The Trouble With Hairy, page 10
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
Chris used some of the windfall to further improve his mother’s waning years. The Driscolls moved into a huge house in Boston proper and spent many happy evenings attending the theater and the opera together. He bought her frocks and dresses by the armload ,and when Martha struck up a close friendship with an elderly Boston merchant who had lost his first wife to cholera, Chris was delighted and secretly began hunting for the perfect wedding gift.
But a second set of wedding bells was not in Martha Driscoll’s future. In the fall of 1812, she came down with consumption. Consultations with the finest doctors Boston had to offer yielded a grim diagnosis. Chris debated offering her the chance to move into his life, and after several weeks of inner turmoil, tentatively suggested it to her. But Martha Driscoll was in her eighties; she felt she had walked the Earth long enough. Her constitution rapidly failed, and she died before spring. Some months after the funeral, Chris, desolate, finally began his long-delayed journey across the Atlantic.
And now, he thought as he went into the bedroom to get dressed, I’m about to move again! He shrugged into a pair of jeans and pulled a navy blue Ralph Lauren shirt over his head before walking into the living room.
“Hey, monkey,” he said in greeting, determined to make amends for last night’s irritability, but not quite able to shake the images from the past. Troy looked up from where he was attempting to fit Chris’s portrait of him into a cardboard box that was entirely too small for it. “Be careful with that, will you?”
“What’s wrong?” asked Troy with concern at Chris’ melancholy tone.
“Nothing. Just memories walking over my grave.”
Troy laid the painting carefully on a chair and came over and put his arms around Chris. “I know what’ll make you forget,” he suggested with lasciviously raised eyebrows.
Chris kissed him. “Forget it. The last time we had sex — not that long ago — you couldn’t stop giggling. How am I supposed to take you seriously?”
“It’s okay to laugh in bed,” Troy replied solemnly, “so long as you don’t laugh and point.”
“That,” Chris said with amusement, “has never been one of our problems.” He tousled Troy’s curls with one hand. “Seriously, monkey, I’d like to get an early start tonight.”
“Whatever Missy Scarlet wants,” said Troy in a wretched attempt to mimic Butterfly McQueen. “Actually,” he continued in a normal tone, “I was thinking…if we’re gonna move…” He looked at Chris slyly. “How do you feel about new furniture?”
Chris looked at him dumbfounded. “You’re kidding? I thought you loved this stuff.”
“Not any more. I’m getting tired of all this.” Troy airily waved his hand encompassing the room that, indulging his warped sense of humor, he’d previously furnished in various tones of scarlet, crimson, vermilion and other shades of blood red.
“I can’t imagine why,” said Chris dryly. “Now, what have we got to see tonight?”
Troy handed him a list of about twelve addresses and Chris groaned.
“Are any of these places practical?”
Troy looked offended. “Of course. I wouldn’t have listed them if they weren’t.” Chris looked at him, deadpan.
“Well, at least I think they’re practical,” Troy said meekly.
It took Troy another fifteen minutes to chose an appropriate covering for his upper body, and after helping him decide on a sleeveless T-shirt with the legend OPEN TO THE PUBLIC broadly emblazoned across the chest, Chris finally managed to drag his lover out of the apartment to continue their search.
The first unit they examined had skylights in the bedroom ceiling; Chris crossed it off. The second one Chris assumed had once been the home of Danny DeVito; the ceilings were barely six feet high. The third was haunted. They sensed it the minute they entered. Chris had once lived with a particularly annoying ghost in a flat in Amsterdam; he refused to chance repeating the experience. The fourth apartment seemed perfect with large rooms and hardwood floors. Chris had just started to ask the manager about lease terms, when Troy, busily examining the master bathroom, spied a cockroach.
