Here's the third installment of my Web serial. I'm having so much fun reading over it again; it reminds me of how much fun it was to write.
This past week, I've been reading a lot of literary journals (mostly horror and sci-fi, as that's where my genre seems to fall), and coming up with fun ideas for short stories to submit.
 |
| This! Only with, you know, vampires and stuff. |
The lit journals are hard on me. Many of the stories I've read are good -- really good. Done by MFAs with lots of experience and publishing cred. It's hard not to be envious of their writing abilities. It's not that I think I can't get there, it's just that I'm not there yet. But those feelings of inadequacey made me start to think that I should write "differently" or adjust my entire writing style to suit something more literary.
What happened? I lost my muse. You know, that voice in your head that tells you the story? My writers brain completely shut down, and I had the damnedest time just trying to describe an abandoned warehouse (which, turns out, is completely cliche and had to be scrapped). The flow was gone, and so was the love.
So now I'm trying to go back and remind myself why I started writing in the first place. Not to impress literary magazines -- I'm not really a literary writer. I am a noir writer, a lover of pulp fiction. Supernatural, weird, creepy, sometimes terrifying pulp fiction. For me, it doesn't have to be good, it just has to be fun.
And that's what Jefferson Davis is. Supernatural noir. Pure fun.
Enjoy,
LLH
Jefferson Davis, Part I
Part II
“The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis”
By L. L. Heberlein
CHAPTER THREE:
So I guess I was committed. I had to take the job now that I’d given Horseface the money.
I watched him walk up the stairs with the cash and almost cried myself. There goes all the money I had in the world, minus the twenty in my pocket, which was going toward coffee, dammit.
It was the right thing to do, though. I couldn’t help but feel John’s money problems were my fault. Well, not all my fault, but I hadn’t helped any. And now he was in debt to Barry, the asshole underworld loan shark. Barry was some kind of flesh-sucking creature out of those nasty old-world legends that no one remembers. And, oh yes, he will take his pound of flesh literally if you don’t pay him back. The fact that John had gone to Barry for a loan really meant things were desperate. Shit was going to hit the fan if I didn’t come through for him.
I picked up the now empty envelope and read the number again. Again, I thought of calling right away, but then decided to wait until morning. The sun would be up soon, and I didn’t want to fall comatose mid-conversation. Besides, vampires probably didn’t answer their phones after a certain hour either, for the same reason.
I settled in on the couch and wished I had my evening cup of hot coffee before bedtime. The demon inside me grumbled, but I settled him down, assuring him that coffee was coming tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would call that dame-vamp, and celebrate with a double-tall Americano and a new bag of fresh-roasted Italian beans. I pulled the blanket up around me and positioned myself to look like I was sleeping. Though when the sun rises, I’m not really asleep. I’m dead.
I closed my eyes and waited for the moment. Thoughts whirled through my brain. Money troubles. Friends in trouble. My own wasted existence. And then the never-fail flash of red hair from this one girl I used to know. She dances through my head, every night, try as I might to forget her.
The thud hit my chest, and my heart stopped. Then nothing.
Then, wham! Awake. Heart racing like someone had shocked me, and I bolted upright, throwing the blanket off. I looked around, expecting to find someone standing there, but I was alone, still in the dark. Coming alive at night never fails to surprise me.
I walked over to the light switch, and was surprised again when everything lit up. Nice. Horseface must have paid the bill.
After showering, shaving one more time with hot water, and choosing the appropriate clothing – dark jeans, tight black shirt, black boots, and a slightly-dressy-but-not-too-dressy shirt buttoned to mid-chest – I headed out in search of sustenance.
Back again with my double Americano in hand and now only $17.50 in my pocket, I ran upstairs to John’s office. The main part of the building is centered around the living room, where there’s a desk with a laptop computer and real actual phone plugged into the wall. No one has landline phones anymore. Everyone has cell phones, except me. It was on the list of things to get once I had some money again.
The stairs came up through the back kitchen area, where there’s a coffee maker which used to have coffee in it when Lucy was making it. It’s been empty lately.
The main room had a little sitting area for clients, plus a few shelves with books that make Horseface look smarter than he is. A few lamps, some pictures of flowers and landscapes. A nice area rug. Lucy had added the decorative touches. Without her, it’d just be the desk and chairs.
John was out, but the lights were on. The sign on the door said “back in twenty.”
I called the number on the envelope, and a woman with a smokey voice answered. She sounded like a dame. I got an address in an older, nicer neighborhood that would take me two buses to reach. I had a car, once. I had a lot of things once. Car, nice place to live, money. A lot of it went away after the red-headed girl left. I try not to think of it much.
