The Trouble With Hairy, page 41
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
The cigar was a secondary incentive. In an odd way, Pamela told herself, she must have loved that damned cigar as much as she’d loved Harry. Early on, she’d told him she blamed Morris Singer’s death on his addiction to Captain Black’s. Harry immediately swore off tobacco for life and had promptly proposed. In the fourteen years of their marriage, although the cigars were omnipresent — Harry’s trademark in fact — he had only actually smoked one of the things fourteen times to commemorate the anniversary of her accepting his marriage proposal.
Harry indulged Pamela’s every whim, seeking to insure that his wife had only the best of everything. The only negative was that Harry fancied himself a consummate cook and refused to allow Pamela into “his” kitchen. He would spend hours puttering over the stove, trying new recipes and creating masterpieces of his own for Pamela’s culinary pleasure. When disaster struck, it struck in the kitchen.
Pamela was lying in bed, feeling miserable and putting down her growing feeling of hopelessness and despair as being caused by the flu. Harry prepared a huge tureen of homemade vegetable soup, using carrots, peas, mushrooms and other fruits of his very own backyard garden, a new project which he’d instituted barely six months before. Presented with a bowl of the fragrant beverage and taking her first taste, Pamela’s stomach rebelled and she darted into the bathroom, expelling the soup and racked with the dry heaves. Harry held her tenderly as she retched over the toilet bowl and, after tucking her back into bed and waiting until she fell asleep, went downstairs to partake in his own share of the culinary masterpiece.
Pamela found him dead in the kitchen when she awoke. The inquest found that, while Harry’s skill as a chef was formidable, his acumen as a gardener left much to be desired. The innocent “Chanterelles” which Harry had boasted “sprung up all by themselves” were in actuality mushrooms of a more deadly variety.
And so, each time she was about to re-enter widowhood, Pamela Burman had experienced the same feeling of impending doom that she was feeling now except, this time, there was no husband in the wings awaiting the fatal blow. Who then?
Louis, of course, seemed the obvious target, but his sleep seemed peaceful, accompanied by small twitches of his tail. In dreams, he was probably stalking the misty moors of Scotland or wherever the hell that Universal Wolfman thing took place. Of course, God could be just waiting to strike him down with a heart attack or a stroke, but somehow Pamela doubted that this would put more than a slight hitch in the werewolf’s continued breathing. Nevertheless, she should probably ask Carlos. He would surely know much more about Louis’ nature than Pamela had managed to glean from Becky and Chris; Carlos would have gotten the information directly from the horse’s, or wolf’s mouth, so to speak. At this thought, Pamela froze with alarm. Since Carlos’ apartment was trashed, he and Louis had been sharing Pamela’s guest bed. If Louis was in the living room either they’d had a fight which, given Louis’ rather distinctive way of expressing anger, Pamela would surely have heard or else…
Pamela rose from the couch and, wrapping her bathrobe more securely around herself, briskly walked down the hallway to stand in front of the guest bedroom door. She knocked once, loudly, and when no answer was immediately forthcoming, threw the door open and peered in.
The bed had not been slept in.
Rushing back into the living room, she swatted Louis on the rump as she went for the telephone. He woke up and looked up at her, curiously, as she dialed.
“It’s after eleven,” she told him. “Carlos isn’t back.”
Louis jumped down and padded over to stand next to her.
“Line’s busy.” She hung up and dialed Chris’s number from memory. “Chris’ too.” She put down the telephone and paused thoughtfully. “You! Get changed.”
Louis changed form and stood, naked, before her, concern clearly printed on his swarthy features.
“I meant put on clothes,” Pamela snapped.
“Relax,” Louis told her. “Shanda went out with Troy. Girl talk, he said.”
“With Troy?” Burman looked at her ward as if he were crazy. “Your cousin’s trying to kill her and you let Shanda go out with Troy? Why didn’t you just bring him home to your entire family, dunk him in Hamburger Helper and dangle him in front of everyone at supper?”
“Have you ever tried to argue with Carlos when he’s Shanda?” Louis asked pointedly.