Troy had a terrible phobia about anything with more than four legs or less than two. He let out a screech that, Chris knew from personal experience, was capable of waking the dead. Alarmed, he and the building manager raced from the living room into the bathroom to find Troy huddled on top of the toilet shaking in terror and pointing wordlessly at a corner of the bathroom floor. For several minutes, they were unable to determine what the matter was since the cockroach, more frightened of Troy than he of it, had wisely vanished into some dark crack in the tile.
Once he’d calmed down, Troy proclaimed his refusal to spend one more minute in the apartment and further insisted that Chris carry him to the door. Undoubtedly, were he to set so much as a single toe onto the floor, the vile cockroaches would rush to the attack. As Chris lugged him across the threshold and down the stairs, Troy smothered his face against the vampire’s shoulder, determined to hide his smile of triumph. When he’d seen Chris’s look of approval upon examining the unit, in a burst of inspiration, he’d created the mythical cockroach. He had no intention of living anywhere except in The Building.
After Troy’s hysterics, Chris suggested that they call it a night. Troy rapidly agreed knowing that they’d have to pass The Building on the way home.
“Are we ever gonna find a place?” The question was strategically timed to coincide with the precise moment they passed the object of Troy’s desire.
“Maybe,” said Chris thoughtfully, and without warning, he pulled the Cabriolet off the road, turning into The Building’s driveway. He parked the car, and while Troy silently congratulated himself, Chris marched up to the front door and began to pounded ceaselessly on the doorbell labeled MANAGER.
“What are you doing?” asked Troy, innocence personified.
“Trust me,” said Chris and pressed the doorbell once again.
Finally, a bearded young man, an obvious transplant from Manhattan, came irritably to the front door. “What the hell is going on out here?” he demanded.
“We’d like to look at an apartment,” Chris responded smoothly.
“Are you crazy?” Disbelief showed in the manager’s face. “It’s almost ten goddamned o’clock at night!” He began to close the door. “Get the hell outta here or I’m calling the cops!”
As the door slammed, Chris deftly slipped a small sheaf of twenty dollar bills into the doorjamb. There was silence for a moment. Then, the door opened a crack, and the bills disappeared. A moment later, the door opened wider to reveal the manager, now in a much better frame of mind.
“I’m sorry,” he said with true regret as he clutched the twenties possessively. “But there’s nothing available right now.” His fingers rubbed at the money unconsciously. “I could put you on the waiting list.” he suggested hopefully.
“That won’t be necessary,” Chris assured him, “May I come in?” At the nod of response, he stepped past the manager into the front lobby. He dug into his billfold again. “I’m sure there must be some tenant who wouldn’t mind being disturbed for a few minutes.” He partially removed two crisp hundred dollar bills from the wallet, making certain that the amounts were in clear view. “I’d be willing to make it up to you.”
Slowly the manager’s empty hand crept toward the money. Chris skillfully intercepted it, turning the greedy grasping into a firm handshake.
“I’m Christopher Driscoll. This is my lover, Troy.”
“Hiya, Sugah!” Troy was barely able to control his enthusiasm at finally being inside The Building and, consequently, dripped Southern charm.
“Hank Schneider,” replied the manager. “But really,” he said with true regret, “there’s nothing available.”
“But you’ll check to see if someone might be willing to give us a peek?” asked Chris and he ripped one of the hundreds in two, handing one half to Schneider and keeping hold of the other. He’d once seen the technique of tearing bills in half work to great effect in an old detective film, and for years, he’d been eagerly awaiting the right situation to try it himself.
“Preferably on the top floor? A corner unit. We don’t mind waiting, do we Troy?”
Troy nodded, his head bobbing up and down like one of those little dogs so frequently found on the front dashboards of 1960s automobiles.
“I’ll be right back.” Schneider disappeared down the hall and into his apartment, leaving the other two in the entranceway to admire the wallpaper.
“Well, the lobby’s nice,” said Troy, as grudgingly as he could. “But I don’t see what you didn’t like about any of my choices.”
“Skylights? Ghosts? Cockroaches?”
“Maybe you’re right.”
They waited in silence for a few minutes until Hank Schneider returned with a beaming smile.
