The Trouble With Hairy, page 34
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
As Louis went down, Shanda hurled the silver tray at the werewolf, catching him a glancing blow on the back of the neck, and rushed to Louis’ side. The werewolf turned, eager to finally destroy this mockery in a skirt that crouched before it. It swiped at Shanda, this time drawing blood, and the drag queen sank to the floor. Fortunately, before it could finish her off, Burman’s next comment pierced through the creature’s anger.
“Why don’t you go fetch a stick?” Burman said, amazing herself with her own calmness.
The werewolf’s head raised in shock as, confused, it turned to face Burman once again.
“Oh, I know your type,” Pamela taunted. “You think you’re so fucking tough, picking on a couple of kids? Why don’t you try someone your own size?” She feigned disgust, neatly masking her growing fear and praying that Chris and the others would arrive before she ended up as so much chopped liver.
“You can bang your hairy fucking chest all you want. But I bet when you go home, it’s strictly Tender Vittles from a can.”
The werewolf didn’t move, taken aback by Burman’s bravado.
“Wouldn’t you have more fun chasing cars? Maybe in heavy traffic,” she said, and surreptitiously reached into her bag, closing her hand on the first smooth metallic object she touched.
“Come and get it, you mangy mutt!”
The werewolf rose to its full height, its furred ears almost brushing the ceiling, and advanced slowly. As the size of the thing registered, Pam Burman was beginning to think maybe pissing it off had not been such a great idea. But, behind it, she could see that Louis had recovered and was frantically trying to drag Shanda past the werewolf and into the bedroom.
Oh well, thought Burman. In for a penny, in for eight hundred pounds — or however the fuck much that thing weighs.
She took a breath and steeled herself for the attack. “That’s right, fleabags. C’mere and we’ll go get you a Hartz collar.”
The werewolf was almost on top of her, scarcely three feet away, but was being cautious, unwilling to come closer. It obviously didn’t quite know what to make of the bizarrely dressed old lady who didn’t seem to care if it ripped her limb from limb.
Burman could smell its hot rancid breath causing her to remark, “God, your breath stinks! You might wanna tray some Lavoris once in awhile, Snoopy. Who’s your fucking dentist?”
The beast growled.
“You have something to say?” Burman asked, pissed that the thing was taking so long. If she was to be torn to pieces, she wanted it to be over quickly.
“Well, you can just talk to this!” With a threateningly dramatic flourish, she pulled her hand from her bag and thrust it in front of the creature’s face. To her horror, she realized that she was holding — as her sole weapon against a bloody death — a solid silver baby’s coin bank, shaped like a large duck, a blue ribbon tied around its neck and with a whimsically cheerful expression on its face.
The werewolf froze for an instant and then, with a deafening howl of outrage, opened its fanged mouth wide and bent forward, trying to reach Burman’s throat. Without hesitation, and not knowing what else to do, Pamela Burman thrust the silver duck past the gaping jaws and right down the creature’s throat.
She snatched her arm back milliseconds before the jaws snapped shut. Then, she watched fascinated as, with awful gagging sounds, the monster clawed at its throat and chest, accompanied by whines of pain. It fell to the floor, thrashing and rolling madly, demolishing the few items of furniture that remained intact. Finally, with a tremendous heave, it bent over, retching, and expelled the offending duck from its mouth. Turning to fix Burman with a teary-eyed glare of hatred, it bolted through the broken living room window, shattering the remaining glass and vanished off into the night.
Pamela stooped to pick up the duck bank and, wiping it dry with a bit of torn curtain, tossed it onto one of the overturned chairs. She started walking toward Louis and Carlos but, fearful that the creature would return any minute, swerved aside and picked up the silver tray that Shanda had thrown and, in almost the same motion, grabbed a second tray from the broken tea cart.
“Oh shit,” she announced, a second later, “I think I’m gonna pass out!”
“That hurts!” Becky protested as Chris dumped her on the ground. He’d stopped at the corner, waiting for her to catch up and had, to her embarrassment, grabbed her up and carried her the two blocks remaining to Carlos’s apartment.
“Which is it?” he asked.
