

# by Jim Cryns

## This book is dedicated to my family

## Kristine, Zoe, and Rory

### Chapter One

"I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become."

Griffin dreaded the taste of human blood. He said the viscosity reminded him of coppery warm milk; at least that was what he had always told me. Personally, I never did mind the taste; it was part of what we were. His face came alive with tics, twitches, blinks, and an eerie jitterbug of facial moves. Griffin prepared to lead our clan feed, with my permission as alpha. There was a good chance he'd bail on the lead, he often did.

His ritual was a motorized, unconscious series of events, which gave him a feeling of acceptance for what was about to take place, what always took place. It was Griffin's way of psyching himself up and he was doing it now. I found the practice both amusing and fascinating.

A handsome man, he wore his blonde hair long. His face was angular and he led with his chin, already shadowed by tomorrow's beard, something he believed gave him an edgy look. I've always thought it's just plain slovenly and made him look insolent.

We'd waited for half an hour, and finally, someone was approaching. The tall guy with white hair looked like a prick--I immediately didn't like him, which made the feed that much easier, no remorse. He wore a pink Polo shirt and hideous green golf pants, and walked as though the sidewalk belonged to him. We fed on members of the Milwaukee Athletic Club every chance we got. We also fed in any neighborhood regardless of creed, class or color. But this was the type of feed where I was appreciative of the fact he was going to die.

The downside of feeding on wealthy people was the fact they were missed when they disappeared. They held jobs where other people depended on them to oversee the signing of their paychecks. It may be cruel to say it but homeless people were a staple. They brought the least amount of attention. The irony was most homeless people had more integrity than the guys upon which we were about to feed. If I had my way it would be the fat cats that were the chief source of our feeds.

I think it's important to delineate between a feed and a kill. While we do both it's important to know there's a difference. We feed because we have to and that results in our prey dying. We kill on occasion when it protects our identity, or in self-defense. Killing for the sake of killing was frowned upon. That was not to say I hadn't done it on occasion, but it wasn't the smartest thing to do.

Most members of the Athletic Club were lawyers, judges, doctors, bankers or CEOs of a company. To us, it didn't matter. If we could impose a little justice, take out an asshole once in a while that was a bonus. We didn't discriminate between men or women, we were equal opportunity vampires, but we try to avoid children, then again, that's not to say on occasion they don't end up as prey.

Polo-guy stopped to light his cigar and he looked drunk, his knees wobbled. Three friends followed through the revolving door. At least I assumed they were his friends as they were dressed in equally tasteless and dreadful clothing.

It was a gorgeous night and for us that could be both good and bad. Good because we had clear sight of our prey, bad because they could get a better look at us. With plastic to-go cups full of alcohol, they laughed, cackled, and slapped backs. You may think me quick to judgment on these guys, but I'm sure I'm right in saying the world will be a better place without them.

"Wolski's," one of the guys yelled, referring to a local bar.

"That'll work," Polo-guy said. He threw back the rest of his drink and tossed the cup under a BMW parked in front of the club.

Our clan consisted of Izzy, me, Griffin, Toad and Pet. Griffin had been with me the longest, followed by Toad and Izzy, who came aboard about the same time. Pet was the last to join our clan. She stayed at home during feeds for her own safety, as she was only seventeen when she was tapped.

Izzy ambled around the corner from Mason Street, as we'd planned. She was tiny but carried a lot of weight in her voice. During our pack hunts, I utilized her as bait to lure our prey into an enclosed area. Sometimes that was easier to achieve than others.

There was an alley only twenty yards away from the front door of the Athletic Club. Toad scouted our 'kill zone' and like mission control during an Apollo flight, we had a 'go.'

Izzy left her trademark leather pants on a hook in her closet, tonight wearing a short skirt and small white T-shirt. She was a free spirit and kept us young, on our toes. One of the Club-guys wore tan shorts and had a belly that flowed over his belt, something we referred to as a Wisconsin tumor. He burped loud enough to gain everyone's attention, a gastrointestinal masterpiece.

"Nice skirt," Burp-breath said and turned to his friends for approval, which they were more than willing to give, ranging from a snicker to an outright guffaw.

Izzy stopped and turned.

"What would you know?"

The jerk-off on the curb rested his chest over the parking meter, his head teetered. He called to Izzy.

"You've got a kind chin," he said, gulping his whiskey, too drunk to have the sense to wince. "The kind of chin I'd like to set my balls on."

I looked to Izzy and her eyes flashed like they were flooded with mercury. Izzy had a short fuse and I didn't want her to mess up the feed. One look from Griffin told me he was opting out of running this feed so I took the wheel. I was out of view and I motioned for her to calm down, to breathe.

"How about coming with us for a bit," Meter-guy said. "There's some cash in it for you, if you're good," he smiled.

I darted a look at Toad, who was in position, Griffin too. Izzy had to get the men into the kill zone soon or I would abort the feed. Things had to go down on a strict schedule, like a bank heist. If we pushed the envelope, too many things could go wrong. Thousands of feeds had taught us something.

Polo-guy reached down and grabbed his crotch and laughed.

"Yeah, come with us, we're going to Wolski's." Wolski's was a dark hole-in-the-wall, but was popular and had no pretense.

"Do your families a favor and blow your pea-brains out," Izzy replied. She did everything she could to provoke them to anger, encourage them to seek retribution.

"You bitch," Burp-breath said. He grabbed her arm and pulled her close. Izzy was four times as strong as the guy but played the part of the victim and allowed herself to be relocated. She looked out of the corner of her eye and I gave her nonverbal permission to commence. She rapped her knuckles into Burp-breath's throat, doubling him over, she then ran towards the alley. He grabbed his throat like Kennedy in Dallas and dropped to his knees, making gasping sounds. Izzy's fingers were crossed in hopes they would follow. I was sure they would.

Confident they were in range, The Toad walked out of the parking garage like he didn't have a care in the world. He was ugly, about five foot-nine, and had a face like a pie-plate. Toad had more experience than anyone on my crew and a blood lust more acute than any vampire I'd known. When it came to sheer brutality, we were all Toad's interns. The Toad had deep acne scars and was tapped when he was in his thirties; therefore he still looked like he was in his thirties.

'Tapped' was a term we used when we transitioned or turned someone into a vampire, when we brought the victim into the life. Our clan wasn't keen on tapping victims. We weren't in the business of creating new vampires. What people fail to take into account was the surplus population of vampires. More biting equals more competition for food and territory and both were in demand; complicating our ability to earn a living.

Toad's face had gone soft from too many fast food meals and vodka, but still conveyed discernible danger. He walked with his shoulders back and his belly ahead of him, his shoulders dipped when he moved. It would be a grave miscalculation to discount his physical prowess because he was as fast as he was rotund.

Polo and Meter-guy ran to their friend's aide, who coughed blood. Burp-breath surprised me with his mobility, quickly for a fat-ass, he got up and gained on Izzy. He turned the corner into the mouth of the alley and I was just a few feet away, alongside a dumpster. The stench of the alley rose thick in the confined space, stale alcohol from discarded bottles and kitchen grease.

I motioned for Toad to close off the front of the alley, which he did, cutting off an escape. Griffin stood a few feet to Toad's side and he walked slowly. His heart wasn't in it, but his DNA made him act otherwise. They prowled soundlessly; in opposite directions toward the men, border collies corralling sheep. The Toad was excited, but took his sweet time, savoring the process. That irritated me, we were on a schedule. Meter-guy laughed and dropped his cup on the sidewalk. He didn't realize what was happening in the alley.

"Who are these faggots?"

I reminded myself not to lose my temper. I didn't have to. They could say what they wanted, they would be dead soon.

"Homophobic as well," Izzy said, lifting one eyebrow.

Izzy was a stitch above five feet, with long slender arms covered in tattoos from temple to toe.

"These your boyfriends?" Polo-guy said. "Are we supposed to be scared?"

"Let's say I'd be concerned," Izzy replied. "I do hope you filled out your organ donor card."

I loved Izzy's sense of humor. She never used the same line twice, always extemporaneous in a way I could never manage to be. Polo- guy reached into his front pocket and retrieved an Android phone.

"Three numbers and the cops will be on you."

"Fine," I said. "You do that. That's plenty of time."

"What do you mean?" he said, and his eyes flickered with the first hint of fear.

I reached into my own pocket and tossed a vial of cocaine to Griffin and a second one to Toad. I pressed some crystal meth into Izzy's palm. She marched to her own drummer and needed a little more encouragement. Griffin used coke to numb his gums; Toad and I liked the energy kick.

Burp-breath walked in reverse, bumping into Toad's chest, which was like backing into a brick wall.

"Izzy, the street," I said. I wiped the residue from my nose.

"Hey," Polo-guy said. "How about sharing some of that." He was so drunk he didn't have a grasp on what was happening. Izzy, her job done, was stationed to keep an eye out for cops or good citizens dumb enough to get involved.

"I'm an attorney," Meter-guy said. "You touch us, I'll make sure you see jail time. Guaranteed."

"I hate attorneys," Toad said, "scumbags."

"They're a bunch of smug bastards," I said to Toad.

"Let's get this over with," The Toad said.

I decided to feed on Burp-breath. For some reason he irritated me more than the others and being the head of the clan, I got first choice, one of the few perks. Except for an overhead street light that blipped a yellow-orange light every five seconds, the alley was dark and cool, clammy as a concrete basement in August. Burp-breath's eyes began to flutter as though he were having an epileptic fit. Izzy whistled two short blasts, our signal we we're in the clear. I turned toward Burp-breath, who somehow knew time had run out. I thrust my head into his chest, close to his heart, the air escaped his lungs and he whimpered. I created two deep puncture wounds, drinking as much as I could. The heart was our preferred target, thought it was difficult to get through the sternum. The live heart acted as a jump-start to our system, it was a centrifugal life force like an extra spin on a roulette wheel, transferring the current from a live battery to the dead one.

When we fed on dead prey, which was only a last resort, it satisfied our need for blood, but we didn't get the same resurgence of energy we got from a live heart. It's difficult to describe in terms you would understand, just as it's hard to describe what makes you happy. When we fed we found peace, beauty, a sense of belonging, as though there was something beyond our existence and ourselves.

My eyes were closed and I'm contented for a short while, the way you feel when you're in a perfect position to fall asleep. I heard Toad and Griffin begin their feeds. It happened so fast the men didn't have time to scream. Toad buried his jaw into Polo-guy's chest cavity, closer to the heart than I was able to manage. Polo-guy didn't struggle much and didn't appear to be at a level of pain you might think, probably due to the shock. Legend said we projected thought into our prey to help it suffer less, but I can't say I'd experienced that myself. I particularly didn't project any peace into these shit-bags.

When we felt the adrenaline rush from the heart, our body relaxed but the fury of our sucking was obvious. My heart rate increased dramatically and my fingers were pressed in his sides. I was in a trance when I heard Izzy yell.

"Cops!"

I tore my head away and spun, blood pouring over my chin. Two squad cars stopped in front of the club. Toad took off down the alley and I did too. Izzy and Griffin went south. As I ran, I was furious for allowing one of them to get a call off to police. Exposure like this was to be avoided at all costs, not to mention interrupting our feed. We didn't get the phones, a basic procedure. When we got sloppy, there were consequences and something we'd have to address. I'm fast but I wasn't wearing the right shoes and I was skidding on the cement. Decades of feeds and I'm still wearing the wrong shoes. As I approached the corner of the building, I used it to guide me around a tight corner.

I ran in between two sets of couples, bobbing and weaving. I looked behind me and I didn't see the cops. I wasn't sure if I had outrun them or if they chose to pursue the others. I ran across traffic signals, cut through parking garages and kept heading towards Lake Michigan. Tearing off my shirt, I let the bloody fabric drop to the ground, wearing only a t-shirt. Only then did I feel comfortable slowing. Breathing hard, the wind off the lake dried my sweat while I walked the rest of the way to the compound.

### Chapter Two

"How would I know that this could be my fate?"

We lived in the same house by design, and history proved living as a pack provided safety. Every extra set of ears helped in case we were being encroached upon. Each of us had our own master bedroom and private bath. Izzy had a Jacuzzi, Toad had a full-sized air hockey game, but I don't recall ever hearing him play the game.

The living room was huge and the fulcrum of the entire house, a meeting place with an atrium and two fireplaces. I designed a heated garage out back that could house eight cars. I incorporated it into the woods so we didn't draw suspicion. We weren't the 'borrow a cup of coffee' type of neighbor. I think there was always some speculation on our neighbor's part regarding what type of people were living next door, but the huge pine trees, two rows of them, provided us with a natural barrier.

An elaborate security system was a necessity, we had motion detectors, industrial floodlights. This wasn't anywhere near as sophisticated as Tulio's Estate in Palm Beach, then again, Tulio assigned guards to roam the compound. He was what you'd call a drug lord and a lowly mortal, yet we were much lower in the business hierarchy.

Our house was big, 20,000 square feet, with a great view of Lake Michigan, spectacular during a summer thunderstorm. My set of rooms had a panoramic view of the lake and I'd brought home hundreds of women and screwed them while I stared at the moon over the lake. Just to be clear, this was sex, not feeding.

Income was derived from a large drug territory, which extended from the Illinois border to Madison, and as far north as Eagle River, a large turf for any drug concern. Geographically we had the rednecks, white-collar workers and students in our pockets. While most of our trade was in cocaine, we'd dabble in other drugs that might be the rage. The territory provided a solid living for us and we defended it with everything we had.

While we didn't employ anyone directly, about fifty people earned their living through us. As far as protection, we didn't really need it as we stayed away from the violent action. When we lived in Miami, Toad was all the muscle we needed. Milwaukee wasn't South Florida and a bunch of heavily armed guards around a house tended to draw interest.

Izzy stripped naked and jumped into the pool. I watched her roll over the side into the hot tub. She had an incredible tiny body with small breasts. If she weren't part of my clan I'd definitely put it to her. We'd all seen her as naked as a jaybird almost as often as we'd seen ourselves. We'd gotten used to it and she never did it to tease us. With the exception of her leather pants, she wasn't much for clothes.

I stretched out with my feet on an Ottoman, a bag of vegetable crisp sticks from Costco at my feet. My socks were tucked into a ball in my shoes. I scuffed them during the feed but I didn't get any blood on them.

This was a time for cooling off, coming down from a feed, forgetting ourselves for a bit. We took turns on the music selection. A few minutes ago Griffin cued up Dire Straits and Toad had his eyes set on Lynyrd Skynyrd. I tried to keep heavy talk to a minimum during our cool-down. Our feeds and kills were personal and affected each of us differently. Griffin took the longest to come out of his zone, his meditation.

By all accounts we'd had a failed feed, still our collective adrenaline filled the house. Botched feeds happened, but like a drill sergeant, I could never let my crew grow complacent. It was my job to find fault with a feed, then give them a figurative hug afterward; a tough leader with a heart of gold. If you don't give your team goals, they become flatulent and lazy.

"Hold on a minute," I said, "I want to talk to everyone." My voice was low and calm, but the order was understood. As pack leader, everybody listened.

"Izzy," I called out to the pool. After a minute, she joined us, a thick white towel around her torso.

"Aren't you guys going to shower?" she said, snapping open a can of Budweiser. "You've got blood all over you. No Shout is going to get that out," she laughed.

"When are you going to buy a swimsuit?" Griffin said.

"I swim in my birthday suit for me, not for you."

"Mission accomplished," Griffin replied, "because it does nothing for me."

Izzy sat across from me and put her feet up. I looked down at my chest and saw she was right, the blood soaked clear through my t-shirt to the skin. Toad stroked his goatee and realized he too had dried blood on his beard.

Great," he said. "I must look like a real jerk."

"No more than usual," Izzy said.

"We're getting sloppy," I said.

Toad groaned.

"Malcolm, those cops came fast, out of nowhere," Toad said, "didn't see who might have dialed. Maybe the fat one had autodial, or it could have been someone from a car."

"Possibly," I said. "The fact remains we've got to get them into the kill zone quicker, not prance around."

Griffin moved up in his seat.

"There were too many," he said. "We've got to limit the number during a feed. More people equal more variables. I've said it before."

"A despicable bunch they were," Izzy said, draining her Budweiser. "It couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of guys."

I was pleased the bloated bastards wouldn't be influencing the world with their tawdry ideas and plans. I only wish we could have killed more. We sat in silence. Toad leaned on the door, hoping this impromptu meeting was over. I don't mean to be pedantic and I'm not smart enough to be giving lectures to anyone, but it's my job to keep things flowing.

"Are we done here?" Toad asked.

"I don't know," I replied, "are we going to be more aware out there, more in tune to our jobs?"

Griffin opened his laptop.

"I don't know," Griffin said, logging on, "do you think your call was correct? I'm not saying it wasn't."

Izzy's concerned how I'm going react to Griffin's questioning of my quarterbacking performance.

"If it's alright, I'm out of here," Toad said.

I nodded, he went.

"You have something to say?" I asked. If anyone was going to call me out it was almost always Griffin. We had such a shared history, but I have to maintain a sense of leadership and I'd rather he didn't question me in front of the others.

"I checked it out," I said. "Yes, I made the right call. Things happen."

That was all Griffin was going to say. He had made his point and he was not the kind of guy who would push it. One of the many things I liked about Griffin was his ability to stay quiet and he rarely said the wrong thing. Griffin was of the philosophy that it's better to be silent and thought the fool, than to speak and relieve all doubt.

"All right," he said, irritated. "Who's the asshole?"

"What?" I asked.

Griffin turned his laptop toward me.

"Who bought a pair of ski socks for $800 dollars on my EBay account?"

Izzy curled up on the couch, laughing.

"I've got to pay for that now," Griffin said.

"One of the downsides of being able to read minds," I said, "she stole your password." Last month Izzy hacked my EBay account and bid a grand on a chicken nugget that supposedly looked like the Virgin Mary.

"I've got too much idle time on my hands," Izzy said, still rubbing her stomach from laughing herself silly. "Is Pet here?" she asked, looking around the room as though Pet were hiding. Izzy swayed her hips as she walked to the piano. Despite our Platonic relationship, she had a perfect ass.

"No, she's got a class tonight," I remembered.

"I'll take her out later," Izzy said. "Or give her something from the stockpile."

Griffin let his pants drop to the floor and he stood in his boxers.

"You'll burn the clothes?" he said to Izzy.

"I live for it."

I visited Izzy at the piano, watched her fingers on the keys.

"When am I going to get the lessons you promised?" I asked.

"It's not like you haven't had the time, for God's sake. And I've offered. I've offered."

"I guess I'm one of those guys who wants to be able to play, but isn't too keen on practicing. I've finally learned to accept that. I'm okay with that."

Izzy laughed.

"I am okay with that. Really," I said. "I'm never going to be a musician like you. I like to dabble. I'm a dabbler. I've got to live with never playing Carnegie Hall."

"I'd say that's a safe bet," Izzy said.

"Yes, that makes me very happy. Go ahead and mock me. I'm glad my mediocrity amuses you." I reached for Izzy's beer and finished it off.
Chapter Three

"Send lawyers, guns and money Dad, get me out of this."

The Toad and Griffin met a cocaine shipment at the Ramada near O'Hare airport. It was a favor to Tulio because he had spread himself thin, product wise, and needed to cover Milwaukee and got a shipment from Carlos Garcia, one of the kingpins in Miami. Garcia was the big cheese everybody answered to. Tulio was grateful to Miami but knew, as with all favors, he'd have to pay it back with interest, in some way or another.

The briefcase rested in front of the door and Toad knocked, three light raps. He fixed his collar. Despite his best efforts he looked like an extra in a 70s cop show with a maroon shirt and black jacket. He thought he was the man, but couldn't get a date to save his life. Toad made jerking off an art form and would have earned the equivalent of a Ph.D. in the field of masturbation.

A young man opened the door. His name was Angel, young, early 20s. Toad was surprised Miami would send someone who barely looked old enough to shave, but he was related to Carlos so no questions were asked.

"Hello," Angel said, "come in, come in." He closed the door after Griffin passed.

Toad set the briefcase on one of the two double beds and held his arms out to his sides.

"Angel?" Toad asked.

Angel nodded, not quite sure if he liked Toad.

"I'm Toad, that's Griffin."

"Todd?" Angel asked.

"Toad."

Angel nodded.

"Nothing up my sleeve," Toad smiled. Angel patted him down and did the same to Griffin.

"Sorry," he said. The lack of an accent surprised Toad. "I hate doing this but we all know how things can turn nasty," he said.

A second man came out of the bathroom, drying his hands. He was older with a short gray beard and doesn't have Angel's warmth. He acknowledged Toad with a lift of his head. Griffin realized he was the enforcer. He kept an eye on him and Toad.

"Your name is Angel," Toad said, "yet I don't hear any dialect."

"Went to school out east," he said, "Princeton. My father spent a lot of money to rid me of the accent, wants me to learn the family business from the ground up, then take over some day."

Toad nodded.

"Good thinking," Toad said. "Give a man enough rope to make a knot, but not enough to hang himself."

"Sure," Angel said, missing the message.

A third member of Angel's crew, Omar, sat behind a tiny table they put in cheap rooms, like this one. shelling pistachio nuts one at a time, the red ones. Omar was more calculated than Angel, thin with a fading hairline, his fingers looked as though he'd been playing with red dye. Angel took on host duties.

"The guy at the table is Omar, and the fine gentleman in the crapper is Fly."

"Fly?" Griffin asked.

"Fly."

Angel clapped his hands and looked at Toad.

"My Dad said you're the man to see here."

"He's right," Toad said. "Numero Uno."

Griffin glanced at Fly at the bathroom door, just as he was eyeing him. Griffin stared at Fly's eyes, which were like angry steel. There was no mistaking his ability to do some damage if necessary.

"So, let's do this," Angel said.

The air conditioning unit was going full-blast, and was affecting Griffin's concentration. It was old and ran the length of the windowsill. The thick plastic curtains danced away from the wall from the rushing air, which made the room smell musty.

In front of Omar was a mound of pistachio shells the size of a generous helping of mashed potatoes. The clicks of the briefcase prompted Omar to break his gaze from his nuts. Toad spun the case toward Angel, revealing thick stacks of hundred dollar bills.

"Ta-da," Toad said.

Despite his youth, Angel came across cool. No fear of the police, he took his time, no phony effusion of warmth. He was young but professional. Angel looked under the stacks, picked up one of them and fanned through, pushing his face forward.

"Ah," he smiled. "I just love the smell."

"What was your major at school?" Griffin asked.

Angel smiled.

"Theater," he shrugged. "If it weren't for the drugs, I'd be fucked.

Griffin nodded in agreement.

"Good call."

Angel set the stack on top of the pile and reached under the bed for a similar briefcase, only this one was deeper. With the case now open, Toad inspected several kilos, raising them up and down in his hands.

"Feels good to me," he said. "my arms are calibrated."

Angel smiled and took the packages from Toad and put them into the case. A few moments passed and everyone offered uneasy stares at each other. If Griffin were not a vampire, he probably would not have seen Fly reaching to pull a 9mm from the small of his back. Omar, who was now nut-free, began to search for a shotgun from under the table.

With hysterical strength Toad delivered a crushing blow to Angel's chest, lifting Angel into the air on top of Omar, crumpling both of them. With nowhere to go and pinned in the corner, Angel's body on top of him, Omar retreated into the corner. He regained enough composure to raise the shotgun, but fired errantly, blowing off half of Angel's left foot in the process, nearly severing the calf from the leg.

In the bathroom, Griffin had shredded Fly's chest and pulled away from his shuddering body to help Toad. Angel was in shock from blood loss and pawed at the floor for his foot, like an extra in the opening scene from Saving Private Ryan. He was sure it was somewhere on the floor. The Toad kicked the shotgun from Omar' grip, his legs were flailing in the air. Toad's jaw unhinged and extended before he clamped onto Omar's neck.

Angel could see Griffin coming towards him, drenched with Fly's remains, his blonde hair now darkened from drying blood. The whites of Griffin's eyes were terrifying. Angel whimpered and rolled into a fetal position.

"What the hell is going on here? I'm sorry," he cried. "It was a mistake."

"It looks that way," Toad said. "You started it."

# # #

Toad handed the tollbooth attendant a twenty and waited for change.

"I'm not telling Malcolm anything," he said. "You know him a lot better than me. He's going to be pissed."

"I'll deal with him," Griffin said, resting his head on the window.

As Toad predicted, when they got home, Malcolm was fuming.

"Doesn't matter if we're right or wrong," Malcolm said. "This is going to complicate things with Miami. Our relationship with Tulio is tenuous at best."

"They were going to kill us, we had no choice," Toad said. "How the hell can they..."

Malcolm was close to 6'4" and was wiry, all arms. He had long legs and a short torso. His eyes were hazel, perfectly symmetrical with thick eyebrows. Charcoal black hair cut short with an identical beard. He was the David Beckham of the vampire world.

"They will blame us," Malcolm said, his upper lip twisted. "It's our word against theirs and Angel is related to Carlos. We've got to send the cash to Carlos so he doesn't think we tried to rip him off. One of those other assholes must have seen us as an easy mark, Midwestern hicks. If I don't get this to him soon, we're as dead as Dick Clark."

Griffin rolled his eyes.

"Too soon?" I asked.

"I don't know," Griffin said. "What if Carlos knew they were going to rip us off. Doesn't make sense this Angel would do this on his own."

Malcolm nodded.

"We have to think this through," he said.

"I said we keep the god-damned money," Toad said. "Show them they're messing with the wrong guys."

Malcolm thought, and then shook his head.

"Like to, can't. They'd filet us like swordfish."

# # #

I put on a dark suit and wore a white shirt with an open collar. Carlos sent his plane and it was a three-hour ride from Milwaukee to Miami. During the flight I wasn't rehearsing what I was going to say, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't going over some notes. By the time we were over Tennessee, I laid back for a nap.

Carlos was about as big a drug-lord as there was in the United States. In our world there was God, some guy in South America, Carlos, Tulio then me. This was the hierarchy and we had no choice but to accept. We didn't buck the system and as Toad always said, you can't beat city hall. After picking me up at the airport, Carlos had his driver take me to the Miami Golf and Country Club. Carlos met me on a private deck and we sat on a huge round blue sofa kind of thing. Dozens of extremely high- end boats were docked fifty yards away.

I'd met Carlos one time before and was struck by how normal he looked. He was the Paul Giamatti of drug lords. Nice khaki pants with a rumpled white shirt. There was no greased-back hair, twelve gold chains on a furry chest, pinkie rings, coke whore on his side. He was the kind of guy who looked like he could be your therapist. He enjoyed fine brandy and we imbibed and looked out over the water, a few pelicans on the dock fighting over a dead fish.

"So, sir, that's the way I heard it went down," I said, a hint of nervousness in my voice. "I trust my guys. We went there in good faith. We may not be the brightest guys in the world, but we're not stupid."

He'd offered me a sweet cigar when we sat and we both smoked in quiet. He moistened his lips, looked at the water, then took another pull off his cigar. It was as though I wasn't even there, he seemed very contemplative.

"Malcolm, there are three sides to every story," he said, again putting the cigar to his lips. It was no less than twenty seconds before he spoke again. "His, hers, and the truth."

I'd been to enough rodeos to know this was the time for me to keep my goddamned mouth shut. Super Glue couldn't have kept my lips together any better than they were at that moment.

You got a nasty deal down here with Tulio," he said. "I always knew that."

He never did anything about it, and he could have. But I didn't say anything. My lips so tight there wasn't enough room for a mosquito to slip his pecker through.

"I'm not going to say I'm happy about what transpired up there, but I appreciate and thank you for bringing the money and making the trip."

There was another long silence and I thought about timing the emptiness with my cell phone.

"I don't hold you responsible," he said.

I'm not sure if they could hear my sigh in Fort Lauderdale, but it was entirely possible.

"Angel was a good kid, but he was greedy." Again with the cigar. "Maybe one of those pieces of garbage put him up to it. Maybe he didn't know. So, I suppose we'll never know, right?"

I didn't know if it was a rhetorical 'right' or if he wanted me to respond. I took a shot.

"Yes sir." That was a safe answer, I reasoned.

"Well," he said, "as far as I'm concerned, this is water under the bridge."

He stood and actually extended his hand. One of the most feared drug-lords in North America was offering me his hand. I was devastated when he gave me a 'wet fish' handshake. Whatever respect I had for him fell out my ass. He turned and waddled towards the lobby, his bodyguards in tow.

"My wife will kick my ass if I miss dinner," he said as he mounted the stairs.

### Chapter Four

"It's a long, long way to paradise, and I'm still on my own."

Pet was a nickname bestowed on her by Malcolm. Her name was Maya, but she mostly answered to Pet. At seventeen she had a penchant for dressing like she was sucked out of a Disney Channel sit-com; colorful flirty and flowing layers, scarves. Pet's eyes were dark; you could barely see the pupils. Her raven hair defied the pale complexion and touched her shoulders. Pet was the clan's good luck charm and the affection for her was the closest thing to love they were able to feel. She was playful, somewhat innocent and mischievous at times.

When Pet rode on the back of Izzy's Harley, she was made to wear a helmet. A rather silly gesture because nothing permanent would happen to her in an accident, unless she was decapitated and Izzy was an experienced rider.

"I feel like I've been on a horse," Pet said, hopping on her left leg as she dismounted the bike.

"Yeah, it has its advantages," Izzy winked. "Kind of a girl thing."

"Oh, you're gross," Pet said, pulling off her helmet and placing it on the back of the bike.

Bayshore Mall had been revamped, transformed from a long strip-mall built in the 1960s into a collection of tasteful, individual stores.

"They should put a Harley shop in here," Izzy said. "Need some new leathers."

"Ever tried a skirt?" Pet asked, flipping through blouses and munching on a baked pretzel.

Izzy pinched off a piece.

"The only thing I like about skirts is you don't have to take anything off to have sex."

"I never had much experience before I was..."

Pet grew quiet, still moving blouses around the metal rack, but not really looking anymore.

Izzy placed her hand on Pet's shoulders.

"I'm an ass," Izzy said. "You came from a good family, huh. Yeah, I know you did."

Izzy pulled Pet close and kissed the top of her head. "I'm always here for you," Izzy said, "we'll always have our bond. Like Malcolm does with Griffin, like Toad has with...with whoever tapped him."

"I know," Pet said.

Izzy stroked Pet's hair.

"I feel so torn," Pet said. "I still feel so many things in the pit of my stomach. Not sure if it's memories, or whatever. Do you have memories?" she asked.

"Some. Mostly I kind of feel things, some familiarity. I guess that can be some kind of memory, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"I'm hungry," Izzy said, pulling Pet behind her.

