Making people suffer isn’t a service I offer.” I calmly crush my cigarette out in the ashtray and pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Fine. I guess two outta three ain’t bad. I can handle the suffering part myself. But if… you can find her, Diamond…” Oh for crying out loud. He’s starting to get tears in his eyes. “If you can find my little girl…then as far as I’m concerned everything is square between us. I’ll make sure none of my boys ever hassle you again.”
Lana’s coffee goes down almost as smooth as bourbon. I put the cup down, and consider his offer. Square things between us? His idea of ‘square’ is to call off his thugs, and expect me to be grateful enough to stop trying to put him behind bars. My idea of square is him and his thugs all put away for the crimes they’ve committed. Not having goons hounding you isn’t a reward. It’s a basic expectation of civilized society. Would you go to work for someone if your paycheck consisted of your boss not punching you in the face?
I take out another cigarette, place it in my lips, and flick my lighter. I’m still gonna take the job. But I’m gonna be crystal clear as to why. And as to my rates. I raise the lighter’s flame to my cigarette, then flick it closed. A slow deep inhale makes the end glow warmly, then fade as thin curls of gray rise through the air.
“Malone, I am taking this job. If your daughter is still alive, I will find her and return her to you. If she’s dead…well, then I will still find her. And I will still return her to you. For a proper burial if nothing else….”
He grits his teeth again. He’s trying not to face that she might be dead already. He opens his mouth to say something, so I raise my voice. I ain’t finished.
“But you will pay me in cash, just like all my other clients.” I take out my cigarette and point at Malone with it. “My standard daily rate, plus expenses. Non-negotiable. I will not accept ‘squaring things between us’ as payment. Because I ain’t doing this for you, you dirty son-of-a-bitch. You ain’t worth it. You’ve brought so much pain and suffering to this city, the way I see it you deserve plenty of your own.”
“Your daughter, on the other hand, has not.” I stand, and take another puff before I continue. “It ain’t her fault she was born with you as her old man. She’s innocent. And I won’t turn my back on an innocent, no matter how vile their relatives may be. The fact that finding her might actually help a rat bastard like you feel better is an ugly fact I’m just gonna have to stomach.”
Malone glares at me angrily, his mouth screwed up into a wrinkled frown. He flares his nostrils.
“Thank you, Diamond,” he sneers with a voice like gravel. “I hope you can find my girl. She means the world to me. But you’re right. This’ll be easier for both of us if we can keep hating each other.”
I nod.
“I never let my professional obligations mix with my personal feelings, or vice versa. I ain’t about to start on your account.”