“I explained the situation to Mrs. Riedmont. She has a lovely unit on the top floor with a wonderful view.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “She’s been late in her rent quite a few times since her husband died, poor thing. The building owners are pretty strict about not allowing that sort of thing around here.” There was a long, slow wink. “If you’ll just follow me…”
Mrs. Riedmont turned out to be an elderly woman on a fixed income — she was very particular about that point — whose husband had died the previous year. Her apartment was indeed lovely, with huge rooms, cathedral ceilings, the ubiquitous hardwood floors, gorgeous crown moldings and brightly polished brass fixtures. Troy watched as Chris was captivated by its ambiance and charm. He barely restrained himself from shouting out loud when he saw Chris’s features set in telltale stubbornness, determined to live there.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Riedmont,” he said and shook her hand, subtly passing the second hundred. She glanced down at the crumpled bill in pleasant surprise at the amount.
“Just a small token. I’m sure a woman of your limited means will make better use of it than I.” Chris pulled out his checkbook.
“Would it inconvenience you to be out by the first of the month?” he asked gently as he wrote out a check in an amount that, though he craned his neck to get a glimpse over Chris’ shoulder, was unable to determine.
“Out?” repeated the widow. “Why of all the nerve…!” Her eyes widened when she looked down at the proffered check. She looked up, her look of surprise giving way to one of cunning. “Actually,” she said pleasantly, “the fifteenth would be much more convenient. Moving is so expensive.”
Chris wrote another check, dangling it temptingly just out of her reach.
“On second thought,” she said as she grabbed for it, “I think the first would be fine. Provided, there’s no problem with…” She waved the check, a look of mild suspicion on her face.
“It’s settled then,” Chris assured her as he shook the old woman’s hand once more and ushered Troy out into the hallway.
“Well, not quite,” said Schneider, once Mrs. Riedmont’s door had closed behind them.
“I’m sorry?” asked Chris, with arched brows.
“There’s the matter of a credit check and a security deposit and…”
With a sigh, Chris pulled out his checkbook again. “That won’t be necessary. Would a year’s rent in advance be okay?” Schneider nodded and gulped; Chris tore off the check and handed it to him. “Of course, you can feel free to contact my bank tomorrow morning…”
Schneider looked at the amount, and his eyes grew wide.
“But…but this is…” he stammered.
“Consider it a premium. For your trouble. And for keeping this between the four of us?”
“Oh, sure!” said Schneider ,and he mimed zipping his mouth shut, turning the key in the lock and pocketing it.
“Our telephone number is on the check,” said Chris as Schneider obsequiously led them to the elevator. “Call me after it’s cleared and I’ll come over to sign the lease.”
As they were about to exit the elevator into the lobby, Chris started as if he’d just remembered something important that he’d forgotten to bring up.
“Oh! One other thing…” Schneider turned to face him expectantly, obviously hoping to become even more the richer as a result of whatever it was Chris wanted him to do next. “My business keeps me busy during the day. Is there any chance we could move in at night?” For the first time, suspicion began to cloud Schneider’s features.
“Not in the middle of the night,” Chris hastened to correct himself, realizing he’d gone too far, “just early evening. We have a lot of antiques, and I’d like to be able to supervise the movers.”
His fears allayed, Schneider rapidly agreed.
Once outside, Troy’s curiosity got the better of him. “How much did that cost?”
“Enough to put a down payment on a house,” Chris grumbled. “Probably several houses.”
Troy brightened at the idea.
“Forget it, monkey. I’ve got enough houses. It’s not worth the trouble of transferring the deed in thirty or forty years.”
“The place is perfect, though. Don’t you think? I’m glad you found it.”
“Yep,” said Chris as they got into the car. “It sure is.” He started the engine and paused before putting the car into gear.
“Do me a favor though, monkey?”
“Sure. What?”
“I saw the way you looked when we first drove past that building.”
“So?” Troy asked, warily.