Outside the store, Pet saw something sticking out of Izzy's shirt. It was a lavender scarf.

"You stole that."

"Gotta steal a little something everyday, my Pet," Izzy said.

Izzy turned her bike onto Santa Monica Boulevard and headed toward the city. An old lady in a 1991 Buick blew a stop sign. The road wasn't wet but Izzy had to turn hard and sent the bike into a skid. Pet twirled off the bike and hit the back of the Buick, then rolled to the curb, hitting her head. The bike dragged Izzy and her leather pants shredded under her leg. The wheels hit the curb and righted the bike, then sent it rolling onto the grass.

Izzy shook her head to clear the cobwebs then ran to Pet. A crowd gathered and people got out of their cars to help. Izzy cradled Pet's head in her arms as she began to come to. Izzy knew Pet would be fine, that her wounds would heal.

"Sit still for a minute," Izzy whispered. "Pretend you're hurt a little, for god's sake."

A few minutes passed before EMT's arrived. Pet's leg was torn up but the bleeding stopped.

Her skin was reforming itself so Izzy had to hide this from the dozens of people gawking.

"Give me a blanket."

She put the blanket over Pet's legs. The EMT began to lift it to check Pet's condition.

"Leave it," Izzy said.

"Ma'am, I have to...."

"I said leave it."

Wanting no part of Izzy, the EMT backed away.

"I'll get the Hog," she whispered to Pet.

She laid Pet's head on the grass. The bike was banged up but started on the first kick. Izzy extended her hand to Pet, who got up slowly, and then wrapped her leg over the bike.

"What the hell are you doing?" the EMT shouted.

"She'll be fine," Izzy said. "My husband is a doctor."

Looking over her shoulder for traffic, she roared away from the crowd. When they got home Malcolm was in the kitchen, making a cappuccino.

"You alright?" he asked, setting down his coffee.

Pet's clothes were ripped but her cuts had completely healed.

"Come here," he said, opening his arms to Pet, she rested her head on his shoulders.

"What about me?" Izzy asked.

"What the hell is your problem?" Malcolm asked. "Learn how to drive the thing if you're going to take her out."

Izzy was in no mood.

"Listen, it wasn't my fault. Some demented old lady ripped through a stop sign."

Malcolm guided Pet to the couch.

"Make yourself useful and get her something to drink. Don't take her on that thing again, you understand?"

"Yes, daddy," she said, under her breath.

"What was that?" Malcolm asked.

"Nothing."

"That's right. You do stupid stuff all you want, but do it alone. You have a hard enough time looking out for yourself."

"Eat me."

### Chapter Five

"What do you do when all your enemies are friends?"

The pressure was building and he could feel his temples throb. When Griffin was depressed, which was to say most of the time, he described the worsening episodes as being in a large dirt hole. The more he tried to climb out, the more dirt he dragged into the hole with him.

Griffin sat quietly, meditating in his silver Jaguar XJ220 as it idled just east of Oakland Avenue where it met Capitol Drive. The car didn't purr as much as it gargled. At four in the morning there wouldn't be much traffic. It was too late for the shit-faced bar crowd and too early for anyone on his or her way to school. He'd pass two schools on his way to the bluff. He was intent on taking his own life and had no interest in bringing anyone along with him.

The leather gloves were ridiculous, considering the short trip, but he wore them nonetheless. Malcolm purchased the car for Griffin, calling it a Halloween gift, which made no sense to anyone but Malcolm.

Griffin gritted his teeth and pressed his foot onto the accelerator, pushing the pedal halfway to the floorboard. The car had a twin turbo V6 engine and was built to hit 60 miles per hour in 3.8 seconds. That meant he'd hit that mark by Murray Avenue, a block from where he started, just eight blocks from Lake Michigan and the 600-foot drop to the rocks on the shore.

Dozens and dozens of discussions with Malcolm did little to ease the pain. There was a difference between feeling melancholy and being depressed. You had a bit of control over the melancholy, Griffin reasoned. Not yet daylight, the traffic signals began to blur, reflecting off the hood of the car. When he hit Maryland Avenue the car was traveling at 75 miles per hour with a few blocks to go. Griffin didn't want to 'floor it' for another block. If he gained too much speed something might trigger a spin and he wouldn't make the cliff.

The public school flashed on his left, moving so fast now he lost his bearings for a moment and blew through a solid red. Suicide was the only thing he could think of to ease the pain. The drugs didn't do the job anymore. Any escape was temporary and he knew pain, would be there in the morning.

Griffin saw a flash of orange from the sidewalk moving north or to his left. It was a jogger with headphones; unaware a speeding mass of steel was coming his way. When he saw the jogger, Griffin turned the wheel slightly and carefully to the right. Too much compensation at this speed would mess up the aerodynamics and anything could happen. The front bumper narrowly missed destroying the runner's leg, the turn caused the car to hit the curb and jarred it severely. Griffin's body shot forward but the airbags didn't deploy. The impact slammed his jaw shut and he lost two of his front teeth, his chest hit the steering wheel. When he felt the impact, he pushed his foot to the floor and the car exploded forward.

He thought of Malcolm, Pet, Izzy and even Toad, hoping they'd find their way. Mostly, he thought of his children. Call it an impulse, a last moment change of heart. The car made a heart-stopping screech and spun, completing four 360-degree turns before it struck the curb with two wheels. The impact was severe enough to cause Griffin to smash his head on the driver's side door, cutting a deep gash on his forehead. His left hand was shattered and his right knee went through the console.

It took the fire department four minutes to get there, but Griffin had begun walking home. He believed he made the right choice.

### Chapter Six

"She is an American girl, raised on promises."

Izzy practiced with her band Schadenfreude three times a week, rain or shine, come hell or high water. The band played pop, blues, fund and rock, but 'no fucking hip-hop,' Izzy would tell promoters. They weren't bad but any notion of making the big time, or even a living, was far-fetched. Izzy stood with her hands dropped to her sides like hanged men, a worn Fender bass rested across her abdomen. When in full musical mode, Izzy looked like an honorary member of the Runaways with her Joan Jett hair and leather pants. She had piercing blue eyes and above them, eyebrows the color of a Magic-8 Ball.

"Hey," she yelled into the thick glass, trying to get the engineer's attention. Chas sat in a well-padded captain's chair, adjusting the volume levels. He was an engineer and manager at the studio. He crushed a cigarette and a coiling stream of smoke obscured his face.

Izzy didn't think he was paying enough attention to the mix. She snatched a drumstick from the top of a Marshall amplifier and chucked it at the glass.

"Chas! You worthless bastard."

Chas leaned forward to the intercom and squinted through the studio window as one would an aquarium. The soft glow from the hundred buttons on the mixing board lit his face from underneath as he stared at Izzy.

"Yeah?" Chas said, his voice hoarse and quavering. Izzy had an unsettling effect on men, and she simply drove Chas crazy with lust.

"How does it sound?" Izzy reached for her cigarettes, kicking a butt from the pack.

He gave her a thumbs-up.

"I'm likin' it in here," Chas said. "We're on to something. You guys are really jamming." He was supportive if not convincing.

She stared at him as though he said cookie dough that came in a tube was good as homemade.

"Why don't I believe you?" she said, inviting the smoke deep into her lungs.

Schadenfreude's first album, 100 Degrees in the Schadenfreude, sold a blistering 195 copies, but most of those were sold to friends and family. The new album had proven more expensive to produce and they were already two days behind schedule. The rest of the band lost confidence in her music, leadership, but not her wallet. It was a self-funded record, which meant Izzy-funded, and her musical career was costing a fortune.

Izzy kicked the door with her black boot and approached Chas. On a large folding table was a weathered coffee pot, across the room a refrigerator and a few small tables along the wall. On one of the tables, a collection of empty pizza boxes, newspapers, magazines and five empty cans of Red Bull.

"You know, you guys really do sound good in there. I've been listening," Chas said.

"Thanks," she said, her cigarette pointing to the ceiling in between her teeth. "I appreciate it, even if I think you're full of it."

"Yeah, I think you guys could really do something. And I'd like to be part of it, if you let me. I don't know, manage you, if that would work."

Izzy squinted her eyes and held her cigarette to her mouth in fingers formed like scissors. "I know what you'd like to be part of," she said. "Take a Viagra and call me later."

Izzy was at the studio door.

"Gotta find the groove," as Hendrix said. "Or was it Bette Midler?"

"Wait," Chas said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, shrunk his shoulders. "One thing."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I hate to bring this up, but it's about production fees. You're way behind and the boss has to make a living. I can give you tonight, but that's it right now, that's what he told me. Unless you can come up with the money, I have to pull the plug on this session. I like you Izzy. I like you a lot, but my hands are tied. He's barely making it as it is."

"Really?" she asked, in her best Lauren Bacall voice. She moved forward until she was nose-to-nose, so close he could taste her breath. "Why don't you and I find another way to pay," she winked. "As the woman said, the lady, or the loot."

Chas swallowed hard and his mouth went dry.

"Let me finish this session and we'll, talk," she said, pursing her lips and touching his ever so lightly. "Keep your dance card open for the rest of the night."

He was so excited he felt dizzy and hoped when his head stopped spinning, it was facing the front. Izzy didn't wait for a response. She knew she made a direct hit. She opened the door to the studio and turned.

"I wasn't kidding about the Viagra," she said, "I have certain expectations," she said, leaving him to blush in private.

Chas owned a simple duplex on Oakland Avenue, not far from the university. He got the house from his parents after they died. It was a nice house, but needed a lot of work, something he couldn't afford right now. Inside it was tasteful. He had some faux Frank Lloyd Wright furniture, posters of the architect's work. Izzy draped her leather jacket on the arm of a mission-style chair.

"Can I get you something?" he asked.

"Pabst?

Izzy picked up a snow-globe from a side table and shook it. Four pine trees and a polar bear. She smiled at its quaintness. When Chas came back with two opened bottles of Pabst, he saw Izzy chopping a few grams of coke on the table.

"You cool?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Cool as a cucumber." Chas didn't use coke with any regularity, which was to say, never. The last time he tried it was when he was a student at MIAD, an art school. He remembered how his heart raced like a fucked clock and he swore he'd never do it again, made a bargain with God that if he lived through the night, he'd never do it again. But that was ten years ago and promises made in fear had a short half-life.

"I like to screw when I'm high," she said, as plainly as she would relay the temperature.

Chas's face went blank. He sat on the couch next to her and felt his heart pound.

"You?" she asked.

"Absolutely," he lied.

They had sex three times before Chas fell into a deep sleep, three good sessions and Izzy made sure she had half a dozen orgasms. She couldn't sleep because of the cocaine so she walked around his bedroom in one of his t-shirts with The Clash on the front. Looking through his dresser she found a roll of cash, several gold chains, drink tokens. She took it all. On her way out, she smiled again at the snow-globe and stuffed it into her bag before turning off the light. No more sessions at Chas' studio, but she didn't care.

### Chapter Seven

"I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand."

Toad lay on his back on the marble floor, a bowl of Ruffles on his stomach, sour cream and onion.

"Business sucks," he said, reaching for a malformed chip.

"He's right," Izzy chimed in. "We've got to do something, maybe a marketing campaign. Cocaine, still the same great drug you grew up with."

"It's got a ring to it," Toad said, putting the hurt on five chips in one bite.

"I like it," I said. "Anyone ever tell you, you look like Chrissie Hynde?"

"All the time, "Izzy said, opening a fresh pack of Marlboro's.

Toad rolled onto his side, flicked crumbs off his shirt.

"Hey," he said to me, "anyone ever tell you that you look like Balzac? My Balzac?"

"Ah," I said. "I'm so lucky to hang with such an erudite crowd."

We can generally feel when a new presence enters a room, and Pet had a particularly beautiful demeanor. She walked up from the lower living room and put her arms around my shoulders, kissed me on the cheek.

"Hey," she said, straddling a straight back chair and popping a Red Bull. "What have I missed?

"We got about a ton of powder in this place," Toad said, wiping his mouth with his arm, "and you have to drink that. One good line is as better than a dozen cans of that rat-piss, I guarantee you."

"Just stick with your deep fried potatoes," I said, "haven't you read about portion control?"

"Pet," Izzy said, "sit by mamma, I need a little sugar." She patted the couch.

Pet rolled her eyes, as teenagers do.

"C'mon," Pet said, "I'm not a kid."

"Pleeeaaasee," Izzy said.

Pet stood and went to Izzy, dropped onto the couch and lowered her head on Izzy's shoulder. Toad went to the kitchen, grabbed four beers and distributed them to the rest of us. Playing Words With Friends became an indispensible stress reliever for me.

"This is addicting," I said.

"The beer or the game?" Izzy asked.

"What's a seven letter word for asshole?" I asked.

"It's not Malcolm?" Izzy smiled.

"So, I was talking to Tulio," Toad said, apropos of absolutely nothing. "He called me. He thinks we need to be more aggressive, knock out some of the competition. I told him we didn't have any competition, then he said we have no excuse for business being down."

"He sounds like a car sales manager," Izzy said, rubbing her feet. "What does he care anyway? Get's his money one way or the other, we're not a goddamn franchise."

It irritated the hell out of me when Tulio talked to members of our clan without my permission. I don't talk with any of his crew without clearing it with him first. We depended on Tulio for our financial existence. He and I had a history. While he was not a vampire, and he certainly didn't know we were, he and I had gone through a lot together. It's fair to say we had an epic falling out and hadn't ironed out a peace treaty to both our liking. He was duplicitous but he was consistent, and I knew him, his habits. You don't turn your back on a rattlesnake or a Mexican with a knife, same with Tulio.

"The people sensible enough to give good advice are usually sensible enough to give none," I tell Toad, who offered a blank face in reply. Sensing he had missed the logic of the sentence, I sought to clarify things for him. "It means he should keep his thoughts to himself," I said.

Toad nodded and it appeared things finally registered.

"We're not a goon squad, and this isn't a 'B' movie," I said. "And since when do we listen to what he says anyway? He's our purveyor, that's it."

I opened my beer and flipped the cap onto the table, where it rolled around like a top until it slapped a coffee table book and dropped. Whenever I heard about someone in our clan talking with someone about business, I became very protective.

"Loose lips sink ships," I said, "why are you talking with Tulio on your own?" I sighed, weary of my own voice. "We talk with him in a group. That's if we talk with him at all."

"You should know better, knob," Izzy said to Toad. "This has been Malcolm's deal from the start. You shouldn't do anything regarding business without clearing it with him first. It's his party and we're just along for the ride." Izzy looked at me, winked. "Isn't that right?"

"Are you kissing up to me?" I asked.

"Yes. Always a good idea to keep alpha happy, makes it harder for you to kill me," she smiled.

She was right, too.

"Good. I love a good kiss-up," I said.

Toad knew he'd touched a nerve and he rolled to a sitting position.

"Malcolm," Toad said. "I really didn't mean to do anything wrong. I'm not doing anything behind your back, I swear to God. You know that."

It makes me chuckle when a vampire 'swears to god.' I nodded, though I don't think he was being entirely honest, I focus on my game.

"It just confuses Tulio when too many of us talk with him," I said. "He's not that smart and it's best if you let me deal with him. I know his strengths and weaknesses. He's trying to work you to find out more about me, and what we're up to, trust me. It may not seem like his is, but it is."

"The man is psychotic and a borderline moron," Griffin said. He had been so quiet I'd forgotten he was here, off on a couch almost in the other room. The discussion was turning into a military briefing. "Tulio understands brute force and a firm hand. Anything else and it just messes him up, kind of shorts his perverse wiring."

"We can't have him dictating when we get product," Izzy said. "We need him when we need product, nothing more. He's got a lot of balls."

I set down my iPad to emphasize my point. I spoke slowly to add a sense of urgency to my words.

"When someone speaks to Tulio alone, it doesn't look good, we lose our leverage. When we act as a family, a group, we carry more weight. One slip up affects all of us."

"You think I did something against us? Everybody here?" Toad asked.

"He's not saying that," Pet said. "If you didn't do anything, relax."

I looked at Toad, trying to read his face, his mind. I'm not angry just surprised at his lack of comprehension and a little concerned he was making so much out of this. The minds of humans were so much easier to read.

"I didn't say that," I said. "If you did something against the clan you'd be a traitor and I would deal with you accordingly."

I hoped I'd given him cause him to think twice before he entertained the thought of speaking with Tulio.

"Just don't do anything with him," I said. "You feel like asking him a question, don't. Talk philosophy? Don't. He asks you to play chess? No. What part of don't talk with Tulio is ambiguous?"

Toad dug his fingernail into his palm; it was obvious he was agitated. He wanted to tell me to screw myself, but he didn't. Instead, he made another trip to the kitchen and returned with a Budweiser and a mound of cocaine on a plate that looked like the top of George Washington's wig. His fingers were actually strained at the weight of the plate. When Toad felt threatened, he went for the drugs.

"We're a family here," Pet said, always the peacekeeper. "Can we cut out the arguing? Malcolm, he can't help it Tulio called him. Toad, if he does call, just don't pick up. Problem solved."

My heart warmed when I saw or heard Pet.

"Good call, Pet," I said. "Toad, let's assume you're just trying to help."

"Wow," Pet said. "You sound like you stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting."

Everyone had his or her favorites. Their favorite book, food, anything. Pet got into my heart. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her, find for her, if she wanted it. Other than our clan I never had family, of any kind. Perhaps that was why Pet was so important to me.

I think sometimes we stand guard over Pet because we recognize what we've done, our swath of destruction. We don't share a sense of love, not anymore. Anything resembling those emotions was trapped in us, encased in stone. We could still recall shadows of memories, a tad of emotion, tincture of love, but it was mostly hazy.

"I'm running short of spending cash," Izzy said. "Anybody have any ideas for a quick score?"

"I've got a couple of addresses," Toad said. "Not much cash, but jewelry. Touch base with me later."

"Cool," Izzy said. "You've got a nose for loot."

I looked at Toad. I wanted to hammer home one more point.

"From now on you're going to consult with me before you make any moves, yeah? Any discussions with Tulio?" I asked.

Toad was embarrassed.

"Malcolm, why can't you do this in private? You keep coming at me like this in front of everybody."

"Why would I need to do that? I asked. "Like Pet said, we're a family."

"Listen," Toad said, somewhat defiantly. "This may be your clan, but we all have a say. Who made you king?"

I looked at Toad for about fifteen seconds.

"I did," I said. "I'm the king. Like the man said, better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven."

Toad looked to the rest of the clan for support, but they averted his gaze. They knew the hierarchy, the chain of command and understood if someone wanted to oppose me, it was their deal and theirs alone.

I rose from my chair slowly and moved toward Toad who instinctively backed away, just a bit.

"You have a say when I said you do."

Izzy, Griffin and Pet kept their silence, as I knew they would. This was the equivalent of a showdown. When two members of a clan were at odds, this sometimes took place. It had the potential to turn ugly fast but such was the nature of what we were. Figuratively, our fingers were dancing around our gun handles in the holster.

Seeing no support from the rest of the clan, Toad had no choice but to continue.

"I don't see it that way," Toad said.

If we had any tumbleweed in the house, it would have rolled across the marble floor.

Toad inched his way toward me, closing the gap. He didn't wake up that morning with the intent of challenging me, but sometimes these things were unavoidable. I put him in a corner and I respected him for pushing back. You needed someone in your clan that was like that. Becoming a vampire doesn't change who you were in terms of personality and sensibility. We'd become somewhat less vulnerable to emotion and impulse, but as they say fame doesn't change a man, it brings out who he really was. Toad wasn't timid before he was tapped and he still had the verve he was born with, a sense of justice and a wee bit of a temper. Just as Izzy must have been a cut-up before she was tapped, she still was. Pet was a darling and Griffin, well, he was just Griffin.

I was always an asshole and I still am. Toad and I were at an impasse. Toad had a choice; to stand-down to my authority and move on or try something else. He opted for something else. Our fingers were flitting on the figurative gun handles, inching downward. Toad lunged at me but I was ready and turned to my right, deflecting his advance, like a martial arts move. He slid across the floor and hit an antique table and a Chinese vase crashed to the floor. Not priceless, but it wasn't far off.

I leaped and pinned Toad to the ground but was soon reminded of how strong he was. Thrusting his arms forward, I ricocheted off the wall. Looking around I saw I'd indented the drywall with my body, like a police chalk outline. It was his turn to jump on me but I reached quickly and secured my hand around his neck. His body rose as I pushed up, squeezing more lightly than I would during a kill with a stranger, perhaps half strength. When you get into a fight with your brother you hold back some of your power, something you do subconsciously and I prayed he was doing the same with me.

My jaw unhinged and I extended my neck forward, teeth fully exposed, large and sharp teeth the color of porcelain. Toad was baring his teeth and to a mortal I'm sure we would look both terrifying and comical. I positioned my head and jaw about 10 inches from Toad's throat, saliva dripped out of the corners of my mouth. I kept my head still and searched his eyes, anticipating what he might do next.

In his mind he was running down his list of options, things he could do to get out of this predicament. He was asking himself how he got into this cruddy situation and rebuked himself for losing his temper and questioned whether it was all worth the energy. As I read his mind I realized he wanted to make peace and save face at the same time, a difficult situation. If he didn't submit, I had to commit, my apologies to Johnny Cochran.

Those were the unwritten rules. Outplayed, at least psychologically, Toad let his arms drop to his side, knuckles thumped onto the marble floor. He acquiesced to my dominance, exposed his neck. I was relieved. I liked Toad and he was a little brother to me, but like a captain on a German U-Boat, I had to maintain my rank and power, for the good of our submarine. I extended my hand for thirty seconds before he accepted and allowed me to pull him up.

"No hard feelings?" I said, patting him on the shoulder--and I meant it.

Toad didn't answer. I didn't expect him to. He adjusted his shirt and took a quick look at the others before heading to his room. Out of respect, they averted their gaze, allowing him to leave with dignity. They too respected his ferocity and independence.

"I love him," I said after he was gone. "But he's a pistol."

Izzy drank from her can.

"He's got to learn like the rest of us did."

"Oh please," Griffin said, "you never challenged an alpha."

"That's true," Izzy said, "I'm a lover, not a fighter."

### Chapter Eight

"Jesus rides beside me, he never buys any smokes."

Spike's head was as white as a marshmallow. Riding shotgun in Tulio's four-seat convertible Ferrari down Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, his orb could be seen from Google Earth. The midday Florida sun was turning it pink. Sea gulls notoriously aim for the whitest spot they can find to poop on, so his spherical cranium was fair game. The speed limit was 15 miles-per-hour on the Avenue, but traffic moved much slower. Crosswalks every fifty feet or so, beautiful women carrying four or five bags of booty from shop to shop.

"Why can't you wear something decent?" Tulio asked. "You're embarrassing."

Just off the plane from Chicago, Spike wore a pink sweater over a green shirt, jeans and Keds. He didn't have the sense to feel mortified.

"If you'd sent the Lear for me, I might have had time to pick up some new clothes."

"I don't send the jet for just anyone. And you could have had a month to shop and you wouldn't look any different than you do now. I'm hungry; let's go to the Crab. Try to pretend you don't know me."

Tulio saw Spike as a grunt that had an uncanny ability to make things happen, got people to change their mind when necessary. Charley's Crab was a semi-casual restaurant a few blocks south of town on the Atlantic. Inside it was tasteful and bright, with 30 tables. Before the dinner crowd there were only a few 'blue-haired' retirees eating an early dinner. No guests were seated within four tables, so they could talk freely. Spike drank Maker's Mark on the rocks and Tulio nursed a Tom Collins.

"What did you come up with?" Tulio asked, picking at a crab salad.

Spike leaned forward and whispered.

"Been told Sarin gas is the way to go," Spike said.

Chewing, Tulio shook his head.

"Don't know it."

"A nerve gas," Spike said, leaning closer.

"Nerve gas?" Tulio asked, which sounded more like 'herb-grass,' with his mouth full of crab.

Spike took a long sip from his tumbler and chewed on an ice cube.

"Yup. Nasty stuff. Germans came up with it before the Second World War. Kills very fast." He snapped his finger to illustrate his point.

Tulio squeezed his eyes together and swallowed, then stretched his neck to allow for clear passage to his stomach.

"Have to find someone to do this."

"Already got him," Spike said. "A Russian. It's cool. I know a guy who knows a guy. The less you know about him the better. Did some work in Japan, you probably read about it."

"Last thing I heard about Japan was the nuclear thing. That, and that asshole Malcolm has a boatload of Japanese Samurai swords."

Satisfied with his wit, Spike drained his glass.

"You trust your guy?" Tulio asked.

With his mouth full of ground sirloin, Spike raised his finger, asked for a moment. Spike was the kind of guy who ordered a hamburger at a seafood place, or a steak at a Chinese restaurant, a culinary imbecile.

"Absolutely," Spike said, dipping his hamburger in a puddle of ketchup on his plate.

"My connect is going to cost ten grand, and the Russian is going to need fifty.

"Worth it," Tulio said. "This is going to work, this Sarin?" he asked.

"A single drop of this, the size of a pinhead, can kill an adult."

"That's perfect," Tulio said, grinning. "Because I'm trying to get rid of a pinhead."

Spike raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised Tulio could make a joke.

"Ha," he said. "That's fantastic. I didn't know you were that funny. Good one."

Tulio was pleased with himself, like Barney Fife after telling Andy a joke.

"I'm sorry about any collateral deaths on the train, really I am," Tulio said, even managing to sound magnanimous. "But we've got to take all of them out and I'm afraid we can't get all of them together otherwise."

Spike licked his fingers and reached for his water glass, smearing the sides with grease from the burger.

"You invited them to Chicago?" Tulio asked.

"Yeah. It's set for next week."

"Good," Tulio said. "Don't be obvious with them. Malcolm has a pretty strong bullshit detector. Make sure Pet isn't on that train."

"I can't guarantee that," Spike said. When he saw Tulio's expression, he backtracked. "I'll do my best," he said, "everything I can to see she isn't, without tipping my hand."

"I don't give a damn about the others, but Pet, do whatever you have to do to keep her off."

"I've never liked those bastards, especially Malcolm," Spike said, shoveling a passel of fries into his mouth. "In Miami, he never gave me any credit. Respect."

"You were his muscle," Tulio said. "He didn't owe you a ticker-tape parade."

"Still, I can't say I'm going to be upset when they find him dead."

"Your mouth to god's ears," Tulio said, biting into half a lemon, his face contorting from the bitterness.

"Thanks for giving me the work," Spike said. "Things have been rough. Tough to make payments on my place and this dough will come in handy."

"Two-hundred grand always comes in handy," Tulio said, signaling for two more drinks. The waiter was there in an instant.

On the other side of the room the Mayor of Palm Beach had a late lunch with his wife. It was nothing more than a title, a ceremonial position like the Mayor of Hollywood. He raised his glass to Tulio, who did the same.

"Tell them to put some whiskey in there this time," Spike said loudly to the waiter.  
Tulio's face turned sinister and he resembled a Latin gargoyle.

"Shut the fuck up," Tulio said through clenched teeth. "Don't come in here with your rube behavior and embarrass me. You idiot. It's bad enough you order a hamburger."

"Sorry," Spike said. "I just thought I was short-poured before."

"Order ten of the damn things. Don't go shouting across a dining room."

"I'm really sorry, boss."

"And don't call me boss. Every time you open your mouth you make yourself look more like a supreme moron."

"Where does this leave me, business-wise? Do I get Milwaukee now?" Spike asked.

"You're pissing me off so much today. But, I don't renege on my promises," Tulio said.

Spike grinned and chomped on his burger.

"Hffank Ghawwd," he said, chewing on a prodigious hunk of meat.

### Chapter Nine

"I came to know with now dismay, that in this world we all must pay."

"How about risotto tonight?' I asked as Griffin walked into the kitchen.

Cooking was not my strong suit, but I did try.

"Why, you in the mood to wreck some more pans, then order out for Chinese?" I asked.

I returned from shopping and put the groceries away. Griffin created this anal system where the canned goods had to be faced out correctly, so we didn't have to dig for anything. We had to rotate the vegetables and bread so nothing would go bad. He had the temperament of an accountant and the fastidious habits of a school nurse.

Resting my arms on the kitchen table a glass of pinot noir placed six inches in front of me. Griffin, also at the table, looked sad. Griffin and I had known each other a long time and we cultivated a strong friendship, as solid as two vampires could hope to be. About a year and a half earlier, he started getting moody, then worse. He started sleeping in, not eating, all the classic symptoms of depression. Griffin walked around talking about the senselessness of it all, for us and for mortals. He started contemplating the meaning of life, death, reading books that seemed to console him. Griffin wouldn't listen to any music composed by dead artists, with the exception of Beethoven. He gave up on John Lennon because he said it depressed him, Harry Chapin was out and Keith Moon's death eliminated The Who entirely. All of their albums, eight track tapes, cassettes, 45s, had been burned.

"Maybe you need to see somebody," I said as I munched on a tortilla chip loaded with organic guacamole. "I'd really appreciate it if you could take up pottery, join a health club, something to work off your energy. How about Bocce Ball?"

I swirled my wine in the glass and examined Griffin's face for some sort of acknowledgement of my frustration. Here's a man who had these All-American good looks, an athletic build and he seems so pathetic, like he had been whipped mentally.

"Maybe it's time for Prozac or something, hell, all the cool kids are doin' it," I said, trying to make him laugh.

"What makes you think medication would work with our physiology? Griffin asked. "We're a bit different then in the past, you know."

"Can't say it would, but any med is a good med. Griffin, you're bringing me down, bringing all of us down."

"You have no room to talk," Griffin said, "it's your fault I am what I am. You're the author of this insanity

"Poetic," I said, "author, nice touch."

Once or twice a year he'd invariably bring up the fact that I tapped him into the life. Griffin neglected to mention I was the only reason he had anything resembling a life. It's tragic, really, but I would never have changed someone unless it was his or her choice. Griffin conveniently forgot it was his call. I didn't tap Toad or Pet, but Izzy was my handiwork.

"You were in a bad place. I saved you have the audacity to hold that against me. Without me, you'd be nothing, in a literal sense. I didn't hear you complaining then."

Reaching into a small humidor behind me, I pinch a Romeo and Juliet Robusto from the pile. Cigars help me unwind and I needed to relax.

"How long are you going to put yourself through this, this torture? Put me through this?" I asked. Smelling the cigar, I closed my eyes, trying to escape the stress of leadership, if only for a few minutes. "Some people are born with one leg or their heart outside of their chests and they've learned to adapt. You're a vampire, assimilate."

