Never Cross A Vampire

CHAPTER SIX

The list was short with no phone numbers and no home addresses, only businesses:

Bedelia Sue Frye, Personality Plus Beauty School, in Tarzana.

Wilson Wong, New Moon Cantonese Restaurant, on Seventh Street in Los Angeles.

Simon Derrida, The Red Herring, in Glendale.

Clinton Hill, Hill and Haley Contractors, Beverly Hills.

It was a pretty broad geographical and social spread. Since it was Sunday, there was a good chance I’d catch none of them at work. On the other hand, I had three and a half hours before I picked up Nate and Dave. Wilson Wong was the closest and, since restaurants are open on Sunday, the most likely to be at his address. The sun had warmed up the day and my disposition. Doing my Alan Ladd act on Billings had also done wonders for my ego. It’s not everyone who can threaten a short, fat, helpless would-be vampire in a dental chair.

The New Moon had its own parking lot, with eight cars in it. The restaurant itself had a wooden faзade painted red and designed in late Charlie Chan. The inside was dark and filled with whispering customers having a late lunch.

A skinny Chinese guy with a small, polite smile came up to me.

“How many in your party?” he said.

“None,” I answered, trying to look tough. The image of Alan Ladd was still with me. “I want to see Wilson Wong. Business. Private.”

“Certainly,” said the waiter, who motioned me to follow and made his way between tables. I followed him to a door down a corridor past the men’s and women’s rooms. He knocked and paused.

“You like football?” said the waiter while we waited and he knocked again.

I told him I did. “That’s a trouble living in California,” he confided. “No good pro football. You think the Bears will clobber the All-Stars?”

“No,” I said, “with Baugh at quarterback, the Bears will be lucky to win.”

“Maybe so,” he said doubtfully as the door opened to reveal Wilson Wong, who wore a dark business suit and tie and a surprised look.

The two men exchanged words in Chinese and Wong turned to me as the waiter left.

“Please come in, Mr. Peters,” he said. “It is Peters, isn’t it?”

“Right,” I said as he closed the door behind us.

It was less an office than a library. Three walls were filled with books. If there was a window, it was covered by books. A firm reading chair stood in one corner with a light over it, and a desk stood off to the right with neat piles of notes. Wong offered me a chair and I sat down. He joined me, passing up the reading chair so we’d be at the same level of comfort or lack of it.

In the basement of the theater two nights earlier, Wilson Wong had appeared the energetic gadfly. In his office, he looked anything but. “It was my belief that our real names were to be kept secret,” he said, “but I am not surprised. Mr. Billings is not the most discreet of souls. Can I offer you some coffee, tea?”

“Tea,” I said, thinking it appropriate for the setting.

Wong went to his telephone, pressed a button, and said something in Chinese. I assumed he was ordering tea or my assassination, depending on whether I had come to the right or wrong suspect. He settled himself back in his chair and looked at me with curiosity.

“Now,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“The easiest thing is for me to tell you the story and you to give me some answers,” I said. He thought that would be fine so I got comfortable, meaning I let my sore leg hang free, and told him the Lugosi tale and my part in it. He listened, nodded, and paused only to answer the knock at his door and the delivery of tea on a dark tray. He put the tray on the desk and poured us both cups of tea.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you greatly, Mr. Peters,” he said. “Unless your visit convinces you to eliminate me from your list of suspects, thus simplifying your task.”

“That’s one way,” I said. “Now can you convince me that you have no reason to give Lugosi a bad time?” “Rather easily, I think,” said Wong with a smile. “I have almost no interest at all in Mr. Lugosi If you look around at my shelves, you will discover two kinds of books in both English and Chinese. Many of my books are sociological in nature. Some are historical and quite a few are on the occult. Although this business is mine through inheritance and is one in which I take deep familial pride, my primary interest is in the exploration of social groups, cults if you will, that use the occult as a focal point. While I do not display it prominently as a matter of pride, I hold a Ph.D. degree in sociology from the University of Southern California and I do some teaching at the university. I have also written two books on the subject we have been discussing for the University of California Press.”

