As you've been waiting to read more, I've been reading over it myself, making changes as I go along -- some minor, and some very major. I've done a character edit to Davis that needed to be done to make this story fit in with other stories I wrote after. But making edits is like pulling threads. You pull one thread, and the whole pattern can come unraveled. This thread-pull is fixable, but it's a bitch, and it's not making the story any better.
Ever do that? Ever make a character change that you thought was just a little touchup, and it turns into a whole big unraveling?
A, well. C'est la vie. That's life (real and imaginary)...
Enjoy,
LLH
“The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis”
By L. L. Heberlein
(Copyright 2012 by L.L. Heberlein, published 2015, all rights reserved)
CHAPTER TWO:
George finally gave in, and handed me the envelope. Inside was the five-hundred-dollar bill, as promised, and a note with the name Clara and a phone number.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “And just think about it, okay? Don’t call tonight. Spend some time just deciding if it’s worth dying over. If you change your mind, just bring it back, and I’ll tell her it’s not going to work out.”
It was late -- or early -- coming up on 5 a.m., so I nodded my head and agreed. I put the envelope in the inside pocket of my leather jacket, took the folded twenty from the front pocket of my jeans, and tossed it at him. “For the coffee,” I said.
George tossed it back. “Keep it,” he said. “Don’t go using that five-hundred till you’ve thought about it, okay?”
I shoved the bill back in my pants, and nodded. “Night, George.”
He nodded once and went back to wiping up the bar.
The early November air felt crisp and clean, with a note of decaying leaves and just a taste of that Seattle sea air. Most years it’s drippy and drab by this time, but this year fall has been dry, brisk and bright orange, even at night. I spotted a still-fresh transfer ticket lying in the gutter. Free ride. Luck me. The city rushed past in a blur of street lights as I rode the early morning Metro north of downtown to Fremont. I find life is easier not living downtown with the rest of the monsters. I’m not nearly as violent as most of them, or as much of a jerk. Plus, they sort-of kicked me out. It’s a long story, one involving two young women (whom I did not know) and a bottle of tequila (which I did not drink). Let’s just say I didn’t get my rental deposit back from my last apartment.
Now I live in the basement of small 1920s-era house in the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle. It’s a charming house, with what used to be pretty pink paint and fancy cut-glass windows. It’s a little more run-down these days; the paint is peeling, at least one window is broken, and no one lives there but me. The main part of the building is now a detective agency of sorts, owned and occupied by my friend John “Horseface” Horesman, a human working as a private investigator for the supernatural underworld. John is a good guy with a generous smile and a big spare-tire belly that muffins over top of his khaki pants. He lets me live in the basement of the old house for a modest rent, which I haven’t been able to pay lately. Kind of tells you something about my non-living life these days. Waiting for George to find me the odd-job is not exactly lucrative.
I put my key in the lock, and it turned with a click. Good, I thought, I still live here. I hit the light switch, and there was nothing. Old Horseface must have turned off the power. That, or he hadn’t paid the bill. Things weren’t so lucrative for him these days, either.
I felt my way through the house, bumping into the familiar surroundings. There’s not much here to bump into. There’s a long couch along one wall and a cheap bookcase on the other. The far wall features the “kitchen”, which is really just a sink, a small counter and half of a functioning stove. The fridge isn’t in use; it isn’t even plugged in. I hadn’t had a refrigerator for a while until Lucy, Horseface’s lovely and long-suffering girlfriend, decided it looked “too sad” not to have one, and bought me one of those 1950s classic Frigidaires from the reuse store. It’s red with chrome handles, and doesn’t cool worth a shit. No food, just coffee beans, which I keep in there because Lucy said it was also too sad to see it empty.
A whack to my shin reminded me that I also own a coffee table. Times like these I wish I were a vampire, or at least had their ability to see in the dark. There’s one of those large, smelly candles in the middle of the table, so I lit a match and fired it up. The candle filled the room with a soft, homey glow.