"I can't take a piss without thoughts running through my brain," he said. "Being a vampire is a nightmare from which I can't awake."

"You're not alone," I said. "don't you think the rest of us are conflicted? You're not that special. You don't think Izzy wants some answers? Even Toad wants to know what the hell is going on? We all have questions."

The clink of my lighter is one of my favorite sounds in the world and I find myself mesmerized by the flame, the thick puffs, twisting the cigar, the whole thing. It's a wonderful male ritual. I watch the toxic cotton balls leave my mouth.

"Griffin, you're really going to drive yourself insane, and there's two things in this world that really suck, pardon the pun. A gay man with a head cold, and a vampire who is off his rocker."

Toad came in from the pool, tilting his head and drying his hair, his belly looked like a giant Hostess Sno Ball, with hair.

"We've got a meeting," Toad said, digging his pinkie into his ear and wiping his finger on the towel. "Just got a call from Tulio." Toad wrapped the towel around his waist and he was so wide he was barely able to make a small knot.

I felt like I was going to jump on his throat.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, my face actually twitching, "we just talked about this. Fought about this, remember?"

"Talk with him about it," Toad said. He was whiny, like a giant teenager.

"Can you believe this?" I said to myself. "It's like talking to a brick wall. Go work with him then, you fat, ungrateful fuck. Have conversations with him all the time. Let him talk to you while you're rubbing his balls, just go."

I was upset and forgot about my cigar, nearly extinguished. Giving it the equivalent of mouth-to-mouth, it came back alive. I feared an inventory of Toad's value was required, a decision as to whether he'd stay on with us.

Griffin tried to quell the fire.

"You have to smoke in here?" he asked. "Thought we had a rule."

"I'll smoke in my room," I said, "the rest of the place is non-smoking."

Toad laughed loudly.

"Saying part of this place is non-smoking is like saying there's a non-peeing section in a swimming pool."

"There's a non-peeing section of the pool?" I said.

Toad smiled. "Not that I'm aware of."

I blew a cumulus cloud of smoke the size of a carrot cake in The Toad's general direction.

"Since you two are inseparable, what did he say?" I asked.

"Told me Alex is bringing the next shipment," Toad said.

I examined the end of the cigar to see if it was burning evenly. It wasn't.

"Alex? He's a piece of garbage," I said.

Toad nodded eagerly.

"Exactly. That's what I was thinking."

Griffin stared into space, as if he was looking for something to say, then found it. I was grateful to have any topic come up that took Griffin outside of himself.

"Pretty ballsy of him to send Alex," Griffin said.

"Right?" Toad added, as if the syllable said it all.

Alex worked for Tulio and double-crossed us all a few years ago. He was actually part of the reason we left Miami and moved to Milwaukee. I believed anger was a waste of energy, but I still keep a reserve tank of hate just for Alex. Griffin knew my moods better than anyone.

"You're not going to do anything stupid, right? When he comes up?" Griffin asked.

"With Alex? Like what?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Griffin said sarcastically, "like cut him into tiny pieces and UPS him back to Tulio?"

"Are you saying he doesn't deserve that?"

"At least Fed-Ex the guy," Toad laughed.

I threaded my cigar into the mouth of Griffin's beer bottle. When it hit the half-inch of beer that was left, it sounded like steam escaping. I turned to Toad.

"You and Tulio were always pretty tight, weren't you?"

Toad poured himself a large scotch.

"I wouldn't say tight," Toad said. "He's our source so I do what I can to keep the peace. You know what I mean. What are you getting at?" he asked.

"I'm not getting at anything," I said. "I'm there. When I have something to say, I just say it. This is my business. You want to start your own distribution network, more power to you. Until you do, let me deal with our supplier."

"How can I stop him from calling me?" Toad asked, starting to get riled.

"Change your phone number for starters? Okay? Is that completely clear?"

"Clear as baby piss," he said, no humor in his voice. He turned and waddled toward his section of the house.

"I didn't want to say anything in front Toad, but I think it's time you talk to someone. A psychiatrist or a hooker."

"Which one do you think will help?" he said.

"Both."

"Good. I know where to find the hooker, but don't know about the shrink. If I could find a shrink to analyze me while I had sex with her, it would be a one-stop shop."

"Try the Yellow Pages, under crazy."

"Nobody uses Yellow Pages anymore."

I was in no mood for any shit from Griffin.

"Then check the Penny saver, or some other thing. I don't know. Just try to get your mind right."

### Chapter Ten

"I just robbed a grocery store, I'm going to dizz knee land."

Anna Corrigan was a painter in her heart, but it was a blessing for her and everyone that mattered to her that she was a dental hygienist by trade. Anna was in her mid-fifties and had hair like chickweed, and if you looked hard, you could see she was a stunner in her day. Now her face was too slender, gaunt from intense dieting and jogging, combined to give her a bit of a witchy look. Sidney searched the house and finds her in a little room off the main house, her studio. Anna wore a blue button down shirt that belonged to her ex-husband, the one she divorced, not the one who died. As in every photo of an artist, her shirt had a multitude of colors smeared in all areas. Her hair was pulled back and there was a smudge of burnt orange on her cheek. She wasn't a bad painter but all over the place in terms of influence. The current canvas looked like Monet copulated with Jackson Pollock.

"Hey, Mom," Sidney said softly, trying to avoid giving her mother a heart attack.

"Hello, sweetie," Anna said, setting her paintbrush on her palate. She wiped her hands on a cloth and hugged Sidney. When they parted, Sidney inspected her blouse to see if her mother smudged her with the oil paint.

"That's nice," Sidney said, assessing her mother's latest work.

"Yeah? You think?" Anna asked, "still a work in progress. Wish you would have called, I could have made something."

"No, I'm not hungry. Thanks."

"Everything okay?" Anna asked, motioning for Sidney to sit.

"I got a call today. From my doctor."

Anna's Cockapoo Monty begged at her feet to be picked up. Sidney obliged and stroked his fur. He was happier than a pig in shit.

"Oh, god," Anna said, covering her mouth with her fingers. "What is it?"

"They found some, well, cancer," she said, her voice trailing off.

Anna reached for Sidney's hands, rubbing her daughter's fingertips.

"How come you didn't tell me? When did you find out?"

"Just found out."

"What kind? I mean, how serious?"

Sidney tried to bring the emotions down a notch.

"The bad kind?"

"Seriously. How can you be so cavalier?"

"It's breast cancer," Sidney said quickly. "There, I said it."

"Oh my god," Anna said. She started to shake, her hands looked as though they'd been Tasered.

"Mom, I don't need you to go all crazy on me, I'm dealing with enough right now."

"Can't be. We don't have any history, cancer, I mean." Anna said, her eyes wide. "Nobody on my side of the family has a cancer history, must be your piece of crud father."

"Mom, there's no time for that. I've got to be positive."

"How bad is it?" Anna cocked her head.

"Well, it would have been better if we'd found it a while ago, that's for sure. A long while ago."

Anna gasped so hard, she coughed up saliva and it shot over Sidney's shoulder. She started to cry and pulled her daughter close.

"You're the one that's supposed to be strong for me," Sidney said as she patted her mother awkwardly on her shoulder. "Shhhh, shhhh."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Anna said, as she wiped tears from her cheek, wiped under her nose with the hem of the shirt.

"Mom, I'm starting chemo, tomorrow."

"Are you sure? I mean, really sure?"

"I'm a doctor, Mom. I hang out with doctors. I've read the books, I've seen the results, even reviewed my bill. Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, what can I do? Do you want some juice? Anything?"

"No. Nothing, thanks."

"Vodka or Gin?"

"Vodka," Sidney said "A big one."

"Wait. Maybe we shouldn't drink. You've got to keep your strength up."

"A lot of good that's done me so far. Make it a triple."

"Right. Two triples," Anna said, rising to go to the kitchen.

"I'd appreciate it if we could keep this between us, okay?"

"What about your father?"

"You said it was his side of the family, so screw him. I'll tell him when I'm ready. He hasn't called me in two years."

"It's that bitch he married."

"Mom! Enough."

Anna nodded and started crying again.

"I've got to get a bunch of pink ribbons," Sidney said, unable to maintain her composure, her head falling in her hands. "You know, thanks for making this easier. I was stressing about how I was going to tell you this. It's a little like telling someone you love them for the first time. Once you mention that word, love, you're not really sure how they're going to take it. Once it's said, it's done, you can't take it back."

Anna returned with fresh drinks and downed half of hers before she sat. Wiping her mouth, Sidney seemed introspective.

"But you have to be good with it before you tell anyone else," Sidney said, "otherwise, you'd be in some kind of denial."

"There still is hope," Anna said. "Right? It all depends on the cancer."

Anna was out of dialogue, didn't know what to say. Her capacity for motherly advice and logic was overdrawn.

"In just a few years I would have seen more from my research. Just a couple of years!"

Anna knew there was little she could do except listen. She wanted to be there for her daughter but didn't know if she could keep her composure. That was something a mother was supposed to do...wasn't it?

### Chapter Eleven

"It's not easy, to be me."

The food court hadn't opened yet, which was a good thing for Griffin. He had a very low threshold when it came to avoiding cinnamon rolls. Mall-walkers zipped by, ranging from fifty to what seemed to be a hundred years old, an army of Nike cross-trainers.

He checked the Post-it-Note for the location of the psychiatrist's office, which was accessible from inside the mall. Reluctantly, Griffin took Malcolm's advice to talk with someone. He felt like a charlatan. Who would take a vampire seriously when he needed to see a shrink?

Just past the Subway, Griffin saw the physician's names on the wall.

"Here we go," he said.

He climbed a set of carpeted stairs. The walls were painted battleship gray and altogether unwelcoming. As Griffin entered the waiting room he thought he was alone, but a woman sat behind the door, texting furiously. It was Sidney. She looked at Griffin and smiled before returning her attention to her phone. Pretending to look at a Sports Illustrated, Griffin grinned like a schoolboy.

"You're going to pull a thumb muscle texting like that."

"I do special exercises," Sidney said without looking up. "It's actually work. I'm not texting a friend to tell her what I ate for breakfast or ask her how she did on her English final."

"That's good," Griffin said. "Personally, I feel there's too much information out there already."

He settled in and looked at the magazine, but couldn't take his eyes off Sidney. As a rule, Griffin didn't text, found it morally lazy. The phone came in handy on occasion, but he was perplexed by the need for people to communicate every fleeting thought with someone else. Surprise and spontaneity were things of the past, he thought; so ten years ago.

"Do they charge by the letter?" Griffin asked, a concerted effort to seem clever, ignite a conversation.

"Wouldn't surprise me if they did," she smiled, her peach cheeks rising. She regarded Griffin for a moment, immediately attracted as she flicked her hair, a sure sign. "Do you always hit on women in their shrink's office?"

He believed she was joking.

"Griffin," he said, extending his hand, as though that was the definitive way to introduce yourself.

"Sidney," she smiled and reached for his hand.

Griffin liked her right away. To him she seemed pleasant without being phony. The first thing he noticed was her hair, a classic red. A Celtic beauty that looked like she should be walking the Scottish moors. Russians say red hair was a sign of craziness and a fiery temper. Griffin's mother had once told him no saint had red hair, which was why he liked her.

Dr. Kristine Lenkey was a well-respected psychiatrist and Griffin got her name online. She peeked around the door.

"Griffin?"

He waved his hand.

"Present."

"Hi," she said. "Sorry about the wait."

Griffin turned to Sidney.

"Well, see you next time, perhaps," he said.

"It's a distinct possibility," Sidney smiled." Her mouth was perfectly symmetrical and she revealed only her top row of teeth, thankfully no visible gum line. Griffin had a strong urge to kiss her.

Griffin followed Dr. Lenkey down the hall to her office. There was a couch, chair and her desk. A simple office and Griffin preferred a doctor who focused on him rather than decoration.

"Thanks for seeing me, doctor," Griffin said.

"I lost a patient recently, so I had room," she said.

"Suicide?"

"God, no, worse. Cleveland," she smiled. "Please, sit."

Dr. Lenkey wasn't unattractive, but certainly not a woman Griffin would have looked at twice in another setting, and he reasoned that was a good thing in therapy. You didn't want to have the 'hots' for your shrink.

"Over there?" She pointed toward the couch. "If that works for you, and I'm not a stickler for formality, please call me Kristine."

"I had a chance to review some of the questions I asked during our preliminary conversation on the phone. You told me this would be your first therapy session," she said.

"That's right." Griffin looked around the room at the prints on the wall, tried to sit comfortably. He was relieved there were no corny posters like Courage or Hang in there Baby, with a cat falling off a branch.

"These days, I think you're the anomaly," she said. "So, tell me what's going on."

"Mostly the same stuff as anyone else is going through," he said, laying his arm across the back of the couch and looked at the clock. "Who we are, where are we going, how much time do we have?"

"Fifty minutes," she said.

"No, I meant that as in, how much time do we have on earth."

"Oh."

"You ever seen Blade Runner?" Griffin asked.

Dr. Lenkey shook her head.

"Nope."

"That's a line from the movie. I'm not nearly that poetic."

"I noticed you keep looking at the clock."

"I guess it's one of many bad habits."

Griffin was not accustomed to talking about himself and a nervous laugh escaped his lips.

"Have you experienced anything, I don't know, life-changing recently?"

Griffin shook his head.

"Nothing too dramatic, or traumatic, for that matter."

"Okay."

"I've have to deal with some things you might not fully understand," he said. "I'm not being coy and I don't think my problems are worse than anyone else's problems. It's not like that. You're going to have to trust me on this one, for now, at least."

"Well, that's why you're supposed to tell me these things," she said. "That's why we're here, isn't it? To get to the bottom of things, so to speak."

Griffin rubbed his eyes, again another deep breath.

"It's hard," he said. "I get the whole transparency thing between doctor and patient, but trust me, there are some things I can't share."

"It's all confidential in here," she said. "Anything you say in here stays in here, just like Vegas, or your priest, Rabbi, hairstylist."

"You have some limitations, right? I mean, if I said something like I'm going to kill someone?"

"Oddly, you can tell me you killed someone, and I can't report that. If you tell me you're going to kill someone, then I have to report it."

"Helpful tip. I'll make a note of that one."

"Why did you call?" she asked. "There must be some reason."

"It's not a childhood thing, or anything like that."

"A bad childhood?"

"I guess my family had their share of troubles, but who doesn't? I mean, I didn't have cigarettes extinguished on my arm, I wasn't raped by an uncle, so I guess I've got that going for me."

"That is a bonus," she said. Dr. Lenkey's flat shoe was hanging off her toes and she gently rocked her foot up and down, bouncing the shoe.

"What's your story?" Griffin said.

"Fair enough," she said, shifting in her deep chair. "Let's see. I've been doing this for about ten years," she said. "My father is a disciple of Jung's, so psychiatry always intrigued me."

"Do you have a family?"

"Sorry, I can't go there, a therapist's rule. This is about you."

Dr. Lenkey had a clipboard on her knee and a legal pad, making notes.

"Lived here your whole life?" Griffin asked.

"No. From San Diego."

"Nice."

Let's get back to you."

Griffin checked his watch.

"Let's make this easy," he said. "Why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to say and we'll both be happy."

Griffin spoke fast, a clear sign of his apprehension.

"Griffin, it doesn't work that way. This has to come from inside you. I'll guide you where I can, but it all starts with you."

He slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. "You know, I don't think this is really going to work."

He paced the room. Dr. Lenkey reared back in her chair, as she didn't know what this new patient was capable of doing, could be some kind of knife-loving loon.

"Griffin, please sit down, so I can see you face-to-face."

He doesn't, instead Griffin stared at the wall with his back to Dr. Lenkey.

"How can you expect to get to know anyone through this process? This is bullshit. I made a mistake coming here."

"I don't give advice. No therapist worth their salt is going to tell you what to think or do."

"Maybe they should."

"You obviously don't have to participate if you don't want to, but this is not an uncommon reaction when people start therapy."

"Good. It's nice to hear I'm capable of one normal thing."

"Do you talk to friends? Family members?"

He stared into the corner for a long time.

"It's good to have someone to relate your thoughts to," she said. "Sometimes, it's hard to do that with people who are too close to you. It's not fair to them because they may not be able to understand what's happening with you and then you become frustrated. In turn, they feel bad because they can't help. It's a vicious cycle. Would they give you a hard time if they knew you were in therapy? Are you embarrassed?"

"Actually, it was a friend that suggested therapy. Listen, I'm going to go. I'm all talked out."

"We just started," Dr. Lenkey said. Now it was her turn to check the clock. "It'd be nice if we could at least develop some kind of plan. Did you want to schedule another appointment?"

"I'll call."

"I won't be able to help unless you give me a chance," Dr. Lenkey said. "Take some time to think about therapy, no pressure. Call my office if you decide to come back. I'll keep a spot open for a couple of weeks."

"You may be taking on a lot," Griffin said, reaching for the door handle.

"I've had tougher patients," she smiled.

Griffin started for the door and Dr. Lenkey escorted him out.

"Say, is that woman in the waiting room one of your patients?"

"I wouldn't be able to tell you one way or the other," she said kindly.

"Got it," Griffin said, "confidential."

### Chapter Twelve

"Take the skinheads bowling, take them bowling."

We'd made a good living in Florida, a great one in fact. We had a large home in Jupiter, north of Palm Beach where Tulio lived. Izzy raised horses on our 200-acre farm. The Toad took to shooting armadillo, rattle snakes and an occasional alligator, merely because he didn't like them, anything that ran or humped. No sheriff bothered you on your own property, just the way of the south. I grew marijuana underground, a huge generator provided light. It was just a little 'up yours' to the DEA. I never sold any, it was just for personal use.

I kept several condos up and down the east coast; we owned more homes in Sanibel and a place in Key West. Sometimes I think it was jealousy as to why Tulio wanted us gone. Not financially, he dwarfed us in that department. I think what really bothered him was the fact that we were a true family, something he could never figure out. In the drug business nobody trusts anybody, which was wise. To an outsider, it was curious that we lived together and trusted each other implicitly. When something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

Wisconsin had its own charms and it was the perfect place to keep a low profile, we owned the drug landscape. We liked the seasons, sailing, golf and if we wanted the fast life we would have picked a larger city. Our lives seemed to run in cycles. After years of the party circuits, champagne, women, late night binges, things thankfully slowed down. In ten or twenty years it will pick up once again. Fast cars and jetting around the world would be replaced by quiet living.

When we overhunted an area and prey numbers thinned, we moved on. The problem with smaller cities was you hit the saturation point more quickly and had to move on. It was always the good with the bad, the lesser of two evils. Frankly, I liked new scenery, moving on, new phone numbers, restaurants. When carnivals were popular we fed off workers. Most carnival employees were ex-cons or drunks or drifters nobody seemed to miss. Once we hit a chain gang in Georgia. It only had about five guys out on a desolate road, plus we took out the guard. Nothing wasted.

Nobody in our house could really cook, so we ate out almost all the time, except when I wanted to make risotto. You'd think with all the time we've had on this planet, one of us would have taken an interest. Eating food and drinking wine wasn't something we required to stay alive, it was a sensual pleasure. We'd known the best chefs and dined at the finest places in the world, for generations. With our metabolisms, we could eat whatever and whenever we wanted. We didn't suffer from the 'moment on the lips, forever on the hips' curse. However Toad seemed to be the exception to that adage.

Karl Ratzsch's had been in business for more than 100 years and we liked its food and simplicity. It was a German restaurant specializing in rich, heart-stopping sauces. The walls were painted white and a soft yellow lighting above the molding went around the rim of the ceiling, a heavy German décor. You wouldn't have been surprised if a few Nazi's sat at a table and ordered schnapps and schnitzel.

Toad was making love to a Viennese chocolate torte, he chewed with his mouth open. "That's disgusting," Izzy said. "They'll let any slob be a vampire these days."

Sixty years together and we still didn't know everything about each other. Sometimes our tastes changed, which kept things fresh.

"Keep it down," I said. "Jesus, I always have to act like Ward Cleaver. Why not just shout things out, how about that?"

"Nobody's listening," Izzy said. "Like they're going to pick up on what you're saying anyway."

The waitress was stuffed into Bavarian Oktoberfest garb. A frilly white blouse and bell shape skirt. She set a plate with what must have been a two-pound slab of prime rib in front of a thick-gutted man a couple of tables away. The meat was rare, almost raw, and a stream of blood as dark as the Mississippi puddled on the plate.

"Funny how they can eat that, and we're the ghouls," Izzy said.

Izzy was cute when she was tipsy. When she leaned forward I could see a cross on a silver chain, it was her little joke. A gob of spit in the face of Christianity, she was a cultural guerilla. She leaned over and took a picture of the man's food with her cell phone.

"That's hot," she told him, winking.

Griffin tilted his wine glass slowly, pursed his lips at the rim. The wine moved forward at a snail's pace, gently, thickly. The sip he took was so small it hardly seemed worth all the effort he put forth.

"If God didn't want us to eat animals," Toad said, "why'd he make them taste so much like meat?" He guzzled his oversized stein of Hacker Pschorr.

Toad jabbed his fork into the Sauerbraten, a quarter pound of pickled beef on his fork, like the head of a torch. In an instant it disappeared into his mouth.

"On the farm it's a pig," I said, "on their plate it's pork. They make up their own rules to suit their own ends."

I was feeling a little uptight so I popped a Clonazepam and hoped for the best. It was a med designed to reduce anxiety. I had been a veritable stress-factory of late. I'd gone through three bottles of Riesling and felt no pain. It was times like these I felt most vulnerable. I was afraid all we know could end at any moment, hence the Clonazepam. At the same time I knew our longevity, as vampires was our one gold chip in this whole thing. I had the same fears Griffin or anybody else; I just couldn't afford to tip my hand. Every clan had a leader, and that person paid a price.

I understood our trade was viewed as reprehensible, but they legalize alcohol and not cocaine? Come on. It's good for us that mortals made such lame-brained laws. We make more money off something illegal.

"Eighty bucks on this bottle is a steal," I said as I swirled it in my glass.

"Aw, don't swirl it," Toad said. He whipped his finger across Izzy's plate and took the last of the tart. "It's a white wine and it doesn't really need much aeration. You're trying to impress us with your wine knowledge?"

"I can't even believe you know the first thing about wine."

"Believe," Toad said, pouring a glass of Riesling into his empty water glass, the wine sloshing onto the table.

"You're a rube," I said.

"Me? I'm not the one swirling white wine."

Griffin opened a New York Times and showed us the headline. "I don't mean to put a damper on our dinner," Griffin said.

"But you'll find a way," Toad said, ripping into a salted rye roll.

"The Dow closed down 400 points," Griffin said. "We took a big hit. We were talking the other day about business being down. Well, now our finances across the board are down."

Izzy picked up the paper.

"What's this mean?"

I felt a massive headache coming on. You did everything you could to keep things together, and now this, something we had no control over.

"A 400 point drop after a four week drop of 2,000 points. Life as we know it is on hold," I said. "That's what it means."

Izzy lightly rapped her fingers on the table.

"That's bad? The 400 point thing?"

"It was a record high a month ago and now this," I said.

My knowledge of the stock market was strong, but I was no expert. I had the opportunity to observe longer than most, had seen more fluctuation than those who worked in the markets.

"But how?" Izzy said, pouring herself some wine and signaling for another bottle.

"Bad mortgages to assholes, people who didn't have two dimes to rub together," I said. "Overvalued stocks, just about anything lousy you can think of. Tulio has more scruples than these thieves."

"We got other stuff," Toad said. "Right? We've put investments in other places than stocks? Land, other stuff?"

Griffin looked to me.

"All spending stops now," he said. 'Griffin and I will worry about righting the ship."

"I'll call Wendell, see how bad it is," I said. "Meantime, I need all of you to start making a list of things you can live without."

"I can live without everything except cigarettes and booze," Izzy said.

"Beer and porn for me," Toad said.

"This is serious," Griffin said.

"I'm being serious," Izzy said.

"Malcolm, come on," Toad said. "It can't be as bad as all that."

"Almost everything we have is tied up in stocks," Griffin said. "Blue chip stocks, GM, GE, General Electric. We sold a lot of assets when we moved."

"We should have diversified," Izzy said. "Every stock we have starts with 'G'.

"Grow up," I said, "and you forgot Google."

"What? That's my way of dealing with things. I'm stressed too. Would it help if I started to cry?" She shrugged her tiny shoulders, finished her wine, and had the big-busted waitress open the other bottle.

"Boat has to go for sure," I said, "free up some cash. We've got to batten down the hatches. Ha, get it? hatches?"

Toad didn't get the pun.

"So, were going to end up in a van down by the river?" Toad said, his lighter exploding to life at the tip of a cigarette.

"I hope not," I said. "Whatever happens, we'll be together, a team. We're selfless and remember, there's no 'I' in 'team.'

"But there is 'm-e,' Izzy smiled.

The waitress was about to tell Toad no smoking was allowed, but didn't like the look of Toad's face and let it go.

"Everybody calm down," I said. "I'll know more after I talk with Wendell, so, let's error on the side of caution. When the market gets back to normal, you can get your toys back. Thank god we have a good flow of shipment or we'd be in a world of hurt."

"Speaking of which," Griffin said, "Alex will be here tomorrow afternoon. Whose turn is it to unload?"

Izzy wagged a finger between Griffin and me.

"My mother said to pick the very best one and that very best one is, you dickheads."

"Yeah," Toad said, finishing off my wine. "You gave us the night off. I'm going to the casino."

"I have a gig," Izzy said, picking the bacon off her salad.

"You mean I have to miss another Schadenfreude show?" Toad said.

"Eat me," Izzy said.

"No thanks," Toad said, he pulled at his lips, "too many have traveled that road."

"Fair enough," Griffin said. He picked up the check, stared at the total, and then slid it towards me.

"That's outrageous, I wouldn't pay it if I were you." He set his napkin on the table and extended his arm to Izzy. "Shall we?"

"I'd be delighted," she said, rising and taking Griffin's arm.

Izzy leaned over to the table with the prime rib.

"Enjoy, fatty," she said.

"Philistines," I said, reaching for my American Express.

### Chapter Thirteen

"To avoid complications, she never kept the same address."

For a small mall, it had three sporting goods stores, one of them what they call a big-box retailer. Izzy was a good golfer and was encouraging Griffin to get into the sport, mostly because she didn't have anyone else to play with any regularity. Golf pros had mixed emotions when she played. They dug the short shorts, but had a tough time with the Converse shoes and halter-top.

Friends were not something the clan was big on; you had to disclose too much information. A tall man in his late 40s was pushing a set of Callaway's on Griffin. With an oversized driver and overpriced putter, the salesman was looking for Griffin to drop about $2,400 bucks.

"Can't go wrong with these," he said with a used cars salesman grin cutting across his face. "Clubs practically hit the balls themselves."

"First time you've used that line?"

The salesman's face went blank in embarrassment.

"I'm just looking for a set where I can get by and not look too foolish," Griffin said.

Griffin was quite athletic, but now he was in a low-cycle, getting by with doing as little physical exertion as possible. Who knows why these things happen.

"How about these?" Griffin said, picking up a no-name club, the entire set going for $300 dollars. "I kind of like the feel of these."

He wasn't what you would call cheap, but he was the next closest word to it. Griffin had more money to spend than he knew what to do with, largely through Malcolm's investments for the clan. Still, he was looking for a set of clubs off the rack and the salesman had his eye on another customer.

"Hey," Sidney said, coming around the corner from the camping section. "Small, world."

"Yeah," Griffin said. "Small mall."

"What are you looking for, clubs?"

He released the cheap club and watched it drop into the bag and went back to the Callaway's.

"Yeah, we were just finishing up here," he said. Griffin handed the salesman his Centurion American Express card.

"Put about five dozen of your best balls on there too," he said.

The salesman looked at Sidney, winked at Griffin.

"Callaway? You could do worse."

"You play?"

Sidney pinched some of her red hair.

"With this? Are you kidding me? I was on a golf course long before I became a medical geek."

"Why brings you out here?" Griffin said.

"I've got a couple of nephews with birthdays coming up."

Picking up a putter, Griffin practiced his swing. He was horrible, all shoulders.

"Ever have any lessons?" Sidney asked.

"Nope, self-taught," Griffin said. "Isn't it painfully obvious?"

"No, I can tell you've got talent. Let me see that."

Sidney dropped her handbag and took the putter. She eyed up a 20-footer on the putting surface and drained it.

"Damn," Griffin said.

"Do you want to go out sometime? I've got a club membership and almost never make it out there."

"No way. I'm not going to get thrashed by you. Let's play some one-on-one basketball instead--for money."

"C'mon, it'll be fun. I'll buy lunch afterwards."

"It's not the lunch I'm worried about."

"We'll make it fair. I'll play left-handed."

"You are left handed," Griffin said.

"Okay," she said. "Blindfolded."

"Are you asking me on a date?"

It had been forever since Sidney had been on an actual date. With work and trying to battle cancer, time was precious. She stared at the camping gear trying to recall when she had.

"Wow, I didn't even look at it like that."

Griffin looked dejected.

"No, I didn't mean it like that," she said. "I meant I'd love to."

"How about I drive the golf cart, drink beer. Check out your form," Griffin said.

"I'll check yours out too," Sidney smiled wide.

Griffin slipped the putter on the rack and backed up to allow a kid walk by.

"I feel goofy we met in a shrink's office. I'm not all that messed up. It's the first time ever for me."

"I think it's a mistake to look at it like there is something wrong with you," Sidney said. "Did you read how they can see depression in your blood, early imprints. It's fascinating. They're going to find out it's more prevalent than the common cold. Maybe then people will stop treating things like bi-polar and depression like some kind of plague."

"I didn't read that," Griffin said. "But it's about time."

"Sorry," Sidney said. "It just makes me so mad sometimes to think how myopic people can be, and so vile. You hear about that attack on the train?"

"I did," Griffin said.

"Scary to know some miserable piece of garbage like that is walking around. If you put him in the electric chair, I'd pull the lever, sit down and have a soda with Jerry's kids. Zero guilt about frying the bastard."

Griffin gave her a look that said, "hmmm, really?"

"Your nephews good kids?

"One of them is really sweet, goes to Madison. The other one is going to be a priest."

"A priest. You don't hear that much anymore, that's commitment," Griffin said.

"My sister is a little domineering, always been into the Catholic thing, church stuff. I'm more of the agnostic variety. You have any ideas what to get two boys in their early twenties?"

"A year's supply of beer for one, and a hooker for the other. You decide who gets what."

"What if I can find a hooker that brings beer?"

"Two birds."