“Then you have no real interest in…”

“No,” he finished for me. “The group itself is somewhat interesting but I’ve gathered about as much from them as I care to, and I have been contemplating removing myself from their midst, though it is difficult, considering the small membership. One develops a certain affection and understanding.”

“Los Angeles must be a pretty good area for your work,” I said, draining my tea cup and getting a refill. “It is, indeed,” said Wong. “I think that is one of the reasons I concentrated on this specialization. I would be foolish to attempt to study the social life of the Eskimo with a base in Los Angeles.”

“I see your point,” I said. “Can you give me any suggestions or ideas about who might be the one in this group I’m looking for? What I know of vampires comes from some movies and reading Dracula when I was about twenty.”

Wong got up and walked to his desk with a sigh, looking for something.

“Like so many of the lower-California groups,” he said, “this one consists of individuals who are particularly ignorant of that in which they profess to be most interested, leading one to conclude that they are committed not to a belief in vampires and vampire lore but to role-playing and dressing-up. For example, no member of the Dark Knights is at all aware of the Aztec rituals that took place in this very area hundreds of years ago, rituals that are more closely allied to vampirism and its meaning than that of Dracula. The Aztecs regularly sacrificed young women and children and consumed their blood and bodies in the belief that this would prolong their own lives. “The Chinese vampire,” he continued, still searching for something on his desk, “is far more frightening than the Transylvanian vampire or Oupire. The body of the vampire in China is said to be covered with greenish white hair and to have long claws and glowing eyes. Chinese vampires can fly without turning into animals. To prevent a corpse from becoming a vampire, animals-particularly cats-must be kept away from the body, and the rays of the sun or moon must not touch it or the corpse may receive Yang Cor and be able to rise and prey on others.”

“Fascinating,” I said, shifting the weight on my leg.

“But you are interested in the group,” he said, “and not in being a vampire historian. My assessment from past experience suggests that the short thin man with the New York accent is not a believer either-though, I confess, I do not know what he is trying to gain from the group. He is certainly no scholar. Ah, here it is.”

Wong pulled out a sheet from a pile before him.

“I wrote some notes on the members and planned to do a bit of follow-up, but not really very much,” he said. “Getting the names was no great problem, though I do not plan to use them in my writing. However, I thought some background on each might be useful. If you do gather such information that might be helpful and if it does not violate your ethical code, I would be glad to pay a research fee.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “I’m not sure what my ethical code is on this thing. What about the woman?”

“Yes,” said Wong, looking at his sheet. “Bedelia Sue Frye. In some ways a very interesting example, totally within the role, totally the vampire during the meetings, never a break or flaw, but the vampire she portrays is not one of historical significance or myth but one of movies. A definite possibility for you, Mr. Peters.”

“Hill?” I said, referring to the tall guy who had said nothing.

“A voyeur, I would guess,” said Wong. “Respectable by day. Likes to do something dangerous, but not too dangerous. He needs to have a secret. He is never comfortable engaging in any of the rather juvenile rituals, but he clearly gets satisfaction from watching. A possibility for you, Mr. Peters.”

“And Billings,” I said.

“A sad man unable to sustain his fantasy within his body and abilities. A sad man. But that is an observation from outside. I view his state as sad. I have difficulty knowing how he perceives his own state.”

“Well, Mr. Wong,” I said, getting up on my incredibly stiff leg. “You’ve been a big help.”

He walked over and extended his hand.

“Then I take it I am no longer a suspect?” he said.

“You’re still a suspect,” I said. “The only way to get off my list is to become a victim, and I’ll still be suspicious.”

Wong laughed.

“Academic research lost a good man when you decided to become a detective,” he said.

“I didn’t decide,” I said, following him to the door. “It just happened.”

