"The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" Chapter 3 - Regret (Urban Fantasy)

This is the next bit in our still-as-yet-unnamed saga. If you want more information than that, you'll need to check out the first two chapters. I am still interested in anyone else's idea for a better title. All suggestions are welcome!

Let me know what you think; I genuinely do enjoy hearing from you readers!



Chapter Three – Regret

I left the cab, pulled up my collar to keep the rain off my neck. If serendipity provided, Mari might already be here. The city’s semi-famous shopping district, with its bookstores and cafes, coffee shops and boutiques, was one of her favorite haunts. She read every word she could get her hands on and loved to sit and watch the passersby on the sidewalks. Her passion for watching and reading was matched only by her love of coffee; it was as if she lived on it. Fact is she might actually be living on it. I could never be sure. In so many ways we were exactly alike, except for that one thing.

I passed the fountain in the center of the square, pockmarked with precipitation. I thought about dropping a coin while making a wish, but I didn’t know what to wish for. Besides, those things rarely came true.

Hidden speakers played jazz near Banagon’s side door, something from the Blue Note catalog, perhaps. I slipped inside; Dean was behind the counter. He apologized, explaining that Charlie had been called away. I asked where he was.

“Off to see a manuscript, he said! I’m sorry!”

He didn’t seem to be lying and I didn’t press him.

“I’m going over to Brew Mountain. Can I get you anything?” I asked. It also paid to be polite to bookstore employees. You never knew what they knew.

“Why thank you! But no, sir, I picked up a chai latte earlier!”

“Okay. When Charlie comes back, tell him Martin Black stopped by.”

“Happy to, Mr. Black! Is there a message?”

“That should do it.”

Urban Fantasy - "The Wyrd Magnet/Meet Martin Black" - Chapters 1 and 2

About a year or so ago, I posted a much earlier version of this. I wasn't happy with it, and even a couple of (very tolerant) friends of mine critiqued the bejeezus out of it. I decided to overhaul much of it, and try it out again.

This is not part of the Heroes... universe; it stands in an urban fantasy world of its own. I'm interested in your thoughts on the first two chapters - both of which are posted here.

Furthermore, this will fall somewhere between novella and short novel length. I've bounced a few names around, but haven't decided on one. So far, I've gone with "The Wyrd Magnet" and "Meet Martin Black." Like one? Have a better one? I'm interested in your thoughts, your criticism, and quite possibly your title idea.

Feel free to post your comments below. If you want, I'm also happy to take your thoughts via Twitter, Facebook, or email.

Beware... there are some adult ideas below, and a smattering of naughty words. It's also got a bit of a post-'80s vibe, and that may be even more frightening...

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Chapter 1 – Sub-Culture

Rain spattered the windshield as my cab driver pulled up into the garish light of Club Houngan, the city’s momentary it-spot. A Wednesday-night crowd snaked around the corner; the vanguard shuffled impatiently under the canopy protecting the velvet rope. Friday or Saturday lines would reach another block or two. The cab eased alongside a row of limousines, and the driver slammed the shifter into park.

“Thirty-one forty,” he said, turning down the pounding tech-metal music. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your forty cents.”

“Keep it.” A pair of twenties – a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed him, I’d get him.

He thanked me and thumbed the button to unlock the doors. I glanced through rain-dappled glass at the red and white light reflected on the pavement. Atop the three-story building shone the gaudy neon image of a smiling voodoo priest. Charmless, it looked as threatening as a fast food sign. I pushed open the door, jogged past the limos and their lurking drivers and went straight to the canopy. The damp patrons not yet close enough to the front, those sheltered under umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines, glared as I pushed forward. Two bouncers, eyes like gun turrets atop the walls of their bodies, turned to watch me approach. I squeezed between the velvet rope and a scrum of young females.

I’d buffed and shined myself the best I could; I’d shaved, shampooed, styled, and suited up in my finest. Even with that, I was a decade beyond the club’s freshness date.

“Back of the line, chief,” the nearest wall rumbled.

“I’m Martin Black.”

He didn’t quite blink; he also didn’t bother to check his clipboard.

“Yes, sir, I’ve been told to send you in.”

The Wyrd Magnet - Chapter Two - "Let's Go"

This is a work-in-progress. Feel free to leave any comments and/or feedback you want. Don't worry about hurting my feelings; my skin is thick, and I really do appreciate it.

Thank you!


