The Trouble With Hairy, page 25
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
A loose affiliation of animal lovers had formed, under the appellation of CONCERNED RESIDENTS AGAINST PET MUTILATION and were inundating the editor of The Gay Gazette with editorials and protests against the foul killer. Ed Larsen, never one to miss an opportunity to incense already incensed citizens even further, lost no time in pointing out, in an editor’s note at the bottom of the page, that the acronym for C.R.A.P.M. should, in Larsen’s humble opinion, more properly be pronounced “Crap Them!”
Chris’ eyes widened in astonishment at the variety and the intensity of the tortures and punishments which the irate members of C.R.A.P.M. demanded be inflicted upon the culprits once caught. Some of the penalties rivaled those Chris was familiar with from his own youth. Chris read on in wonder, doubting whether, even as early as the Fourteenth Century, people were subject to horsewhipping, the rack and the removal of hands, feet and genitals as punishment for the same crime.
C.R.A.P.M. members announced the formation of picket lines and protests, accompanied by a roster of events rivaling the New York City subway schedule in complexity. Chris wished them well, even while idly wondering how long their momentum would last now that Louis was safely off the streets and, hopefully, waiting until his supper had stopped breathing, and had been skinned, filleted and cooked before consuming it.
Although amused by the antics of the animal rights people, Chris soon tired of the printed bickering and turned a few pages to the Gazette’s infamous pink pages.
He blinked, not quite believing his eyes. Apparently, for a small fee, he could telephone any one of the attractive young men portrayed in the multitudinous photo-advertisements and arrange for an hour or two of their company. Not even in London, in the early part of the nineteenth century, had the prostitutes been so brazen as to advertise in print!
His hunger sharpened as he began to keenly peruse the printed adverts that accompanied each photo, considering that perhaps he needn’t wait until nightfall to feed after all. He became absorbed in the ad copy, some of it amusing, some with intriguing abbreviations and some downright evocative.
SITUATION WANTED, read one of the ads positioned next to an earnest looking blond youth who, aside from the hand demurely covering his crotch, was entirely nude. HONEST STUDENT SEEKS ROOM, BOARD & SMALL ALLOWANCE. X-CHANGE FAVORS W/EMPLOYER OVER 55. CALL ANDREW.
“Too complicated.” Chris moved on to the next advertisement.
GWM SEEKS SAME FOR ROMANCE AND FUN. ME — LIKES MOONLIT WALKS ON THE BEACH, LYRIC OPERAS, ITALIAN GOURMET CUISINE. YOU - ROMANTIC, COLLEGE GRAD., ENJOY ART MUSEUMS, RAINY AFTERNOONS AND POLITICAL THEORY. MUST BE 10 INCHES PLUS. $150/OUT ONLY.
Chris stifled a mean snicker and went on.
MASTER STAN IS BACK! NEW AND IMPROVED DUNGEON! B&D - $75/HR. SPANKING - $50/HR. HARDCORE S&M - $100/HR. DISCOUNT FOR HARD-BODIES.
Chris grinned, reflecting that he could certainly provide Master Stan with more than he’d bargained for, especially in his current mood, and kept reading.
WHY SETTLE FOR LESS? CHEST - 52, ARMS - 15, WAIST - 30, THIGHS -25 $150 sounded more like an advertisement for the sale of a dress-maker’s dummy than a prostitute.
I’VE BEEN A BAD BOY. SPANK ME UNTIL MY BOTTOM BLEEDS had the virtue of simplicity, but was a trifle too kinky even for Chris’ rather unorthodox sexual habits.
He considered the evocative, if rather forward LICK MY HOT JUICES WHILE I TAKE YOU TO HEAVEN for a brief moment but finally decided on the clichéd, but none the less effective, FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL ROD. BLOND, 23, SMOOTH BUBBLE-BUTT, SWIMMER’S BUILD. INTO ALL SCENES, when the telephone rang.
He lunged for it on the second ring, hoping it was Troy and, in the process, painfully stubbed his toe on the corner of a wooden packing crate.
“What?” he demanded into the receiver, gingerly flexing his bruised toe.
“And they say we’re the rude ones?” The voice was gruff, tempered only by the musical tones of a strong Cajun accent. Chris recognized it immediately.
“My apologies, Hercule. I thought you were my lover.”