It’s hard not to think of what you used to have when you’re walking up the steps of a gorgeous hundred-year-old mansion surrounded by luxury cars and you only have $15.25 left in your pocket. (My bus pass expired and I had to use cash. Yet another thing I needed to get when I came into some money.) Inside the mansion was just as intimidating as the front. The foyer was hard white marble with a crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Off to the right was a sitting room, with thick white carpet so plush it was like walking on marshmallows. A real-live butler offered to hang my leather jacket, but I declined to let him. He offered me a drink, which I also declined. I took a seat on giant white couch and waited.
Then she entered. A dash of red in a sea of white. She practically poured through the room, hips swinging in a tight dress of red satin. Her skin was as white as the room. Her hair was as red as the dress. I paused for a moment. Not my red head. Still, the memory of her made me worry. Red heads are trouble.
“Mr. Davis, I assume.” Her voice flowed through the room.
I stood as she spoke. “Please, just Davis.”
“Davis.” She extended a long-gloved hand, which I took, offering the expected kiss across the knuckles. Sometimes the old southern gentleman in me kicks in and it’s hard to resist the pleasantries. “Davis, I have a very important job to offer you. It is an easy one, but of vital importance to me. And it requires the utmost secrecy. Are you equal to the task?”
She spoke like butter melting. The accent was American, but her words sounded old-world. She was either an old vampire trying to come across young, or a very young vampire trying to come across old. My guess was the latter. But I gave her all the deference of an old vampire, because that’s what she expected. Must keep the customers happy.
“Of course, my lady,” I said. “I am at your service.”
A smile crept over her lips, revealing a glint of fangs. The formality had been appreciated.
“Very well. Have a seat,” she said, draping herself over a pillowy white lounge. I sat across from her, my butt almost swallowed up by the puffy sofa. “No no,” she said. “Sit over here with me.” She patted the space next to her on the lounge. I hesitated for a moment, then got up and moved next to her. As I sat she draped an arm around my shoulders and spoke into my ear.
“Davis,” she whispered in my ear. “I want you to promise me you’ll keep this all a secret.” She breathed in, like she was sniffing the area behind my ear, then pulled back. “You’re dead.” Her arm dropped to her side.
“Not dead,” I said, spreading my arms as if to say obviously. “Just not exactly living anymore.”
“And yet you are a not a vampire.” She spat the staccato words at me. “You have none of the blood in you.”
“Um, no,” I answered. “Is that a problem?”
She looked at me dead-on for a moment, her blood-red vampire eyes staring into me. Her jaw locked so tight I thought she’d grind down her fangs. She seemed to be sizing me up, really deciding on something. After a moment, she spoke. “No, Davis. Not a problem. Just not at all what I expected.” She sat up straight, business-like. “This is the situation. I have recently been notified that I am the highest acceptable bidder on a certain object de arte, which has been shipped from China and delivered this week. I require someone to go and retrieve it for me. It has already been paid for, so it should be a simple delivery job.”
“And you can’t go pick it up yourself, because…”
Her eyes shot wide. “Because I would be recognized!” Her voice boomed, then dropped to a normal level. “As I said, it is a highly valued object. There are… others… interested in acquiring it through dishonest means. For me to retrieve it would only invite them to attack. There might be… an incident.”
Ah. By incident, I could tell she meant a big-ol’ bloodbath involving powerful supernaturals. And, believe it or not, we actually have laws against that. You’d think it would be a big free-for-all with the supernatural creatures. Big guys beating up on little guys and all that. But it’s not. Oh, it was that way for thousands of years, as I understand it. But the world has turned, and dominion belongs to modern humans, requiring us creepy-crawly things to restrain ourselves so as not to draw too much attention.
There are actual underworld police. Sheriffs, and the like. Councils of creatures who decide laws, mostly concerning killing each other. Go ahead and lie, cheat and steal all you want, but start killing, and the other supernaturals will gather en masse to kick your ass. The law of the council is brutal, and absolute, but it’s designed to keep little guys from getting stepped on and the whole human world from finding out we exist.
Sometimes it even works.
“Where is the object now?” I asked.
“It is being held at a shipping facility at the Port of Tacoma,” she said.
“Tacoma, eh?” I said, rubbing the smooth chin where the beard had been. “That could be a problem. I don’t have a car.”
“One will be provided for you.” She went back to oozing her words, somehow assured that I would come through. “If you leave now, you can retrieve my property from the all-night holding center. Bring it back before daylight, and your fee will be doubled.”
It was my turn to go wide-eyed. I agreed to the deal, kissed her knuckles one more time, and was out the door before she could change her mind. The vehicle provided was a BMW 3 Series, luxury model, black as night and fast as sin. I hit the freeway, pushed the pedal down, and was gone. The demon inside me roared. The only thing we like better than coffee is speed. Speed and loud music. I tuned into a satellite radio station playing nothing but death metal and cranked the sound system to eardrum bursting levels.
The demon and I were in heaven.
No comments:
Post a Comment