“Why not?” Shanda asked. She curled up on the couch and stroked her lover’s bare chest through the torn shirt. “I have you to protect me,” she cooed and Louis swelled with pride.

  “And us!” Troy said. He was miserable, not only because his allergies were giving him hell, but also because, for once in his life, he was unable to draw to attention to his favorite subject, Troy Raleigh.

  “Yes, you too,” said Shanda thoughtfully. “By the way,” she said as she turned to Chris, “Just what the hell are you, anyway?”

  Chris cleared his throat delicately and, very slowly, opened his mouth and bared his fangs.

  “Oh,” Shanda said in a teeny, tiny voice. She turned to Troy with a question in her eyes.

  Troy shook his head. “He’s Batman. I’m just Robin.”

  “There are more things in heaven and earth…” Shanda said softly. She turned to Chris, concern in her eyes. “Did he…I mean, I don’t think he bit me. Did he?”

  “That’s just Universal Pictures. It’s not like catching a cold. Werewolves are born, not made,” Chris told her.

  “But…you just said…” Shanda continued uncertainly.

  “Staph,” Chris replied. “I was worried about staph infection. God knows where his claws have been recently.” He shrugged with a rueful smile on his face. “No romantic changing at the full moon, I’m afraid. Sorry.” His expression grew serious, “I think you’re clear but, still, if Becky doesn’t mind?”

  “Sure thing,” Becky said briskly. “Us girls’ll go into the bedroom and…er…disinfect.” She took Shanda by the arm and started to leave the room. She paused for a minute and looked back at Chris, puzzled.

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  Chris smiled grimly, baring the tips of his fangs. “Let’s just say I’ve a taste for things like that.”

  “Yeah, right.” She left the room as Louis started to follow but Chris reached out to stop him.

  “Louis?”

  “Yeah.” Louis’ habitual petulant shyness had returned.

  “Congratulations. You’ve got yourself quite a woman there.”

  Louis’ scowl was replaced by a beaming smile.

  Chris grew serious for a moment and looked as if he was going to say something else, but then had thought better of it.

  “We’ll protect him,” he told Louis instead. “We’ll get that bastard if it’s the last thing we do!”

  Becky finally managed to reach Clive at home and fill him in on what had happened at Carlos’s bungalow. He instructed her to report it as an act of assault during the course of a burglary. They put their heads together and, with the help of the others, concocted an only mildly unbelievable tale of a crazed knife-wielding druggie. Clive promised to bury the report later.

  The traffic accident was another matter altogether. Clive shuddered when Becky described the damage; she could imagine his forehead gleaming with sweat as he was faced with trying to cover up not only the mess left in the middle of the medial strip but the fact that the coroner and her friends had promptly left the scene of the accident. And, when Burman found out that one of “Those Less Fortunate” had been made more unfortunate still, Chris was very close to being the fourth assault victim that night.

  He offered to pay for the damage, of course, but Burman was only slightly mollified. It wasn’t until Becky, asking some perceptive questions about the city manager’s own hellbent rush to get to Carlos’s in record time, managed to point out that Pamela’s driving habits that evening had been less than pristine, that Burman ceased her demands that Chris attend at least eight hours of traffic school. Troy, on the other hand, was rather disappointed. He’d heard there was a gay traffic school, Finally A Gay Traffic School, called FAGTS for short, and had been hoping Chris would let him go along.

  As for Hector Ruiz, the driver that had stopped to assist them at the accident site, Clive had been able to arrange for his immediate release from the lock up where the traffic deputies had taken him after hearing his bizarre story about three people demolishing their car and bolting off down the street, after first leaving their insurance information behind. Ruiz was understandably upset when Clive put him on the telephone with Chris but, after putting Troy on the line and allowing him to flirt shamelessly with the man for twenty minutes, Ruiz was mollified. A small bribe on Chris’ part went a long way toward helping Ruiz forgive them for the inconvenience.

  By the time the detectives left Shanda’s, Louis and Carlos could barely keep their eyes open. Taking charge, Burman insisted that they both spend the rest of the night at her condo.