“You mean you can’t tell?” Becky pointed as Chris raced for the doorway.
The door to the second bungalow, had been ripped from its hinges and was lying, in two pieces, against some shrubbery by the entrance. Becky rushed toward it, the light spilling out of Carlos’s home illuminating a series of gouges in the wood siding surrounding the front door. She watched in astonishment as Chris bounded up the stairs and, as he was about to enter the bungalow, stopped dead for an instant, as if he’d run straight into a brick wall, and bounced backwards to tumble down the front steps and land on his rear.
“What’s wrong?” she panted, as she rushed to help him up.
Chris looked up at her, shame faced. “I’ve never been inside,” he explained. “I need an invitation.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Becky said and, went into the bungalow, making certain to beckon for Chris to follow her. He rushed past her in an instant.
The inside of the apartment bore a striking resemblance to certain parts of Los Angeles in the wake of the Rodney King riots. Broken glass littered the floor and pieces of wooden furniture had been reduced to so much kindling. None of the paintings remained on the walls; they sat amidst a scattering of shattered glass. A sideboard had been overturned, spewing broken china out onto the floor. The chairs were overturned, broken or slashed beyond repair. The hardwood floors bore huge gouge marks and the small area rugs had been scattered into corners. Not even the walls themselves remained unscathed; several looked as if someone had taken an axe to them. Chris was standing in the middle of the room, stunned by the devastation. Pamela stood in the kitchen doorway in her nightgown and sweat jacket, swaying from side to side, white-faced, her tear-puffed eyes narrowed determinedly and clutching a serving tray in each hand. On the floor, just below the slashed upholstery of the couch, Louis was gently rocking Shanda back and forth and whimpering quietly.
Shanda was, if possible, in even worse condition then the room. At the moment, had Shanda been a contestant in a beauty contest exclusively for bag women and Sunset Boulevard prostitutes, she would have been lucky to take last place.
Her stylish skirt had been reduced to tatters. Her blouse was in a similar condition, with the exception that one sleeve was missing entirely, the other was hanging in rags; the blouse was dotted with specks of red that Becky thought might be drops of fresh blood. To further add to the dishabille, a huge rent ran down the front of the blouse and, even from where she was standing, Becky could see that one of the falsies underneath had been ripped in two. Shanda’s wig was askew and one shoe was missing a heel; the other was missing entirely. Her stockings, needless to say, were a total loss.
Louis himself was not in much better shape. He was nearly naked; his pants were missing and his shirt was torn into ribbons, gouges along his sides and across his chest showing beneath the ripped material. His back looked like he had just been given forty lashes.
“My God,” Becky breathed and, at her words, the room seemed to come to life.
“I’ll kill that son of a bitch,” Burman yelled, waving the trays like cudgels, but her voice was weak and carried little conviction.
Chris quickly moved to Shanda and, with great difficulty, got Louis to release his grip. Louis huddled in the corner of the couch and set in to howling in earnest.
“Jesus,” Chris said. “See if you can calm him down.” Becky rushed to comply as Chris bent down close to examine one of the more ugly scratches on Shanda’s arm. Surreptitiously, he dabbed his finger into a bit of the welling blood and, when he was sure nobody was looking, put his finger into his mouth and closed his eyes, sucking thoughtfully.
“What happened?” she demanded. But Louis was unable to do anything but howl. Taking a deep breath and praying that the cure for emotional shock was universal and transcended species, she drew back her hand and slapped Louis firmly across the face. Started, he drew breath for another outburst. Becky slapped him again.
“What happened?” she said again, forcing herself to speak in a calmer tone of voice.
Louis seemed to come to himself. “We were here. Just talking. And the next thing we knew, he was breaking down the door.”
“She’s all right,” Chris said, wiping a small smear of blood from his lower lip and leaving Shanda for a minute. “Claws only so there’s little danger of infection.” Louis scooted across the couch and took Carlos/Shanda in his arms once again.
Chris turned to Burman, arching an eyebrow in query.
“Don’t you look at me that way, Mr. Calm, Cool and Collected!” Burman snapped, halfheartedly. “I have had enough of this shit. First you trash my place last fall and now here. What is it with you people? You wanna behave this way? Go start a bar room brawl somewhere!”