“I can argue with anyone,” Burman said as she dialed again. “Get dressed, dammit,” she repeated as she cradled the telephone next to her ear. “Then go into the bedroom closet and grab my violet jumpsuit.”
Louis trotted off to comply, and by the time he returned, wearing pants at least and carrying Burman’s outfit, she’d slammed down the phone in disgust.
“What’s wrong?” Louis asked.
Burman shed her robe and slipped into the jumpsuit without removing her pajamas. “Carlos and Chris are both busy and Becky’s not answering. I’m gonna get shoes. Call Clive at home and have him meet us at Shanda’s. He lives closest. The number’s on the pad.”
Louis picked up the phone as Burman ran from the room, trying desperately to shake the increasing feeling that Troy and Carlos were in dire danger.
The telephone jangled and Clive, instantly awake, reached over the body next to him and answered gruffly, “Anderson.”
The moment he heard Louis’ voice, with Burman shouting instructions in the background, he felt a cold knot form in the pit of his stomach. He listened for a minute, his apprehension growing, and then said, with a sigh of resignation, “I’ll meet you there.”
As he pulled himself out of bed, a woman’s voice asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Just work,” he said as he removed a pair of slacks from the wooden clothes valet at the end of the bed.
The attractive woman in the bed rolled over and asked, “Will you be long?”
“Can’t tell,” he replied as he slipped on his shirt and buttoned it. He caught himself starting to take even more care in dressing than usual in an effort to delay any confrontation with Louis’ cousin. He guiltily quickened his pace.
Rhonda, unconscious of Clive’s inner turmoil, grimaced and made a small moue of disappointment. “One of these days,” she said, “we’re going to spend an entire night together.” She flopped back down on the bed. “And don’t you dare fold that dress,” she added, not bothering to open her eyes.
Clive guiltily withdrew his hand from where it had, instinctively, reached out to rescue Rhonda’s clothes from their crumpled state at the foot of the bed. Though it was probably a false alarm, or just Burman’s usual histrionics, his friends could be in potential danger. His normal retentiveness would simply have to be put on hold in the interests of getting over to Carlos’ as soon as possible.
“Honestly, Clive,” she said as she rolled over, trying to get more comfortable, “you are too predictable.”
Clive grabbed several extra pocket squares from his top dresser drawer; he was already starting to sweat and Lord knew what sticky surprises the coroner might have in store for him now that she’d relinquished her resolve to diet. Desperately trying to avoid thinking about maybe meeting a werewolf who, unlike Louis, wouldn’t simply curl up at his feet or fetch his slippers, he finished dressing and forced his thoughts to examine Rhonda’s last comment.
He supposed she was right. His fussiness had destroyed more relationships than he was willing to count. His last two girlfriends had both walked out on him in exasperation at his perpetual picayune neatness, forcing him to the conclusion that the gods had doomed him to perennial bachelorhood. It wasn’t that he didn’t strongly desire to share his life with a woman; he did. It was simply that, so far, he’d not been able to find anyone who either matched up with his own ordered way of life or was willing to allow him to alter hers to fit. For a man who believed firmly that there was a proper place for everything, he’d been unable to find a place in his own life for romance.
As he knotted his tie, Clive tried to ignore the almost physical pain caused by the thought of Rhonda’s balled up clothing by ruminating on what marriage would entail. She’d be in the kitchen constantly, disordering his spices. The bathroom, with her stockings, perfumes and cosmetics would be a total disaster. As for the bedroom closets, Lord knew whether he’d be able to function if he allowed someone else to hang his suits in the wrong order. No, marriage, in Clive’s opinion, would be utter chaos.
Clive quickly checked the knot in his tie in the mirror. He probably should have just thrown on a sweatshirt and jeans and rushed out the door. However, taking the extra few minutes to dress properly had enabled him to stifle his rising panic. Then again, both sweatshirts and jeans were items alien to Clive Anderson’s wardrobe.
He brushed a few scraps of lint from his jacket shoulder and grabbed his gun from the nightstand drawer. Checking to make sure that the specially manufactured bullets were all in place, he started to leave the bedroom. At the last possible moment, temptation triumphed as he shifted course and grabbing up the errant dress, folding it swiftly. He placed it on the dresser and slipped out the bedroom door, turning deaf ears to Rhonda’s halfhearted curses.