  “I’ve got three goddamned bedrooms,” she’d told Carlos, overriding his protests, “You’ve got Ava Gardner in Earthquake. You’re coming home with me.”

  Faced with his boss’ obstinate refusal to take no for an answer, Carlos hastily threw a suitcase together and the three of them had driven off toward Shoreham Towers.

  As they walked back to the battered Cabriolet which, thanks to Clive’s influence had not been towed, and drove back to the Crescent Height apartment at a more sedate pace, Becky noticed that Chris was pensively silent on the way.

  “What’s on your mind?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Troy, happy now that his nose and throat were clear, piped up from the back seat. “It’s Shanda, isn’t it?”

  Chris glared at him in the rear view mirror. “Monkey, sometimes it’s better to be quiet about some things.”

  Becky was instantly alarmed. “What happened? She wasn’t bit, was she? Oh God,” she moaned, “She’s always wanted a mink coat, but I don’t think this is what she had in mind.”

  “I told you, lycanthropy is genetic,” Chris said wearily. “As long as you do your job, she’ll be fine.”

  “I didn’t take samples,” Becky said, cursing herself for the oversight. “I didn’t think I needed to. Do I?” She fixed the vampire with a keen glance.

  “Well,” Chris said, slowly. “She was bleeding when we came in. I tasted it, remember?”

  “And?”

  “Look, Becky, this isn’t the time or the place to discuss this.”

  They drove silently for a while, except for Troy humming the score of Wonderful Town in the back seat. But Becky kept her eyes glued to Chris, unwilling to abandon the conversation and conscious that her incessant stare was making him uncomfortable.

  Chris turned off Fountain and pulled the abused VW into the parking garage underneath their new building. He parked and sat behind the wheel debating whether or not to say anything, while Becky waited expectantly. Finally, he sighed in resignation and pounded on the steering wheel with angry frustration.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” he said, not too loudly.

  “Something’s wrong with Carlos,” Becky confirmed aloud. “But what? You said she wasn’t infected,” she added defiantly.

  “No,” Chris corrected. “I said that Guy couldn’t have infected her.”

  “Oh my God,” Becky said in a small voice, “AIDS?”

  Chris nodded. “HIV has a very distinctive tang to it and Carlos is…pretty far along.”

  “How are we gonna tell Louis?”

  “We’re not,” Chris said sternly. “That’s Carlos’ decision.”

  “But Louis could get it,” she protested.

  Chris looked at her pityingly. “Not likely,” he said.

  “The legends must have some basis in fact,” Becky’s mind was racing, desperately seeking some solace. “Are you sure Louis can’t bite him or something? To make Carlos immune, too?”

  “The disease is already there, Becky,” Chris reminded her gently. “Even if Carlos could somehow be changed, it would probably progress a little more every time he was in human form. And, as a werewolf, well… have you ever seen a lupine with distemper?” Becky shook her head.

  “Nothing compared to what AIDS would do. Very painful.” He was silent for a minute, distinctly uncomfortable.

  “You could save him,” Troy piped in from the back seat, with the confident tone he used whenever he was in one of his Aren’t-I-Lucky-To-Have-Such-A-Unique-And-Wonderful-Lover modes.

  “Thank God!” Becky said, relieved.

  Chris suddenly spun around in his seat to face Troy, white-faced with anger. Becky watched as Troy visibly wilted, immediately regretting his prior statement. He seemed to be vacillating whether bursting into apologetic tears would assuage his lover’s anger or whether he should just jump out of the car and try to hide for a few hours.

  “Do you ever put your brain in gear before you engage your mouth?” Chris demanded. Becky moved as far away from Chris as she could, pressing her back against the passenger door. She’d never before seen him angry and, to be honest, he was frightening her.

  Troy opened his mouth to say something, but Chris cut him off abrasively.

  “Enough!” Chris snapped, raising his hand as if to strike his lover. Troy cringed and Becky felt a pang of sympathy as she saw absolute desolation in the blond boy’s eyes. Chris managed to gain control and lowered his raised arm. “Sorry,” he said perfunctorily. He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I put up with a lot from you, Troy, but that is one of the stupidest things you’ve ever said!”