Wong walked at my side through the restaurant and out the front door.

“If I can be of further assistance,” he said, “please feel free to return.”

I thanked him and turned. The parking lot was not quite as full as it had been, and there was no one in sight when I reached my car door. The sky suddenly went dark or a shadow went over the sun. At least that was my impression. I looked up to see which it was. What I saw should have moved me into action, but it didn’t. It simply froze me on the spot. On top of my Buick stood a caped figure in black. The sun was directly behind it so I could see no features. It leaped at me, swinging some object in its hand. My body finally reacted, dropped flat, and rolled away, taking only part of the blow from the object on my retreating head. The dark figure turned to try again, and I covered my face and head with my arm as I rolled away on the gravel parking lot.

“Nosferatu,” came Wilson Wong’s familiar voice, and the black-caped figure turned to face him. The guy in the cape swung his shiny club at the Chinese professor, who dropped to the ground and threw a well-timed kick at the back of the leg of our daylight vampire. The guy lost his balance and his club, righted himself before he hit the grave and ran out into the street with billowing cape.

“Are you all right Mr. Peters?” Wong said, sitting up, his suit a mess.

“I think so,” I replied, joining him and touching my bleeding scalp. “Was that judo?”

“No,” said Wong, helping me up. “I was on the wrestling team at USC. A simple leg drop. But the years have eluded me. I was lucky. We’d best get you to a doctor.” I touched my head, trying to assess the degree of damage from years of experience. Koko the Clown was perched on my shoulder, ready to take me into the inkwell if I passed out, but I silently told him he’d have to wait, that we’d play some other time.

“I think I’ll be all right,” I said. “I just need some water and a bandage and a place to clean up a little.”

Wong led me back through the restaurant, past now-curious customers, and helped me clean up. The waiter gave us a hand and found some cloth for a bandage. A shot of something alcoholic offered by one of them sent a bolt through me, threatened nausea, and then gave me the power to move.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Whoever that was, he lacked true style,” Wong said.

“But he was effective,” I added.

“Yes,” said Wong. “It appears as if Mr. Lugosi is in some danger.”

I made it back to my car without further problems, fished my.38 and holster out, and clutched them to my bosom. A sudden chill ran through me, and I turned quickly, thinking someone was breathing down my back from the rear seat. It was empty. I locked the doors and eased into the street, looking for dark Fords and darker strangers.

I made it back to the theater by 4:30. Nate was eating Jujubees and David was wiping tears from his eyes.

“Hi, kids, how was the show?”

“Great,” said Nate, scrambling into the back seat.

“I got scared,” said Dave, moving next to me, “and Nate the Great wouldn’t take me out.”

Nate reached over to hit his brother on the head.

“Cut it out,” I said. “If you guys want to do this again with me, cut it out. Okay?”

“Okay,” they agreed.

Dave wiped tears from his red face and looked at my bandaged head with curiosity.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“Nazis,” I said. “I had to kill them.”

“How many?” Dave said, with his mouth open.

“Thirty-one,” I said.

“He’s kidding you, dope,” Nate said from the back seat, popping a handful of candy in his mouth and turning to watch a fire engine through the rear window.

I got them back home at five and Ruth greeted us at the door. “Baby’s taking a nap,” she said. “I’m just starting dinner. How was Dumbo?”

“Terrific,” said Nate. “It scared Dave.”

“The part where the zombies…” he began, and I cut in.

“The part where Dumbo’s mother dies,” I said. “Right, Dave?”

Dave nodded glumly.

“What happened to you?” Ruth said, looking at me up close. My bandage was high on my head, and my final suit was only partly presentable after a roll in the gravel.

“Near riot at the show,” I explained. “Kids trampled me in the rush for tickets.”

“Trampled right on his head,” Nate confirmed. “I saw it.”

Ruth didn’t know what to believe.

“Staying for dinner?” she asked. “Tuna on noodles.”