“I sincerely hope not!” the old werewolf replied, uncertain as to how to interpret the vampire’s remark. “We don’t interbreed!”
Chris sighed to himself. A telephone call from Hercule Legrande was not the thing he would have chosen to alleviate his mood.
“I would prefer not to dwell on your lifestyle, if you don’t mind,” Hercule continued, in a tone that brooked no argument.
Chris felt his temper rising. “If you called to be insulting…” he warned.
“It is my turn to apologize,” came the response after a moment. “Sylvia warned me to be tactful if I wanted your assistance.” A note of humor colored Hercule’s tone. “Tact is a word new to the lupine vocabulary.”
Chris had readied a caustic retort but it vanished from his mind as the import of Hercule’s words penetrated. Hercule had apologized. He couldn’t recall a werewolf ever having apologized to him before and found he rather liked the experience. On the other hand, the proud lupine wouldn’t have lowered himself to begging a vampire’s pardon if the situation wasn’t serious. Chris sighed silently to himself while quickly considering what that could mean.
“Apology accepted,” he replied cautiously. “What’s up?”
“Trouble.” Now it was the werewolf’s turn to sigh. “It seems…” His voice trailed off. He was obviously uncomfortable with the subject he was about to bring up. “It seems,” he began again, “that it is now our turn to have a rogue problem.”
Chris nodded. “The murders.”
“Murders?” Hercule was alarmed. “I’d heard, but…more than one?”
“Three of ’em,” Chris said grimly. “All human.”
“Ah,” Hercule sighed with relief. “Then Louis is safe.”
“For the time being. But, we’ve got three humans dead thanks to one of your pack mates.” Chris was angered at the werewolf’s callousness; the human victims didn’t seem to concern him in the least.
“Not my pack,” Hercule protested, doing his best to achieve a tone of righteous indignation. “Etienne Chartreuse’s. In New Mexico.”
“Chartreuse!” The synapses in Chris’ memory finally clicked. “I knew a Denis Chartreuse once, but… Etienne?” he began with renewed caution. The Denis Chartreuse whom Chris had known had been one of the most insufferably antagonistic creatures it had ever been his misfortune to meet.
“His uncle. Louis’ great uncle. I’ve already discussed this with Sylvia. I dislike repeating myself.”
Chris debated with himself for a moment, trying to decide whether Hercule was being offensive or merely trying to get to the point. He decided on the latter. Then, the full import of Hercule’s last statement sank in and he whistled, long and low.
“So Louis is one of Denis’ pack. I can’t say I’m pleased to know that. He comes from pretty mean stock, doesn’t he?”
“Almost rabid,” Hercule confirmed. “But I didn’t call to discuss pedigree.” He paused, as if wondering how to proceed and then plunged right in. “I spoke to Etienne. Briefly.” His tone indicated that, as far as he was concerned, the briefer his intercourse with his New Mexican cousins, the better. “He acquainted me with Louis’, shall we say, problem? He also told me he’d made him outcast, the idiot, and the young pup had been arrested — in West Hollywood of all places. I thought of you immediately. If it’s true, we’re all in danger. Do you know anything about this?”
“He’s out of jail,” Chris replied. Chris could tell that Hercule’s concern had been deep, not only by the werewolf’s sigh of relief, but also because he had never heard any member of the lupine race ever deliver a speech as long as Hercule’s last.
“Merci Dieu!” breathed the old werewolf, earnestly.
“We’ve still got a killer on the loose, though,” Chris reminded him.
“I know. That’s the second reason I called.”
“You know who it is?” Chris hardly dared hope that Hercule was about to make the solution to the mysterious killer’s identity any clearer.
“Bien sûr,” came the prompt reply, “Guy Chartreuse. Etienne’s son. Louis’ mother is his aunt and, incidentally, Etienne’s mate.”
“Jesus! You people are really something.” Chris’ disgust was self-evident. “You get on my case about Troy but incest is fine by you.”
A low, rumbling growl started in the back of Hercule’s throat, accompanying his speech. “I will deal with Etienne, that couchon! You have my word of honor. But you, you will have to deal with Guy. I cannot be in two places at once.”
“I understand,” Chris said, his tone once again grim. He’d known Hercule for years and, right now, would be willing to wager a pint of O-Negative that, within a fortnight, Etienne Chartreuse would be fit for nothing but to supply a fur collar to some Albuquerque matron’s spring coat — a very small fur collar.