  The car was silent for a moment.

  “Don’t even think of asking,” Chris said, turning back to Becky. Before she could protest, he went on. “Carlos isn’t cut out for my life. Trust me, I know. He’d be dead within the first six months. Even with the disease, he’ll last longer if he’s lucky.”

  Becky was quiet for a moment, the tension in the car preventing her from thinking. Finally, a thought popped into her head.

  “Pamela!” she exclaimed, in protest. “She can’t cope with that. He’s like her daughter!”

  “She’ll have to,” Chris said, with a strange hardened lack of sympathy. He grew quiet for a moment and then whispered, “We all do.” He abruptly got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. The rear view mirror on the driver’s side dropped to the concrete floor of the parking garage with a tinkle of broken glass. Chris stared at it, wordlessly, for an instant and then slammed his fist so hard against the driver’s door that Becky was jolted several inches out of her seat. She heard another shatter of broken glass and guessed that one of the headlights, having miraculously survived the events of the evening thus far, had just expired.

  “Great,” Chris said, “Just great!” He kicked the front tire. The car rocked again and, when he managed to finally free his foot from where it had punctured the rubber, stalked off toward the elevator.

  As the car started to list alarmingly to port, the air escaping from the tire in a whoosh, Becky moved to follow him but Troy reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her.

  “Not a good idea,” he said. Becky could feel him shaking where he clutched her elbow. “He’s thinking about losing Sebastian,” Troy continued, bitterly. “His first lover.”

  “He died?” Becky asked.

  Troy snorted, angrily. “I probably wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t. Leave him be for awhile. He needs to be alone.”

  He looked at Becky earnestly. “Maybe I can talk to him in a little while. For you, it wouldn’t be healthy.”

  “Nonsense,” Becky said, shrugging off Troy’s arm. Even to herself, she didn’t sound very convinced.

  She sat and watched as Chris vanished into the elevator.

  “I suppose you’ll have to stay with us tonight,” Troy said, with a resigned sigh. “I’ll never be able to drive you home in this thing,” he added, looking at the ruined Cabriolet with regret. Then he added, with a weak attempt at a mischievous glint in his eye, “Who knows what’s lurking out there? And you’d make quite a meal!”

  Becky glared at him and defiantly removed a Mounds bar from her bag and bit into it, determined to enjoy every morsel, just for spite.

  CHAPTER 18

  Troy Raleigh was not a happy camper. Becky had taken him at his word and stayed the night, curled up on the couch in the living room. Chris had placed a firm moratorium on the playing of albums, the viewing of movies and the telephoning of friends so as to allow Becky to get a good night’s sleep.

  The coroner’s presence made any attempt at reconciliation with his lover difficult at best. From long experience, Troy knew that a full blown argument would have to ensue before Chris would forgive him. And frankly, Troy’s ego would have difficulty enough in bearing the brunt of the recriminations Chris would doubtless hurl at him without Becky listening in the background. Her “I told you so” look would be simply intolerable.

  He considered making as much “accidental” racket as he could in an effort to get the coroner to walk home after all. But, with the mood Chris was in, he thought better of it and, finally, contented himself with dragging the television into the second bedroom and gently bugging Chris until he hooked up the Nintendo, which he’d had for twenty years and never learned how to plug in. He played for an hour or so, with the volume turned all the way down, but he rapidly grew bored; Outer Space Invaders simply couldn’t compare accompanying Judy Garland in a rousing rendition of “The Trolley Song” or an evening spent watching Olivia DeHavilland in Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte.

  Finally shutting off the television, he rummaged in some of the still packed boxes left in the spare bedroom and with suitable appreciative gasps discovered his old movie posters. He spent another joyful hour positioning the framed lobby cards on the floor against the walls, making sure that each was in the ideal position to show off its attributes to the fullest once it was hung. Then, determined to make Chris proud, and hopefully alleviate his lover’s potentially explosive mood, he tiptoed through the living room, past Becky’s lightly snoring form, and into the kitchen where he retrieved a hammer and some nails.