### Chapter Fourteen

"If you want it, here it is, come and get it, but you'd better hurry 'cause it's going fast."

The ball barely nicked the centerline, but an ace is an ace. Tulio Vanyez pumped his fist. As he flipped the racquet in his hand, he wiped his forehead.

"Game, set, match," he said. Tulio pulled off his bandanna, revealing a thick head of black hair; so luxurious it appeared to be pasted with black henna.

Two gorgeous women were playing on the next court, hitting aimlessly, trying to get a better look at Tulio. He was oblivious.

"Nice one," said Byron, the tennis pro at the Palm Beach Club. He was 'Byron the Bigot,' to those who knew him off the court.

Tulio was sure Byron had let him win, but it still felt good.

"Up for a beer?" Tulio asked as they shook hands.

"Love to. Can't," Byron said. "Have to go to some kind of birthday party for my girlfriend's friend or something, up in Jupiter."

"Too bad," Tulio said. "Could have been a night of boozing, snorting and women, the usual."

Byron looked like a diabetic staring at insulin.

"Why'd you have to torture me?"

Tulio shrugged.

"Because I can, and it's fun to see you in pain."

"A man can make enemies like that," Byron smiled.

"I've got enough enemies," Tulio said, leading them to the bench.

"You remember I said I'd tell you if I heard anything?" Byron said.

Tulio nodded, drinking a regular Gatorade.

"I heard from one of my clients, a big-shot lawyer. He has some questionable clients in Miami, if you know what I mean. Well, the economy is hurting everybody and apparently Carlos is looking to acquire more territory."

"Garcia? Yeah?" Tulio said. "My kind of territory?"

"Well, exactly. Everything north of Lauderdale, he's already got that."

Tulio thought for a moment.

"I got you. Damn, why does it have to be Carlos? I need information," he said.

"Find out what I can, but it's dangerous for a guy like me to ask a lot of questions about a guy like that."

"I'll make it worth your while."

"I know. I've heard some other info," Byron said. He raised his eyebrows, as though he had some big news.

Tulio was becoming impatient.

"You know, when you have information, just give it to me in one chunk. Don't fucking make me dig."

"Okay," Byron said. "They're not just looking. I hear Carlos wants to make a move. Soon."

"How soon?"

"Like yesterday, soon."

"That's soon. You got this from your lawyer friend? In that case, I need you to find out when, and how many guys are coming, and where."

"Probably your house."

"Fine. Forget that little party you were going to. I need your help.

Byron took two waters from a small refrigerator.

"I'm glad I can help,"

"I thank you in advance."

# # #

Tulio drove the four blocks to his house in his tennis clothes. Philippe greeted him in the kitchen.

"Get Alex for me," Tulio said. He mixed a vanilla protein shake in the blender.

Philippe poked the numbers on his cell phone. The estate was on the Ocean and had four guesthouses with sky-blue roofs. Tulio bought the property five years before and ripped everything down, then rebuilt. He liked the water, proximity to the Club and the fact it was five doors down from the Kennedy estate, a fact he threw around like rice at a wedding.

Alex chomped on a Toaster Strudel, dressed in worn jeans and shirt from his vast collection of trailer-park flannels.

"You wanted to see me boss?" he said, licking the pseudo blueberry off the fake pastry. He had shoulder length curly hair and a Scooby-Doo beard, dazzling blue eyes.

Tulio reached for a bottle of Grey Goose and poured heavily into his shake. He stared at the Toaster Strudel as though it had gangrene wondering where and why something like that was produced.

"Listen, Tulio said, unable to tear his gaze, from the man was licking gel off his fingers. "This trip could be a bit, touchy. Do you understand?"

"I wouldn't worry about that, Captain." Alex had an irritating way of trying to kiss ass, an exaggerating smooching of his lips to make sure he made contact.

"You don't know Malcolm like I do," Tulio said. "And I'm not the one who jerked him over, not directly. I'm not saying I didn't appreciate your effort. For the sake of the shipment, and of course your safety, you should take precautions."

Patting his gun with his dry hand, Alex smiled, revealing his disdain of dental work.

"Got that covered, sir," he said. Alex wiped his hand on his open flannel shirt. "Malcolm is not a problem for me and Rex."

Tulio rolled his eyes.

"You named your fucking gun?"

"Yeah," Alex said. "Of course. Don't you?"

There must have been someone dumber in the world, Tulio thought, but as of yet he hadn't met him.

"Sit," Tulio said, motioning to the table. "Well go over this a couple of times."

Alex dragged the legs of the chair across the floor, like fingers on a chalkboard. Tulio winced.

"Malcolm's not stupid enough to try to hurt you, doesn't want to mess things up. I'm sending you because he hates your guts."

"And that's good for me, how?"

"It's not good for you, it will help me read where he's at. And that's good for me."

"Oh. Ok, captain.

"If you call me captain one more time I'm going to cut your balls off with toenail clippers."

Alex's redneck upbringing was demanding he say something to defend himself, but he didn't.

"Okay," Tulio said, standing. "We're done here. Knock em' dead, so to speak."

### Chapter Fifteen

"Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying"

Only god knew why they'd build a garage above a row of boutique stores, but they did. I put the mortgage in Toad's name to spread out the paper trail. We received our Florida shipments here, at least once every couple of weeks. Close to the city and was the last place the police would look for an operation like this. Below the garage, a card shop, a fashionable grocery store and two restaurants. I had them install a state-of-the-art security system, so complicated I really had no clue how it all worked. The garage smelled like motor oil, spilled soda and rubber. You got used to it after a while as you do with the scents in a neighborhood butcher shop.

Griffin showed up a few minutes late with a bag of Kopp's hamburgers and fries. We sat tires and milk crates and ate, a greasy delight. My cell phone interrupted me mid-French fry.

"Yeah? Fine. I'll leave the light on." I said, as I set my phone on a toolbox. "Asshole Alex. Said he's pulling up in about a minute or two."

A honk outside the garage door signaled his arrival. Griffin pressed the button on the opener and Alex drove up the ramp. Once inside the door, he put the car in neutral and it rolled toward the back of the garage, which prevented us from gagging on the carbon monoxide. He drove a 1966 Bonneville. Tulio made it a point to paint the cars in neutral colors and beat the hell out of them, hoping the cops believed the owners were derelicts or out of work drifters. Alex looked the part.

Tulio and I had it out five years ago before I moved us up to Milwaukee. He wanted to get into heroin and meth, but that was uncharted area for me--too violent. The people who dealt in heroin didn't have a code. I'm not that tough but I've learned a few things about people through the years and knew I didn't want to end up in an ass-ramming prison. There were other reasons I've mentioned before.

As Tulio's friendships with Latin America grew, he morphed from a small mover to a big player in a short amount of time. It was me who helped him get where he was and then he pushed me out of the way, ungrateful prick. The primary reason I hated Alex was because he reported everything to Tulio. I made an extra buck here and there, to stay alive, he'd tell Tulio. If I made a decision in the field, in the heat of a situation, he'd tell Tulio. Alex was a filthy rat with the brain of a puppy.

Alex got out of the car and stretched, yawned loudly. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans and biker boots and walked around the car with a large McDonald's coffee in his hand.

"Hey, my main-men," he said, his arms stretched wide, imitating some rapper.

"Now that's irony," I said, "since you're probably a Clan member down south, you hillbilly."

"Me? Naw, I don't do that. I think everybody is equally worthless." He laughed, waiting for us to do the same.

"I wish I was like you," I said, "easily amused."

He set his cup on a metal chest and turned the key on the trunk, the size of a Jacuzzi, then farted, a noxious Waffle House induced blast. Tulio sent up several cars at a time on most trips, a cocaine convoy he coined the Polar Express. On this trip two cars went to Chicago, one to Minneapolis and one to Green Bay.

"Thirty hours straight through," Alex said, as though sitting on your ass and listening to country music should be an Olympic sport.

"Hope you didn't snort too much of our cargo," Griffin said.

"It's either that or that five hour liquid stuff that tastes like cough syrup. This is much better. Good quality on this one, you're going to have to cut that with a hacksaw. My heart's beating like a nervous squirrel."

The floor of the garage was painted gray, accented with oil stains and some chips from dropped tools. Along the east wall were four red Snap-On Tool workstations.

"You're not still sore with me, are you?" Alex said. "All that happened so long ago."

"With you? Why would I be angry with you?"

Alex let out a small laugh, like a young hyena, his teeth jutting out over his bottom lip.

"I can't remember," he said, slapping me on the back. "Just a few good ol' boys doin' some business."

"Why don't you get a beer," Griffin said. "Let us work."

"I'm surprised you came up yourself," I said. "No backup?"

"It is just business, Malcolm. I didn't do nothin' you wouldn't done."

"I can't say I agree with you," I said. "Telling Tulio about things I didn't do, that's hardly nothing. Making us lose our livelihood wasn't 'nothing.'"

"You going to forgive me?" Alex smiled, his hands up in the air like a priest saying mass. "Besides, you have it pretty sweet up here."

The man didn't have the sense to know when he'd betrayed someone. I tried to focus on the task at hand, disassembling the car and extracting our product.

We'd gotten pretty good at breaking down a car, removing portions which held the cargo. It was labor-intensive, but well worth the effort. I removed two screws on the rear light and disconnected the wires, then the rest of the screws around the rear doors, I took off the splash panel. According to Alex, they stuffed all four-quarter panels, beak to ass. I knelt by Griffin, collecting the screws. I couldn't help look at Alex, who was watching the local news.

After a couple of dozen screws, I reached to the quarter panel where it met the trunk and pulled it away. Inside was a specially made compartment big enough for a dozen kilos of blow, each about the size of a landscape brick, and there were four of the compartments around the car.

We carefully lifted the kilos and put them into two large bags, the type they used in movies for bank heists. We had scheduled to meet Izzy and Toad with the load. They were in charge of distribution and had a stable of runners. With twelve packages in each panel, at 50-grand per kilo, we were looking at a street value of $2.4 million dollars.

I could feel Griffin reading my mind.

'Why does he interest you so much tonight?' Griffin thought. He caught me eyeing Alex.

I shrugged and returned a thought to Griffin.

"What can I say, the man fascinates me."

"I'm sure he does. What we're doing here should mean more. So, let's get back to work.'

I took one of the kilos and punctured it with a screwdriver. I tasted the powder, rubbed it on my gums.

"Damn," I said.

"You're one of Tulio's best customers and he likes to keep you happy," Alex said.

"Do I lie?" he said, munching on a big bag of pork rinds he had in the front seat.

I shoveled a couple of grams with a key into my palm and inhaled like an aardvark. I did the same for Griffin and he snorted. "Damn, you guys didn't cut this at all?"

"Tulio is good at what he does," Alex said.

"Malcolm?" Griffin whispered, "I know you want to finish him, but it's not good for business. Think about this."

"I have," I said. "Five years I've thought about this."

My mind was made up. Alex had to go. It would cause trouble with Tulio, but that was a chance I was willing to take. The heart wants what the heart wants, even if it's not love. I was merely exhibiting aggressive traits I'd inherited when I was tapped. I admit this time I was fueled by anger not hunger. There were some codes in how we went about our business, and I'm confident I was about to violate at least one of them.

I flew across the room, not in a literal sense, and he dropped his pork rinds to free up his hands. Alex seemed to be expecting me as he struggled to produce his gun from his waistband and aimed it at my face. I'm quick and swiped it away and heard it clunk to the ground. The sound of the gun crashing on the cement caused me to lose concentration and he wrestled himself free. He jumped to the window, which was open. It swung out from the bottom out and Alex barely escaped my grasp, my fingers touched the hem of his flannel shirt.

"Malcolm!" Griffin shouted. "Leave it alone."

Too late. I'd already seen red and committed myself to the kill. Once you threw a rock at the window you couldn't call it back. I was ten feet above him on the fire escape and he slid down the rails, dangerous as hell the man was running for his life. Hitting the ground I looked up and saw he was a block ahead of me. Once again in the wrong shoes, it was hard for me to get any footing. I saw him running through the yard of a mansion near the lake.

I heard him pant as I gained on him. He leapt over a small fence and I did the same. He stumbled and when he got up I tripped him back to the ground and he rolled over a Big Wheel onto his stomach. My canine teeth slipped between the vertebrae and broke his spinal cord—death was imminent.

I flipped him over and straddled him. He was extremely winded.

"You hit me with a fucking axe," Alex moaned. "Are you going to kill me?"

I nodded slowly, not wanting to be a complete asshole before a man died. This wasn't a movie, I wasn't searching for some pithy Clint Eastwood quote. His death was enough revenge.

"Yes, Tulio's going to burn your ass anyway."

His eyes widened as he saw my jaws open.

"Oh my god?" he said, weakly, the way you'd talk if you saw the Stay Puft Marshmallow man walking down Broadway.

I hooked my hands around his neck to immobilize his head. I clamped my jaw around Alex's mouth and nose, he whimpered. I heard the cartilage crack on his face, his cheekbones collapsed. Suffocation was relatively quick and something we called 'the kiss of death.' Perhaps not a highly original phrase, but it was descriptive. If you've watched a lioness take down a zebra, you felt bad for the zebra. Then it dawned on you it was just the nature of things. I dragged Alex into the bushes until he stopped breathing. This should have been done closer to the garage and I was angry with myself. I had to smuggle him back to the garage, house-by-house, sneaking through the yards like a common Peeping Tom. In my mind I could already hear Griffin busting my balls.

Pulling him up the fire escape was tricky.

"Damn," Griffin said. "Now you've created a real storm."

"He had it coming."

"Yeah," Griffin said. "You're a great guy to do business with. I may have some problems, and I do, but you've got some serious anger issues. Your anger got the best of you in Miami, and now we're stuck in Milwaukee. Yeah, you heard me. We try to pretend we like it here because we don't want to piss you off, but now you've heard it. This place sucks."

"Just save it," I tell him. Again, I knew he was right and I knew most of them weren't happy here, but business had been good. That was probably the one thing you've never asked yourself about vampires. How in the hell do they make a living? How do they live an opulent life and never work? Truth was, we worked, bootlegging in the past, but it's always behind the scenes or something off the grid, like drugs. We worked smart, not hard.

I unlocked a large door in the back of the garage and flicked on the fluorescent lighting. Pulling Alex with my right hand I let him drop near an acid-dipping tank. It was a steel container painted blue, also called a 'hot tank.' Five feet high and twenty feet long, equipped with a hydraulic lift.

"I'm not helping you with this," Griffin said. "You made your acid bed, so to speak."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, growing weary of his pissing and moaning.

There was a large rusty chain with a thick hook at the end. Lifting him to the side of the tank and hooking two belt loops, I raised the chain, maneuvered the body over the tank, Alex's legs swung from side to side. Griffin lit a cigarette, accentuating his promise to do nothing to help.

It was filled with phosphoric acid designed to remove paint from the shells of cars. It was a quick process, leaving little except some bones and teeth. Slowly, I lowered his body into the acid, and it sounded like a cigarette dipped into a glass of water. Sizzling was the last sound I heard from Alex and I wished he was alive to feel it. What looked like steam rose from the container and the smell was dreadful.

"Not sure what smells worse," I said, "the acid or him."

### Chapter Sixteen

"I never thought you'd be a junkie because heroin is so passé."

Tulio headed east over the Poinciana Bridge onto the island of Palm Beach. It was the dog days of fall, a ridiculous time to be in Florida. Tulio was no stranger to heat and wasn't exactly welcome in the Connecticut summer circuit. The heat was so intense Tulio kept an inhaler with him at all times. He wasn't' a full-fledged asthmatic, it helped him breath when the humidity hit 100-percent. The tires on his black convertible Mercedes hummed over the grates on the bridge, almost gooey from the heat. His eyes had a sad, shiny look to them. Tattoos rose from his navel and snaked around his neck. He forgot to put up the roof and it started to rain. On the passenger seat was a Subway wrapper, bits of lettuce and black olive had shriveled on the leather seat.

His phone cell rang and he reached under the sandwich wrapper.

"Yeah?" he said, big drops of rain landed on his car and his forehead. "Get out of town," he said, his jaw dropped open slightly, revealing expensive teeth and a yellowish tongue. "You got to be kidding me."

He turned left on Ocean Boulevard in hopes of escaping the worst of the rain. Big, thick purple clouds looked like an alien spacecraft had settled over the island, ready to commence with a slew of anal probes on some of the world's richest people. His tires spit up the fresh rain off the cement, a thick steam rose from the ground and Tulio could smell the ripe foliage and long ago rotted grapefruits.

"I'm home in a minute," he said, dropping his phone onto the Subway wrapper. He reached for his Diet Coke from the holder in between the seats. Taking one final sip from the straw he threw the cup onto the side of the road, the plastic top exploded, ice and straw strewn on the sand. You can take the thug out of the city but you can't take the city out of the thug.

A shrewd businessman, Tulio owned a chain clothing stores targeting teen girls. The outlets helped him launder money and were profitable enough for him to justify his life in Palm Beach. You didn't get an address in Palm Beach without a thorough background check. They used to put the bridges up at night to keep out the scumbags, but even their collective power couldn't outmaneuver the Constitution and some lawyer had the ordinance revoked in the 80's. Instead, they relied on a police force that would crack your skull as quickly as they would ask for proof of insurance. A long line of well-compensated good old boys protected and served the residents of the island, and only the residents of the island.

As the gates closed behind him an eighteen-year-old white kid walked toward Tulio. He believed the job of taking care of his cars below the dignity of a Latino. He tossed the kid the keys to the Mercedes.

"Dry that fucker out. And get the Bentley ready, I may go out for dinner."

He walked through two huge stone columns and opened a ten-foot mahogany door. Just inside the house, a Steinway Grand Piano took up a lot of room. He didn't play the instrument, instead he used the lid as an expensive tray for his Ray-Ban's, keys and wallet and an occasional surface to bang some girl.

"Philippe! Where the fuck are you?"

One of Tulio's white maids was dusting the sculptures and she nodded as he passed.

"Senor."

He didn't respond. The ceilings were so high it looked like an airplane hanger. The Hindenburg would have had no problem docking in this place.

"I got a call from Spike," Philippe said, walking in from the office.

"Yeah?" Tulio picked up his cat and stroked its back, like Blofeld in You Only Live Twice, except Tulio wasn't bald. "What's that asshole want now?"

The cat quickly became bored and in an effort to get away he scratched Tulio, deeply. Without emotion, Tulio managed to grab it behind the neck and dropkicked it into the wall. The cat hit the ground squarely and disappeared.

"Why don't pet's like me?" he said, inspecting the scratches.

"He said Alex had some kind of accident," Philippe said, chewing on a Granny Smith apple.

Tulio dabbed at the cuts.

"He's a retard, probably wandering the frontier of Minnesota."

"Wisconsin."

"Whatever."

Philippe shrugged and Tulio checked his watch.

"He's got to be dealt with," Tulio said.

"Spike?"

"No, you idiot. Malcolm."

"Yes sir."

"Wait. Didn't I tell Alex to be careful with Malcolm, warn him?"

"You did, sir."

"Yeah. Well, make yourself useful and tell them to get the jet ready. Then call that asshole Malcolm and tell him I'm on my way up. I'm going for a swim. You can handle all that?"

Philippe nodded and Tulio punched the birdcage on his way to the pool house, the Cockatiel fell off his perch.

### Chapter Seventeen

"Cause a record company, Rosie, just gave me a big advance."

The Learjet 35 hissed, a calming white noise for Tulio. During flight, the sounds weren't much different than the sound inside a regular passenger plane, perhaps a bit higher pitched.

Flying was his favorite perk, absolutely loved it. The exclusivity, the privacy, no body scans or long lines, no scumbags in the seat next to you, and somebody else handled your bags.

The stewardess sauntered over and brought Tulio a tall glass of tomato juice, as they were getting ready to leave. She kissed him on the cheek. Tulio reached around and massaged her ass. He never slept with her, or rather made her sleep with him. He tried to maintain some semblance of professionalism in his life and good stewardesses were tough to find.

"Thanks, Dina."

Philippe sat a row ahead of Tulio, facing him. Philippe was a magnificent white-knuckle flyer.

"Have a drink or something," Tulio said. "You make me nervous. Why are you even coming on this trip?"

"You told, I mean asked me to."

"Oh. Then just try to act like you're not here."

Dina started to close the door to the plane when a middle-aged man wedged his way through the door, smiling at her. He had mangled teeth and wrinkles around his lips from sucking a hundred thousand cigarettes.

He flashed his badge, which hung around his neck.

"It's okay," he said, smiling. "I've just got to talk with Tulio for a second."

She looked to Tulio, who sighed, then nodded.

"Fuck," Tulio said, loud enough for all to hear. "Dina, tell the pilots we're going to be a minute."

The man boarded the plane wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. Taking the seat across from Tulio, he poured himself some rare whiskey from a decanter.

"You don't mind, do you?"

Again, Tulio sighed.

"Would it matter if I said I did?"

The cop took a deep drink.

"Ahhhh," he said. "Nothing but the best for you."

"What is it, Bates?"

"Where you off to?"

"Wisconsin."

"God, what for?"

"Business."

"No business worth going to that berg. Right?"

Tulio grew impatient, going so far as to pick up a book, normally kryptonite to him.

"What's up?"

"Just want to make sure you're being a good boy."

"Oh, I am. I promise," he said sarcastically.

"Then, if I were to take a look in your cargo hold, I wouldn't find anything, right? I mean, if I look really hard?"

Tulio licked his lips.

"No, I don't think you would," he said, unconvincingly. "How about I give you a little gas money for making the trip all the way out here."

Bates stared at Tulio a while, studying him. There was distinct contempt in his look, but not so much that it would jeopardize his ability to score some cash. Bates nodded, and in turn Tulio nodded to Philippe who went to a small wall compartment. Philippe filled a envelope with a thick stack of hundred dollar bills from the safe. He handed them to Tulio.

"So, you're convinced I've been good?" Tulio said.

Bates gave the envelope a quick look and smiled at Tulio to indicate he'd done well.

"You're an Eagle Scout," he said.

Bates stood and drained his glass to the last drop.

"I may have to pick up some of this stuff on the way home. It's Good."

"Good? You're not going to find it at the Liquor-mart," Tulio said.

Bates nodded at the insult. Before he exited the aircraft he knocked on the pilot's door and stuck his head inside the cockpit.

"Gents, you're now free to move about the country," he said, and lightly rapped the fuselage of the plane as he left.

Tulio motioned for Dina to close the door.

"Let's get out of here," Tulio said.

He stared at the airplane hangers whizzing by as they approached take off speed, mostly large corporate jets, Donald Trump's 727 was parked in the distance. Tulio hated the tacky bastard, his name on the tail.

Philippe gripped the seat handles, as if in some way believing he could stabilize the aircraft if things got rough.

"Payback?" Philippe said. "The nearest I can figure is Alex is gone because Malcolm is taking a swipe at you."

"You should really be a detective," Tulio said, shaking his head. "Of course he's taking a swing at me. There was always some bad blood between the two. How did Spike hear about Alex?"

"The cops found his wallet in a yard near the garage. I guess some guy heard some kind of ruckus. Spike's number was in the wallet, so they called him first. Never found Alex," Philippe said, pulling his seatbelt tighter.

The plane wobbled during takeoff, a solid wind coming off the Atlantic. Philippe's hands gripped the armrests so tight, he could have choked an Anaconda.

"To paraphrase the late, great, Jim Croce, you don't spit into the wind and you don't mess with me," Tulio said, drinking half of his tomato juice. "If Miami is moving in on me, I'm going to take Milwaukee."

He was rambling and Philippe wasn't listening, much less paying any mind. He was just praying the plane didn't end up the shortest non-stop flight in Palm Beach International's history.

Tulio continued talking to himself. "Chicago is too tough to break, but Milwaukee I can handle. I'll move some muscle, pinch those bastards and take it on, make more money anyway. What do you say?" he said to Philippe, jarring the man from his self-imposed terror.

"Whatever you think is best, sir."

"I pay you to be a voice of reason. If I needed somebody to coddle my balls I would have hired your mother."

# # #

Unaccustomed to the fickle weather in Wisconsin, Tulio found himself in the face of 50-degree temperatures and light rain wearing only a short sleeved silk shirt. His jet was forced to park on the main tarmac because the private hangar was under construction.

Tulio groaned. "Have to deal with the scumbags," he said, referring to the good citizens of Wisconsin.

Tulio and Philippe walked from the tarmac to the terminal at Mitchell International, their nipples poked through silk shirts.

"Why didn't you think ahead? he snapped, "check Google for the goddamned weather."

"Sorry," Philippe said.

Inside the terminal Tulio purchased an oversized Green Bay Packer jacket, it was all they had. Tulio hated the color green, but decided it was better to wear the jacket than freeze his South American bones to the marrow. He bought Philippe a marked down Marquette hooded sweatshirt.

"Don't want us looking like retarded twins," he said.

Philippe called ahead for a car but the driver mistakenly waited for them at the private terminal.

"Why the fuck are you waiting at a closed terminal?" Tulio shouted at the driver. "You don't have the sense to use the brain god gave you, do you? The two of you should get married, you dipshits."

The driver swallowed hard, trying to force a smile, holding the door open for Tulio. Another benefit of traveling on your own Lear jet was you could bring as much powder as you could carry.

"Put the window up," Tulio barked at the driver, who couldn't seem to get the partition up fast enough for his own comfort.

Philippe dumped a few grams of coke onto a small mirror and handed it to Tulio, who greedily inhaled, his eyes widening from the jolt. Philippe lowered the straw and zipped a large line, he too felt the blast. Tulio ignored the rule of don't do your own stash. Hell, seemed everybody did it.

"Put that on your tab," he said to Philippe. "Cheap fucker. Gimme my phone," he snapped, not a shred of humanity in his voice. Philippe was his toady, a de-facto secretary. Tulio treated Philippe like everybody in Palm Beach treated him, as a second-class citizen. Tulio was wealthy enough to wipe his ass with hundred dollar bills but he still put Philippe on a tab.

"Malcolm?" Tulio said, hardly able to contain his contempt. "I'm in town."

The driver was headed east towards the lakefront.

Tulio nodded at whatever Griffin was saying. He looked to Philippe and made a fist, mouthing 'ass-wipe'.

"Yeah, I think he knows how to get there."

Tulio flipped the phone to Philippe.

"They're at their lake house. Get this asshole driver turned around.
Chapter Eighteen

"And he dug up her body and built a cage with her bones, excitable boy they all said."

"Look at you," I said, opening the door for Tulio. "C'mon in."

"Nice," Tulio said, looking around the house. "I don't think I've been in this place." He shook my hand but didn't look me in the eyes. I hated that, a sign of weak character or dishonesty. In Tulio's case it was both. Tulio walked to the wall nearest the patio and admired a collection of a dozen samurai swords crafted by Musashi Miyamot, a legend in the sword world.

"These are beautiful," Tulio said. "Bravo. I didn't know you were into swords. Now I know what to get you for Hanukkah."

"Love them," I said. "Know your enemy, know his sword. Miyamoto said that."

"Catchy," Tulio said. "Haven't heard that one."

I knew he thought we lived like shit, and compared to him we did.

"Be it ever so humble," I said. "What are you drinking?"

"I wouldn't say no to some scotch."

"Love your coat," Izzy said. "Didn't know you were a fan."

"Oh, you know. Eric Rodgers is my main man."

Griffin laughed. "Don't forget Brian Favre."

"Who could? This moron here didn't bother to check the weather. Frosty as a penguin's ass," Tulio said, handing his jacket to Philippe. "Burn that," he said.

"I have some Macallen. Sixty-four years old," I said from the bar.

"That'll do," Tulio smiled.

Our fireplace was big enough to burn a Volkswagen. Thick logs churned out an immense amount of heat and Tulio warmed his long fingers. I handed him his scotch and he sat on a stainless steel sofa Izzy picked up in New York.

"This is different," he said, sipping the scotch. "And this is fantastic," Tulio said, referring to the sofa.

I poured scotch for Griffin and Philippe.

"So, what's up?" I said, pretending I didn't know why he made the trip. "Must be something important if you came all the way from Florida."

"I love to travel. And the jet is the next best thing to a hot fudge sundae. Oh, that's right. You don't have one, do you?"

"Not yet," Griffin smiled. "Things are tight since the markets took a nosedive. We're lucky we can still take the train."

Tulio was a stone-cold gangster who relished getting his hands dirty; he actually liked to be on the front lines and wasn't to be trifled with. He'd left more bodies in his wake than the Captain John Smith. Bullet-ridden corpses were scattered behind the malls throughout Florida, buried in the thick woods around Jupiter under alligator nests. I knew what Tulio was capable of and I didn't take him lightly. If I were to outright kill him, it would create a power vacuum in south Florida. I didn't have the connections with South America and needed Tulio to keep our supply coming.

He had no code and nobody was exempt from his wrath. His favorite scene from any movie was the horsehead in the bed in The Godfather. In homage, Tulio filled a man's Range Rover with horseheads, thirteen in all; two of the horses had won at Hialeah Park.

"Sorry we're late," Toad said, his arms full off bagels, and two catering trays of eggs benedict and lasagna.

"Brunch."

"Hello, Pet," Tulio said, extending his arms.

Tulio sickened Pet, but she was shrewd and knew a little hug would go a long way in making him happy, for the sake of business. After the nauseating hug, Pet set a buffet table. I leaned back in my chair, one of a dozen around the big table I imported from Germany and invited everyone to sit.

Toad lit a dark Cuban cigar.

"Is that necessary?" Pet said.

Toad nodded, then smiled.

"You're just a bully," Pet said.

"This place is safe to talk?" Tulio asked.

"Tighter than a knock-kneed virgin," Toad said.

"Anyway," Tulio said. "Got a major shipment."

"How big?" I asked.

"Remember the Titanic?"

"Remember the Alamo," Izzy smiled, and she waved her hand at Toad's cigar smoke.

"Put it out," I said.

He did.

"How much product can you handle?" Tulio said.

"A couple of rowboats at least," I said.

"Pretty ambitious," Tulio said.

"I was first in my class," I replied and got up to refill the glasses.

"How's your customer base?" Tulio said

Toad leaned on the table.

"In a word, fucked."

"Succinct," Tulio said. "I always liked that about you. I brought up a fair amount today in the jet, but I'll get more." Tulio said. "We're talking thirty kilos, give or take."

"If you're giving, we'll take," Izzy smiled.

"That's doable," I said. "You want us to get the cash now?"

"You're good for it," Tulio said. He took a cigar from a silver case and offered them around. No takers.

"I'm going to my ATM around the corner," Griffin smiled. "See if it can pump out a million dollars."

