Blood Hunt

2

“I need the July 1942 edition of the Chronicle,” he told the librarian on duty in the microfilm section of the Main Library. He wished he remembered the exact date of that assault. It meant searching the entire month of newspapers.

He spun the film through the viewer as fast as he could and still read it. By concentrating so hard on small items, though, he almost missed what he wanted. Lane had earned herself space and a picture on the third page. There was no mistaking her, tall as the four police officers hauling her back from a woman who crouched with blood leaking through the fingers of the hand held over her left ear. “The Barbary Coast Still Lives,” the headline proclaimed.

Garreth thanked Lady Luck for the colorful reporting of the day. Maybe he had something here. This Madelaine with her face contorted in fury was a far cry indeed from the Lane Barber who stood him up against a wall years later and coolly proceeded to drink his lifeblood, then go back to work.

He pressed the button for a hard copy of the page and carried it into the reading room to study, underlining all names and addresses. He smiled as he read, amused at both the gossipy style of the story, laden with adjectives, and what he saw between the lines, knowing Lane to be what she was.

A woman named Claudia Darling, described as “a pert, petite, blue-eyed brunette,” was accosted in the Red Onion on the evening of Friday, October 17, by “a Junoesque” red-haired singer named Mala Babra. Lane could fill a phone book with her aliases. An argument ensued over a naval officer both had met the evening before, Miss Babra claiming that Miss Darling caused the serviceman to break a date made previously with her.

Oh how that must have frustrated Lane…supper all picked out and some other lady walked off with it.

When Miss Darling denied the allegation, the story went on, Miss Babra attacked. They had to be separated by police hastily summoned to the scene. Four officers were needed to subdue and hold Miss Babra. Miss Darling suffered severe bite wounds to one ear and scratches on the face, but “the familiar habitue of the nightclub scene is reported to be in satisfactory condition at County General Hospital.”

Garreth eyed the last sentence, ticking his tongue against his teeth. He sensed a sly innuendo, something readers of the time no doubt understood, but which eluded him, two generations removed. He studied the photograph: the four officers straining to hold Lane, obviously surprised by her strength; Lane ablaze with fury; and the Darling woman, showing what the photographer must have considered a highly satisfactory amount of leg as she crouched dazed and bleeding on the floor.

The bare leg caught Garreth’s attention, but the rest of the woman held it. Even with the differences in hairstyle and fashions, he recognized what she wore as just a bit flashier, shorter, and tighter than the dresses on the women in the background. Now he recognized what the reporter meant: hooker. Higher class than a street walker. Today she would call herself an “escort.”

That was a break. Being in the life, she must have been busted a few times, and that meant a record of her: names, addresses, companions.

But for that he needed access to Records. Which, unfortunately, meant going to the Hall of Justice and walking into the lion’s den.