“One thing puzzles me,” Chris hazarded. “Why? Isn’t the rule against killing humans in the very first chapter of Lycanthropy For Dummies? And, I don’t know if you’re aware of this but, he’s doing it so that the accusing finger points straight at Louis. Every one of the murder victims was a man who Louis had sex with. It doesn’t take a genius…”
“Please!” Hercule interrupted. “I am trying very hard to be polite. I will be unable to do so if you insist on providing me with the…” Chris could hear the old wolf swallow uncomfortably, “…with the…er…details.” There was a long pause until Hercule continued. “Christopher, I am an old dog. You cannot expect me to accept the idea of having both vampires and homosexuals interacting with us during the same conversation. Please, allow me the dignity of dealing with these aberrations…” Hercule caught himself. “I meant to say, with these…” He ventured the next word cautiously, “Lifestyles? In my own time. Guy Chartreuse has decided that Louis’ preferences are an irrevocable stain on the pack.”
“How do you know? Did you actually talk to him?” Chris was excited. If Hercule had a telephone number, with Clive’s connections…
“I spoke with Etienne,” Hercule told him dryly. “He made his views on the matter quite clear. One suspects there would be only mild punishment were Guy to be successful.” Hercule sighed again, “I am really not looking forward to going out there…”
“Any suggestions on how to do it?” Chris asked. “On how to stop him?”
“Whatever is necessary,” Hercule replied grimly. “You have my permission.”
“I don’t like this Hercule,” Chris said, knowing full well that the werewolf expected Guy to be put out of the picture permanently.
“Nor I. But it must be done. Unless you’ve another idea?”
“No,” Chris paused. “I need your assurance that whatever I do won’t spark a war between our people.”
“As the next leader of the Albuquerque pack, you have my word.”
“Good.” Chris paused for a moment, thoughtfully. “While we’re on the subject of relations between our two races…”
Hercule interrupted him with an explosion of frustrated outrage. “This conversation also I have had with Sylvia! There, too, I have given my word! Mon Dieu, your people are a social group. I have agreed,” Hercule continued with outraged dignity, “to attend a garden party, for the love of God!”
“A what?” Chris was baffled.
“A garden party!” The werewolf’s distaste was evident. “As ambassador between the vampires and the pack, I must sit, eating sandwiches made of roasted beef, politely chatting on the subject of interspecies relations. The indignity!”
Chris let out an involuntary snort of amusement.
“Levity?” demanded Hercule.
“Not at all,” Chris hastened to respond. The mental image of the crusty old werewolf nibbling watercress sandwiches and drinking tea from porcelain cups would probably help improve his mood for days.
“Good.” Hercule said. “I dislike being the brunt of a joke.”
He paused for a moment and then continued thoughtfully. “I suspect your friend Sylvia is getting great enjoyment from having me in this position.”
“Formal wear,” he continued with disgust. “As if ruining a perfectly good haunch of meat by burning it to a crisp weren’t enough! What would she have me do? Attend with a red ribbon in my hair like some pampered poodle?”
Hercule’s indignance was palpable but Chris, ignoring the werewolf’s warning tone, couldn’t resist an extra jibe.
“Perhaps it will do you good to see how the other half lives.”
“Peut étre.” Hercule seemed uncomfortably doubtful. He rapidly brought the conversation back to its original purpose.
“But the imperative is to stop this headstrong pup from causing any more damage or drawing any more attention.”
“I’ll do my best,” Chris promised.
“See that it is sufficient. Telephone me when all is fini,” Hercule said, and the werewolf promptly hung up, leaving Chris staring at the receiver in amazement.
“I can just imagine,” he said aloud to the silent telephone, fully enjoying the image, “how he’s going to react when she forces him to take in The Nutcracker Suite!”
Two hours later, having spent forty-five minutes and a hundred and fifty dollars on the hunky and appropriately named Rod, Chris, well-fed and in a much better mood, turned off San Vicente Boulevard and into the parking lot of the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station. Fortunately, he was an extremely careful driver — a neurotically defensive driver, in fact. Thus, he was able to jam on the brakes in plenty of time to avoid plowing through the mob of people, hidden by the thick foliage on San Vicente, who were crowding the lot to overflowing.