"Yeah, close your Christmas Club account," Pet said.

"Pet, how you doing, sweetheart," Tulio said. "It's been a long time. You get tired of these goofs, you come down by me, okay?"

Pet looked up from her iPad.

"Absolutely," she lied.

"Good. You let me know if they're not treating you right, okay?"

Pet's skin crawled.

"You'll be the first to know," she said, a pained smile on her face.

Tulio drank his scotch and desperately tried to be nonchalant. "By the way, Alex didn't make it back. You guys wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"He didn't come back?" Griffin said, in a higher pitch than he intended.

"Nope. He didn't. No matter," Tulio said. "He'll show up. Probably on a bender in Mexico," Tulio lied. "You know how those young guys are. Probably fell in love or something."

"I was wondering," I said. "why would you send him on something like this, knowing our history?"

Tulio stared at me.

"You remember the story about the alligator taking the frog across the river? Alligator promised the frog he wouldn't eat him. Just before he reached the shore, he tossed the frog in the air and ate him. A rhino on the shore said, 'hey, you told him you wouldn't eat him.' The alligator replied, it's my nature."

"Great story," Griffin said, intimating the metaphor was obvious. "What are you trying to say?" Griffin said.

"Say? Nothing really. I guess it's just that you should take heed as to what a man's nature truly is. He does what he has to do to survive, what's in his DNA."

I retrieved a bottle of cognac and we all drank, except for Pet, who had a diet Dr. Pepper.

"Well, here's to alligators," I said, "crafty bastards."

### Chapter Nineteen

"Mama's gonna make all of your nightmares come true, Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you."

Tulio never liked me. To him, we were just cogs in his enterprise, faces that could and probably would be replaced. He suspected, or rather knew, we had something (everything) to do with Alex's disappearance. For some reason he wasn't tipping his hand, and that made me nervous.

Back in Milwaukee for the second time in a week, a place he despised, triggered the warning lights for me. Tulio wanted to play tennis so we went to the club. Tulio asked me to partner with him. I'm not very good, but I wanted to humor him. I'm playing close to the net when Griffin hit a ball about mid-court, an easy return for a player of Tulio's caliber. He pretended to misjudge the shot and whacked me in the back of my head with his racquet, a really good knock. I dropped my racquet and put my hands on my throbbing skull. For whatever reason, our heads have always seemed to be more sensitive than the rest of our bodies.

"Oh," Tulio said, feigning innocence. "I'm so sorry. I'm such an ass."

I gave him a look that any reasonable person would interpret as 'go fuck your mother.'

"Not a problem," I said, contemplating killing him on the spot. Shoving that tennis racquet so far up his ass he'd need a bloodhound to retrieve it.

Despite my throbbing head, we kicked Griffin and Toad's ass. It was particularly humorous to see Toad waddling around in his tennis garb, a shirt two-sizes too small, trying to contain his belly, a pair of black Air Jordan's.

It was happy hour when we finished and we got a table in the lounge.

"Anyway," Tulio said. "Sorry about that hitting in the head business."

"Buy me a drink and we'll call it even," I said.

Tulio swirled the scotch in his glass, and sipped again.

"No, don't swirl it," I said. "It brings up the alcohol, defeats the purpose of a snifter."

"I've been drinking scotch since you were pissing your diapers," he said.

"I highly doubt it," I said.

"How was the last shipment? As advertised?" Tulio said.

"Can't keep it on the shelves," I said. "When can we get some more?"

"Soon," Tulio said. "Speaking of which, I could use a taste?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "Forgive my manners." I handed him a couple of vials from the stash I held in my racquet bag.

We ordered two plates of onion strings and mozzarella sticks, a white trash buffet.

Shifting in his chair, Tulio reached for his cigar case.

"May I?" he said.

"Sure," I told him, and pushed a glass ashtray toward Tulio.

He carefully cut off the end of his cigar and pushed the top into the flame of his gold lighter, and he puffed.

"You know, I really like Alex. He can be a little unconventional, but he's a good egg."

It infuriated me he was talking about Alex in the present tense when he knew as well as we did that he was dead.

"My thought exactly," Griffin said, smiling. "Good egg. I didn't know he was making that delivery," Tulio lied, staring at Philippe, who put his head down like a puppy who had pissed on the rug. "Nobody tells me anything anymore."

Philippe didn't play tennis, at least I didn't think so. Tulio made him wait in the wings, regardless of what we were doing. Like children, Tulio liked to keep Philippe in the background, anything to make him appear insignificant.

"You don't like me..."

Putting his hand up in the air, telling Philippe to shut up, Tulio thought for a moment.

"Never mind, it's a moot point anyway."

"How much does Alex mean to you, exactly?" Toad asked.

Tulio squinted, a dry laugh popped from his diaphragm.

"Mean to me? What kind of question is that?" he said.

"He means, how much of a problem does this pose for you," I said. "That's to say if Alex should have gone off to an island, never came back, I mean, you know hillbillies"

"The man was employee of the month," Tulio grinned. "You can't just replace someone like that."

"Really?" It was my turn to smile. "He was that good?"

Tulio had been waiting for this slip-up.

"What do you mean, was," he smiled.

"Sorry, I meant is that good."

With condescension only a prick like he could muster, he smiled.

"By the same token, if he were to go, as you say on a permanent vacation, or whatever a hillbilly like him does, I would need to be compensated," Tulio said.

I turned to Griffin and saw his nostrils were flaring, the muscles around his mouth grew tight. However, it was time to think things through, not react harshly.

"Why don't we take a day and think things through," I said. "Does that work for you?" I looked at Tulio. He drained his glass.

When Toad's demeanor grew darkened, he was capable of anything. When he got like this I really couldn't read him. I needed to put out the flames, even if I couldn't hold my own temper with Alex.

"How about I get you a couple of rooms at the Pfister," I said, "you get a nice dinner, make a night of it. In the morning, we'll meet again and we'll come up with some sort of plan.

"Yeah," Tulio said, "we'll put our noggins together."

### Chapter Twenty

"I'm headed for a land that's far away beside the crystal fountains."

Hooligans had been a staple on North Avenue for decades, an Irish bar with few amenities. You could go in for a pint of Guinness, grab a sandwich, check out the girls. The bar was made of cherry wood and extended the entire length of the room. In the winter when the door was opened, a blast of cold air could freeze the nipples off a dog.

Round-top wooden stools were everywhere and gave the bar a warm cozy feel, the kind of place you could join a friend for a drink then move to an open booth for dinner. The smell of hamburgers and onion rings hit us at the door, along with the sweet thick ecstasy only fried food can offer.

There were pictures of boxers, movie stars and politicians on the wall shaking hands with the owner. Some were signed, others not. The bartenders ranged from mid-20s to 50 years old. We came here often and we brought Tulio with us for a bite.

"Hello, guys" the hostess smiled. "Three of you?"

"If you have something in the back that would be good," I said.

The hostess was about nineteen, with perfect skin. We were directed to a booth in the back, away from the bar.

"Your waitress will be right over," she said, and opened the menus and set them next to the silverware.

"Can you ask her to bring me a beer?" I said. "All around?"

Tulio and Griffin nodded.

"Pabst?" she asked.

"Yup, and three shots of Jack?" I said.

Tulio watched her leave and said something in Spanish. I could only guess it was nasty. The beer felt good and we ordered another, along with rib eye sandwiches, medium rare with two baskets of onion rings.

"So," Tulio said. "I checked around and nobody knows where Alex is."

I looked around the bar, half full.

"You know," Tulio said. "I'm going to be honest with you. I think you either heard something, or worse, know what happened to him."

"Look, no disrespect," I said, "but I think you have your head up your ass."

Tulio drank from his bottle.

"You know, Toad and Izzy may not see what's going on, but I do. You need to come clean with me, or I might become angry."

"You know what?" Griffin said, "neither of us appreciate what you're suggesting."

I could see Griffin was becoming agitated, like a dog's hair rose when it walked past a house where another dog lived. Sometimes you didn't know why they acted that way, you just accepted it.

I leaned forward and slid Tulio's drink to the side.

"Really, it's not nice to accuse us of something like that. We're trying to enjoy a nice evening. I invited you thinking we might enjoy each other's company. I strongly urge you to reconsider your tone and try to be more civil."

"I'd strongly suggest an apology," Griffin said.

"You know what I suggest? I think it's time you check your tongue," Tulio said, dispensing with all politeness.

Things were coming to a head and I didn't see any way out.

"You know what? Fuck you," I said. "You may supply us, but you don't own us. And if you think we're worried about you, you're mistaken."

"To come up here and insult us, accuse us, not a smooth move," Griffin said.

There's only so much a man could take and I was nearing that point.

"Do you think you're going to intimidate us?" I said. "Yeah, I killed him. He had it coming. Call a cop."

"You've had it in for him for ages," Tulio said. "So, you killed him. Big deal. I can replace him in an hour."

"It shouldn't have anything to do with our business," Griffin said. "You knew the history between them, you screwed up by sending him. All he did in Florida was make up lies about us and you lapped them up."

Tulio tossed back his whiskey, then burped.

Tell you what," Tulio said, "you beat me at arm wrestling, we'll forget all about the asshole. I won't ask any more questions."

"Are you high?" I asked, "because I'm game. What the hell are you talking about, arm wrestling."

Tulio was a little juiced but he didn't appear to be wasted.

"It's a challenge," he said. "Let's see what you got."

"If you win?" Griffin said.

"You're cut off. I find new distributors. You guys can go work at Costco or peddle cough syrup in high schools."

"If we win," Griffin said.

"You're not cut off. Good deal, if you asked me."

I began rolling my sleeves before he finished speaking. I pushed my drink to the side and loosened my arm with vigorous shakes. Griffin and I knew my strength was far superior, but I had to put on a good show and not be obvious.

With our elbows on the table, we loosened fingers then clasped, jockeyed for the best hand position.

"One fall," Tulio said. "And a clean start, no tilt."

"We go on three," I said.

It was like two bulls hitting each other straight on. Our forearms were parallel, both rigid. They swayed a fraction of an inch each direction. After a few moments I could see he was straining. His arms were indeed strong for a mortal but my effort was a quarter speed. Half the bar was staring at us.

"I'll give you a last chance," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'll let you out of the bet if you give up." I knew he wouldn't.

"Kiss my ass," Tulio said through clenched teeth, concerned about saving face with the crowd.

I inhaled deeply and pressed down hard, moving his arm a little at a time.

There was a loud and hollow sound like a tree branch snapping, so disconcerting it could make a grown man cry. That was when Tulio screamed, a horrific howl, prompting customers to drop their forks, some got up from their chairs and left, some with their hands over their mouths. I admit, it was a rough sound, but I'd heard worse.

Tulio's forearm was bent back toward his right shoulder, and the bicep was positioned like it was still going forward. He suddenly went limp and his eyes seemed to glaze. He was passing out. The air left his chest like an untied balloon. He stared at his arm as though it didn't belong to him anymore, with a quizzical stare.

After he was checked into the hospital, I learned the ulna was fractured, more like splintered. It required pins and a couple of plates to set it right, that, plus extensive surgery. In hindsight I wish it hadn't happened. I sent him a huge arrangement of flowers, but I doubted it would do any good.

### Chapter Twenty-One

"By the end of the bout, he is punched out, fists capsized, muscles shouting."

The Breakers Hotel kept a few cabanas available for their regular crowd. Tulio liked to gorge on the seafood buffet, have a few drinks by the saltwater pool. Henry Flagler, the railroad tycoon, built the Breakers in 1896. It's considered one of the finest hotels in the world.

Poolside, Tulio had to drink with his left arm because his right arm was in a cast. It was awkward for him and he spilled gin on his stomach.

"We're going to need a preemptive strike--like shock and awe," Tulio said.

Philippe had a brother in Iraq and hated when Tulio made any reference to the war.

"Something has got to be done, bumping off Alex, that means they have nothing but scorn, contempt for us, everything we do. They pay when they want to, do what they want."

"The question is what are we going to do afterwards," Philippe said, slurping down half his margarita. "Are we ready to pick up the slack? If we put the hurt on Milwaukee, we need to recruit another outfit to run things."

Tulio watched Philippe sip from his glass.

"You got your own tab, right?"

Philippe nodded.

"Malcolm is nothing," Tulio said. "If we need to, we hit him like Hitler invaded Poland. It will be over so quick he won't know whether to shit or wind his wristwatch."

"Malcolm is a control freak," Philippe said. "Can't say it won't be a relief to be rid of him."

"Why do you think I got rid of him in the first place? He is more trouble than he's worth. I'm going to put you in charge up there. Set things up for me."

"Milwaukee?" he said, disgust in his voice. "Tulio, please. Good god."

"Somebody has to. I have decided it's you. Look, I know it sucks. But I have no choice.

"What about Spike? Couldn't you put him up there?"

"Spike?" Tulio said. "Let me knock that around a bit. Until I make up my mind, you're still the guy."

"They're not going to roll over, you know," Philippe said. "We may have to do a little more than just cut them off. Trapped in a corner, a rat will do anything to survive. So, maybe we should cut off the head of the beast, that's all I'm saying."

"They are a gnarly bunch of folks," Tulio said, taking a fresh martini from the waiter. "I hate male waiters," Tulio said. "Go talk with the manager, tell them I want somebody else."

### Chapter Twenty-Two

"In this desert that I call my soul, I always play the starring role."

Spike invited us to Chicago, said he wanted to put us up, take our minds off life for a while. It was good timing as Griffin and I wanted to treat Pet to a nice weekend. Izzy and Toad met us at the Amtrak station in Milwaukee. Just short of two hours later, we were at Union Station in Chicago.

"Let's go shopping before we go to the hotel," Pet said.

"Good idea," I said. "I need some shoes. Some good running shoes, sensible shoes."

"I don't shop because I need something," Pet said. "I shop because it's in my DNA."

Izzy high-fived Pet.

"That's what I'm talking about, my sister from another mister."

"Wonder if they have a Frederick's of Hollywood down here," Izzy said. "The last date I was on the guy chewed through three pairs of my panties."

"They don't have that kind of stuff on Michigan Avenue," I said. "You have to go to one of the wealthy suburbs to find that kind of gear."

"I think you're a sex addict," Pet said to Izzy.

"Nothing to think about," Izzy said. "I think I am, therefore I am. In a previous life I was a concubine."

I held the door as we left Nordstrom's.

"Let's eat at the hotel," Toad said, checking his Rolex. "I'm flipping hungry."

"I could eat," Pet said.

We walked toward Oak Street Beach. I could smell rotting fish; the scent clung to your clothes like the stench of a corpse. The dead fish were wedged in between the huge rocks on the coast. You can swim off the beach, but it's at your own risk. It's full of human waste from the sewer overflow, brainchild of the bright guys at the Chicago Sewage District. If you did brave the water, you had to take a shower soon afterward.

"Ah, there she is," I said.

The Drake Hotel was one of the old guard in Chicago, along with the Palmer House. The old Playboy Club was situated next door until the late 70s. The Huge White Gothic letters, measuring twenty feet each, spelled out the hotel's name.

The doorman was a tall black man named Levi. He had one of those low-rumbling voices, with a tincture of the 'yassir' old south. He recognized us though he hadn't seen us in ten years.

"Welcome back, Mr. Malcolm, Mr. Griffin," he said.

I smiled and pressed a fifty into his palm.

"Good to be back, Levi. Can we leave these shopping bags with you?" I said. "We're just going to eat."

"Yes suh," he said, taking the bags. "They'll be safe with me."

"Things are a little tight," Griffin said as we walked to the restaurant. "Easy with the fifty dollar tips."

"It's Levi," I said. "It's worth a fifty that he remembered us."

The Drake was the first hotel in Chicago to serve alcohol after the repeal of prohibition. We entered the Cape Cod room and the smell of lobster hit you straightaway. The bar was small, just the way we liked it. In the dining room, tables with white linen cloths were spaced evenly throughout the room. The bartender was in his mid-50s and his head as smooth as fresh coat of wax. He wore a starched white shirt and a black vest and shook a mean martini. His name is Spike and he worked for us in Miami as a bodyguard, enforcer and general muscle. We originally met him through Tulio. Spike was his father's nickname, and his father's before him. The origin of the moniker was unknown, but it just kept getting passed on, like herpes.

Looking up he acknowledged us with a smile and raised chin.

"Malcolm, you old bastard," he said, reaching across the bar to shake hands. "So glad you all could come down. Hardly ever hear from you."

I dipped my fingers into the cashews and dropped my sunglasses on the bar.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you we never thought about you?" Toad smiled.

"Who do I have to screw to get a drink around here," Izzy said.

"I don't know where they learn these things," I said.

"Hey, this is a classy place," Spike said, he winked at Izzy. "Give us a smooch," he said. He left his cheek out for a kiss, Pet gave him one as well.

Spike poured martinis then wiped his hands on a bar towel, a large smile cut across his face.

"To us," he said. We all lifted our glasses and gulped them down.

Spike collected our glasses and began to refill them.

"The GM of the hotel gave me a gift last Christmas and I got no use for it," Spike said.

"Two suites. Anything you want from room service," he said, and set the envelope with the vouchers in front of Toad.

Griffin swiped the envelope from Toad.

"You'd better let me hold it," he said. "Hotel suites make him crazy."

Spike was originally from Chicago, born in Lombard, half-hour from the city, a sinkhole they called the Lilac Town. Number nine of ten kids, Spike's father owned the first Standard Oil gas station in Cook County.

"Well, it's good to see you, Spikes," I said.

Spike had a gray complexion and stooped his shoulders.

"I've heard some things about you and Tulio," he said.

"Yeah?" I said. "Believe nothing you hear and half of what you read."

"I'm going to use the ladies room," Pet said.

"Me too," Izzy said.

Spike pointed towards the bathroom.

"Just up on the right," he said. "You hit the lobster tank and you've gone too far."

Toad sipped his martini, and then turned to Griffin. "Funny with the EBay thing," he said. "Three-thousand bucks for Justin Timberlake's French Toast. Asshole."

"Couldn't resist," Griffin said.

"Then you owe me three-grand," Toad said.

"Children," Spike said, "stop arguing, you're both beautiful."

Spike reached for five fresh chilled martini glasses from the cooler.

"Izzy still trying to be the next Courtney Love?"

"The woman's got music in her soul, but not in her hands," I said. "She's pretty good, but we're not talking Rock and Roll Hall of Fame good."

"I should have had you come down a while ago. I miss you guys. We'll go out tonight? Everything is on me. Your money is no good in this town."

"Spike, you're really generous," I said. "Thanks."

"Early," Spike said. "You check into your rooms, I'll buzz you later and we'll hit the town."

### Chapter Twenty-Three

"Everybody's so different, I haven't changed."

Spike left us after midnight and he was tanked, we needed to feed. After all these years together we were on the same cycle, like menstruation. Walking along the Chicago River in the summer was glorious.

"I know a shortcut to the lake," Griffin said, "Wacker Drive."

We descended the stairs to the lower level of Michigan Avenue and walked across the bridge. In the distance, there were no lights, just a long road with another above. If you weren't with a group of people you probably wouldn't head this way.

"Would you look at that," Toad said.

Fifty yards away four men were kicking the daylights out of a homeless man. He wore a stained army jacket and had a long beard. He met all the stereotypical requirements of how you'd think a homeless man should look.

"Hey!" I shouted. "Leave him alone."

We ran toward the beaten man. One of the kids turned to flip us off.

"Mind your own fucking business," another said defiantly, but still turned and ran. The homeless man was slumped against the cement wall and appeared to be dead. Tracing my finger along his forehead I tasted his blood.

"He's not dead," I said. "Call an ambulance."

"I can't let this go," Griffin said. "I'm going after them."

"Me too," Toad said.

"I'm calling the cops," Izzy said. "I'll wait until they get here."

"Keep Pet with you," I said. I kissed Pet on the forehead.

"Locked and loaded," Toad said.

The bangers had a significant head start on us, but I figured they probably stopped by now. If they kept running, they'd be drawing attention to themselves. Ripping into a human's flesh wasn't something any of us found particularly pleasurable; despite what you may have read or what movie you'd seen. When we were ready to feed, it was best to stay out of our way. As the man in the song said, 'if the boys wanna' fight, you better let em.' Yes, the boys were back in town. This was a double billing. A kill because they deserved to die, and a feed.

Our combined ability to smell left little doubt we'd find them, and we did fifteen minutes later in the parking garage of Roosevelt University. Two were wearing Adidas warm ups, two others wearing jeans and t-shirts, sharing a joint. Griffin positioned himself behind a van. I hadn't seen him this angry in a long time.

Toad came around a Toyota and filled his palm with more blow.

"Hey," one of the bangers said. "You got some for me?"

"I don't know," Toad said, snorting off his palm, "is your mother within fucking distance, I mean, can I walk there?"

"Hand it over, or we'll bust your head open."

"How do you know it's not rat poison?" Toad said, inhaling deeply. "Then again, you're too stupid to know the difference."

The punk pulled a pistol from the rear of his pants and pointed it at Toad. He held the gun sideways as he'd seen in too many movies.

Griffin stepped into the dim lighting and Izzy appeared on the other side of the door.

"Why'd you beat the shit out of that homeless guy?" I said.

"We just knocked him up a bit, what's it to you?"

"Probably somebody's father," Griffin said.

"If he somebody's father, we did the kid a favor."

"You're the one to decide who lives or dies?" Griffin asked. "The way I see it, you don't have the brains to wipe your ass."

I rushed the guy with the gun and threw him into the wall. He hit his head and looked dazed and fired off three rounds, one nicked Toad in the shoulder. I pinned him against a minivan. When he saw my jaw open, he begged me to stop and I could smell he pissed himself. My teeth were in his chest before he could drop the gun.

The Toad chased one of the bangers and tripped him. He was on his stomach and she paralyzed him with a swift bite to his spine. As he rolled him over, he could see he was in shock. Griffin and Toad had pulled their feeds behind cars, out of sight. We were completing our feed when we hear the sirens, then scattered. I ran but turned around when a squad car came toward me. I hid behind a pylon. A female cop bent in front of one of the bangers.

"Officer Tarson, code 57 at my location."

She knelt next to him and narrowed her eyes, feeling his carotid for a pulse.

"Jesus Christ," she said.

She heard a moan about twenty feet away, one of the scumbags not quite dead.

Back on the street a cop gained on Toad but he found a surge of energy and pulled away. One of the cops removed his gun from his holster, anxious to shoot something, but didn't know where to aim. Griffin ran toward the lakefront. Two of the officers returned to the garage Officer Tarson looked like she was in shock.

"I've seen a lot of crap," one cop said, "but this is really sick."

"What kind of asshole is capable of this?" the female cop said, "any ideas?"

The older cop holstered his gun.

"What does somebody have to do to get mutilated like this?"

# # #

It was a familiar scene back at the Drake. We had all showered and put the bloody clothes in two pillowcases from the beds. Toad would later take them down to the furnace room and burn them. Toad sat on the couch in a white terrycloth robe and we were fortunate he had the good sense to cover his balls.

"It's always a bit more fun when you take out the scourge of the earth," Griffin said. "I feel like a street cleaner, in a good way. I'm a vigilante, like Charles Manson."

"Bronson," I said.

"We've been drawing cops like flies to noodle salad," Izzy said. "I don't remember it being this bad."

"Cell phones," Griffin said. "Ever since some asshole invented those things, our feeds have been fouled up. Cops or whomever get there too quickly for it to be anything else."

"I'm going to find Steve Jobs and fuck him in the ass, coming up with all this gadgetry," Toad said.

"He's dead," I said.

Toad drained his Heineken.

"So?"

### Chapter Twenty-Four

"I'm going off the rails on a crazy train."

Union Station had 24 tracks coming in from the north or south, but generally not connecting. Located west of Canal Street, it occupied an entire city block.

We were scheduled for the 2:00 Amtrak, the Hiawatha to Milwaukee.

Spike took us to a few bars before dropping us at the station. I'm relaxed from five or six Bombay martinis, almost dreamy high. It was Friday afternoon so the trains were full and we had to sit in different rows.

"I'll enjoy the break from your chattering," I tell Griffin.

He sat in the row ahead, and Pet next to me. Toad and Izzy were somewhere in the car behind me.

"Gross," Pet said. She pinched the paper headrest cover by its corner and dropped it onto the floor. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Just be glad you don't have a microscope," I said. "You never know what's living in these seats."

"Thanks," Pet said. "I feel so much better. It's so hard to understand why you're still single."

Ten minutes after we took our seats the train left the station with a sudden lurch, then a throaty rumble over a quarter-mile of covered track, the Chicago River on my right. The Wendella boats toured by, passengers snapped pictures of the bridges and brilliant architecture on the river. Griffin's deep snore was in high gear before we cleared the overhang and the train rocked from side to side, passing abandoned factories and piss-poor housing. I had a book with me, an old Carl Hiassen paperback I picked up from time to time.

A Russian man, who looked to be about thirty, sat in the front row of the car and opened his backpack. He just looked Russian. It wasn't like he had a t-shirt that read U.S.S.R. or anything like that, just a gut feeling. I couldn't see his face and I didn't give him much thought. He looked Goth; his hair was long and covered half his face. He may have been 30, but like with black men it was tough for me to tell an Asian's age. He wore a thin leather jacket with a white T-shirt. He was calm and focused.

I don't know why I watched him so intently. I guess I was a bit suspicious, a xenophobe from way back.

I forgot about him and read. I looked up from my book and noticed we'd crossed the border into Wisconsin and I checked my watch. It was 2:52 when the Russian man stabbed two plastic packs and dropped them to the floor of the train. I watched the packets fall and become pinned between the seat and the side of the train car. It didn't occur to me to tell anyone. I admit I'm a selfish man and I was curious what he was up to. The Russian calmly collected his gym bag and laptop and went to the next car.

A few minutes later some of the passengers started to feel effects from what I assume was in the packets; coughing, blurred vision, rapid breathing, vomiting, the same symptoms you get after watching a film with Keanu Reaves.

The woman in front of me screamed when her son slumped forward and into a seat, a thick white froth with traces of blood bubbled from his mouth. He couldn't have been more than nine. I hate to admit it but I was more upset about how this would delay our arrival.

Pet looked confused, scared. I gently patted her hand and told her it was okay, because there was no reason for us to really fear anything, never had been a reason.

It was a little perverse of me to just watch the people in pain but there was nothing for me to do. I'm not trained in any medical science. Izzy and Toad knelt beside us in the aisle.

"What the fuck?" Toad said, a man who was never at a loss for pithy comments.

"Really, what the fuck?" Izzy said.

When the conductor finally extricated his head from his ass, he phoned the engineer and the train stopped and was evacuated. Hundreds of people poured out of the doors and stepped onto the Anthracite. A fat man tripped and fell forward. He smashed his face onto the opposite rail, splitting his nose, which began to gush blood. Pet cringed while the rest of us just stared. Pet had more heart and sensitivity than the rest of us put together.

Within a half hour, news crews from every major Chicago television station were there, a couple of them landed helicopters in an adjacent field. They jammed microphones in front of anybody with a pulse. Passengers were riddled with questions as they passed reporters without answering, looking confused and trying to get as far from the train as soon as possible.

"This is messed up," Toad said. "Don't these t-v people have a sense of humanity?"

"We're not so hot when it comes to humanity," Izzy said. "I need a beer. I'm going to raid the club car."

Passengers would be taken to a local hospital and busses were on the way. We snuck away and found the nearest bar. After a few rounds, we called for a rental car.

During the drive to Milwaukee, Griffin was at the wheel, Izzy listened to her iPod, her purse filled with the mini booze bottles from the club car. Toad slept with his head against the window. He used his arm as a pillow and his fingers flicked under the weight of his head. Pet slept with her head on Izzy's lap. I used a paper napkin to wipe her runny nose. I spent most of the trip recolleciton of how it used to be.

### Chapter Twenty-Five

"Only tryin' to get a hold on you."

I had season tickets to the Cubs and Blackhawks, never was a big NBA fan. Sports relaxed me and baseball was my favorite. I think it was the history of the game and some of the friendships I had with a few of the old Yankees. I had four seats at Wrigley Field but only rarely did I give up the other seats, I hated to sit next to people. I loved the friendly confines and followed the team way back in the days when William Veeck Sr. ran the team in the 20s and 30s, when the Cubs won three pennants.

It was a bit of a trek or a clan meeting but Izzy and Toad were pretty good sports fans. Izzy would be late because she had band rehearsal and said she'd make it as soon as she could, Toad phoned to say he was on his way. Wrigley Field is nestled in a north side neighborhood and parking is a bitch. My seats were in the third row behind home plate and I had them for years. If you watched the game on television, my seats were just to the left of home plate.

"You want a beer?" Griffin asked. He motioned to the vendor in the aisle.

I nodded and ripped the top of a large bag of peanuts. The Marlins were in town for three games. The first couple of innings went quickly, both pitchers getting hitters to ground out with the exception of a long fly ball to left-center. The wind was blowing in, good for pitchers in this park. Griffin finished his beer in just a few seconds, dumping the plastic bottle under his seat and it ricocheted for a moment.

"Hey," The Toad said, approaching from behind, causing Griffin to jump from his seat. Izzy followed Toad down the steps. Toad was wearing a new Cubs hat he picked up across the street.

"C'mon," Griffin said as he grabbed his heart. "My ticker isn't what it used to be."

I signaled for the beer vendor.

"Hey," Izzy said. She slid in front of Griffin and took the seat next to me and kissed me on the cheek. Toad dropped into the plastic seat in the row behind us, at least until the rightful ticketholder showed up. Toad was sweating hard and made the usher nervous.

"Six beers," Toad said to the vendor. "What do you guys want?" He laughed like a longshoreman.

"Same," Izzy said.

"I'm going to need to see her ID," the vendor said.

"Yeah," Toad said to Izzy. "Where's your ID?"

Izzy grabbed her crotch.

"Here's my ID," she said.

"Children, please," I smiled at the vendor. "I can't take them anywhere."

Toad handed the vendor a hundred.

"She's sixty," Toad said, "

The vendor looked at the bill like it was the Golden Ticket and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Well, she looks great for her age," he smiled, as though he was keeping a military secret.

"You should be flattered," Toad said to Izzy

Izzy wore a tank top with the new Marlins logo. She loved to wear an opposing team's T-shirt just to start a commotion and she welcomed confrontation.

"Who's winning?" Izzy said.

"The 49ers," I said.

"Oh, good," she smiled, leaning back to get some sun.