I took the money envelope out of my pocket and placed it on the coffee table. I thought about calling the number tonight, and just getting a start on it, but I’d promised George I’d give it a day. And using the phone would mean going upstairs to borrow John’s phone, and I really didn’t think it was a good idea to run into Horseface tonight, not when the power was out. He was either hella mad at me, or hella mad at the power company. But, then again, I did have five-hundred dollars to give him, provided I took the job. Then again, I wasn’t sure I was going to take it. I mean, I was about ninety-nine percent sure I would, but there was still that awful, nagging feeling in my gut from the way George talked about the job. Too good to be true, indeed. I needed that money, more than I’d needed anything in a long time. But how far could you really trust a vampire?
I gave my beard a stroke as I thought it over. I decided the first thing I needed was a shave. I could never figure out how it was that I never ate, never grew any older, and yet my hair and fingernails continued to do their thing. The facial hair wasn’t any sort of fashion statement, it was more a combination of laziness and lack of money to buy a new razor. Mine were all dull, and when you’re without cash for a long period of time, the small luxuries are the first to go. I was also out of coffee, which believe me is not a small luxury.
It’s the demon, I think. The one I know is there, living inside me. It drinks the coffee. It needs it. And all I need is the demon. It’s been so long that I hardly remember where the demon leaves off and I begin. Sometimes I’m not sure it’s even real, except for the fact that I’m still here, still walking around, and not dying. And if the demon ever had a name, I never knew it. It’s just me, now. The demon’s name is Davis.
I found another candle, a stubby short one that smells like cinnamon. I think I bought it to impress a girl once, when I was into impressing girls. It’s hard to impress girls now, with no money and no fancy apartment. Not to mention electricity. I’m pretty sure that heat and lights are things that chicks dig. Well, vampire chicks could probably do without both, but I don’t date vampires. Or chicks. Not often anymore, anyway.
The stubby candle lit the little bathroom well enough for me to see my scraggly face in the cabinet mirror. I looked like hell. Or maybe a werewolf. Black, curly hair sticking out in scraggly directions. Eyes sunken, more brown than blue now. Skin pale from lack of sunlight. And a beard long enough to call it a real one. Impressive, I thought. I’d never been able to grow one when I was young and alive.
Add to all that the plaid shirt I was wearing, which I thought looked cool and stylish, but really just gave off this sort-of lumberjack vibe with the beard. “Beard must go!” I said to the mirror, and opened the cabinet to find one of the dull razors I’d stashed there. I ran my finger over the blade and it cut my skin. A thick, black droplet oozed to the surface like tar.
It’s an eerie thing, bleeding tar. Convenient, though. Once, after a long night of getting sliced to ribbons by a group of punk-ass were-cats, I barely lost a drop. Nice, not bleeding to death. Of course, those cats still could have killed me -- or worse.
“You never know what will happen if you lose an arm or something,” George had said, advising me to be more careful. “It might not grow back. You could end up armless for eternity.”
True, I could. Which scares the ever-living shit out of me. I think about my father, with one arm, and being like that forever. I also think about what could happen if my head got chopped off and I didn’t die. Which part of me would go on? The headless body? The bodiless head? Both? And which one would be me? Or would that finally kill me? The thought terrifies me. I’ve never tried suicide for that very reason. Even in my darkest, loneliest moments, when the whole thing just seemed too painful and pointless to continue, there’s that thought. What if I didn’t die? Makes cowards of us all, as Hamlet said. Also makes me pretty careful with my physical being. I don’t bleed out, and I can do incredible things without any bodily harm or damage, but who knows what would happen if I got cut in half, say, or got flattened by a steamroller.
I’m in no hurry to find out. Which is why I hesitate to work for vampires. Vampires are dicks. While I doubt they’d actually kill me, there are things out there worse than death.
I looked at the razor blade in my hand. “Maybe it’s too dangerous,” I said. “I might slip.”
I closed the medicine cabinet, and saw a man’s face behind me. I screamed and dropped the razor in the sink with a loud clang.
“Hello, Davis.”
It’s more than just his last name that’s earned John Horesman the name Horseface. His jaw is a little too long, and face a little too thin for a man with a huge gut. And his eyes are set wrong, making it look like he’s not really seeing you when he looks at you head-on. The effect of the candlelight added to the terror.