“Phil home for dinner?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I think I’ll skip it,” I said. “I’ve got some work to do.”

I was almost to the car when I heard her say, “Toby, take care of yourself.” There was real concern in her voice, and I turned to look at her, wondering whether she saw me the way Wilson Wong saw Sam Billings. It was depressing.

I should have headed home to nurse my aches and see whether there were messages from my midget and giant investigators, but Ruth’s words had cut deep. My response, I knew, would be to push harder, to prove I could take care of myself and come out on top, which I was not at all sure I could prove.

My car and body knew where I was going without being told by my brain. The car took me from the valley down Laurel Canyon and headed toward Sherman Oaks and beyond to Tarzana. There was about as much chance that a beauty school would be open on Sunday night as there was that Japan would launch its attack on California in the morning. But I couldn’t face going back to the boarding house. I would have tried my ex-wife Anne but didn’t have the energy to talk my way into her apartment for a flash of sympathy and a firm goodbye, which would have been more discouraging than nothing at all. I found a parking space with no trouble and looked west to see the sun going down. Night would be here soon, and other peoples’ vampires would rise. My vampire paid no attention to such fineries as tradition. His trade tool was a tire iron and a good surprise.

Personality Plus was on the second floor of an ordinary neighborhood office building. It was open. The reception area had a counter behind which were shelves of bottles of hair products-hair conditioner, shampoos, mostly green with bubbles in them. A cardboard ad for Breck shampoo was displayed prominently on the counter. The carpet was marine blue and green, long-wearing but with no depth. Large color photographs, some of them badly faded, featured what were meant to be the latest hairdos, but the quality of the pictures led me to believe that they were probably a few years old.

There was a lot of traffic, women sitting in chairs waiting, some of them with children. I walked to the counter, behind which stood a youngish man wearing barber white. Behind him in a room with a lot of talk sat various women with white gook in their hair or wet red nails held out in front of them to dry.

“Can I help you?” said the young dark man.

I had expected a little mincing or a fey wrist, but he gave none and was all business. “Are you always busy like this on Sunday night?” I said.

“Many of our customers work in defense plants,” he explained. “We keep special war hours. Sunday is one of our busiest days. We’re open till ten. Can I help you?”

“Bedelia Sue Frye,” I said. “I’d like to see her. It’s important. Is she a student here?”

“Miss Frye is the director of the school,” he said, looking beyond me to see how the customers were taking me. I looked as if I were in search of an emergency room instead of a beauty operator. On second thought, maybe I could use a little cosmetic help to put me in presentable condition.

“Terrific,” I said. “Now can I see her? Tell her it’s in connection with the Dark Knights. She’ll see me.”

“The dark nights?” he said incredulously.

“You’ve got it,” I said. He left me to face the gathered waiting women and children. A few looked at me. Most kept their noses in their magazines.

The young dark man came back and asked me to follow him. I went around the counter and down a hallway, where we met a trio of white-clad young women, each carrying a human head in her hands. The young man didn’t stop, and the women passed close enough for me to see that the heads were mannequins with hair done up in curlers. The deeper we went into the place, the stronger the smell, a sickly, almost sweet smell something like vinegar, but not quite.

“Through there,” said my guide, pointing to a room. “Miss Frye will be with you in a minute.”

I went through there and found myself in a white, bright office with a window showing out into a long room lined with chairs in which women were sitting having their scalps, hair, faces, and anatomies worked on, plastered, baked, and threatened by an ant colony of instructors and teachers. Even in the relatively thick-walled office I could make out the rumble of sound from the big room beyond. While I watched, a blonde woman in white strode down the aisle that separated the two rows of chairs. She was stopped every few feet by a student or customer with a question, a problem, or a crisis. Gradually, she made her way toward the room I was in. As she came closer, looking directly at me, I could see that she was somewhere in her thirties, built like Veronica Lake, and possessed of a white, gleaming smile that would have looked great in a Teal commercial. She opened the door, letting in the vibration of voices, and closed it again behind her.