A thick black line of storm clouds was headed east towards the lake, blocking Izzy's rays. The clouds looked like they were made with computer graphics for a movie about the apocalypse. Wrigley has this steel scoreboard built in 1937, the oldest in the big leagues. People walk up and down stairs inside, changing the score, innings. The relic was both hated and loved. It reminded me of an era before phony steroid pigs. For me, Hank Aaron would always be the home run king, not that pussy Bonds.

The Toad stood and drained his beer. He dropped the bottle to the cement and waited for the dull, hollow ting. He walked around the row and sat next to me. I set the peanuts on the cement.

"Tulio pulled the plug. No more shipments, we're out," I said.

Izzy downed her beer.

"What the what?"

"I don't get it," Toad said, his mouth open in amazement. "Can he do that?"

"His game, his rules. Of course he can do that," Griffin said.

The batter cracked a foul ball, all of us watched it land on the cement and bounce to an old man on one hop.

"Why?" Izzy said.

The wind shifted, blowing out, tough luck for the pitchers.

"Alex. But it's so much more than that. Who the hell knows, not to mention, I broke his arm."

"It is because of Alex," Toad said. "Has to be."

"Why?" I said. "You been talking with him?"

"Hell no," Toad said. "We've been through this."

"For a lot of reasons," Griffin said, putting his feet on the chair in front of him. "Who knows with that guy?"

"Bull," Toad said. "It's because of Alex and you all know it, something that didn't have to happen, right? Right?"

His face came closer to mine and his temper was getting the best of him.

"Listen," I said, "whatever transpired between me and Alex has nothing to do

with you."

"The hell it doesn't," Toad said, his fat chest encroached on my seat. "You did something to him, now he's done something to all of us. We're in jeopardy because of you."

"You exist because of me," I said. "I've carried you, all of you. You've got some balls."

"It's us out there carrying the load," Toad continued, "it's not just you. Fact is it's me who does most of the heavy lifting. When you need something special, you send Toad. Something dangerous, you send Toad."

A long fly ball got the crowd going, and we watched it sail over the left field bleachers onto Waveland Avenue.

"I suggest you stop moaning and start thinking about where we can get a new connection," Griffin said. "Use that energy for something positive."

"Yeah. Positive," Toad said, crossing his arms.

"Well, I'm going for some hot dogs," Izzy said. "Who wants one?"

"I'll go with you," Toad said. "Clear my head."

"Good idea," I said. "Cool off a bit. When you do cool off, we'll talk sensibly."

Izzy was at the top of the stairs, her little butt swayed in her tight jean cutoffs. Toad lumbered after her.

"He's got a right to be angry," Griffin said. "I tried to stop you."

I couldn't think of anything to say. A left-handed batter rocketed a ball off the bat into foul territory, a lethal projectile, really traveling fast and it missed a vendor by three feet. When a man can die selling cotton candy, it's time to look for another job.

"Let's get out of this heat," I said.

We walked up the left field line and gazed at the Cubs' faithful, mostly women, jumping up and down for no reason. It happened so fast. Griffin was a couple of steps behind me. He latched eyes with a bleach-blonde and she looked willing, very willing. He took his eyes away from the field and wasn't watching the foul ball. I reached out my hand to stop it, but couldn't get there in time. The impact into Griffin's head sounded like a man punching a watermelon. Griffin slumped forward like Kennedy in Dallas. If I were wearing a pink pillbox hat, it would have been identical. Blood poured from Griffin' eyes and mouth. His cranium landed on the back of the blonde's seat and she obligingly vomited over the rail.

Griffin convulsed like a jackrabbit in boiling water. Fans signaled for emergency personnel and security was already there, armed with towels, mopping up what looked to be a pool of red corn syrup. Anyone in the stadium would have bet that Griffin was dead, and he was—sort of.

"He's okay, let me get him out of here," I said to the usher, who was kneeling by Griffin's head.

"You're out of your mind," the usher said. "Leave him, the medics are on their way."

I lifted Griffin from the concrete with little effort, and I put my arm around his back, and pulled him close, using my hip as leverage.

"Hey, I can't let you move him," the security guard said.

My eyes felt hot and I stared at the guard. He didn't say anything. Police and more ushers were on our tail, but I found a side exit and dragged Griffin to the preferred parking.

"What happened?" he said.

"A baseball in your fucking head," I said. "Don't you know you're supposed to pay attention at all times during a game? They've got signs posted all over."

I unlocked my Porsche with the remote. Griffin rubbed his temple.

"So much blood," he said.

I was concerned. By this time the wound should have been healing, regenerating. It was, but not as much as it should have been.

"And this shirt is a total wreck," I said, dropping it onto the asphalt. "You owe me a hundred bucks."

### Chapter Twenty-Six

"I'm on my way I'm making it."

"To success," Tulio said, raising his champagne glass, sitting at the head of a long glass dinner table. He'd invited ten if not close friends, people he hated the least, for his 34th birthday. Most of Tulio's party and decorating tips came from episodes of Miami Vice. Eight of his guests were women, two men, Byron and Philippe. Tulio asked seven of the hottest coke-whores in Palm Beach to attend. No gifts or cake, just more cocaine.

On a marble table behind him were three large glass plates full of powder, each about the size of a halved grapefruit. Next to the plates were silver straws for the blow and he let every guest keep one as a party gift, with the exception of Byron and Philippe. A dozen bottles of Perrier-Jouet rested on ice like penguins with a cork. There was lots of red wine, white wine, caviar, fresh King Crab.

Everybody had been drinking heavily but didn't show it because they were ingesting copious amounts of blow. The food had gone more or less untouched. It was a strong year for Tulio, his empire grew with each passing day. Americans were spending less on their children and more on their habit, music to Tulio's ears. He didn't worry about stocks, didn't own any. The only thing Tulio put stock in was human weakness and the unflinching manner in which people pursued selfish desires. When the economy turned to hell, his business picked up, along with alcohol sales, a match made in debauchery heaven.

"I'd like to make a toast," he said. His stoned toadies raised their glasses in unison. "I'd like us all to drink to those that have no willpower or dignity. Without them I'd be selling shoes at Macy's."

"I like Macy's," one of the bimbos said, finishing her champagne and lifting her glass, asking for more.

"Shut the fuck up," Tulio said, throwing a crystal champagne glass against the wall. "When I make a point, you say nothing or agree, one or the other."

She slumped in her chair and wiped cocaine from her nose. Amid careful laughter, they all drank. A few hours later, dinner turned into an orgy, as planned. Eight women and Tulio wrestled nude in a prolonged sex-fest. Tulio sent the guys home an hour earlier. He lasted for hours in the sack with the women, even with a shattered arm. A good chunk of the orgy was girl on girl, and he was a joyful observer.

He fell asleep at sunrise and stayed in bed just a few hours. He woke up alone, a house-rule. Tulio went to the kitchen and drank two bottles of water and held a plastic bag of frozen peas on his balls.

Philippe was still miffed Tulio cut him out of the previous night's pussy-buffet, and looked like a petulant child in the living room. With two pieces of sprout-bread toast and a cup of English breakfast tea, Tulio lowered himself onto the couch."

"How are we coming along with Malcolm's replacement?"

"You sure you don't want Spike?"

"Hell no. He's embarrassing. Anybody else?"

"I'm just glad you're not sending me," Philippe said."

"Just put an ad on Craigslist," Tulio said. "Drug lord wanted. Milwaukee. Must have references."

### Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Lord I got to gamble, gamblin' man."

Cigarette smoke streamed out of every conceivable orifice in the casino. It took up residence in your hair and had the potential to dive down your girlfriend's pants.

"You really think this is the best place to be when we're running short on cash?" I said.

"Place helps me think," Griffin said. "Besides, how much can I really lose?"

"I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Griffin said. "It's musical."

He was referring to the incessant noise emitted by the slot machines.

"Makes me glad I'm half deaf," I said.

The Potawatomi Casino was so big it looked like the Titanic grounded itself on Canal Street, then decorated by a gay wedding gown designer.

We settled on two slot machines in the corner, away from the traffic. Griffin purchased four plastic glasses of whiskey and got a shitload of tokens.

"These places are sheer genius," I said. "Tokens used instead of cash so when you lose chips it doesn't feel like money, and you can't keep track of what you're losing. Play money, except it's real."

"If you're trying to wreck the experience for me, it's not working."

Griffin dropped two tokens in the slot, trying to ignore me. I scanned the casino, looking at the poor schmucks putting money they couldn't afford to lose, into beeping machines.

"At least I'm not playing the lottery," he said.

"Only total morons play the lottery," I tell Griffin. "The lottery is a tax on people who are bad at math. Same could be said for the machine you're playing."

"Why don't you take a walk," Griffin said, "get some exercise."

"Low lighting and no clocks, you have no sense of time," I continued. "At least play cards, you can read minds, remember?"

"All right, I get it. Now give me a break here," Griffin moaned, stuffing another coin in the slot. Any news from the accountant?"

"It's so bad I wish I had a hundred dollars for every time he tells me the economy is bad. Why must you badger me with that? I'm not the guy who spends it like it's going out of style."

"The trappings of leadership," Griffin said. "At least tell me our real estate properties are secure?"

"Yeah. We're okay there. Our land holdings are keeping us afloat. Probably have to sell some lots, condos, and we'll take a beating in this economy."

"Stocks?"

"In this economy, who the hell knows."

I finished my whiskey and reached for another.

"It's not that bad," I said. "We took a big hit on that cancer drug."

"Not one of your best moves," Griffin said.

He was right. I lost a lot of money on a drug still in early research. I had a hunch, but I screwed up.

"Anybody can have an off year."

Unable to resist temptation entirely, I grabbed a handful of tokens from Griffin's cup and plunked them in the machine. On my first pull I hit a small jackpot, about $100 bucks.

"How about that," I said. "This is how they get you hooked."

"Any leads with a supplier?" Griffin asked. "I could go down on a fact finding mission, maybe Miami. We knew some people down there, way back when."

"I heard Tulio lost significant market share and Philippe doesn't have the skills you have and he's getting a lot of pressure from Carlos."

"He's not going to stop until he gets this place," Griffin said. "It's more personal than anything."

Griffin was right. Anyone could see Tulio was expanding his market at our expense. Cutting us off was the logical first step.

"If we killed Tulio, "I said, "we'd have to make friends with Carlos. Last time I checked we weren't on his Christmas card list. We were always square with them."

"You're a real peach," Griffin said, grabbing another handful of coins. "You could make enemies in a monastery."

I looked again at the hundreds of mindless drones pouring money into the one-armed bandits.

"God, how do people keep up with this?"

"Well," Griffin said, dropping in three dollars. "It helps considerably if you're brain dead."

"Then Toad would fit right in. So would Tulio. I'll go to the bank tomorrow, see how much cash I can get to hold us over.

I saw Toad at a blackjack table.

"Speak of the devil, and he appears."

Griffin looked up and saw Toad at the blackjack table.

"I'm going to say hi," I said.

Toad wasn't particularly good at gambling, but like anything else, gambling was addicting, so he was attracted to it, as he was booze, drugs and Internet porn.

"How goes it?" I asked.

Toad looked up from his cards.

"Hey," he said. "Not that good, I'm sorry to say."

The dealer had fourteen showing. Toad was sticking at nineteen. The dealer took a card and got a six.

"Twenty," the dealer said. "Pay twenty-one."

"Son of a bitch," Toad said, tossing his cards. "Son of a bitch."

"How much?"

"Way down."

"My advice is to hold on to some."

"Thanks," He said. "I'm not going to be out too much."

"Really. You know we're in some financial distress. Take it easy."

"I can win some back, I know it, just going to hang on here a bit more."

"C'mon home," I said. "You're not going to get anything back here. The house is stacked against you."

He was agitated so I decide to leave him. Whatever he lost here today wouldn't be much in the grander scheme of things. I'm not his boss, just a comrade.

I whispered in his ear.

"Can't you at least read the dealer's mind?"

He shook his head.

"Can't get a clear image. I don't know why."

"Fine, stay if you want. But hey, don't feel like you've got to solve our problems alone. It's a group problem and we'll solve it together."

### Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Money for nothing and your chicks for free."

Worlds get turned upside down all the time, but it never happened to us. We were more resilient than cockroaches, surviving both natural and manmade disasters. Money had never a problem because we invested wisely. Tulio admittedly threw us a nasty curveball but we were resourceful. We still had a fair amount of liquid cash and I asked Griffin to come to the bank with me.

Joel tapped his fingers over the burled oak desk. He had been our banker in the United States for twenty years and we had a good relationship. He wore a grey pinstriped suit, broadcloth shirt. He was a man who could make the salutation 'good morning,' seem condescending. Joel sat, waiting for me to speak.

"We need the cash," I said.

God, what a repugnant sight he was, and he drummed those Ivy League fingers on the desk.

"You're asking for a large sum of money, Malcolm" Joel said. He leaned forward and whispered. "A lot of it is transit. You've been taking out a lot of money lately, pretty much all of you have, at least liquid cash."

I pulled at my nose. Impatience began to prick at me like shaved hair caught in my collar.

Joel leaned back like he'd just finished a large meal, and that really upset me.

"I have been dealing with this bank for going many years. I need this money, and I need it now."

Joel clenched his jaw and his body tightened. He appeared to be fighting the urge to release his bowels.

"Most of it is gone,"

"What do you mean?" Griffin said.

"Out of the account."

"Really," Griffin said.

"Joel. You know how we make our money," I said. "More importantly we know how you make your money. Neither one of us can afford to make the other angry."

Joel looked around to see if anybody was listening.

"Jesus," Malcolm. You're gonna put my ass in a sling. Why are you threatening me after all we've done?"

"I need a million dollars, Joel. I need it right now."

"Malcolm."

"Joel. We're a little desperate. Desperate men do desperate things. You know what I mean? Besides, you know we're good for it."

"I just can't find that kind of cash, especially on such short notice."

"We'll sign over the boat," Griffin said. "It's worth a hell of a lot more than that."

"Malcolm," Joel said. "The economy is dead. I'll lose my job if I do this."

"We're at our wits end," Griffin said.

I stood and smoothed the fold in my pants, then extended my hand to Joel.

"You'll get the money?" I said.

"Doesn't seem I have much of a choice. I'll get the money."

### Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Son, she said, have I got a little story for you."

The C&O car ferry cruised past the lighthouse from the Port of Milwaukee on its way to Ludington, Michigan. Thick black smoke from the coal-powered engines drifted into the wind and back towards shore. Through a legal loophole, and grandfathering, the ferry hadn't been forced to convert to clean energy and wouldn't have to do so for a few more years. Pet and I sat on the patio drinking coffee from thick mugs.

"You sure you don't mind going to Palm Beach?" I asked Pet. She wore a red bikini, smaller than I'd like to see, but I'm not her father.

"Not at all. It's not a vacation. I carry my weight around here."

"I feel terrible," I said. "I've let you all down. I've let you down."

"That's ridiculous," Pet said. "We wouldn't have anything without you. We'd be wandering, living hand to mouth. We're grateful for all you've done and I'm honored to help in a small way."

"Still, I need to send you because, well, he hates the rest of us. And I'm afraid Izzy will kill him. He's taken a special interest in you, which I don't like. But if he accepts our gift, we have a shot."

"Think so?"

"If anyone can make it happen, it's you."

"I hope I don't let you down."

"Pet, you could never let me down. You're a beautiful, intelligent young woman. No man in the world would be able to resist you. Little do they know you'd chomp off their heads like a praying mantis first chance you get."

"Give me a little credit," she smiled. "Not the first chance I got, but shortly thereafter."

"Griffin and I talked about this quite a bit. We hate sending you down there, but you're the only one he'll talk with. Things are lousy and we've got to try to get him back. Like it or not, he's the one with the connection."

Pet nodded. She had an uncanny sophistication for a woman who'd be seventeen forever. She put her feet up on the railing.

"I sent the money yesterday. You'll be able to pick it up at FedEx. Shouldn't be a problem. Don't stop off and bet it at Jai Alai."

"Malcolm, I'm glad to do something for us. You don't let me do enough."

Pet looked at the skyline and I realized she truly needed to help, it was important to her. The coffee was cooling and I drank.

"Well, be careful down there. Don't trust Tulio as far as you can throw him."

"I think I know what he's about. I can handle myself."

"Don't be above picking his brain, find out what he's up to, read it, if you can."

"10-4."

" If there's any way you can find out who his connect is down there, just do it."

"You want me to give him the money, right? Just so I'm clear on that," Pet said. "I don't want you to get mad at me for giving a million bucks to the wrong person."

"No, he gets it," I said, "as much as it pains me to say it. Have to give the asshole a bribe. After all the work we've done together."

"What if he doesn't take it," she said

"He'll take it. Have you ever met anyone who didn't take a million in cash? It's more than the money, he'll dig it because it means a million out of my pocket. That's where his real joy will be coming from."

### Chapter Thirty

"Through these field of destruction, baptisms of fire."

A black stretch limousine awaited Pet at Palm Beach International. Tulio hired the driver away from an island service after he moved there in 2005. Big Mike was chubby and about 45 years old. He committed some nickel and dime crimes for the mob in Connecticut. He'd moved to Florida in the early 80s, after watching the first season of Miami Vice. He waved to Pet when she got off the plane. She wore a red skirt, a light blouse and two scarves.

"Hi," she said to Big Mike. "Can you meet me down by the baggage area? Just pull the car around and I can meet you at the curb."

Pet was perfect for moving large amounts of cash. She looked innocent enough to get past most any form of security and she was scary-smart. Picking up her suitcase, she smiled and showed the attendant her matching stub. Stopping at the kiosk, she picked up the current copies of Vogue, Time and Green Lifestyle. As she instructed, the driver waited for her when she arrived at the baggage claim.

Pet wiggled into the back seat. Big Mike tried to sneak a look up her skirt, catching a flash of red-laced panties. He sighed and closed the door.

Big Mike drove to the Fed Ex station a mile away from the airport on Australian Boulevard. Pet knew you couldn't carry more than $10,000 in cash without reporting it to authorities. It was virtually impossible to check each crate shipped, most of the time they were busy looking for explosives, guns. A trunk full of cash could possibly be explained away, Pet paid for the crate and Big Mike struggled with it, but was able to drop it in the trunk. In hundred dollar bills, the million in cash weighed about twenty-five pounds, plus the case.

Tulio was sitting by the pool when Pet arrived. He was wearing a Navy blue Speedo and the material was so strained it appeared he'd stuffed an Idaho baking potato in the front of his suit. With his dark skin it didn't take much to tan and he had one of his maids load him up with baby oil, in case Pet didn't appreciate the potato.

"There she is," he said, the potato moving ever so slightly.

It was so hot the sun was melting faces of salamanders. Pet took off her blouse and tied it around her waist. She had on a white camisole that barely contained her 17-year-old breasts.

Tulio was about to hug her, positioning his potato.

"Whoa," Pet said. "You're lubed up like a gay bodybuilder."

Embarrassed, he grabbed a large towel off the reclining chair, wrapped it like a tourniquet around his waist.

"Anyway," he said. "Let's go inside."

A maid prepared an early lunch. She'd chilled a bottle of Pinot Grigio and set it next to the flowers in the middle of the table.

"Please, sit," Tulio said, his palm extended toward a tall chair with a cloth back.

"Thanks," Pet said. "Your man has the trunk? That's a lot of cash. You trust him?"

Smiling, Tulio plucked some grapes from the bowl.

"Please," he said. "Nobody takes anything from me. They're not that stupid."

"He could be on his way to the airport right now." Pet was pulling his chain. "He may be hopping a plane and you'd never see your cash again."

"That's ridi—"

Tulio stood casually and looked out the window. He saw Big Mike carrying the crate into the office through a set of French doors.

"Like I said, nobody steals from Tulio."

"I love a man who refers to himself in the third person," she smiled, taking a sip of champagne.

He sat with his left leg on a vacant chair, his hairy legs almost made Pet gag.

"So, how do you like Wisconsin?"

"It's a lot like Germany, without the lederhosen."

Tulio laughed. The maid brought two plates of Cajun grilled swordfish.

"I hope that works for you," Tulio said.

Pet thanked the maid and went to work on the fish, she hadn't eaten in since early that morning.

"Excellent call," she said.

"You're welcome to stay a few days, if you'd like. I mean, I have a separate guest house for you, of course."

"That's very generous of you," she said, following the swordfish with more champagne.

"So, how is everybody?" Tulio said, barely able to contain his contempt. "You guys making out okay? Any luck finding a new supplier?"

"Not yet," Pet said. "You guys don't grow on trees."

"But they're all good up there? Griffin? Toad?"

"Like any other family, I guess. Some good times, sometimes they drive you insane."

"So, that's what you are? Family?"

Pet liked the way the spicy seasoning complimented the champagne.

"Closest thing to a family I've had in a long, long while. They're not so bad, if you'd give them a chance."

Pet nibbled on a piece of asparagus. It was now clear to Tulio that she had no interest in his potato, so he returned to business.

"I'm guessing they sent you down on sort of a recon mission. See if you could change my mind? Am I right? That, plus the money."

"Are you accepting their gift?"

Tulio didn't reply and he rubbed his cast.

"They have a hard time understanding why, that's all," Pet said. "Malcolm provided a good trade for you up there, brought it up more than 200-percent. Took a market that was marginal at best and gave it all to you with a ribbon. That's why they sent me with the gift. The million. Griffin and Malcolm wanted to show some goodwill."

"Alex?"

"You can't say that, Tulio. He didn't mean anything to you, we both know that."

"Why didn't they come down themselves?"

"Because you hate their guts. That money is everything we have left. Sold stuff to get that together."

Tulio checked the clock above the serving table, yawned, adjusted his potato.

"Unfortunately, I can't accept the gift and must regrettably send it back. I don't like to part with money, but I can't accept this."

"No!" Pet said. "I mean, is that really necessary? Can't we do anything to change your mind? Increase your prices?"

Tulio cocked an eyebrow.

"Once they see you can't come up with the goods, customers will go elsewhere."

Pet pushed her plate forward.

"You're just moving us out to spite them. We've done nothing but print money for you."

"I'm sorry if that's all you came down for," Tulio said, as far as he was concerned, the meeting was adjourned. "Unless, you wanted to see me."

Pet's skin crawled at the thought of a grease ball like Tulio coming on to her.

"You're the most charming person I know," she lied.

"That would mean so much more, if I thought you meant it."

"I care about you. You're like family." Pet smiled sweetly.

"So that's it. That's the end of it. No chance for you to care about me."

"Tulio, it's not like that."

Tulio stood and dropped his napkin on the seat.

"I'll tell Big Mike to take you back."

Pet picked up her purse and headed for the door. Tulio was texting on his phone.

"I've just told Big Mike to put the trunk back in the car and he'll send it FedEx."

For Pet, the trip was a waste of time. It wasn't much better for Tulio. Pet felt guilty for letting everybody down. Griffin told her it was a long shot, but they had to try.

Pulling the purse strap around her shoulder, she started towards the door. Tulio cut her off for one last try.

"Tulio, what's up?" Pet said.

"Nothing, yet," he winked. "But I can work on that."

She felt sick.

"I've really got to get going," she said, starting to walk around Tulio.

He slid to his right, blocking her.

"C'mon," he said. "You know how I feel about you, don't you?"

Pet stared into his eyes and it unsettled him.

"I'm seventeen years old."

"Going on thirty-five."

"I'm out of here. Move." She reached for the door handle.

Tulio put his hand on her forearm. Pet turned fast, her eyes sparked with anger. Tulio backed off.

"Let go," she said. Pet ran scenarios in her head. Kill him now, maim him, spare him and hope he changed his mind about Malcolm. At that moment, killing him was her favorite option.

Tulio pushed in on Pet, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her neck, his hands roamed around her body, his cast moved up and down her ass. She could smell the fish on his breath. His right hand moved up her soft thigh and his thumb pushed aside her panties, he felt her shaved pubic area.

Pet tried to think fast, she still searched for the right move.

"Really, you're a handsome man and anybody would be happy to have you."

Tulio wasn't used to anyone telling him no and his culture saw women of Pet's age to be acceptable.

"Stay with me and I'll do business with them again. You agree to stay with me, and you've got my word."

Her mind was spinning. For the first time she had a chance to help her clan and she wanted that more than anything. At the same she was facing losing her virginity to a fuck-nugget like Tulio.

"This is what you're about?" Pet said, her eyes searching for some humanity in Tulio. It struck her as ironic that a vampire had more scruples than him. "This is all you want?"

As any pussy-happy man would do, Tulio smiled.

### Chapter Thirty-One

"Don't arrange to have me sent to no asylum, I'm just the same as anyone."

Griffin arrived ten minutes early for his second therapy appointment. Spying around the door of the waiting room, he was pleased to see her there. Griffin slipped into a chair, two away from Sidney. She didn't see him come in

"You come here often?"

She looked happy to see him.

"Once a week, whether I need it or not," Sidney said.

"Still crazy after all these years," he smiled. "Me," he said quickly. "That's what I meant. Not you."

Sidney laughed, her little fingers covered her mouth.

"Crazy as a loon," Sidney said. "But really, how much can they really do in four meetings, right?"

"You just started? Geez, I thought you were a veteran, you seem so cool."

"It's the 'in' thing, isn't it? That's what my friends tell me."

"Your friends know you're crazy?" he smiled.

"My therapist," she motioned to the clinical area, "she doesn't like me to use the 'c' word."

"It's vulgar," Griffin said.

"No," she said, swatting at him. "Not that word. She doesn't like me to say 'crazy.'"

"I was just kidding," he said. "I'm not crazy, I'm just mentally ill. Isn't that what they call it these days?"

"It's so charming, isn't it? It's a lousy term."

"How did the birthdays go?" Griffin asked. "With the nephews?"

"Good. Thanks for asking."

"Which one got the beer?"

"Neither. I settled on iPhones."

"Cool," Griffin said. "Do you eat?"

"I've been known to, yeah."

"With me?"

"That's how you ask a woman out? Boy, you're suave?"

"I don't do this much."

"Really? You're so good at it."

"Ha."

"Yes,' she said.

"Yes, what?" Griffin said.

"Yes, I'll have dinner with you."

"Saturday?"

"Not Saturday, I have plans. How about tomorrow?"

"That'd work for me," Griffin said.

Sidney handed her card to Griffin.

"Now you 've got my 'digits,'" she said, mocking a gang sign. "Oh, sorry. You're not in a gang, are you? I don't want to flash the wrong sign and get a cap in my ass."

"I passed the initiations, but don't dig the colors. Who knows, I may give it another shot."

Dr. Lenkey poked her head through the door.

"Hi," she said.

Griffin turned and smiled at the doctor.

"Doctor," he said. "Just two crazy people having a word. It's not like I'm asking her out or anything."

"No law against that," Dr. Lenkey smiled. "And no 'C' word around here," she smiled.

"You heard that?" Griffin said.

"Thin walls," Dr. Lenkey said.

"Oh, that makes me feel secure," Sidney said.

Griffin turned and waved to Sidney.

"I'll call."

Griffin sat on the couch, the same place as the first meeting.

"She's charming," Dr. Lenkey said.

"Yeah," Griffin said. His demeanor had changed. He was more serious, dour.

"So glad you decided to come back," Dr. Lenkey said. "I wasn't sure," she said.

"It wasn't personal," Griffin said. "I liked you. I'm not used to talking about myself."

There isn't much to do when you're sitting in a therapist's office. Look at the therapist directly, or look away, not a whole lot in between.

"There's something about her, in the waiting room," he said. "I can sense a bit of sadness, but a great person."

"What makes you say that?' Dr. Lenkey said.

"I've been around the block a couple of times," he said. "You get to a point where you read people pretty well. I'm older than I look. I can feel their sadness."

"You see goodness in other people. Are you a good person?"

The question caught Griffin off guard.

"No," he said. "I'm not." He winced, he realized he'd just opened a fat can of worms. "Don't read into that too much. I know I have a couple of good qualities, but 'good,' that's another subject. What is 'good,' anyway?"

"Ultimately, I think it's how you define it yourself. My definition or idea of 'good' isn't the same as yours or anyone else's."

"Well, what do you think makes you not good, or bad?"

"Sometimes I feel like a vampire," he said." You know?"

"I hear you," she said. "I think we all do sometime."

"No," he said flatly, "I am a vampire. You know, Bell Lugosi kind of vampire. The un-dead, the predator."

"If you're not biting necks, we can start there," she said.

"I don't really bite necks," Griffin said, "only in situations where it can't be avoided."

Dr. Lenkey was in a tough spot. If she asked a patient if he was kidding, and he wasn't, a patient might not trust the therapist again. He may think the doctor was ridiculing him.

"So, if you're serious, what do you want to do about this?"

"Not much I can do," he said. "I've tried, believe me."

"This is what you think makes you 'not good,' as you say?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"What's your life like as a vampire? Do you work?"

"Yes. We run a rather large drug ring. You can't call the cops, right?"

Her face went pale, thinking he might be serious. 'Oh shit," she said under her breath. It was her turn to check the clock.

"No, I can't call the cops, but I think you should rethink how you do business."

"I'm not a 9-5 guy."

"You're a vampire and a drug dealer."

Griffin nodded.

"That's right."

Dr. Lenkey was scribbling faster.

"Do you plan on hurting anyone? I'd have to report that."

"Plan? No. I'm not planning on hurting anyone in particular."

"How about yourself? Have you thought about suicide?"

"Thought about it? Twenty-five times a day, minimum."

"Well, you haven't done it. All you need is one reason not to. Can you come up with the one reason? I think you must have one or you would have done it."

"That kind of makes sense, I guess," Griffin said.

"When I was in school a professor gave me a great line," Dr. Lenkey said. "Don't kill yourself.

You may be killing the wrong person."

Griffin cracked his neck and stared at a print above the doctor's desk.

"Yeah. I think I've got one. A reason."

"Good," she said. "That's something, right?"

"Yeah. That's something. I can work with that."

He rested his head on the back of the couch. Dr. Lenkey decided to let him be until he was ready to talk. Griffin kept his eyes closed, his hands folded over his stomach. Dr. Lenkey could see he was breathing deeply.

"There's something," he said.

Dr. Lenkey was determined to avoid any discussions of vampires, unless Griffin brought it up. He didn't.

"I figured,' she said.

"You know how you say I can talk to you about anything?"

"Of course," she said.

"The anniversary of my his death."

She didn't see this one coming.

"You never told me you had a son. I'm very sorry."

"It was a long time ago. Whoever said time heals all wounds is an asshole."

"How long ago?" Dr. Lenkey was making a huge effort to keep level, avoid emotion, and avoid rolling her eyes.

"Long time ago. Seventy-eight years ago."