“Hello, John.”
Horseface looked creepy, but he was really a good guy. As generous of heart as he was big around. And, honestly, a bit of a sucker. Which is why John Horesman was always in trouble, and never a very good detective.
“So, Davis. Didja notice something about the house when you came in?”
“You took down the Halloween decorations?”
He huffed a fake laugh and flicked the bathroom light switch on and off, to no avail. “No power, numb nuts. They shut us down.”
“You didn’t pay the bill?”
He huffed again. “Well, you see, it’s like this. You didn’t pay me, so I didn’t pay them… and, well, now we’re all dark in here. And it’s freezing. I know you don’t care about that, but I’ve got clients, see, and, well…”
“You’ve got actually clients these days?” I picked up the razor and carefully put the blade head back on the metal handle. I opened the cabinet and looked around for the shaving cream that I knew wasn’t there, then decided hot water would have to do. I turned on the tap. No hot water. Oh, yeah. No electricity. Damn.
“Well, not exactly clients,” Horseface said, leaning up against the bathroom door. It was a bit cramped in the tiny bathroom with the two of us and his belly. “But if anyone were to happen by, it would be nice to offer them some heat and perhaps a light or two.”
I splashed my face with cold water. Not that I noticed too much, but it was going to make shaving a bitch. I shaved a line down my cheek, and could feel the roughness of it. “Like who’s happening by? You have something lined up?” Work for him might mean work for me, then we could all get out of the dark.
He ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair. “It’s… well… it’s Barry.”
I dropped the razor again. “John, you didn’t!”
“What!” He shrugged, “I needed the money! You ain’t been giving me any, and Barry’s the one willing to give some out.”
“But there’s a price,” I said.
“There’s always a price.”
“Yeah, but his price is like three-hundred percent,” I said. “Plus your arm, leg and firstborn child.”
“I know! I know! But it’s like this, Davis. We’re desperate for the money. We’ve got this place, plus our little place down the road. We can’t make mortgage on either one, and Lucy thinks we should sell that one and move in here, but we’re so underwater we can’t afford to sell. And I’ve borrowed from everyone else, and no one’s got any money anyway. And there’s no work these days; no one can afford to hire a detective. Barry’s the one to go to, cuz he’s still got cash. Times are bad, Davis.”
“You weren’t here in ’32,” I said. “That was bad.”
“ Yeah, well…” He straightened himself up and pulled on the tacky tie at his neck. It clashed with the jacket, which to me made it look awesome. Sometimes John could be an unintentional hipster. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“How long until you have to pay Barry back?” I asked.
He gave me a shameful grin. “Uh… tonight?”
Shit. “Okay, John, listen. I’ve come into some cash. Not the whole thing I owe you, but some.”
“How much?” he asked, suddenly looking hopeful.
“Five-hundred,” I said, and cursed myself for offering the whole wad. “And I’ll get you the rest when I get paid tomorrow. I’ve got a thing lined up.”
“A thing? Can I help?”
“You really can’t,” I said. I picked up the razor and went back to hacking at the hair on my face. This was going to look rough. “I’m not sure I trust the employer, if you know what I mean.”
“Jezzuz, Davis. Vampires?” His eyes got big and round. Not working for vampires was probably why both of us were so broke. Vampires had all the money, and the power, in the underworld. Not dealing with them was like cutting yourself off from the majority of the local cash flow. But working for them was worse. “You know I can’t do vampires. Not anymore. Not ever again.”
I stopped shaving at that point where there’s nothing left but a mustache, and you spend half a second contemplating leaving it, but then change your mind. “Don’t worry, John. You’re not in on this one. This is my thing, and I’ll just take care of it, and we’ll have the money by tomorrow night.”
Tears sprang to his eyes. Horseface leaned forward and hugged me. “You’re the best, Davis,” his voice cracked. “I mean it, man.”
I patted his head, and he let go. “No worries, man. I’ll give you that wad of cash right now.”
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