“Yes, Mr. Peters?” she said.

“How did you know my name?” I said, leaning back against the small desk. “I didn’t give it to Wilhelm.”

“His name is Walter,” she said, “and we met Friday. You wanted to talk to me?” She moved over to the desk, reached for a cigarette in a silver box, changed her mind, and looked at me with a smile and folded arms.

“I’m trying to stop,” she said, crinkling her nose.

“You’re Bedelia Sue Frye?” I said.

“I’m Bedelia Sue Frye,” she said mockingly.

I looked at her for an incredible few seconds while her amusement grew. The height was right, but that was about it. This woman was a natural blonde with a healthy complexion and very little makeup. Her smile was as good as the sun, and she stood straight and was full of bouncing energy.

“The same one who’s a member of the Dark Knights of Transylvania?” I said.

“The same,” she said, holding up her right hand. “Honest. It’s like a release for me. I dress up for the meetings, put on a wig, change my face, do a little acting. I’m under a lot of pressure here,” she said with a shrug, “and at one time I had thoughts of going into movies. Actually got a few small roles and then I got into this.” Her hand swept the room broadly and took in the outside. “None of my staff knows about the Dark Knights, and I was under the impression that no one would find out.”

“I’m a private detective,” I explained. “I was with Bela Lugosi Friday because he’s had some threatening letters, phone calls, other things, and we have some good reasons to believe that one of the Dark Knights is responsible for the threats and that things may get worse.”

“That accounts for the way you look?” she said, finally unable to resist the cigarette, which she took quickly.

“I think so,” I said, reaching up to try my scalp.

“So,” she said, “what can I do for you?” Her will power returned and she put down the cigarette.

“Putting it straight,” I said, looking into her blue eyes, “I’m here to find out if you’re the one who might be responsible for the threats on my client.”

“Me?” she said, returning my look. “Why would I want to… that’s ridiculous. I don’t even believe in any of that stuff. And I don’t care one way or the other about his movies. He looked to me like a tired old man. Anyone who would give him a hard time has to be an all-out looney, which I am not. Say, listen, I’d like to keep talking. I really would, but things are going crazy out there.”

“Maybe we could get together some time,” I said. “I mean get together and talk about the Dark Knights and Lugosi.”

Her smile was broad and direct.

“That might be nice,” she said. I reached into my pocket, got my wallet, and found my card. I grabbed a pencil from the desk and wrote my home address and the number of the phone in the hall of the boarding house. “I’ll give you a call.”

She took the card, looked at it, tapped it with her long fingers, and tucked it in the clean pocket of her blouse over her heart. Things were never what they seemed, I thought, as she went back through the door and into the colony.

I made my way out, wondering what Wilson Wong would make of his prime suspect if he had been with me. I also realized that of the five members of the Dark Knights at least two claimed to have no commitment at all to vampirism. Back outside in the darkness, I made up my mind to wrap up both the Lugosi and the Faulkner cases as quickly as possible and investigate possibilities with Bedelia Sue Frye. I was not so twitter-patted, however, that I didn’t watch my back and front as I went back to my car with my hand near my jacket and gun. I unlocked the car, checked the back seat, locked the door behind me, and headed home.

Home is where you go, and they have to take you in if you pay your rent and cause as little trouble as possible.

Back on Heliotrope, I found a message from Jeremy Butler saying the day had been uneventful, and I found an excited Gunther Wherthman, whose excitement waned when he saw me.

“I was attacked by a vampire,” I said.

“Yes,” said Gunther, following me into my room where I checked the corners and closet and locked the door behind us. “I too have something of singular import perhaps to report.”