She furrowed her brow, like she'd been told politicians were honest. "Shit," she mouthed, Griffin's eyes still closed. She took control of her voice, trying not to sound incredulous.

"You don't look that old."

"It's the vampire thing," he said. "He was my life. My life revolved around that boy."

He nodded. "I know you don't believe me and I seriously don't give a damn." Griffin opened his eyes, he looked tired.

Shifting in her chair, Dr. Lenkey started to bite her pen. She dug the cap into a top molar.

"Never said I didn't believe you."

"Whether you do don't, it's not going to bring him back."

"I'm really sorry," she said. "I'm not going to pretend I know what that feels like."

"I hope you never do," he said. "You don't know love until you have a child, and you don't know real pain and hell until you lose one."

Dr. Lenkey steeled herself.

"He'd be, what, in his eighties now?"

"Eighty-eight."

"It's normal to feel this way when you lose someone, much less a child."

Griffin stood.

"Mind if I take off? Sapped."

"I understand," she said. "Call me if you need to. Just tell them I gave you permission to get my number."

"There's one thing I find rather comforting. It doesn't matter if you really believe me or not, it makes me feel better I told you."

"And I'm glad for that."

### Chapter Thirty-Two

"When a problem comes along, you must whip it."

They'd known each other since medical school and came from the same hometown, San Diego. Dr. Andrew Scafidi was a psychiatrist whose office was down the hall from Dr. Lenkey. He ate lunch at DiSalvo's every day of the week and always ordered the same thing. Kristine asked Andrew to lunch, but he would insist on paying. She came in a few minutes late.

Andrew poured two glasses of Chianti.

"Just one glass," Kristine said. "I have three more patients and they tend to lose respect if their doctor is shit-faced.

"I got you the spinach ravioli, cheese," he said. "Hope that's okay."

"Perfect," she said.

They dated in medical school and got serious about each other, but it cooled during their residency. Kristine always hoped they could rekindle what they had,

"What did you want to talk about?" He took a breadstick and slid the basket to Kristine.

"A new patient of mine, said he's a...vampire."

He didn't flinch.

"That's nothing," Andrew said, not missing a beat, "I've got one that thinks he's a chicken. He said he needs the eggs."

"Ba-dum-bum," Kristine said. "Heard that when I was in eighth grade."

"Oldie but a goodie," Andrew said. He sipped his wine. "You serious?"

Kristine nodded.

"Be thrilled if I weren't. He's handsome, appears to have some money. If he wasn't nuts, I'd grab him for myself."

"Didn't you take the Hippocratic oath? Do no harm?"

"Ha, funny. I'm serious, about the vampire thing, not the dating."

The server brought the salads.

"Do you think he's serious? Or pulling your leg?"

"At first I thought there was no way he could be serious, now I think he believes what he said. Like O.J. Simpson thinks he's innocent. Same thing. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt."

"He's told you about biting necks and such, I'd imagine. Comes to the appointments in a cape?"

"C'mon," Kristine said. "I need your advice, not your stand-up routine. I don't know how to handle this."

"We've dealt with all kinds of patients," Andrew said, chewing on a pepperoncini pepper, the spicy juice trickling down his chin. Kristine took her napkin and dabbed his chin.

"Thanks. Embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Remember, I've seen you naked."

"I've never had anything like this," he said. "What's your diagnosis?"

"Other than off his rocker, clearly a form of psychosis. There's something about him though, I can't put my finger on it. I can usually tell what's going on with my patients but he's a riddle.

The server poured more water. Kristine nodded a thank you.

"I'm not asking for help, per se, just a little understanding. He's getting more depressed and he's sharing less. If he ends up hurting someone... I feel like I should have been able to do something. I don't feel I'm making any headway with him."

"He's been responsive so far? Open to your ideas?"

"As much as any vampire could be, I guess."

"I'd wear turtle necks as much as possible," he said. "Avoid tempting him."

"Eat your salad."

### Chapter Thirty-Three

"God forbid you ever has to walk a mile in her shoes."

If you want directions to a doughnut shop, ask a cop. If you want to hear the latest crass joke, ask a nurse. They're not the angelic creatures you've been led to believe; just think of a longshoreman bred with a hairdresser.

Ginger, the duty nurse, checked Sidney's IV, then her pulse. Sidney's neck was stiff after she sat in the same chair in a semi-upright position for three hours. Griffin understood what Sidney was going through, even though she hadn't undergone the treatment herself. She'd witnessed the sense of helplessness and anger.

This was Sidney's third round of chemotherapy at the infusion center at St. Mary's Hospital. She felt like a zombie with an IV in her arm and the battle to stay awake was constant.

"Doctor, would you like some more juice," Ginger asked, inspecting the IV tubes.

"Ginger, sweetie, I'll take some morphine, if you got it," Sidney winked, "bourbon chaser."

Flicking the IV tube with her index finger, Ginger sighed.

"Doctor, if I had morphine, I'd be in a janitor's closet with a bag of Oreos and People Magazine."

"Apple juice would be awesome," Sidney said. Ginger patted Sidney's hand. It was in no way condescending, more of a 'this sucks and I'm here if you need me' gesture. Sidney secured the headphones and surfed the channels. A local station was airing I Love Lucy, an episode she had seen before. Ricky wanted Lucy to be the good housewife but Lucy was hell-bent on dancing at the club. Needless to say it didn't end well for Lucy.

The Milwaukee College of Wisconsin recruited Sidney after her residency, and she'd been there for 13 years. Sidney was a dedicated physician. Despite the insurmountable red tape and bullshit of modern healthcare, she found a way to love her job. Somehow she was insulated from the bureaucracy faced by many of her peers who chose a more hands-on approach as a family physician. Early on, in med-school, Sidney knew a general practice wasn't for her.

Her cell phone rang. Sidney looked at caller ID and looked bored.

"Hi, Mom," she said, feigning enthusiasm.

Sidney's mother's married twice since the death of Sidney's father, she had developed a penchant for Grey Goose vodka.

"How are you holding up today?" she asked.

"Fantastic," Sidney lied. "Why don't you come down here and let people pump battery acid into your veins and see how you feel. It'll be fun."

Anna dodged all the sarcasm Sidney sent her way and maintained a cheerful demeanor. Perhaps it was the Grey Goose.

"I wanted to come down there today, but we have a fundraiser at church," Anna said.

"The last thing I need is for you to worry about me. I'm fine. I'm a big girl."

"Are you going to be able to make it this weekend?"

Sidney shook her head, hitting herself with the butt of her hand. She'd forgotten about St. Hedwick's annual barbeque.

"No, I'll be there," she said in a flat tone, dreaming of the morphine.

Sidney had a headache the size of Mount Rushmore. With the chemo and facing an imminent death, she was distraught she still had to go to church barbeques. There was little time for dating between work and the treatment. An afternoon at the church barbeque with a bunch of do-gooders comparing notes on whom did what for whom, in the name of god, could be excruciating.

Ginger brought juice and set it on the tray, as well as four Oxycotin tablets.

"You signed these out," she smiled, "remember?"

"Ah, so I did," Sidney said. "You're my hero, she said, downing an Oxy with the juice.

"Thirty-six years old and my mother still feels she needs to change my diaper," she said, handing Ginger her empty cup.

"Yeah, well I'm in my 40s and I'm here to tell you, it never changes," Ginger said. "I guess it's just the way it is. Besides, you'll be around long enough to change her diapers," she lied.

"Have a good afternoon, doctor."

"Thanks to you, it's already looking up."

### Chapter Thirty-Four

"My old man's drunker than a barrel full of monkeys, and my old lady she don't care."

"We come up with $400 grand and change you owe us," Conley said.

Lee Conley was a loan shark from Chicago who assumed debts that were tough to collect. He'd buy the debts at twenty-five cents on the dollar. "You come up with the same?"

"Yeah? I was hoping it was less."

His fingers wrapped around the arms of the chair and he understood this was serious business. Toad liked to think of himself as a gambling high roller.

Toad racked up more than $200,000 in gambling debts over the past year. The casino tried to take him to court and he was ordered to pay the debt and placed on an informal probation with the judge telling him to stay out of trouble. They finally got fed up and sold the debt to Conley.

"I tried to be nice," Conley said. "You insult me by paying me what, a ten grand at a time?"

"I gave you an IOU," Toad said. "That's as good as cash, you'll see."

"Your IOU and a 20 grand are chickenfeed," Conley said. He looked to a goon with steel knuckles, who promptly punched Toad across the chin.

"Sorry about that," Conley said, "it's just that you've been ignoring my subtle pleas."

He knew they probably wouldn't kill him, but Toad didn't want to be haunted at every turn so he had a sincere desire to pay them off.

"Look," Toad began, "I realize you aren't getting your money as fast as you'd like, but things have been tight lately."

"I don't know why those assholes let you run up such a debt, and frankly I don't care. Now that I own your debt, it's irrelevant how it happened. It's my money now and I'm not somebody you want to owe money to."

"You want to kill me and lose the money, or let me pay as I can?"

"This isn't a home mortgage, asshole."

A quick look to the goon and Toad inherited another right cross.

Toad leaned back in his chair, the two front legs off the floor. One of Conley's men came from behind Toad and held his arm on the table. Conley produced a thick hammer and smashed Toad's hand, splitting two of the fingers down the middle. Just before he screamed a rag was placed over Toad's mouth to muffle him. Toad's eyes rolled back in his head and he started to sweat.

Toad was dumped on the side of the road, where he tumbled down the hill and into the brush. His face was badly beaten and he was pretty sure he'd broken his leg in the fall."

### Chapter Thirty-Five

"Yeah, runnin' down a dream that never would come to me."

The stewardess made her last pass through the DC-10 as it approached McCarren airport, descending rapidly to duck under a late morning storm. With a small carry-on, Toad quickly made his way to the terminal, the weight of his bag causing his bandaged fingers to bleed. The Golden Hotel was a five-minute cab ride from the strip in Vegas. The driver smelled like some nostril-humping spice and Toad hung his head out the window, his gag reflex begged him to vomit.

Toad sat at the bar and drank a glass of vodka way too quickly, and signaled for another. He took the time to actually sip this one, his eyes squinted in reaction to the alcohol attack on his throat. The sound of the casino smothered your audio senses like an old quilt, chiming bells crying for your money.

On a dozen flat screens above him, Toad simultaneously watched a horserace, the Astros playing the Cubs, a NASCAR race. He examined the spread, also known as 'sides,' in the Heat and Bucks game set for later that night in Milwaukee. This type of bet featured a favorite and an underdog. If you took the favorite in the match up you gave points to the other team, which meant you took those points away from your score games end to determine your score versus the other team.

Toad didn't want to place the bet for another hour, his flight wasn't leaving until 3:00 o'clock. One of the pit bosses met Toad at the window. He'd been called over by the ticket writer, a retired pharmacist from Chicago. The pit boss had a head shaped like an egg, slicked back hair, graying at the temples. He managed an entire gambling pit, doing everything from tracking rated players to keeping tabs on who was betting on what. His fingers were thick and clean and he placed his hand on the teller's shoulder, leaning in to hear him talk. He nodded his head a few times before extending his hand to Toad.

"Mr.?" the pit boss said.

"Walker," Toad lied, extending his hand.

"I'm Bill Sheikewitz. Mr. Walker, with any bet in excess of ten thousand dollars, we have to handle a little differently. Mr. Taylor said you'd like to place a bet of one-hundred thousand dollars on an NBA game, is that right?"

Toad held up a small black bag a little larger than a shaving kit.

"That is right," he said.

The pit boss opened the gate and invited Toad inside. They walked to a small room about the size of a bank vault. The pit boss sat and urged Toad to take the seat across from him. Toad opened the bag.

"Rather large bet for a single basketball game," he said. "I'm going to assume it's all on the up and up."

Toad nodded and cracked a small smile. "Unadulterated," Toad said, broadening his smile.

Sheikewitz carefully laid the stacks of money on the table, his fingers caressed the cash. He turned his attention to a laptop computer on the desk.

"Let's see," he said. "Which game?"

"Heat and Bucks, tonight."

"Tonight," the pit boss repeated. He moved the cursor on the computer.

"In Milwaukee," the pit boss said, mostly to himself. "Miami is on the road, in Milwaukee, favored by 6½," he said. "You want Milwaukee?"

"Over under is 199 points, right?" Toad said.

He rapped on the keyboard, little thuds and clicks from his fingertips. He was fast, typing maybe 100 words a minute. Large fingers weren't meant to move that quickly, Toad thought.

"Done," the pit boss said. "That would be a hell of a payout."

"Let's hope so," Toad said.

The pit boss handed Toad a chit.

"Good luck," the pit boss said, shaking Toad's hand, an unctuous laugh, "but not too much."

"Right," Toad said, turning for the door. On his way out of the casino, returning to the chirping dings of machines, Toad placed a $200 dollar bet red on a roulette table. It came up black, a loser. It was a bad omen and worse, Toad didn't have enough money in his pocket to cover the cab ride, so he hitched.

### Chapter Thirty-Six

"So now I'm praying for the end of time, so hurry up man arrive."

My back felt like it had been hit with a two-by-four and I could barely get out of bed. I swear to god if there was a fire in the house I couldn't have gotten out. It took me twenty minutes before my feet hit the carpet. Free of pain for as long as I could remember, this was foreign territory. My shoulder felt like the bones were grating against each other, like my arm was being cut off with a rusty hacksaw. Taking very small steps I tried to make it to door, my feet moving six inches at a time. A vampire with a malady like this couldn't expect to survive long.

"You look like you've got scoliosis," Griffin said, looking up from the pinball machine. It was 9:00 a.m. and he was smashing his pelvis into the body of the game, attempting to coerce the ball towards the paddles.

"Damn," he said, slamming the playfield glass, almost putting his palm through.

Izzy was on the couch, a Bloody Mary in her hand and a joint hanging from her lips, breakfast fit for a rock star.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," I said, shuffling to the couch.

"I'm nauseous. Feel like I'm pregnant," Izzy said.

"You been pregnant?" I asked. "If you are, the joint and booze are a nice touch."

"I'm not, but I hear things. I've known women who were pregnant and they say they want to puke all the time. My girlfriend, once upon a time, puked all the time and knew she was having a girl. Bitch was right. On top of all that, I think I've got diarrhea," Izzy continued.

"Jesus," I said. "Do you have to share every single thing?"

"If anybody cares, I feel like shit too," Griffin said, pushing into the pinball machine.

"Can't be," I said. "We don't get sick. One of our perks."

Toad slithered out of the kitchen, held a cold cloth to his forehead. "This is not normal," he said.

"Yeah," Griffin said, "Izzy said she has restless bowel syndrome so we're in for a long day."

"Shut up," Izzy said.

I removed the rubber band from the rolled newspaper. The headline caught my attention.

"You see this?" I dropped the USA Today on the coffee table. The story at the top of the paper was about the Amtrak incident.

"Twenty-two poor bastards bit the big one," I said. "A gas attack. So that's what that asshole was up to."

"Who?" Griffin said.

"That Russian asshole. He was the guy that busted the packets. I watched him do it."

"You just let him?" Izzy said.

"What the hell was I going to do?"

Toad grabbed the sports section and propped his legs on the coffee table. "Bucks beat the heat," he smiled."

"You went to that game," Izzy said.

"Yeah, I just like reading about it."

Toad wore a Dallas Mavericks NBA Championship jersey and shorts. His hairy arms and chest made him look like a Yeti.

"That's great," Izzy said. "I feel like I was gang-raped by a band of gorillas and you're talking baseball."

"Come to think of it, I didn't sleep so well myself," Toad said. He snatched the remote and flicked on the Today Show.

"In Wisconsin," Anne Curry said on the television, "twenty-three dead and hundreds still in serious condition as the result of a reported terrorist attack on an Amtrak train from Chicago to Milwaukee. Nobody has claimed responsibility and preliminary reports say the chemical Sarin was the chemical used in the attack."

"It was that Russian-fucker," I screamed at the television.

"So, that's what it was," Izzy said, pinching a blueberry scone and stuffing the morsel into her mouth. "What is Sarin?"

"I don't have a clue," Griffin said.

"Use that fancy phone of yours," Toad said. "Google it."

I try to keep things calm, no sense in everybody losing their head.

"It's nothing to get worked up about," I said.

Toad put down his paper and looked at me.

"To tell you the truth I don't think you're as concerned as you should be. You're the de-facto leader of this outfit, you should be the one who wants to investigate."

"We are. I will. First things first," I said, sipping my coffee. "If something is wrong with us it'll still be wrong when I finish my coffee."

"Why do you waste your time with caffeine," Izzy said, inhaling about a gram off the table.

"Fine," I said. "We're at DEFCON 2, just to be on the safe side. Does that make you feel better? Now we're all jazzed about this thing, which could turn out to be nothing, probably will be nothing."

"We're all grateful to you, wise one," Izzy said. She was on Google's start page on her phone. "What the hell?" she said. "You know, I had a little vertigo this morning but didn't think much of it. Say vertigo is a symptom of this Sarin gas."

"What is it?" I said.

"Say's here it's a colorless, odorless liquid, used as a chemical weapon owing to its extreme potency as a nerve agent," Izzy continued. "It has been classified as a weapon of mass destruction in UN Resolution 687."

"How pleasant," I said.

"Let me see that," Griffin said, and Izzy handed him her phone.

"Production and stockpiling of Sarin is outlawed by the Chemical Weapons Convention of 1993. Griffin said, "where it is classified as a schedule-one substance."

"Vertigo," Izzy said. "I like the way that sounds."

She hustled over to the piano and played randomly. I rubbed my shoulder, closed my eyes and drifted away.

"I've got to feed tonight," I said. "Feel like I'm going to need a walker."

"We'll just track down some old fossils," Toad said, smiling.

"They taste like mothballs," I said.

"Say's here even vapors can get you. If you don't get treated you can suffer permanent neurological damage. Even at very low concentrations, Sarin can be fatal," Griffin read on. "Death may follow in one minute after direct ingestion of a lethal dose. Holy shit. It's five-hundred times more toxic than cyanide."

"That's it. I'm not paying my credit card bill if I'm dying." Izzy said. She was working on a melody for what may be a new song.

"We're in pain, we're not dying," I said. "There's no reason to assume anything major is going to happen. Just take some Tylenol."

Griffin pushed off the arms of the chair, struggling to get up. His torso bent and he reached for his lower back. "My back. God damn."

He appeared to be frozen, not moving at all. Izzy went to him.

"What is it?"

"What does it look like, I can't move."

He was breathing hard, his eyes nailed shut.

"Sit down," Izzy said, trying to guide him to a chair.

"No, stop. The last thing I need is to sit down," Griffin said.

Toad poured a large glass of scotch and took it to Griffin, who drank it all.

"Feels like I've been stabbed. And I have a damn date tonight."

"I've got something in my medicine cabinet," Izzy said.

"A date? You're kidding," I said. "Cancel it. Are you crazy?"

"No, don't want to."

"You can barely stand. Use your head."

"This one is special."

"Yeah," Toad said. "She's going to think you're a great catch when you stand there like the Tin Man all froze up."

### Chapter Thirty-Seven

"Lay me down in sheets of linen, you has a busy day today."

"Is this stupid for a first date?" Griffin said.

Sidney walked around the afterdeck, dragging her fingers on the ship's railing.

"Not if you're an oil tycoon," she said. The boat was a 55-foot yacht, and it rocked slightly because of the small waves kicking off the dock. "I didn't figure you for this kind of thing."

"Really. How did you profile me?"

"A Prius, a 'Coexist' sticker on the bumper. Thought maybe you'd take me to a vegan restaurant and then a poetry reading."

"That was plan B," he said.

With three staterooms and crews quarters, the Hampton 68 was as subtle as a wart on a supermodel's face. "Are you trying to impress me?" Sidney leaned on the rail and stared at the half-moon over the Summerfest grounds.

"Might help me get in your pants," Griffin said.

"Just might."

Griffin had to fight off a chubby.

"I thought we'd eat here," Griffin said. "I'm not a huge fan of restaurants. I've seen the kitchens."

"Seriously? Oh my god. Really?

He nodded, leaning on the railing. Griffin winced due to the pain in his back and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Are you okay? Sidney asked.

He turned his head away.

"Yeah. Fine."

Griffin shimmied two Vicodin, without the benefit of water.

"What do we do if we go on a second date?" Sidney said. "Rent the space shuttle?"

Money had never been a concern for the clan, but since the double-whammy of the market collapse and Tulio cutting them off, things were different. The boat was for sale so Griffin wanted to enjoy it while he could.

"Selling it soon, anyway."

"That's a shame. What do you call her?"

"The boat?"

"Wait, let me guess," Sidney said. "The Princess? Wait, no, The Star of the Sea?" She laughed immodestly.

"Having a good time at my expense?" Griffin said.

"Yes, thank you."

Griffin poured two glasses of champagne.

"Thank you," Sidney said.

"I thought this a little better than bowling."

"I'm liking it so far."

"I change the name periodically. I am large, I contain multitudes."

"So, what's her name?"

"Verurteilen," Griffin said. "We call her the The Veruteilen."

"What does it mean?" Sidney said.

"I'll tell you when I get to know you better. Want to go inside?"

Below deck Griffin set a nice table, nothing too intimate or gaudy.

"Is this where you take all your first dates," Sidney asked.

"Either this, or I fly them off to my private island," I smiled.

Sidney laughed. "Yeah, right."

"I didn't know what you liked so I prepared a little of everything. We've got fish, steak, lobster, and crab. And if none of those appeal to you, I'll order out."

"Griffin, I'm a vegetarian," she said.

"I thought you might..."

A crooked smile appeared on her face.

"I'm just kidding," she said. "Do I look like a vegetarian? I could eat the ear off a mule."

"Wow, I've never heard it put quite that way," Griffin smiled. "Eloquent, you really have a way with words."

Griffin pulled out her chair before he moved gingerly to his own. He'd read about bulging discs and thought he might have one. That would make two things bulging on his body.

"Are you okay? You look like you're having trouble moving."

"Kind of slipped getting out of the shower in Chicago," he said. "So, what made you want to become a doctor?"

"I didn't think I'd make it as a professional wrestler," she said straight-faced.

"Oh, I don't know," Griffin said. "I could see you in a big mink coat, spray tan and tights."

First dates were nerve-wracking, people always acted cautiously. Griffin didn't like to eat in front of people he didn't know.

"What's your specialty?"

"Genetics. Research mostly."

"Braniac alert," Griffin said.

"Not so," she said, "I wish. It never came as easily for me as my classmates. I had to work harder than anyone. I'm just not that smart."

"I don't have any luck with the cerebral type."

"Maybe your luck will change," Sidney said.

She cocked her ahead to the side and looked like a teenager in the moonlight.

"Why do you go to therapy?" she said.

"Just a garden variety loon," Griffin said. "Business, stress, the usual. How about you? Why do you go?"

"The loon thing, for sure."

"Enough talking," Griffin said. "Let's eat."

He served Sidney some whitefish and garlic potatoes.

"What do you do when you're not, researching?" Griffin asked.

"To relax, you mean?

Griffin nodded.

"Movies mostly. Believe it or not, film was my minor in college.

"Other than seeing a shrink, we've got that in common too. I love movies. I like the Chinese, British films, but if I had to choose a favorite, French."

Sidney sipped her wine.

"Jean De Florette makes me cry every time."

"One of my favorites," Griffin said "Hairdresser's Husband?"

"Yes, brilliant, and so sad. I hope someone cares about me as much as he did."

"I think I've seen most films ever made. It's a lot easier since VHS."

"VHS? Geez, I never even had one of those."

"How old are you?"

"Not that old, I guess."

Griffin stared at Sidney and smiled.

"What?" she said after a minute.

"I think about you all the time," Griffin said. "Probably more than I should."

"Griffin, I like you, very much. I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a while."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"Under normal circumstances, it would be."

"Tell me what's not right?"

Sidney poured a glass herself and drank it all.

"Other than you, everything is not right."

### Chapter Thirty-Eight

"I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive."

Izzy looked pale, lying on the couch, a glass of Alka-Seltzer by her side and a bunch of empty cough drop wrappers on the floor.

"Maybe you are pregnant," I said.

"I have the flu, jerk."

"How would you know what the flu feels like?" I said.

"I've seen the commercials, okay? The one with the big runny nose."

"Do we know anyone?" I said, "someone who can help us?"

Griffin sat at the table with a cup of tea, reading a book on ADD."

"I think I've got this," he said. "I've got the attention span of a gnat."

"I think we should start taking this a little more seriously," Griffin said.

"Where the hell is Pet?" I said.

"Sleeping in," Izzy said.

I looked at my watch.

"It's after two."

I went upstairs and knocked twice on her door."

"Pet? Kiddo, you up?"

I put my ear to the door before knocking again.

"Are you going to sleep all day?"

Hearing nothing, I slowly opened her door, just a few inches.

"I'm coming in, so if you're not decent, don't blame me."

Her bed was fifteen feet from the door and I could see the bottoms of her feet. She was on top of the covers, still in the clothes she wore the day before. I swallowed and felt a knot in my stomach. It felt tight and my blood sugar was dropping. I'd give my right nut for a Snicker's bar.

"Pet?"

She was facing her left side. The last time I felt this way was when my mother took us to visit our father in the hospital. Two days later he was dead.

Pet turned to me, a terrified look on her face. She tried to talk but couldn't. I was so relieved to hear her breathe, I closed my eyes and sighed.

She looked so weak. I couldn't remember how to cry but there were fat tears in my eyes for the first time I could remember. I knew she was dying. Our Pet was dying and there was nothing I could do. I sat on the bed and took her hand.

"You're going to be fine," I said, "don't you worry."

I don't think she heard me. She coughed. I reached for a bottle of water she kept on the side stand. Carefully, I put the bottle to her lips. Pet took a small sip, then started to cough some more, and shake. Slowly, she lowered her head and died while I held her hand.

"Hey," I yelled. "Come up."

When they arrived at my side, I heard Griffin gasp. Izzy sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on Pet's shoulder, tears welled in her eyes.

Pet's skin slowly began to turn blue. I felt like a steel ball had crushed me.

"How can it be?" Izzy said.

We all knew by this point that it was the train and Sarin.

"What makes you think she won't come back?" Toad said. "This isn't supposed to happen."

I breathed deeply. Feeling a little drunk, I wanted to puke.

"There are no indications she's coming back," I said.

"It can't be," Izzy said. "Not my Pet."

I'm not sure what to say. We weren't supposed to die, none of us. We'd grown used to that fact as one of the tenets of what we were, one of the absolutes. This was absurd.

"I don't understand," Griffin said. His head hadn't moved since he sat. "How?"

I had no answer.

"Whatever happened, we all got hit," I said. "That's obvious now."

I touched Pet's sweet face. I till couldn't cry.

"Get some more sheets," I said. "We need to wrap her in some sheets."

We sat for an hour in silence. Toad was getting shit-faced downstairs. He came up for a minute, then went back down.

I was hoping I'd feel Pet's presence in the room, but there was nothing. She'd been gone an hour and I missed her so badly it hurt.

"We need a place to lay her to rest," Izzy said. "We're not going to hand her off to some butcher funeral home. Whatever we do should be personal."

"Anybody know what we should do?" Griffin said.

"We'll bury her," Izzy said. "She always liked the countryside. That would be the place."

"Please don't make me come with," Toad said. "I'm really not up for it."

"It's okay," Griffin said. "You don't have to. We'll handle it."

Griffin carried Pet in his arms, her body and head covered with white sheets.

The Kettle Moraine was forty minutes from downtown Milwaukee. It was created when a couple of huge glaciers collided and it was beautiful, especially in the fall. Tree branches hung over narrow roadways like a golden-yellow covered bridge. We don't speak during the ride, the Range Rover worked its way through the hills, scattering leaves in a swirl in our wake.

Griffin put two shovels in the truck before we left. We had laid Pet in the back seat, positioning her head in Izzy's lap so she wouldn't jostle around. I carried her about a quarter mile into the woods from where we stopped. It was mid-day on Monday and there was nobody around.

When we found a suitable spot, I started to dig. The ground was hard and we tossed rocks into the woods as we went along. We made sure it was deep. I knelt by Pet and pulled away the folds of the sheets to reveal her face. Griffin and Izzy nodded in approval and as gently as I could manage I opened her mouth and set a coin on her tongue, and closed her mouth.

"Safe passage, my lovely," Izzy said.

An hour later we'd smoothed the last of the soil around her grave. I leaned on the top of the shovel, which I'd jammed into the ground.

"Let's not say anything," Griffin said. "It hurts too much and it would never match up to the way we feel."

"I feel the same," Izzy said.

She knelt down and kissed the ground. She took a handful of dirt and put it in her pocket and went to the truck.

I bent to touch her grave and I felt that knot in my stomach. I turned and rushed to the bushes and vomited.

"I'm going to kill that fucker," Griffin said.

My head was spinning, but I knew he was referring to the Russian guy on the train, the terrorist.

"How could our little Pet have died?

We drove in silence, the same manner in which we came.

### Chapter Thirty-Nine

"I found a picture of you. Those were the happiest days of my life."

Griffin and Malcolm decided to spend a couple of days at their house on Lake Delevan. They would go to the cabin to escape the life, maybe fish or take walks, anything to ease the pain from losing Pet.

Griffin winced and grabbed his elbow as he reached for a pillow for his back. They were probably the last people in the nation that still used a turntable. Griffin picked up Beethoven's Rondo of Sonata no. 2, a charming but obscure piece, something he had written when he was young. Carefully, Griffin set the stylist on the spinning vinyl.

There was an old table laden with a dozen bottles of top-shelf liquor next to the refrigerator. Griffin dropped a couple of ice cubes into a large tub glass and poured a generous amount of Grey Goose, four fingers worth. On his lap was a small wooden box and Griffin opened the lid. It was full of dozens of old photographs, some in color and others in black and white. This little box meant more to Griffin than anything else he owned. It was a connection, a link to things he would never experience again, memories.

There was Polaroid's, Kodak prints, black and white photos that looked ancient, the gamut. Some of the pictures had frayed edges, weathered; still others were in pristine condition. Also in the box were rings that belonged to Griffin's mother and grandmother, keys to old houses, ticket stubs from several World Series. It was an image of Griffin's life before he was tapped more than eighty years before.

His eyes froze when he came across a picture of his son, who died more than 80 years before. His son's picture was taken while he sat on the steps of their house, holding a little stick pony and wearing a cowboy hat. Tears streamed down Griffin's cheek. He put his hands to his face and felt the tears, stared at them in amazement. This was the first time he could cry since he was mortal.