He carefully locked the front door of his townhouse behind himself, pulling gently on the handle to make sure the door was completely closed. Walking briskly toward his car parked by the curb, his thoughts turned to his brief conversation with Louis.
It had been clear that, although Louis himself was far from panicked, from the werewolf’s tone and from what he’d been able to overhear from Burman in the background, the city manager was worried. If Carlos and Troy were out on the streets alone, or worse, back at Carlos’ bungalow, Clive would personally give the two idiots a verbal dressing down severe enough to stay with them for the next dozen Gay Pride parades. From Troy, Clive had learned to expect the unexpected, but he’d assumed, perhaps to great error, that Shanda would be sensible enough not to do anything stupid; Carlos, as everyone knew, would simply have been too scared.
He started the car and clapped the portable revolving light onto the roof. Taking what small comfort he could from the weight of his silver-loaded gun pressing against his side, he sighed in resignation, put the car in gear, and started off on his way to meet Pamela, Louis and — although he didn’t yet know it, his furry nemesis — only a few blocks away.
CHAPTER 21
“Look out!” Becky cried as the green Volvo in front of them jammed on its brakes to avoid hitting a group of people crossing Santa Monica Boulevard.
Chris cut the wheel left, veering around the Volvo and into oncoming traffic. He glanced right and, seeing no way to get back on the proper side of the road, twisted the wheel even further to the left. Becky closed her eyes as the front window of The Hard Times Pizza Company loomed larger and larger, eclipsing the front windshield of the coroner’s van.
We should have never taken my car, she had time to think and then, accompanied by frantically quick exits from the late night diners who had been sitting on the patio in front of the pizza parlor, the van jumped the curb and, while Chris emitted a brief curse, knocked aside the recently vacated tables and chairs and plowed through the plate glass window of the restaurant.
Chris hit the brakes as the van’s front bumper crashed into the front refrigerated display case, taking out a series of prettily arranged pasta salads and demolishing a huge plate of calzones, finally coming to rest with only the remains of a crushed microwave separating the front of the van from the side wall. Becky felt her chest just touch the dashboard before she was slammed backwards into her seat, the breath knocked out of her from the impact.
A second later, the front windshield shattered, littering the van’s two occupants with little nodules of safety glass. The van shuddered once and the engine died. A framed photograph of Elizabeth Taylor and the pizza parlor’s owner, slipped from its mount, dropped onto the hood of the van and, with the tinkle of breaking glass, bounced through the shattered windscreen to land on Becky’s lap.
“Come on!” Chris shouted, wrenching open the driver’s side door and dropping it on the linoleum floor when it came loose in his hands.
Becky took in great gulps of air as she clambered down out of her own seat, still clutching the photograph.
“ARE YOU CRAZY?” someone yelled.
Becky turned and came face to face with a badly shaken, bald headed Italian man whose face was purpled with rage.
“Sorry. Emergency,” she mumbled, sheepishly.
“Coroner?” the man shouted. “What? Business is so bad you have to create it? I thought you were supposed to show up after someone died, not kill ’em yourself!” He turned to look at the wreckage surrounding him. “Look what you did to my shop!”
Chris ran around the back of the van and grabbed Becky’s arm. “Come on!” he urged, “Let’s go!”
“Go?” The proprietor was livid. “Like hell you do!” He went to grab Becky’s other arm, but she deftly stuck the photograph out, and without thinking, he took it from her.
“I think this is yours,” she said as Chris dragged her through the front window of the shop. They started running down the block and Becky distinctly heard the restaurant owner’s anguished cry of “Liz!” echoing behind them.
“Slow down, for Christ’s sake!” Becky panted as they raced across the street against the light. “It’s eight blocks!”
Without a word, Chris turned and scooped Becky up in his arms, cradling her against his chest and taking off again like, well, like a bat out of hell. Passers-by stopped in amazement as the chestnut haired young man, carrying a more than hefty burden of coroner, raced past them with inhuman speed. Becky clutched at Chris’ neck, shutting her eyes as the shops and restaurants of Santa Monica Boulevard vanished behind them.