Ray told the bartender to call a cab while he wrote the check. I assured my ex-classmate that I’d call him as soon as I had any information. He walked me back to the front entrance and dug two twenties out of the register. I saw a worried look cross the sunny redhead’s face.
“It’s an advance on my pay,” I told her. I didn’t want her to think she’d done anything wrong. Ray, with a little less subtlety, told her that if I was to come through the door, I was to come right in – no cover charge. I got a bigger smile from her then. To my slight surprise, Ray walked down the steps to the door and spoke to one of the bouncers. When the bouncer glanced up at me, I waved. I’d just been given the way around the velvet rope. Ray and I shook hands as he passed, and once again I assured him I’d keep in touch.

Guessing I had a few minutes before a cab arrived, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. I stored only nine numbers inside – only nine people I thought highly enough of to keep in memory. Well, actually, there were eight people. The ninth number didn’t ring a phone anywhere in this dimension, and I’d tried it only the one time.

Then there was her. She would have been the tenth, but she didn’t have any one number.
I called the first number in memory – Billy Sticks. It rang several times and went to voicemail. I left him a brief message to call me and flipped my phone shut. I thought a moment. Billy never went anywhere without his phone, unless he was on a spiritual jaunt of some sort. He was a dabbler in religion; he tried them on like some people tried on clothing. If I didn’t hear from him within a minute or two, he might be on a kibbutz or in a sweat lodge someplace.

“Mr. Black.” I glanced up. The bouncer at the door signaled to me. “Your cab is outside.”

I hurried down the stairs and thanked him as I went past. The light rain continued to fall. I jogged into the street toward the Yellow Cab idling there. The warmly glowing sign atop it informed me that Fiero Grill in Deville Square was the place to go for fine seafood. I climbed inside.

“Where to?”

Billy hadn’t responded yet. He still could, but if he didn’t, I might be able to find out where he was from his mother – and she refused to keep a phone. I could always change my destination.

“Sundown Park.”

“Seriously?” The driver turned to face me.

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I get a little up front?”

I handed him one of the twenties Ray had given me to replace the ones I’d already spent. Easy go, easy go.

The ride from Branscombe to the Park took fifteen minutes and a bite out of the other twenty. He took me inside, but informed me that he wouldn’t wait for me. I didn’t blame him; Sundown Park was one of the city’s nastiest, and some said dangerous, tenement projects. Billy Sticks’ mother lived there. She’d lived there for thirty years, and though he’d offered to move her several times, she refused to go. I’d even made the offer once, when I was flush. She told me that there were good people and bad people everywhere, and she couldn’t see the point of moving to an area where she didn’t know which was which.

I climbed up to her second story apartment and rapped on her door. Her hearing was as sharp as a teenager’s, so I didn’t have to yell to announce myself.

“Come in, Martin,” she said, flinging the door open.

“Thank you. How are you, Mama Stickley?” She insisted that all of her callers refer to her like that. She was an elegant old lady, one of the type I wish there was more of. Plus, for all the crap that I’d put Billy through, she never hated me. I often wondered how much she kept from her.

“Doing good,” she said. She closed the door. “Tea?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’d love some.” You didn’t refuse Mama – and you called her “ma’am.”

Her apartment was small. The kitchen, dining room, and living room all merged into each other. She entertained her guests at an antique table in the middle of the combined room. The TV wasn’t on; it never was when I had come by. Instead, a radio in the kitchen played something by an old gospel quartet. I took a seat at the table and waited for her to bring the tea. I didn’t offer to help. She’d refuse, and we’d spend several minutes arguing over how a hostess should treat her guests. I also knew better than to talk business until tea was served. Instead, she asked how I was doing. I responded with pleasant vagaries, and she replied with gentle commiseration.

“You looking for Billy, I assume,” she said, only after setting the tea tray on the table and pouring me a cup. I waited for her to sit and pour herself one. We both drank it hot and unadulterated.

“Yes, ma’am. I called him and haven’t heard back. Any idea where he is?”

“I have every idea,” she said, setting down her cup. “He’s at the church.”

“Which church?”

“Our church – Eternal Grace. Billy’s come to the church.”

“Billy’s come to Jesus?”

“Don’t be smart. I won’t have it.” Her voice was sharp, but mellowed quickly. “He’s always been with Jesus. Just that he and the Lord haven’t been too close lately. He decided it was time to get right.”

“Did something happen?”

“He heard the word, Martin. That’s all a person ever needs.” She didn’t answer the question I asked, and I knew she wouldn’t. If something bad had happened to cause his crisis-that-led-to-faith, she wasn’t going to share it with me. I could respect that.