Suddenly, the adrenaline that had sustained her, ebbed away. All at once, Pamela Burman went from Avenging Angel to Little Old Lady. She dropped the trays with a clatter and swayed even more alarmingly, her eyes rolling back up into her head.
“Oh, shit,” said Becky. She bolted to Pam’s side and delivered the double slap treatment once again.
Burman blinked twice and, without warning, hauled off and slapped the coroner back.
“Jesus, Pam!” Becky squealed. “That hurt!”
“You think you gave me a fucking love tap?”
“You were gonna faint.”
“I was not!” Burman was indignant.
“Wow!” said Troy as he entered the bungalow. “Remind us not to use your decorator.” He sneezed several times and irritably began to wipe at his nose. “It smells like the pound in here.” He sneezed again.
He went to sit on the couch but, as he got closer to Louis and Shanda, his sneezing exacerbated. Veering off, he righted one of the overturned chairs and plopped into it, first picking up a torn scrap of curtain to wipe futilely at his runny nose. Chris came immediately to his side, eyeing Troy’s misery with concern.
“These allergy shots are for shit!” he remarked with an accusing look at Becky.
“I’ll alter the dosage,” she said absently, concentrating on trying to extricate Shanda from Louis’ embrace so she could examine her for damage. “Your system’s probably metabolizing too quickly.”
“Yeah, right. Excuses, excuses.” Troy leaned his head back against the torn upholstery of the chair and commented to the ceiling, “What a night!” He twisted around in his chair and looked at Chris mischievously.
“And you always complain about my driving!”
“It was an emergency,” Chris said tersely.
Troy shrugged. “Whatever you say, dear. You just remember tonight the next time you try to back seat drive with me. He’s really not very good behind the wheel,” he told the room in general.
“Listen, Troy,” Chris responded irritably, “I was driving long before you were born…”
“They didn’t have cars before I was born,” Troy shot back, pettishly.
“Oh, yes they did,” Chris’ reply was smug.
“Oh yeah,” Troy bristled. “Then how come…?”
“Ladies! Please!” Becky shouted.
Chris turned to look at her and raised one eyebrow with slight surprise.
“Could we please can the marital squabbles?” she said. “We’ve got more important things to deal with.”
Shanda suddenly pushed Louis away, and rose regally to her feet. Surprising everyone, she spoke in a low clear, calm voice. “Becky’s right. Enough drama for one night, okay?”
Everyone looked at her, amazed by her composure. The silence was broken only by Troy’s sniffles.
“I have just been attacked,” she announced, “by Jack the Ripper in a fur coat. I doubt if it was because he was driven wild by my feminine wiles.”
“You’re taking this well,” Chris said with concern.
“Honey,” Shanda shot back, “during the LA riots, I was caught downtown in full drag. This ain’t nothing compared to that! Now,” she folded her arms defiantly over the wreckage of her bosom, “I’d like an explanation please.”
No one seemed to want to meet her eyes directly. The room remained silent as Shanda stood, expectantly. Finally, Chris asked her gently, “What happened here?”
“Uh, uh,” Shanda said primly. “You first.”
“Dammit, Carlos. This is important,” Chris said.
“I’m fine. You said so yourself…I’m waiting.”
Becky had to admire the drag queen’s poise. She had seen Carlos reduced to helpless hysterics at the sight of a honeybee. When he was comfortably ensconced in his Shanda-mode, he unveiled hitherto unknown reserves of emotional strength.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Troy exclaimed, and everyone turned to face him. “I’ll tell her.” He sneezed again and wiped at his watery eyes. “You’re sleeping with a werewolf and his cousin’s trying to kill him.”
“Damn you, Troy,” said Burman, quietly.
Troy shrugged, unconcerned, “Well none of y’all were gonna say anything. She has a right to know.” He twisted in his seat to look up at Chris. “Are my eyes getting puffy? God, I hate bags.”
“Miss Burman,” said Shanda, regally bringing the focus of the room back to herself, “after the incident at La Boheme, should I be surprised?”
