Part 1 (1/2)

Art in the Blood.

by P.N. Elrod.

Chapter One.

HUNGRY AND CARELESS, I'd opened the vein more than necessary and the blood slipped past my mouth and dribbled down the animal's leg. I s.h.i.+fted my right hand above the wound and applied pressure, which slowed the flow, and continued with my meal, siphoning off more than usual because I'd been on short rations the last few nights. I drank my fill and more, the excess partly due to curiosity; I wanted to know if I'd swell up like a leech or if I could get away with fewer feedings per week.

The cow didn't mind, she could afford to spare a quart or more-there'd just be that much less to spill out when they finally slaughtered her for someone else's dinner.

I drew away, a handkerchief immediately at my lips so as not to spot my clothes, and tightened the pressure on the leg. It worked, and the bleeding eventually stopped. My hand looked the same, at least-no puffiness there. I wondered how long it would take for the red to fade from my eyes. The usual time was only a few minutes, but there was no way to tell. These days I preferred to avoid useless mirrors and their many complications.

To spare my shoes from farmyard-style damage, I went incorporeal to get out and flowed past the wood corrals and their complaining occupants. It was a disorienting state, but I knew the route well and was soon back on the open street again, doing my best imitation of a normal man out for a walk. My car was parked less than a block away, but I always varied my route into and out of the Stockyards. Few people believed in vampires these days, but it never hurt to be careful.

The first aid to the cow had stained my fingers somewhat, so I took a swing past Escott's office with a mind to borrow his washroom. His lights were on, which surprised me, for only yesterday he'd mentioned a dearth of business. I didn't feel like his company just then and kept walking, but silently wished him luck as I pa.s.sed. He detested being idle. A dripping tap in an alley down the street provided all the cleanup I needed, and I tossed the stained handkerchief into a trash can.

Escott's laundry service, which I shared now, had once asked if his houseguest suffered from frequent nosebleeds.

The car started up without fuss and I drove aimlessly, turning when the mood struck me and obeying the stop signals like a good citizen. I pulled up and parked near the Night-crawler Club up on the north side and pretended it was only an impulse that took me there, and not some inner need.

They had a new man out front. He looked askance at my ordinary clothes, but let me in when I asked to see Gordy. The hatcheck girl was not new, I rarely forget dimples, but she didn't know me from whosis, and put my plain gray fedora next to the flas.h.i.+er silk toppers with a friendly if impersonal smile.

I knew the place had been raided by the cops at least once since my last visit, and Gordy had taken the temporary shutdown as an opportunity to redecorate. The walls were bright with fresh paint, and the tables, chairs, and bandstand were now s.h.i.+ny black with gleaming chrome trim. The only thing unchanged were the costumes on the girls, which remained black with silver-sequined spiderwebs patterned on the happily short skirts. The leggy details were enough to keep me occupied until Gordy showed up.

He was puzzled to see me, maybe slightly wary as well, but when I stuck my hand out he took it. He was a big mountain of a man with a solid, but not crus.h.i.+ng grip.

He had no need to prove his strength against anyone, taking it for granted people could figure it out for themselves.

” 'Lo, Fleming, what's up?”

”This and that. Got a quieter place than here?” I gestured at the band across the dance floor below. They were just starting off another tune for the patrons.

He nodded, not one for much wordage, and led the way through a door marked Private. The soundproofing did its job and we were in the casino room, up to our eyeb.a.l.l.s in stale smoke and the tight atmosphere of prolonged tension. Gordy nodded to a couple of tough boys in tuxedos guarding the money cage and threaded through the c.r.a.ps and roulette tables to the back exit. We took a short hall and some stairs up to an office I remembered very well. The redecorating had gotten this far with a new rug, paint, and paintings. His deceased boss's boats had been replaced by green- and-brown pastorals. A canvas depicting a lush forest covered a section of the wall where six slugs from a .38 had embedded themselves one memorable night.

”Nice picture, huh?” he said, noticing my interest. There was a very slight humor coming from his eyes. ”I like to look at it.”

”That's what they're there for.” I noticed it was not an ordinary store-bought print, but a real oil with a decent frame.

”Yeah.”

He pointed at a deep leather chair and settled into a wide matching sofa, taking up most of it. He wasn't fat, just big, and I knew from experience he could move fast and light when he wanted to; the present slowness was all pan of his camouflage. Large men were supposed to be slow and stupid, so Gordy cultivated that image and thus kept a lot of people off balance. In his business an edge always came in handy.

”Want anything?” he asked, meaning refreshments.

I shook my head and with some caution removed my dark gla.s.ses. From his reaction I could tell my eyes were still quite red from the feeding.

”You look like you had a h.e.l.l of a weekend.”

”I did.”

”You're not the social type; Fleming, at least for places like this and mugs like me.

You got a problem?”

”Yeah.”

He apparently recalled the last time he'd seen my bloodied eyes. ”Trouble with Bobbi?”

”No.”

”Another woman?”

I couldn't tell if he was being perceptive like Escott or if it was simply the next logical question for him to ask. ”Yeah, you could say that.”

”What kind of trouble?”

”I killed her.”

The news didn't exactly send him into a panic. ”You need protection, a cleanup job?”

”No, nothing like that.”

He had one of those phlegmatic faces under his short-cropped blond hair, great for poker or making people sweat. ”You need to talk about it?”

My instinct to come see him had been right, and I nodded, inwardly relieved.

”So talk,” he said. He wasn't the soul of encouragement, but he settled back into the depths of the sofa to listen. I gave him a short version of how I'd killed the young woman and why I'd done it, just stating bald facts and not bothering with any defense. During the story he stared at yet another painting above and behind his desk, his eyes hardly blinking the whole time.

”I'm sure Charles knows about it, but he hasn't said anything. I don't think he ever will.”

”Smart guy, then,” he approved. ”What about Barrett?””He apparently took the suicide at face value.”

”He probably wants to. How are you taking it?”

” I feel like...” But I couldn't finish. I couldn't put words to what I was feeling.

He raised a hand to call off the question and tried another. ”You remember the war?”

”I was in it.”

This confused him, since I didn't look old enough, but he continued. ”You fight?

You have to kill?”

”Yeah, I see what you're getting at. This was different.”

” Why? Because it was a woman and in a nice house and not out in a field of mud with the noise and cold? She was killing people. You had to stop her. What's the problem?”