His eyes widened in unease as five or six of the gathered throng, laying eyes on the VW, rushed over to the car. Screaming unintelligible gibberish and talking all at once, they began thrusting handfuls of leaflets into Chris’ face and, when he hesitated before taking them, began simply dumping them into the Cabriolet’s back seat.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked, more to himself than to any of the people looming over the convertible.
“What’re you? Blind?” asked one red-faced woman who carried a handmade sign on a post in one hand.
“Huh?” Chris was disoriented. Especially since the woman’s sign had, unless his nostrils lied to him, been dipped in animal blood.
“Don’t you read the papers?” The woman demanded. She thrust the sign into the convertible, halting it inches in front of Chris’ face.
The vampire blinked several times, his head spinning from the overpowering odor of fresh blood, while trying to keep his eyes from crossing as he tried to read the printed placard.
“Animals are people, too,” he read aloud.
“Bet your ass!” screamed a nearby Asian man as he struggled with two huge, green plastic garbage bags.
As Chris watched, terrified of trying to move the car even so much as an inch lest he crush one of the protesting crowd, the Asian threw the bags onto the asphalt and ripped them open with a penknife. The red-faced woman rushed to help him and they began pulling multitudinous fur coats out of the bags until a fair sized pile of animal skins lay in the center of the parking lot.
Chris’ eyes widened once again as, to the accompaniment of cheers from the crowd, the man withdrew a tin of lighter fluid from his back pocket and emptied the contents on top of the pile of garments. A half dozen others, gleefully joined him with their own cans. In a moment, the acrid, sickening smell was almost overpowering. A few seconds later, half a dozen lit books of matches appeared and were tossed onto the butane soaked, sad little pile of once expensive fur jackets and coats. The pile of clothing ignited with a roar and a huge rush of flames. The crowd went wild, rushing toward the bonfire, each adding some item they carried to the blaze.
Chris seized the opportunity presented by the crowd’s movement toward the fire and slowly eased the VW between a break in the milling humanity and into a parking space. As smoke poured into the air, he carefully secured the wheel lock, put up the top and double-checked to make sure the doors were locked.
As innocuously as possible, he sauntered toward the Station’s front doors, praying to whatever gods there were that the arsonists, now chanting “Animal Rights Now!” in louder and louder tones, might be too involved to notice that a potential convert to their cause was escaping their clutches.
But unfortunately, at the moment, the gods were otherwise engaged.
Chris walked a mere ten feet before he was once more confronted by the red-faced woman, who seemed personally affronted that Chris had not been the first to toss a flaming brand onto the pile of fur coats.
“Pets?” she shrieked, spittle flying from her lips.
“I beg your pardon?” Chris asked politely, looking for a way to escape and, not for the first time, wishing the legends of vampires being able to transform themselves into bats were factually based.
“Pets!” she yelled again. “Do you have pets?”
“Uh…well…” began Chris, not sure whether, were he to claim to be a pet owner, he would be hoisted onto the shoulders of the crowd to be bourn aloft as a hero or condemned to follow the fur coats to a fiery oblivion as an evil slave master of man’s furry friends.
“Well?” the woman demanded, “Either you do or you don’t.”
“Well, there’s Troy…” Chris offered tentatively.
Before he could continue, the Asian came rushing over and grabbed the woman’s arm.
“Come on!” he yelled and began to drag her across the parking lot. Chris was about to breathe easier and turned to enter the station when he felt the woman grab his arm above the elbow and, with a surprisingly powerful motion, tugged him almost off his feet. Rather than risking a scene by trying to break free, Chris regained his balance and meekly followed behind.
“You’re gonna love this!” the woman assured him triumphantly, once they were absorbed by the crowd at the far end of the lot.
“Watch!” she commanded.
Chris followed her pointing finger and frowned in puzzlement at what she was indicating. A huge piece of wooden lattice, ten or twelve feet tall, had been propped up against the brick wall surrounding the parking lot. In furtherance of some bizarre human ritual, a life-sized cloth dummy dressed in a sheriff’s uniform had been lashed to the very top of the lattice. The dummy’s face was a dark brown nylon stocking, stuffed with newspapers; someone had placed a brunette wig on top after spraying the temples gray. The resemblance to Clive Anderson was as unmistakable as it was disturbing.