“At your heart, Martin, you’re a decent man. That doesn’t mean I have to like what Billy does for you, or what he does for some other folks. I like it when you come around here, but I know you only come around when you’re looking for him. And you only look for him when you need him. What is it this time?”

“I’m not sure,” I lied to her. “Someone or something is stalking innocent victims of a new client. I thought if it got rough…” I didn’t need to finish. Mama knew how good her son was in a fight. Eight years in the marines had honed what a childhood in the Park had created.

“I’ll tell you truthfully: if you were to ask him for help now, he’d probably give it. But I hope you won’t. Billy could use more time with the Lord of Light, and less time with the little dukes of hell that seem to plague you. I won’t ask you, though. I’ll just tell you that if you need him, you just have to go to the church.”

“Eternal Grace?”

“That’s it. And between you and me, a little of that would do you a world of good, too.”

* * *

I finished my tea and left Mama Stickley’s apartment. The light rain refused to quit, spattering the ground as I began to walk out of Sundown Park. The cabs might drop off there, but they wouldn’t pick up.

I didn’t like lying to Mama, but in all the visits I’d made to her I’d not once heard her broach the subject of sex. I didn’t know if she was a prude, or simply didn’t like discussing it, but it made me decidedly uncomfortable. There was no way to discuss vampires without discussing sex.
Vampires, regardless of the type, are sexual creatures. They all drained life energy, but through different means – all of them invasive and intimate. There were some that would do it only during the sex act, and some that could steal it simply through a prolonged touch. In any case, the creature took something that belonged to someone else by force or coercion. Intimacy was their stock in trade. In some ways, vampires were little different than frat rats with pockets full of roofies or slick-mickeys. The difference – generally – was that vampires usually drained the victims completely, leaving only the empty corpse behind. It was a strange form of rape, followed by the standard form of murder.

Granted, I’d never run across a real vampire, or even knew of someone who had, but they showed up from time to time. CNN would run a story about a vampire being found in San Francisco, or Paris, or Capetown a couple of times a year. By and large, they were inhumanly strong, fast, and willing to do anything to remain hidden. But they died like anything else. All the bits about wooden stakes, garlic, and beheadings only referred to the ancient ones – vampyrs. One of my ex-friends, Astrid Sorenson, used to refer to them as vampyrus classicus. The last known vampyr was killed eighty-some years ago in New Orleans, though there were rumors that one had been hunted and killed in Kiev about fifteen years ago. But unless our local crime-labbers were complete idiots, they wouldn’t have failed to notice the complete lack of blood in the models’ bodies, and most likely, the rips and tears where their necks had been ripped open.

To find the vampire, I’d need to find his Judas goat – his agent. Based on everything I’d ever heard or read, vampires were traditionalists. They worked at night and needed someone to watch over them during the day. Since most of them didn’t look human, they also needed the goat to help find their prey. In that way, the goat acted as a sort of procurer and bodyguard both. In return, the goat usually received a bit of the vampire’s power. Even without their host, this made them extremely dangerous.

Hunting down a Judas goat was going to be no easy task, and almost impossible to do alone. I was going to need help for this. If Mama was right, and Billy had had his come-to-Jesus moment and wasn’t in the business anymore, I’d need to find someone else. Astrid wasn’t talking to me any longer, not since that mess in Birmingham. I could look for the Gilman brothers, but in all honesty, I genuinely hated them and often wished them dead. That’s not a smart thing to do when dealing with the undead. There was always her, but she hadn’t taken any of my calls during the last few weeks, and there was no way to know when she would again. I knew she eventually would; she always eventually did, but it would be on her schedule.

It took ten minutes to walk from Mama’s apartment to Lexington. I was fairly well drenched before I was able to flag down a Yellow. Like the other cab, the sign atop it spoke highly of Fiero Grill.

Deville Square. There was someone there I could call.

“Where to?” The black cabbie asked me, his Creole accent thick.

“Deville Square,” I told him, shaking the rain off onto his vinyl seat.

“Fiero Grill?”

“No. I can’t eat seafood,” I cheerfully lied. “It makes me break out in hives, gives me gas. Sends me to the hospital. Take me to the north side – Banagon’s Books.”

“Fair enough.” He punched a button on the meter and pulled into traffic. Tires hissed on the pavement as he shot the old Regal up to speed and aimed for the far left lane.

I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket, flipped it open, and dialed information. I got the number for the bookstore and waited as they connected me.