“Shoot,” I said, moving to turn on my hot plate and searching for a can of pork and beans on my shelf. “Join me?” I said, holding up the can. “No, thank you,” said Gunther politely, brushing back a wisp of hair. “I have already eaten. May I…”

“Sorry, Gunther,” I said, opening the can. “It’s been a long hard lifetime.”

“Mrs. Shatzkin went out twice today,” he said. “Once she was driven by her chauffeur and went to the office of her husband. They remained in the office for no more than ten minutes. When they came out, the chauffeur was carrying a small cardboard box which seemed to contain odds and ends brimming over.”

“Right,” I said, finding a pot and filling it with pork and beans on the hot plate.

“It appeared to me to be of no singular import,” said Gunther, “but I leave that to you. The second outing by Mrs. Shatzkin proved to be of greater potential interest, I think. Late in the afternoon she drove herself in a second car down various streets. I had the impression she was trying to see if someone was following her, but she was not very good at it. Her patterns of driving were most predictable and I let her drive around in recurring rectangles, picking her up at key points. It required some guessing, but my calculations proved to be correct.”

“Good work, Gunther,” I said, dropping a glob of butter into the boiling pot of beans.

“Toby,” he said, “I was not giving my investigative mode to solicit approval, but to make clear that she did not know I followed.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, turning to him.

“Yes,” said Gunther. “Well, she came finally to an apartment building in Culver City and entered. I followed after I was sure she was in and took down the names on all the boxes. There were six. By watching the windows from outside, I did manage to see her pass once or twice from the street side. The apartment was thus determined, and, I am sorry to say, it was the one with no name on the mailbox or bell. However, it was evident that she was not alone in the room. There was assuredly the figure of a man, and though I could not be certain, perhaps because my imagination was at this point engaged, I thought I saw what could at one point be interpreted as an amorous embrace. She remained inside for almost one hour and fifty minutes, emerged, looked around, and drove directly back to her home in Bel Air.”

“The plot sickens,” I said, moving to the table and eating directly from the pot with a large spoon and three slices of bread. “And?” he said.

“I’ll investigate in the morning. Gunther, thanks.”

“I found it stimulating,” he said. “Please call upon me if you need further help.”

I told him I would and he left. After finishing my dinner, I checked my wet suit. It was drying reasonably well and might be ready by morning.

It was a little after eight on my Beech-Nut clock. While I got out of my clothes, I listened to the end of “Inner Sanctum.” In bed, I heard Jack Benny and flexed my knee. It was working with some reluctance. I forced myself to exercise-push-ups, sit-ups, and panting. The knee would keep me out of the YMCA for a while, and I needed exercise as much to convince myself that I had an able body as to use that body.

I mixed myself a glass of milk with Horlicks, gulped it down, brushed my teeth, and got into bed with the lights out. I thought I’d rest for an hour or two, plan out the next day, Monday, and then get up and read a mystery. The rest turned to sleep, and I went out firmly except for one roll to my left that sent an icicle into my head wound.

The sound at the door was a scratch, and I couldn’t tell whether the door was in my dream and the scratch outside or the reverse or neither. I struggled toward wakefulness, but it was one of those times when the weary flesh didn’t want to respond to the need. I came out of it and sat up groggily. The scratch was still at my door.

“Just a second,” I said, turning on the light and checking the clock. It was just after midnight. Gunther was probably suffering from his chronic insomnia and checking to see whether I was up for some talk or coffee, but I didn’t take any chances. I got my gun and said, “Who is it?”

“Me, Bedelia,” came the whispered answer. The voice was different from the one I had heard hours earlier in the Personality Plus Beauty School. I turned off the light, thought about putting on something besides my shorts, and decided there was no time. I stood to the side of the door with my gun ready and pushed it open into the room. From the light in the hall I could see the female figure silhouetted clearly. She was unarmed.