“You knew?” asked Louis.
“Oh honey,” Shanda leaned down to tenderly kiss him on the forehead. “I suspected. You ain’t the most discreet person I ever met.” She smiled and ruffled his hair gently, “That’s why you need me to look after you.”
“You don’t mind?” Louis asked and flinched in anticipation of the answer.
“I’m a drag queen, for Christ’s sake!” Shanda sniffed, regally. “When we met, I was worried about what I was gonna tell you! Anyway, darling,” Shanda gathered him into her arms, “my first husband was a crystal freak — big time. That was scary. As long as you don’t poop on the carpet…” She sadly surveyed the wrecked room. “Not that there’s much carpet left to poop on.” She raised her hand to brush a wisp of hair out of her face and started in horror at the realization that the wig had slipped.
“My God,” she said in panic, “My hair!” She bolted from the room.
“Louis…” Chris said sternly.
The werewolf was beaming, looking longingly after the vanished drag queen. He started and turned to face Chris.
“Well, we were just sitting here, like I said. And the door started to shake. That’s when we called Pamela. We didn’t have your new number.”
“He seemed confused, at first,” Louis chuckled. “I guess he expected to find me with a man.” He grew pensive, “I knew he never liked me. But this…!” He shrugged. “Anyway, when he didn’t see a guy, he went crazy. Tore the place apart.” Louis’ brow wrinkled. “Then, I guess he must’ve caught onto the scent. Shanda had the silver trays by then and I was doing my best to change but the damned clothes kept getting in the way. Then,” he added with grim satisfaction, “I nailed him with a candle stick.”
“Good God! Your poor hands!” Becky said as Louis held out his palms to show the scorch marks. She opened her omnipresent bag and started rummaging around for some antiseptic cream.
Louis’ eyes narrowed in anger. “Forget about me. It’s Shanda I’m worried about. He tried to kill her. Knocked the trays right out of her hand. He was on top of her when Pam came in.”
Now it was Burman’s turn to be center of attention. She blushed.
“No big deal.” She moved over to one of the chairs and rummaged in the torn cushions. “Where the fuck…? Ah! Here it is!”
Burman proudly hoisted up the silver duck; its jaunty blue ribbon was a little the worse for wear and the city manager carefully straightened it.
“What is that?” Troy asked. His sneezes were coming more frequently.
“Bought it tonight at Neiman Marcus for my niece’s boy. Third kid. Two months old,” she beamed proudly. “You should see him.” She went on with her explanation. “I grabbed it when I ran over here. Thank God I didn’t have time to wrap it.” She opened her purse and pulled out the cross pen, the tableware, a silver piggy bank and a set of sterling silver child sized eating utensils. “Actually, I grabbed everything. The pig’s just plate,” she explained.
“You beat off a werewolf with a duck?” Chris was astounded.
“I didn’t beat anything,” said Burman with impatience. “I shoved it right down the fucker’s throat!”
“He coughed it up,” Louis chuckled, “And took off like a…well, like a bat outta hell.”
“You bet your ass he coughed it up!” Burman snorted. “Ninety-five fucking bucks this cost me.”
“You’re sure it was definitely Guy?” Chris asked, trying to preserve the seriousness of the occasion and ignore the image of Burman, clad only in her outlandish sweatshirt and aqua and pink bed wear, thrusting the little trinket into the mouth of the raging beast.
“No, it was Huckleberry Fucking Hound,” Burman snapped sarcastically. “What do you think’s going on around here? A werewolf Shriner’s convention?”
“Yeah,” Louis confirmed irritably. “Hercule was right. It’s Guy.”
“Well, at least we’re certain,” Chris breathed.
“How are we gonna stop him?” Becky asked, giving up her search for the antiseptic cream in disgust. She remembered she’d emptied the non-essentials from her bag that afternoon and filled it with a half box each of Mounds Bars, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and a half dozen Drakes Yodels.
“With a decoy, of course,” Shanda announced as she came back into the room, hair in place and wrapped in a green satin dressing gown with matching marabou trim, “Me!”
“No way!” Louis shouted.