  Back in the second bedroom, he carefully measured and marked the walls for the exact location of each picture hook and then, determined to do the job right, he positioned the first nail and drew back the hammer for his first strike. Unfortunately, despite his having been raised on a farm, tools and Troy were a match that was made somewhere other than in heaven; in more than half a century, his dexterity with a hammer had, if possible, gotten even worse.

  The hammer twisted in his grip, struck the nail at an angle, bent it and sent it skittering off across the wooden floor, connecting instead with the plaster wall with a loud thud and raising a cloud of demolished plaster dust. The jarring impact loosened his already infirm grip and the hammer went sailing out of his hand, smashing into the glass of Troy’s Seven Year Itch poster, shattering it beyond repair.

  Chris came bounding into the room a moment later, livid.

  “What the hell are you doing? I thought I told you to be quiet!”

  “I was trying to put the pictures up,” Troy pouted.

  “God damn it monkey, Becky’s trying to sleep!” Chris grabbed the hammer from the floor and snatched the remaining nails from Troy’s hand.

  “Look what you did to the wall!” he said, glowering. “Clean that mess up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Troy said, tears brimming in his eyes. “I wanted to get it done tonight and surprise you.”

  “Well, don’t,” Chris snapped. “Dammit, Troy, don’t you ever think before you start to do something?” Chris laid the hammer and nails in a corner on top of a pile of folded curtains. “Don’t you dare touch that,” he warned. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t push me, monkey,” Chris said, his voice flatly dangerous. So saying, he stalked out of the room.

  Troy followed, distraught that he’d intensified Chris’ already foul mood. But by the time he gingerly stepped over the broken glass to avoid cutting his bare feet, Chris had vanished into the master bedroom and closed the door.

  “Chris?” Troy called softly, as he opened the door and peered inside. But Chris was nowhere to be found. Entering, Troy dropped his shorts in the corner and, naked, opened the lid to the large double-width “guest bedroom” which, to his surprise, was empty. He closed it gently and opened the door to the bathroom, hoping to find Chris inside, but it, too, was empty.

  Finally, Troy opened the lid of the Dracula coffin to find Chris resting inside, arms crossed peacefully on his chest.

  “Honey,” Troy said plaintively, “tonight’s our night to cuddle, isn’t it?”

  Chris’ eyes opened briefly as he drew breath to speak. “I’m sleeping,” he said.

  A tear trickled down Troy’s cheek as Chris closed his eyes once again and his chest ceased all movement. Desolate and feeling terribly rejected, Troy went back into the second bedroom. Not caring whether or not he cut his bare feet, he crunched across the shards of glass and knelt next to the ruined Marilyn Monroe poster. Huddled in the corner, and clutching it tightly to his chest with the broken glass digging into his bare skin, he began to cry softly.

  It’s not fair, he thought. Used to being the center of everyone’s attention, he’d been playing second fiddle ever since Louis showed up on the scene. Becky condescended to him, Pam Burman treated him with the same disdain she showed to everyone, the captain barely noticed him, Louis pointedly ignored him, and now, even his beloved Chris was angry, no doubt wondering whether or not Troy was a suitable replacement for Sebastian Grahame.

  Lonely and bored, he rocked back and forth, causing small rivulets of blood to seep down his chest and longed for company. He found himself missing his friend Scotty’s presence. Although Scotty was a ghoul and had several habits, unique to his kind, which Troy considered nothing short of disgusting, there was no one better with whom to watch an old Lauren Bacall picture.

  Becky’s right, he mused, miserably. I’m spoiled. Chris thinks so too.

  But no matter how much he silently vocalized the thought, he couldn’t really comprehend the problem. All his life, Troy had been provided for by others, first his parents, then by Mr. Horace Grenham at the dry goods store and then, just when he had been terrified of having to take care of himself, Chris had come along and assumed all responsibility.

  Troy had tried to be self-sufficient, he really, truly had. But with Chris sharing his life, he simply didn’t see the reasoning behind continuing an experiment that on every occasion turned out to be a disaster. Troy was simply not cut out to deal with the trials and tribulations of ordinary life; he knew that. Thank heavens, and thanks to Chris, he didn’t have to.

 

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