She stepped into the room, and I flicked on the light and closed the door. This wasn’t the Bedelia Sue Frye I had met in Tarzana. This was the woman of the Dark Knights of Transylvania, the dark-haired, pale-faced creature slouching slightly, her voice a whisper, her smile a secret, a weary secret. She looked at my gun and let her eyes scan my body with a combination of amusement and approval. She was wearing something made of a red silklike material that hung straight down over her shoulders.

“You wanted to see me?” she said.

“Game time?” I said, looking closely at her. I couldn’t be sure that this was the same woman, but it had to be.

“This is no game,” she said seriously, moving to my one semicomfortable chair and looking at the room.

I put my.38 on a corner of the table opposite her, where I could get to it first if I had to, and scratched my head, being careful to avoid my bump.

“Look,” I said, “things are going from bad to strange with me, and it’d make my life easier if you’d come out of character and tell me what’s up.”

“Up,” she said with a smile, looking at my underpants. “You are.”

I was. I sat down at my kitchen table and crossed my legs.

“Okay,” I sighed, trapped in my own castle. “What’s going on?” “You wanted to see me,” she said.

“I saw you this evening,” I said.

“That was not the real me you saw,” she said, looking at my mattress. “This is.”

“Terrific,” I said. “You really mean this, don’t you? Or are you going to suddenly come out of it and start laughing when my pants come down.”

“You can be amusing,” she said, rising and taking a step toward me.

“Like a fly amuses a spider,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said, with a pout.

My eyes went to the gun and back to her as she advanced on me. I didn’t want to stand up, but I didn’t know what was on her mind.

“Lady,” I said, “I think you are a little screwy.”

She sat on the table, a cat smile on her lips, and touched my face. I looked at her and wondered whether I was having a nightmare or a fantasy. She inched forward off the table like a cat and sat in my lap. My body told me she wasn’t a fantasy.

“It is after midnight,” she whispered, “when the blood runs free, and passion rises with the full moon.”

“I don’t know what’s making the passion rise,” I answered, “and I don’t care. I’m not going to look a gift vampire in the mouth.”

She took a small nip at my neck, but not enough to draw blood. I hoped she was teasing. Actually, I didn’t know what the hell she was doing. My body told me to find out later. I tried to pick her up to carry her to my mattress-bed on the floor but my sore knee wouldn’t take the weight. Must everything turn into a bad joke with me, I thought, and an echo answered fraud. I rolled her on the floor and time went for a long walk.

When we got up half an hour later, her black wig was still in place and she put her red silk dress on slowly while I sat on the mattress. I considered the fact that she was now closer to the gun than I was and decided that if I was going to be shot it might as well be like this.

“Do you come out of it now?” I said.

“There is nothing to come out of,” she purred.

“Are you the one sending dead bats to Bela Lugosi?” I said.

She looked at me with a smirk. It was a comely smirk.

“He is old and tired and forgotten,” she said. “It is the present that intrigues me. It is fresh blood. Like you.”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping she hadn’t drawn blood from me without my knowing it. I resisted the temptation to examine my body. “I know where I’ve seen you before,” I said. “You look just like the vampire girl in Mark of the Vampire.”

She smiled knowingly, moving to the comfortable chair.

“You know the one,” I said, watching her face. “The one where Lugosi and the girl turn out to be fake vampires.”

A sharp look crossed her face, and she stood pointing her finger at me.

“You have been given much and yet you mock,” she said, walking to the door.

“Shall we make it same time next Halloween?” I said, still trying to shake her out of character, but it was no go.

“Perhaps we will meet again,” she said and went out the door.

I got up and followed her to be sure she was gone. She was. I had been truly vamped, seduced, and abandoned by a wacko of the first order. It had been great fun, but it was just one of those things. I didn’t think I’d be calling Bedelia Sue Frye for further talks unless I had some reason to think she was my harasser instead of the neighborhood schizophrenic.

I put a chair under the doorknob, left the light on, and went back to bed with my gun at my side. The year was young, and I had two more Dark Knights to visit. I wanted to be alive to visit them.