“Banagon’s Books! We Take Life One Page at a Time! My name’s Dean! How may I help you?”

“Charlie Townshend working today?”

“Yeah, he sure is! Do you need to speak to him?”

“No. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got a manuscript for him to look at.”

“Great! He should be here when you arrive!”

“Thanks, Dean!” His exclamation points were contagious. I shut the phone and tapped it against my chin. I glanced up. We’d turned up Peterborough and were racing through greens and yellows toward Lake. As the raven flew, I wasn’t any more than a few blocks from Banagon’s, but I didn’t want to get any wetter. I shifted my look from the road to the mirror. The cabbie was watching me in the rear-view again.

“Did you watch the game?” he asked.

No, I didn’t watch the game. And if I had, I couldn’t think of anything quite as boring as rehashing it a day or two later.

“Yeah, hell of a thing, wasn’t it?” I told him.

“Damn right it was.”

“Hey,” I leaned forward. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to make another call. Okay?”

“No problem.” The cabbie glanced back again at me and then focused on the road.

I had only the nine numbers in the phone, and then there was her. I decided it was time to see if she was listening. I opened the phone again. Without touching a single button, I raised the phone and spoke into it:

“Mari, it’s Martin. I’m going by Banagon’s Books in a few minutes. Then I thought I’d go by the Brew House in half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. You want to join me for coffee? I might need your expertise.” I stopped. I never knew what else to say to her. “Um, I hope you get this.” I flipped the phone closed and shoved it into my coat pocket. I slouched into the seat, uncomfortable – mostly from the rain.

“She not there?” The cabbie was looking at me again.

“Wish to hell I knew,” I told him.

Chapter Three - "Regret" - Coming Soon!

The Wyrd Magnet - Chapter One - "Sub-culture"

This chapter is a work-in-progress. Please feel free to leave any feedback you want. I appreciate any and all feedback from beta-readers. Thanks!


Club Houngan was the busiest nightclub in town, even on a Wednesday night. My cab made the turn onto Briar and pulled to a stop fifty feet or so away from the front door – about as close as we could get. A heavy line of black limousines waited, their drivers lurking protectively near them. The line to get in, which began around the corner, ended in an honest-to-God red velvet rope which was manned by a pair of bouncers that could moonlight as walls. A long canopy ran to the corner, keeping dry those fortunate enough to get inside within the next few hours or so. The rest covered themselves with umbrellas, coats, or fashion magazines. I glanced up through the car window at the three-story high building with a garish neon sign of a smiling voodoo priest atop it. The ugly red and white light of the sign reflected on the rain-slick pavement. This was the hottest club in town, and I’d just been told that an old classmate of mine owned it outright. Stranger still, that old classmate needed my help.

“Thirty-one twenty,” the driver said, turning down his pounding tech-metal music. He turned to face me. “Make it thirty-one. I don’t need your twenty cents.”

I gave him a pair of twenties: “Keep it.”

It was a decent tip, not enough to be extravagant, but enough to ensure the next time I needed this guy, I’d get him.

“Thanks, man.” The driver pushed a button and unlocked the doors. I got out and did my best to smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt and overcoat. I ran my fingers through my hair and strolled toward the head of the line. A couple of things were certain. The first is that I was at least ten years past the freshness date for this club, and I was making a bad situation an egregious one by not showing up with a bauble on my arm. The second thing I knew was that the bouncers weren’t going to be able to do a goddamn thing about it.

As I approached, their heads swiveled toward me like gun turrets on tanks. One grimaced outright; the other’s glare sank away into a dismissive sneer. I couldn’t tell anything more than that. Their sunglasses hid much of their expressions.

“I’m on the list,” I told the grimacing one. He and his partner could have been twins, or least cut from the same cloth. Both were an inch or two over six feet, bald, and wore their shades and earpiece radios. They were dressed in fashionable tuxes.

“There is no list,” the bouncer responded.

“There is, and I’m on it. Call Ray on that thing and tell him that Martin Black has arrived.”
The sneering bouncer stopped sneering. The grimacing one stopped grimacing and started questioning.

“Ray?”

“Raymond Felske – the owner. He’s expecting me inside. If I’m late, I’m having your ass.”
The bouncer gave me a quick once-over, for weapons, I guess, then turned away and began to speak into the radio. I stood there until he looked up and nodded at his twin.

“He’s on the list?” The other one asked.

“He is the list.” He turned to face me, and unlatched the velvet rope. “Come on, sir, but there’s a policy: no man comes in alone.”