“You know,” she commented, trying to remain as calm as possible as they dashed across La Cienega, stopping traffic and ignoring the angry horn bleats, “Pamela’s gonna kill us for destroying city property again.”
“Do you see what I see?” asked Louis as they entered the La Cienega intersection.
Pamela glanced in the direction of Louis’ pointing finger and her mouth dropped open. There, running madly across the street, was Chris Driscoll with, unless her eyes were very badly in need of a refraction, Becky O’Brien in his arms.
A second later, she hit the accelerator and the horn at the same time. Cutting off a Jeep, she swerved from the center lane all the way over to the right hand curb and stopped the car.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded through the driver’s window as Chris and Becky grew near. “Don’t you see the goddamned light’s red?”
Chris dropped Becky unceremoniously onto the ground and, without a word, grabbed the rear door handle. Unfortunately, Pamela had neglected to unlock it. For a second, Chris stood, dumbfounded, with the handle and a good portion of the door, in his hand. With a growl, and before Pamela could recover from the shock of the assault and protest, he slammed one hand through the glass, the other through the door itself and, with a mighty wrench, ripped the door clean off its hinges and threw it into traffic.
“That’s twice tonight,” Becky commented as she tried to scramble to her feet.
Chris ignored her and simply grabbed her by the collar and threw her into the back of Burman’s car where she landed with a loud “Oooof!” sprawled full length across the back seat.
“GO!” he roared, and without even once thinking to argue with him, the city manager stomped on the accelerator. The tires squealed as the car peeled out with Chris, unable to get past Becky’s bulk and into the car, hanging on to the roof, his fingers digging into the metal.
“He trashed my car,” Burman said quietly, in disbelief. “He ripped the door right off the fucking hinges!”
Louis wisely kept well clear of the subject. “Turn right” was his only comment.
Burman took out her frustration on the accelerator, increasing her speed as she shot around the corner. Recovering from her surprise, she yelled out the window, “You scratch the fucking paint and I’ll have your ass! You hear me?”
“Just drive,” Chris said, his tone of voice so ominous that Burman, for perhaps the third or fourth time in her seventy-plus years, wisely shut up.
Becky managed to twist herself around into a more or less upright position. “You think your car’s bad? Wait’ll you see the bill the city gets from Hard Times Pizza.”
Pamela almost hit the brakes. “Hard Times Pizza? No, wait. Don’t tell me.” She turned north on West Knoll, pulling up at the curb across the street from Carlos’ bungalow.
“Clive’s here,” Becky observed as they stopped.
Chris had leapt from his precarious position atop the car and was racing for the door of Carlos’ place. Louis yanked open his own door and was following close on the vampire’s heels.
Burman got out of the car, pausing to inspect the damage. “Why is it,” she asked, rounding on Becky, “that every time I get involved with one of your friends, my insurance rates go up?” Becky, wise in turn, almost managed to hide her grin of sympathy, but not quite.
“You wipe that smile off your face,” Burman spat, “or, you’ll doing your next protocol from inside one of your own body bags!”
Burman turned on her heel and began storming off toward the bungalow with Becky following closely behind. Becky couldn’t help hearing Pamela as she vowed under her breath, “Just lemme get my hands on some pliers and I’ll yank every goddamned fang from his head! Swear to Christ, I will!”
“Will you stop that, for Christ’s sake!” Shanda yelled, but Troy couldn’t help himself. Ignoring their danger, the sight of the naked Guy Chartreuse madly bouncing across the floor on his rear end struck Troy as terribly funny.
Every time Guy would manage to get his hands underneath himself and his feet firmly planted on the floor in preparation for rising, Troy would dart forward and tug his ankles out from under him. Each time Guy landed on his ass it prompted a new set of high pitched yelps and screams and a procession of hopping motions as the fork tipped umbrella drove deeper and deeper into his body. Guy would bounce for a bit, struggle to rise and Troy, giggling madly and rivaling the wounded werewolf in volume, would trip him up and start the whole process anew.