“The next time you decide you want to move somewhere…before we start to look…you might want to do me the courtesy of telling me where we’re going to end up, okay?” He put the car into reverse and started to back out of the driveway.
“Cockroaches, indeed! “ he snorted as Troy desperately and unsuccessfully tried to look the picture of outraged innocence.
CHAPTER 5
As the moon shone down on the streets of West Hollywood, deputies Robert Falberg and Gina Martelli drove the patrol car slowly down Santa Monica Boulevard, eagerly looking forward to the approaching shift change. The evening had been particularly uneventful, and both young people were bored. The highlight of their night had been when the two had stopped for a quick bite at Astro Burger and moved some of the ever-present hustlers away from the patio tables and on to ply their dubious wares further down along Santa Monica Boulevard.
Bobby Falberg remembered one of the boys particularly well, a husky, dark-eyed boy named Steve. Bobby had made his acquaintance some weeks ago during a weekend when he was off duty. Bobby was a rarity, one of the few employees of the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station who actually lived in the city. What was even rarer, though no one in the department knew it, was that Bobby Falberg was gay.
Damn, he’d thought as Steve arched his eyebrows and smirked knowingly at the sight of Bobby in his uniform. If I’d known he was a working boy, I wouldn’t have picked him up. His hamburger suddenly tasted like cardboard. As soon as it was possible, he’d gotten Gina out of the restaurant and back behind the wheel.
As Gina drove up and down the streets of West Hollywood’s east side, Bobby mentally chastised himself for being so careless. Never shit where you eat, he repeated silently over and over. Finally, Gina brought him out of his silent reverie.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Bobby replied. “Just bored to tears.”
“I know the feeling,” Gina replied with a grin. “Half an hour left. How about we take a last run down Gardner and call it a night?”
“Suits me,” replied Bobby.
As Gina pulled the wheel to the left, he turned his attention to the houses slowly passing on each side. They drove in silence for a minute or so.
“Damn.” Gina suddenly pulled the car over to one side.
“What’s up?”
“Some dog,” she replied. “It’s been chasing the car since we left Astro Burger.”
“So?”
“No collar. At least I don’t think so. I took a look when we went under that last street light.” She put the car in neutral and prepared to get out.
Bobby glanced in the rear view mirror and, sure enough, saw a large dog, waiting patiently by a large clump of oleander bushes about forty feet away.
“Jeez, you got good eyes,” he commented.
“Well, the damned thing’s been right on our tail since we turned the corner.” She unlocked the car door.
Bobby put his arm out to stop her. “Keep it warm. I’ll take care of it.” He climbed out of the car with a sigh and started to walk back toward the dog that, the moment it saw him coming, vanished though the oleander hedge.
“I’m not gonna go hunting for that thing,” he called back to Gina, “If it gives me trouble, I’ll be right back. Let the next shift take care of it.”
He saw Gina’s answering wave and moved off into the darkness behind the bushes to follow the errant animal, whistling softly.
“Here, Fido,” he called quietly. “Come on boy.” A light growl coming from the vicinity of the darkened house was the only response.
Shit, he thought as he pulled a pair of heavy leather gloves from where they hung at the side of his belt. I’ll get bit. Just my luck.
Bobby pulled on the gloves and switched on his flashlight, prepared to move further into the shadows. He waved the beam slowly back and forth at waist level, hoping to catch sight of the animal and stun it by shining the light into its eyes. If he saw it had a collar, he’d leave it alone and go back to the car.
At first, the flashlight revealed nothing more than a few rose bushes and some purple bougainvillea trailing up a trellis along the side of the house. But as Bobby moved in closer, the beam suddenly crossed something that, at first, his mind refused to register. He swung it back and froze in confusion, momentarily not believing what he saw.
Two huge muscular legs were revealed, covered in fur, attached to a body that extended upwards beyond the beam’s scope of illumination. Slowly, Bobby raised the flashlight and gaped at what he saw.