I glanced at the line. The first three girls waiting were blondes. The fourth was a cute little brunette. I offered her my hand. She grabbed it and left the line.

“Will she do?”

“Admirably, sir.” He waved to his twin, who opened the door for us. After we entered, I let the girl bound ahead of me. She climbed the short flight of stairs that led inside and turned to look at me.

“Go on,” I said. “Have fun. I’ll get the cover.”

“Thanks!” She bounded past the register and showed her ID to the bouncer at the door. I paid the sunny redhead at the register two more twenties and went inside. The bouncer here didn’t ask to see my driver’s license. Good thing, since I don’t drive.

I waited just inside the door, to let my eyes get used to the place. From a design standpoint it was interesting, if not very original, done up in the Nü-Gothic style, all plaster gargoyles and twisted iron. The furniture was all in black, gray, and oxblood. The bar was black wood and burnished copper, reflecting the lights from the dance floor. The floor was lit from below, flashing lights that changed with the beat of the music. Laser lights and strobes illuminated everything above. The dancers were legion. Most of the women were in short, tight dresses, which seemed to be the returning style. The men were dressed in dark tones, which fit into the atmosphere.

Across the room, the DJ booth loomed, built until the shape of a cathedral, twin spires rising to the ceiling and a stained glass window separating the talent from the rabble on the floor. A pair of grotesques coughed up dry ice vapor as the DJ changed songs. A few more people crowded onto the floor. I couldn’t help but shake my head; it was a dance remake of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “The Power of Love.” Nü-Gothic borrowed heavily from ‘80s styles, and the whole “is the lead singer a revenant?” controversy made these guys a favorite of the moment. I dug a gold cigarette case out of a coat pocket and found my favorite Zippo. I had taken only a drag or two when someone appeared at my side.

“Two thousand people in my club, and only one of them is smoking.” I turned and looked at Raymond Felske. He was dressed only in slacks and a black turtleneck. But it was his place, and he could do what he wanted. His red hair was cropped short, almost shaved, but his goatee stood out in force.

“I’d say the smell gave you away,” he continued his rant, “but I wouldn’t have been able to tell, what with that skanky old coat you still wear. Haven’t you ever heard of fashion?”

“Don’t know,” I responded. “Did you fuck her, or did I?”

“You never got close to her.” He smiled at his own wit. We had a handshake that became a manly embrace. It had been about ten years since I’d seen Ray, and though we weren’t good friends, I don’t think either one of us hated the other. That put him in a distinct minority in my mind.

“Come on. I’ve got someplace for us to talk and for you to smoke.”

“Outstanding.”

He led me past the bar and upstairs to the lounge. We passed a pair of bouncers, poured from the same mold as the others. Inside, a tuxedo-clad majordomo oversaw a trio of waitresses in short French maids’ uniforms. “The Power of Love” was still audible, but at a much lesser volume. One entire wall was of faux stained glass and looked out over the dance floor. Raymond led me past the occupied sofas and tables to one more door, with another bouncer.

“Are these clones?”

“No, clones are expensive. I just hired guys that looked alike.” The bouncer opened the last door for us, and we entered the exclusive lounge. Two women and three men sat in here. I recognized two of the men from their campaign posters and the other from his TV show. One woman sat on the star’s lap; I didn’t know her, but assumed she was either a wannabe or a nobody working her way up to wannabe. I knew the woman sitting between the two politicos. I nodded to her as we passed.

“Reverend.” She nodded back.

I joined Raymond at the bar, which was small and only had two high seats. The bartender moved away as we sat down.

“Seriously, Martin, is that the same coat you had at the reunion?”

“It might be. I’ve got a bunch that look alike. I got a discount to buy them in lots.”

“That fucking thing’s gross. Do you know why I called you?” Raymond asked, after the bartender was out of earshot.

“I owe you money?”

“No. Do you?”

“I don’t think so. It’s why most people want to see me, though.”

“I asked you here because weirdness seems to find you.”

“A friend of mine says I’m a weirdness magnet,” I said, looking for the ashtray. Raymond reached behind the bar and set down a short silver platter.

“Thanks. Actually, my friend says I’m a wyrd magnet. He says I attract aspects of the supernatural. I’m like a house that just needs to be haunted.”

“That sounds about right. I think I need that.”

“Why?”

“There’s someone or something here stalking some of my customers.”

“Who?”

“Models. The stalker only goes after models, and I’ve got a shitload of those in here every night. Heidi and Seal are downstairs right now. I’ve got one of my guys shadowing her tonight, but she’s just the biggest name. They’ll be up here later. You want to meet them?”

“Um…maybe some other time. How many models has the stalker taken?”

“Three. All three were found later, dead. I’ve lost about one a month since I opened and it’s about time for another one to vanish.”

“What happens?”

“I don’t know. It’s always happened on a Friday or Saturday night, when the crowds are biggest. That’s when the most models and celebrities are here. The first time it happened was three months ago. It was some girl who’d done Victoria’s Secret, Maxim; you know the kind – cute, skinny little blonde. She was here with five or six others of the kind and she vanished about three in the morning. No one really missed her until dawn. The found her a couple days later over in the Port. The coroner said she’d OD’d.”

“Had she?”

“Fuck, no. She was just dead. One of my regulars works at City Hall, and I had to get him to have the coroner say it was an overdose. That cost me ten grand. The next month it was a little redheaded thing. She was fifteen, and in here with two friends.”

“You let fifteen-year-olds in here?”

“Are you high? Of course. Most of these models aren’t old enough to fuck, let alone drink. But that’s what people pay to see. The Maxim blonde was only nineteen and she’s considered a bit old to model. Can I go on?”

“Please do.”

“They found her in a hotel room in Hampton. The coroner said she was an OD, too.”

“Ten grand?”

“Fifteen. The last one was the worst. Petra was here – Petra! Dear Goddess, do you know what would’ve happened if the stalker had got her? She’s a supermodel? The other girls were just models, for fuck’s sake!” Ray was getting worked up. His hands were flying, but he had managed to keep his voice low. He’d had practice keeping people from hearing his conversations.

“She said some guy tried to get her to follow him. She almost went, but someone fell against her and spilled wine down the front of her dress. When the furor died, the stalker had gone. She was dazed and told her date what happened. She seemed drugged, but I know drugs, and I’d swear she wasn’t on anything I’ve ever seen before.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Her date told one of the bouncers, and he told me. By the time I talked to her, she couldn’t even remember what he looked like. I sent my guys out to check on everyone, but we never found him. Before we closed, I heard that another model had gone missing. This one was a nothing girl from that TV show. You know – the reality show?”

“I know it. Don’t watch it.”

“Yeah, well she was the first runner-up, but still snagged a contract from Elite. She hadn’t done anything yet, but she was hot, and she was seventeen. They found her in her car out on the highway to Bannocktown, like she had fallen asleep on the road and crashed. Coroner said she died in an accident.”

“Did that one cost you?”

“Yeah, another fifteen grand, even though I think he might have let that one go. I didn’t want to take the chance.”

“I think I’m getting all this. You’re expecting trouble this weekend, right?”

“Yeah,” Ray didn’t try to sugarcoat it.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find the stalker and get rid of it. Or find the stalker and I’ll get the bouncers to handle it. I’ll have them float the bastard in the river if I need to.”

“That’s what I thought.” I lit another cigarette to help stay calm. “Before we discuss terms, we need to agree on a new term.”

“What are you talking about?” Ray asked.

“You don’t have a stalker, Ray. You have a vampire. You and I both know it. You want me to track down and stop a vampire.”

Ray glared at me a few moments, his fingers tapping on the bar. Then he spoke:

“Yeah.”

“Fine,” I said, taking a drag. “Twenty grand.”

“What? Twenty—oh, you son of a bitch.”

“You know the coroner will charge you more for a fourth time. All it’ll take is one of these girl’s friends to call in the paparazzi, and you’ll be out of business. I won’t do that to you, and I’m not going to gouge you, but I think twenty grand is fair to track down a vampire. For thirty grand, I’ll destroy the thing myself.”

“Deal. Julia Christ, would you have charged me this much if we hadn’t gone to school together?”

“Ray, I’d have charged you sixty grand if you and I hadn’t worn the black and gold together. Go Tigers.”

“Go Tigers. Do I pay you now or later?”

“Ten now; the rest later. I’m not going to charge you for the taxi either, but I want my forty bucks back from the door.”

“You’ll get it. I’ll write you a check.”

“I know you’re good for it. I hope you didn’t pay the coroner that way.”

“He got a bag full of cash.”

“I want one of those, one day. One more thing: tell your clones the next time I come to the door, I walk right on in.”

“Fine. Any chance you’ll dress like you fit in?”

“Probably not.”

“I had to ask. How are you going to find the vampire?”

“I’m going to start by looking for his Judas goat.”

Continue with Chapter Two - "Let's Go"