He took a long sip from his vodka and held the picture to his heart. With the box of photos still on his lap, Griffin reached for a bottle of Oxycontin on an end table.

Shaking 60 of them into his palm, he downed them five at a time, chasing the pills with the Grey Goose.

# # #

I set my fishing gear by the door and rubbed my shoulder. My fingers hurt from the casting, unbelievable. The fish were on the porch in the cooler, I was way too tired to clean them. My eyesight was failing and I wasn't sure what I caught. It was time to get some glasses.

Thirsty, I looked in the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water and a beer.

I drank the beer first, then the water, I looked for some pretzels. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Griffin, slumped in his chair.

"Motherfucker," I said. What the hell did you do?" My voice cracked, it was weak.

I grabbed Griffin's shirt and started to shake him.

"You son of a bitch! Is this what you want? Is this what you want?"

My emotions were getting the better of me. It was difficult enough to try to keep an entire clan safe, fed, defended. This was the last straw. His arms hung to the side over the arms of the chair. I stuck my index finger down his throat and he puked.

I gritted my teeth and cursed him.

"Is this what you want? Fine die. I don't care. I helped you live and I'll take you out, if that's what you really want."

There was a bottle of something on the table and in my anger I didn't bother to read the label. I tore off the cap. His head was tilted to the side and I pulled it straight and pried his mouth open. He started to come around. A couple of dozen pills fell into my palm and I pressed them to Griffin's mouth, still holding his jaw open.

"C'mon. C'mon, asshole. Here you go. Open your mouth. I've got them right here. I should have helped you die a long time ago, you selfish douche! I should have cut off your head so you would be out of your misery."

With what little energy Griffin had left, he fought me and spit out the pills in violent fashion. He then bent over and puked again, dozens of pills came out and he pushed me back.

"All right! All right! I get it, okay? I get it," he said, his voice hoarse from the vomit.

My muscles were spent and I collapsed back into the chair.

"I don't care anymore," I said. "I'm not going to try to stop you ever again. I just wanted you to know that. Pick those pills up and do it again, seriously. I couldn't let you die without telling you. So go on, do it. You'd be doing me a favor."

"I miss Pet," he said. "I miss my son. I miss everything."

"You're not the only one. You know? The rest of us had families too. We loved people too. What makes you so special, huh? Got your head so far up your ass you think you're the only one who lost. So go ahead, I don't give a damn what you do."

"I'm hanging on and I don't know what for," he said. "People yearn for eternal life and they don't even know what to do on a Sunday afternoon. Like the woman said, you can only drink so much and screw so much."

I can't help but laugh.

"Just because you made me laugh doesn't mean I don't hate your guts."

"C'mon, yes it does. You can't hate me we've been through too much."

I mixed myself a drink and filled Griffin's glass.

"Have you ever thought about us not finding an antidote?" I said.

"What makes you think there is one?" Griffin said.

"Got to be," I said, sitting across from him. "We've got to find something. I'm disintegrating. Pretty soon all that's going to be left of me is a rotten liver."

"My sex drive is nil," Griffin said. "I finally meet someone I like and I'm going to need a crate of Viagra."

"The doctor?" I said.

Griffin nodded.

"I've got to clean this mess up. We have any Top Job?"

"Under the sink," I said. "Do you think she can help us? An antidote, I mean."

Griffin's head was under the sink and he grabbed the cleaner.

"Perhaps," he said. "She doesn't see patients, you know. Plus, we really haven't gotten to the 'I'm a vampire' sharing stage."

"Well, you'd better get there quick."

### Chapter Forty

"I want you to notice when I'm not around."

Griffin needed to clear his head and The Toad invited him to hunt, so it seemed like a good diversion. The Toad drove his '75 Chevy Blazer, rusty with the right rear window blown out, a piece of cardboard and duct tape sealed it up. The guy made well into six figures a year and wouldn't splurge on anything. He grew up in abject poverty and never shook the parsimonious history. His grandfather would smack him in the back of the head when he used too much ketchup.

The muffler rumbled as they drove down National Avenue. The Toad turned into a god-forsaken area where gang-bangers think twice before entering. Toad knew the crack house on the corner, painted aqua-blue with canary yellow window trim, and a busted small air conditioning unit hung from the first floor window. Shingles on the roof were curled like an old man's toes. It was a restaurant or grocery store at one point, a crudely painted metal sign hung over the entrance.

"You've got to be kidding me," Griffin said, looking up at the decrepit building. "You say somebody lives here?"

"I wouldn't say lives," Toad said. "And we're not talking about a regular family. Let's just say they exist."

The area was completely Hispanic. There were those that had jobs tried to live a decent life but were stuck economically. That meant some decent kids were forced to pass by

the crack house on their way to school. Families couldn't earn enough to get out so they had to live next to the dregs of society.

"Haven't steered you wrong before," Toad said.

"Yes you have," Griffin said.

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you," Toad said, kicking in a side door, which was so rotten it didn't require much convincing. He reached for his knee and winced, it was full of fluid.

"I feel like I'm made of straw."

Inside the house the smell was so strong they had to put their hands over their nose, like cops entering a house where a body had been rotting for days.

"Rat piss," Toad said, gagging, his voice muffled from his palm pressed over his lips and nose.

He was right. There was rat crap and human piss was all along the baseboards, rotting fast food on a coffee table. Toad followed Griffin inside, who was covering his face with his shirtsleeve. They walked past the bathroom, which had no toilet, rubbish surrounded the hole where a commode once sat. In the bedroom blood had stained the drywall from some poor bastard who probably overdosed on heroin and his vein spurted out.

"We're doing these people a favor by feeding here," Toad said. "Like cleaning out of a dumpster."

"People have been dying in here," Griffin said. "I can smell it plain as day."

"It's a crack house, people OD. Look at all the crap on the floor," he said kicking a pile of something mushy. "They make hoarders look like neat freaks."

Griffin inhaled deeply.

"Someone's here." Griffin said. "Alive."

Griffin began to hum a Gershwin tune, How About You.

"Give it a rest," Toad said.

"Sorry, I don't know any Metallica."

"Neither do I," Toad said. "Just that you hum like someone with a hairlip."

When the door drifted away on its hinges, Griffin saw three children huddled under the slender arms of an older girl, who was 16 years old, at best. The kids were digging their heads into her sides, hoping to hide themselves, like puppies in their mother's folds. The older girl stared straight at Toad, her eyes wide and nostrils twitching, defiant. She was protecting these kids, probably hers, ready to fight because she was also probably high on crack.

"What you motherfuckers want?" the girl said. "Ain't no shit in here. And anybody that got any shit ain't here now, so get the fuck out. I has a piece you'd be dead already."

Toad pushed his shoulders inside prompting the children to nuzzle closer to the girl. Several piles of dog crap were scattered around the house but no dogs. Plastic bottles, garbage, old toys, a busted air conditioner, McDonald's wrappers on the floor and roaches on the wall, helped round out the décor. Griffin couldn't imagine how people could live like this, even desperate drug addicts.

"My, who is this little firecracker?" Toad said.

"Fuck you, dat's who I am. I'm not playing," the girl said. "Neddie is gonna be back in a minute and he's going to fuck you up."

"I'd like to meet to meet this Neddie," Toad said, moving closer to the girl, pushing a chair with his boot. As far as he was concerned, it was an easy feast. Griffin could see Toad was becoming intoxicated with anticipation. Toad moved in closer, slowly. Griffin grabbed Toad's forearm as the youngest child shrieked. Toad's eyes grew black. He alternately looked at his arm, and back to Griffin's face.

"Who do you think you are?" he hissed, his lips quivering.

Toad was acting on instinct. Once in a 'zone' all bets were off.

"We can find other prey," Griffin said. "We're not monsters. Just because you get some kind of gruesome pleasure doesn't make it right."

Toad, perhaps stung by the criticism, cocked his head back.

"Fuck you," he said.

"I'm serious. You don't need this. You just want this," Griffin pleaded.

"Since when do you, since when does anybody, tell me when to feed? Friend or not, family member or not, you don't see me muddling in your affairs."

"I don't give a shit if you feed off some cracked up asshole, but these kids are here because they've got no place else to go. Uh-uh, not going to happen."

Toad was still furious. After a few moments he shrugged, perhaps thinking Griffin was right, or he figured it wasn't worth destroying the friendship. He stormed out the door, almost ripping it off its hinges. Griffin turned to the children.

"We're leaving. It's okay."

"Go fuck yourself, you mangy motherfucker. Stay around a minute and let

Neddie blast your ass, motherfucker."

"You have no idea how appealing that is," Griffin said.

In the hallway Toad was still fuming.

"Griffin, you don't have the right to tell me what to do. I have to take gaff from Malcolm, but you and me are equals. With all due respect, I'm not going to be as polite next time." Toad said. "I'll give this a pass one time."

The blast from the shotgun shocked both men. It kicked Toad back a few feet and narrowly missed Griffin. It was Neddie, back from wherever Neddie went.

"Motherfuckers," he screamed, running down the stairs. He blasted again, this time striking Toad square in the back. The buckshot sent Toad into the wall and he fell like a sack of rocks. Neddie came up to The Toad and kicked him in the leg—nothing. He either forgot about Griffin or was too cracked-up to think of anything else. Griffin sunk his jaw into Neddie's back, sharp as a straight blade. Neddie's eyes popped as he dropped the shotgun. Griffin looked up the stairs and saw the girl who had motherfucke'd them a few minutes before. She turned fast and ran, a good thing for her as Griffin was in no mood.

"Let's get out of here," Griffin said, trying to lift Toad's bulbous frame off the ground, nearly bulging a disc in the process.

### Chapter Forty-One

"I always thought our house is haunted, 'cause nobody said boo to me."

In an instant, a flash really, Toad appeared behind me.

"I hate it when you do that," I said. I leaned on the brick wall to support my weight. "Darting up on me like that."

Toad dragged his black boots against the concrete as he went to the wall of the bank. He unzipped and proceeded to pee.

"I piss like an old man," he said.

"Yeah, I'd say you've seen better days."

I was in no mood to compare piss-streams, but mine was questionable as well.

"What are we waiting on?" Toad asked, zipping his fly.

"We?"

Toad motioned his head to a large apartment building across the street, the one I had my eye on.

"You got some action up there, huh? This one got a friend?" Toad smiled. "Flip you for her," Toad said, grinning wide and reaching into his pocket for a coin.

"What makes you think I'd do that? She's mine."

"Fine," Toad said. "But you'd better hope she's not Chinese."

"Why?"

"Because, you'll be hungry in an hour."

Toad sounded like a donkey when he laughed.

The light in the apartment went out.

"What's she doing?" I said.

Toad found some beef jerky in his pocket.

"Maybe she's going out."

He was right. The woman stepped out of the brick four-story building wearing a light leather jacket.

"I've got low blood sugar," I said, "if I don't eat soon, I'll get weird."

"We'll find something," Toad said, let's find some scumbags near the casino, maybe work in a little blackjack."

"No, I want this one."

I'm a bit of a horn-dog so if I can feed off a woman that does something for me, all the better. Also, my strength wasn't what it used to be and younger women, well, they tasted better.

The woman lived on Marshall Street and strode west towards a slew of bars on Water Street, about a mile hike but it was mostly safe. If I wanted to take her down it had to happen before she made it to Water Street where there was a lot of traffic. Once she got into the crowd, it was too late.

"I'll share her if you earn it," I said.

Toad nodded.

"You bet, yeah."

"Run around the engineering school and get a block ahead of her. If she sees your dumb ass on the sidewalk, she'll cut across the parking lot. It's dark there and I can get a good shot at taking her down.

Toad was off like a thief with a purse. He rounded the school and positioned himself a block ahead of the woman. Toad lit a cigarette and invited the burn to snake its way down into his lungs.

The woman slowed as she saw Toad eyeing her from half a block away. Just as I predicted, she turned toward the parking lot. Toad smiled, mission accomplished. I flanked her and positioned myself behind a Minivan. It was an all-day parking lot with a dozen cars and no attendant. Toad followed her, keeping her on a line toward me. Looking over her shoulder for Toad she couldn't see me hiding just a few cars away. This was going to be an easy takedown and I stepped forward into her path. I jumped when I heard the red Honda start behind me. Inside was a college kid and he flicked on his lights and stared at me. I never saw him. By the time I looked back, she was gone.

When we were in our prime, this would not have happened. Since the train our senses had declined. I didn't smell the kid in the car and if this kept up, we were all going to starve.

### Chapter Forty-Two

"We're---so tired of all the darkness in our lives."

I was nursing a bowl of oatmeal with raisins as my stomach couldn't handle much else. I would only eat half of if anyway. Izzy was losing weight and she didn't have any to spare. Her hair was graying and I could see the crow's feet around her eyes, but none of us said anything. She'd been so distraught since Pet's death.

"You already eat like an old man," Griffin said.

I'd forgiven him for the incident at Lake Delevan, but I was serious about what I said. I was done saving him, finished with intervening in his suicide attempts. Since the train, I'm fairly sure he could die. If he wanted to kill himself, I'd be bummed, but I'd let him go. I think he knew that now.

"My stomach has been acting up," I said. "Heart burn or whatever old people get."

I lay on the couch with a cold cloth on my head.

"What's happening to us?" Griffin said.

"I think you know," I replied. "Izzy wants to see a doctor. Toad is indifferent, but I want to see one too. Just to get an idea of what the hell is happening. If there is anything we can do."

Griffin thought for a moment

"Do we just walk in and say, 'hey, I'm a vampire, examine me.' You don't think they will know something's up?"

I drummed my fingers on my stomach.

"Hell, I haven't been to a doctor since I was a kid."

"I've heard they've made significant progress, medically speaking," Griffin said. "I think they still give lollipops."

"Did you get a chance to talk with your girlfriend, Sidney is it?"

"No, I told you she's not that kind of doctor."

"They're all that kind of doctor. They're all trained the same way."

"She's not a general practitioner, Sidney is a researcher."

I moved to my side.

"You think we need a specialist. You think any one doctor knows more about our physiology than another. Christ, they're all the same to us. They take a pulse, stick a thermometer up your ass. A doctor is a doctor."

"What are you expecting them to tell us?" Griffin said. "Our heart beats twice as fast as humans, our skin is all messed up and god knows what they'll see in our eyes."

"Are you just willing to lay here and die?" I said. "That's where we're heading. I give us a couple of weeks, tops."

"Maybe one of us can go, see what happens."

"It might as well be me," I said. "You're a hypochondriac. He'd find a hundred things wrong with you, as far as you're concerned. In the meantime, ask Sidney. If she cares for you at all, she'll want to help."

### Chapter Forty-Three

"And the sound that I'm hearing is only the sound, the low spark of high-heeled boys."

Dr. Cower worked his fingers along my shoulder blades then up my spine. I wore one of those patient paper-thin things that fit foolishly. My ass hung out the back, it was humiliating.

"We couldn't find any records of previous doctor visits," Dr. Cower said. He smelled of Irish Spring soap and mint gum to mask his halitosis. His full head of gray hair was parted to the side and he was a doppelganger for Marcus Welby.

"I feel like an idiot in this thing," I said. I pinch the paper-thin fabric that passed for a robe. "And if you think you're sticking your finger up my ass, you've got another thing coming."

"I don't think that's necessary," he said. "How old are you?"

"Forty," I said quickly.

"Really?" he said. "Your skin is pretty soft for forty. Seeing some other things I wouldn't call normal. I can't put my finger on it."

"You've put it everywhere else," Griffin chuckled.

"I'll need some tests. How long have you had the pain you described?"

"Well, a lot of it has come on suddenly."

He moved a stethoscope around my chest.

"Breath deep for me."

I did.

"You look trim, fit, but your heart doesn't sound right."

Dr. Cower scribbled notes on my chart.

"Something troubling you?" I said.

The doctor answered quickly.

He set his pen on the table. "I'm embarrassed to say I'm not sure why I'm puzzled. I'm seeing some anomalies. I'd like to get a little blood work, if that's okay with you; if you have some time."

"Blood work," I said. "That won't be possible."

"Why not? It's painless."

"I'm not worried about the pain," I lied. "Can't you just make some general diagnosis? Don't you have enough to go by with what you've already got?

"That's the thing. I don't. I can't even trust what I'm finding, that's how puzzled I am."

I rip off the gown and draped it on the chair, standing in my vampire birthday suit. I took my shirt from the hook and buttoned it slowly, my fingers swollen with arthritis.

"Not today with the blood work, too many things to take care of."

"I'd really like to get a look," Dr. Cower said, he had compassion in his voice.

"I'll see what I can do."

"From what I can tell I think there is some reason for concern, but I hate to say that without more information. That's just the way it should be. I don't want to tell you anything until I know more."

"Does anything suggest I was exposed to something, maybe something toxic?"

Dr. Cower pursed his lips.

"Sure, I suppose. We're you exposed?"

"Yes. Sarin gas."

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry. We're you on that train?"

I nodded.

"That would explain a lot. Then again, you shouldn't even be alive. It works fast, so if you were exposed to a lethal dose, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"There's nothing you can do? I mean, on a precautionary level?"

"Not without more tests. I'm sure you can understand. If you're worried about your test results, anything I find is confidential. So, if you had, say, HIV, nobody would know."

I had sex with thousands of women and I never caught a dose of anything, I was the Wilt Chamberlain of the vampire world.

"Doctor, it's nothing like that, trust me. Can't you prescribe something? What would you do if you knew for fact I is suffering from Sarin? Would things be different?

"Again, I don't know. I'm sorry."

I walked to my car and it was drizzling so I pulled up my collar. What appeared to be an Army veteran sat on the sidewalk, grimy and defeated. At the same time he seemed accepting of the fact he had nothing and few prospects. He didn't ask me for anything and acknowledged my presence with a nod, more than most people bother to do. I probably walked past a guy like him a thousand times and felt nothing. I fished into my pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. I couldn't afford it but what the hell.

"Thanks for your service," I said as I pressed the bill in his palm.

"Thank you," he said, "thanks so much."

At that moment I guess I truly did care about life. Not just my life, as the man said, but anybody's life; a bad philosophy for a vampire.

### Chapter Forty-Four

"Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes nothing remains quite the same."

I vomited four times. A disgusting experience, and I couldn't remember the last time I blew chunks.

"Son of a bitch," I moaned. I grabbed a monogrammed towel from the rack and rubbed my mouth. The bathroom smelled like Parmesan cheese and vinegar. I stared at myself in the mirror and didn't like what I saw. The cold water felt good on my face and I cupped some into my mouth and rinsed, then gargled with Scope. My body was giving in and I imagined how a terminal patient might feel. I was bleeding from everywhere; gums, kidneys, ass and sinuses. A week ago migraines set in that required packing in ice to relieve the pain, a towel wrapped around my head. My joints had turned to jelly, and worst of all my muscles went soft, no matter how hard I worked them. We were all suffering and each dealt with it in their own distinct manner.

I reached deep into my mouth and put some pressure on a molar and it wiggled. I pulled lightly and it came out easily. I examined the tooth between my thumb and index finger. Toad was in the living room watching Sports Center, Izzy was on the floor doing her toenails. The anchors talked about a bench-clearing brawl after a Cardinal pitcher beaned the Chicago third baseman.

"That is blatant, could kill the guy," Toad said.

I held up the tooth.

"I'm falling apart," I said. "Check this out."

"What the hell is that?" Izzy said.

"A tooth," I said. "A god-damned molar."

I depressed the lever of the garbage can and watched the tooth land on a clump of coffee grounds.

"Looks like the beginning of the end," Izzy said, prying two toes apart, applying a cherry-red polish to her nails.

Toad watched the tooth fall into the can then turned back to the television.

"Thing almost jumped out of my mouth on its own," I said.

"You want, a memorial service?" Izzy said, still staring at her toes, "tooth fairy maybe?"

The screen flashed to a commercial, Toad hated commercials.

"Selling more erection medicine."

"I think we're glossing over something here," I said. "I'm losing body parts."

"Should we make out some kind of will or something?" Toad said, intending it to sound sarcastic.

The conversation struck me as humorous and absurd. It seemed only a short time ago we were rulers of our domain. We were all strong, arrogant and afraid of nothing. It's amazing what a little terrorist attack can do to your life.

"I hadn't thought of that," I said, "guess it wouldn't hurt. Hope we don't have to use them."

"I wouldn't know who to leave anything to," Toad said. "Don't' have much left anyway."

"I'd like to leave my Japanese stuff to someone who would appreciate it," I said. Izzy closed the cap on her nail polish.

"I'm going to leave my underwear to the Smithsonian."

Sometimes it was just as well to ignore what Izzy said. This was one of those times.

### Chapter Forty-Five

"Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now."

I dipped my fingers in the holy water just past the first knuckle. I was certain it would have boiled, but it didn't. I looked at the magnificent structure and thought of the Irish laborers who busted their tails and made their modest donations to make St. Patrick Parish a reality. I opened the door to the confessional with my sleeve, the thought of having dirty hands or touching filthy things made me ill, church or no church. The way we were catching viruses lately I wasn't about to take any chances.

I heard the priest slide the little door between the cubicles as I dropped to my knees. "It's been, well, a hell of a long time since my last confession," I said. In truth, I'd never made one, but I thought that was what he'd want to hear.

"Go ahead," the priest said. I detected a Hispanic accent and I smelled inexpensive cologne. Feeling oddly comfortable I continued.

"I'm not a Catholic, Father. Is that okay?"

"I don't have a problem with that. If you haven't done this in a while, I can assure you things have changed a bit, at least the way I conduct confession."

"I was a Catholic at one point, but that feels like a million years ago. Not exactly a million, but it was a long time ago. I'm very rusty."

"Why don't you come to my office, we can talk there. Confession is over anyway and you might feel more comfortable."

I sat in front of a large metal desk, my feet flat on the floor as though I were in fourth grade. It was a simple office with dated carpeting and it smelled like coffee and pipe tobacco. There was a large fireplace that hadn't been lit in years. Not a log in sight.

"My name is Frank," Frank Moreno," he said, and poured two mugs of coffee.

"Malcolm," I said.

He wore a light black jacket and it felt like the heat hadn't been turned on since Winston Churchill had his first drink. The traditional black shirt was accented by the white collar, which you would expect from a priest. The man's gray mustache was extremely thick and curved slowly down over his top lip and around the sides of his mouth. He looked like a Latino walrus.

The priest handed me a mug of coffee and it felt good in my hands.

"Not the best," he said. "But it will do in a pinch. Good to the last drop, they say." Father Moreno sat in his chair and scooted the legs towards his desk. "The only thing I care about is what you need to talk about. Don't concern yourself with protocol or how we did things when you were a kid. I figure you need to talk about something or you wouldn't be here."

Father Moreno reached behind his desk to a bookrack and he slid a book across to me.

"The Bible," I said.

"Never know when it might come in handy," he said.

"I think I'm going to wait for the movie," I smile.

I sipped my coffee and rested the mug on my thigh.

"I'm not looking for absolution or forgiveness. That ship sailed a long time ago. But something happened recently which has caused me to at least look at some things that used to matter to me."

Father Moreno was kind and listened, he didn't strain to fill voids in the conversation.

"I'm not going to go into the lousy things I've done," I said, "we'd be here all day,"

For whatever reason, I faked a laugh.

"Whatever feels right," he said.

Father Moreno sat patiently and smiled, like he knew something I didn't.

"I don't know if there is a god, or what he'd want to do with me, but I know one thing for certain—he's deserted me if he is there."

He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Father Moreno looked as though he had something enlightening to say. Ten seconds passed before he spoke.

"I have to ask. Could it be you deserted him?"

"I don't know."

He shrugged softly.

"Keep going."

"Father, if you've done something wrong, but it isn't all your own doing, do you think you're looked at differently? By a god, I mean."

"What do you mean, not your doing?"

"In a literal sense, I'm talking about some external force or pressure causing you to do something."

"If you're saying you push somebody off a cliff because someone has a gun against your head and you were dead if you didn't, there's an extenuating circumstance there."

"So it's not all your fault then?"

"These are some very vague examples. I need something more concrete.

He was right. The coffee was lousy, and I took another sip to be polite.

"There's an expression I like," Father Moreno said. "Life is about choices. Make good choices."

"I do a lot of good things," I said, "I take care of my family. Try to protect them, teach them. But in that leadership role I've had to make some tough choices. Choices I'm sure you couldn't understand."

"So, are you asking my help with permission to keep doing something you think is wrong? Because that I cannot do"

"Okay, what about this. What if you die if you don't make that choice? You have to do that questionable thing or you won't be anymore. Does that make sense?"

"Maybe you have to ask yourself if that thing you're preserving is worth it. The way I see it, you're giving up everything you are to satisfy whatever it is."

"Do you mean it's better to be dead than do something you know is wrong?"

"You're the one who needs to ask yourself," he said. "I'm not the one living in conflict."

I stared into his eyes. There were a few things guaranteed to set me off and someone I believed to be supercilious was at the top of my list.

"But you have your own troubles, right?"

"Of course, we all have our struggles," he said ambiguously.

"You've been trying to beat an addiction. Am I right?"

The kindness drained from Father Moreno's face.

"Perhaps, yes."

"You're a heroin addict. That's it, isn't it?"

"What is this?"

"This is nothing. This is life. Your life and mine."

"I know who I am. I've offered my problems to god. That's between him and me. Do you have the balls to face your problem?"

"Why does he want your problems? And regarding my balls, I'm looking for them. Really I am."

Standing, I placed my lousy coffee on his desk. From my jacket pocket I took out a sizeable baggie of cocaine and placed it on his desk.

"Let's see how you do with that," I said. "See if your god will protect you from yourself."

I picked up the bible and tossed it into the trashcan. Father Moreno was staring at the baggie as I left.

### Chapter Forty-Six

"Money, it's a hit, don't give me that do goody-good bullshit."

The detective insisted we meet outside the station, which was fine with me because most police stations smell like bologna and inmate piss. We had a friend with the Milwaukee Police Department who gave, or sold information. Ed Monogue was a thirty-year veteran of the force and a decorated officer, at least that was what he told us. He was close to sixty, completely bald except for stubble over his ears and a complexion that must have made his mother weep. We kept him on a retainer, like a lawyer. Although we didn't use him often, he was worth every penny when he came through. Even as a crook he had more integrity than the majority of lawyers. He kept us up to speed with DEA movement, as well as the street-talk as to people who might threaten our territory. I'm sure he made more with us than he did on salary as a public servant.

Monogue only gave us information that didn't directly affect a case he was working on, peripheral information. The man had some scruples, which I respected. At the same time he operated on the wrong side of the law, which meant he wasn't an Eagle Scout. As long as he wasn't directly involved with the case, he didn't ask questions.

He met us at a coffee shop on Downer Avenue. It was a comfortable place filled with an uncoordinated array of couches, chairs and an abundance of incense. The kid behind the counter had dreadlocks and wore a black T-shirt. The dreadlocks told you everything you'd ever need to know about him.

Toad and I brought our coffee to a corner table where the detective was nursing an extra large latte. The foam from the drink coated his upper lip, which he retrieved like a lizard with his tongue. He had a porno star moustache, thin and curved around the corners of his lips, the only thing missing was the bow-chikka-wow-wow music. He got up and shook our hands.

"Guys?" Monogue said.

"Hey, Detective," I said. "What have you got?"

He didn't quite sit in a chair. Instead, he left his ass about four inches above the seat and let himself fall, his muscle tone betraying him. We were alone in the shop except for a few coeds near the entrance.

"A friend of mine said they were going to take over surveillance on a house for the FBI, just long enough for them to get some lunch. It's a house on Maryland, one of those split-level students live in. Dump, but cheap."

Monogue just described every house within four square miles of the university. He blew across the top of his latte, taking a small sip.

"Anyway," he said, "we think it's your guy from the train. Would you know him if you saw him?"

He didn't know much about us, except for the fact that when he gave us information, it didn't end well for the person he told us about.

"He's keeping a low profile, but he's stupid. Goes out for food, to the liquor store. My guess is he's waiting for some kind of direction. Nobody has taken responsibility for the attack, which I find weird."

He picked at a bran muffin. He was suspicious of anything that was supposed to be good for you, anything without chocolate chips.

"Address?" I said.

"4354 Maryland. Upstairs. Like I said, the FBI has had him under surveillance."

Toad pulled a nose hair.

"How are we going to get in?"

"How should I know?" Monogue said, giving Toad a nasty look.

I slid a thick envelope towards him and he quickly snared it and put it in his jacket pocket.

"I don't care what happens to this guy," the detective said. I had a friend on that train."

"So did we," I said.

"Should I assume he's not going to see a trial?"

"The taxpayers will save a few bucks," Toad said.

"Anybody that would do something like that doesn't deserve a trial," Monogue said. He looked into Toad's eyes. "By the way, anybody tell you that you look like hell? What the hell is going on with you guys?"

"Maybe you should get some new glasses," I said. "We're fine."

"If you guys are going to move, do it fast. I don't want any heat from the FBI on me."

"I completely understand," I said. "Survival of the fittest. And this motherfucker today—he's unfit."

### Chapter Forty-Seven

"Ooooh, that smell. Can't you smell that smell."

"They all look the same," I said, turning left on Maryland. The entire block was made up of houses built in the 50s, most of them cut from the same mold.

"They're all Archie Bunker houses," Toad said.

Toad was with me because he was a better backup than Griffin. And I didn't want to hear Griffin moan about everything. When you're in a knife fight, you bring somebody who was good with a knife, so to speak.

"Here," Toad said, pointing to the address.

There was a Milwaukee squad car facing us with two cops who discretely nodded, then went back to their newspapers.

We parked a half a block away because of the student's cars. Toad walked ahead of me, doubling back to the address. It was a banged up duplex. Eight steps down from the stairs in the middle of the porch, railings headed each direction for about twelve feet. It was painted a sour-beige and was chipping, and it made the house seem like a two-story leper. The gable at the top of the house had endured what appeared to be a small fire. A lick of charred wood reached from the window to the blistering shingles. The landlord probably figured he didn't have to fix anything, so he didn't.

The stairs creaked as we ascended toward the front door. Round stains imprinted on the wood from hundreds of kegs of beer, names were carved into the wood with a penknife, graffiti adorned the walls. Scuffmarks and small holes blemished the door, probably a drunken friend kicked it, hoping to be let in on a frosty Wisconsin night.

I peered into the front window. Inside there was worn furniture, books, an eclectic array of lamps and tables, on one of the tables was a bong half filled with putrid water. Whoever lived here was either asleep or at school, I figured. I tried the handle and the door was locked. Just three or four feet separated the houses and in some areas we had to turn to our sides to walk toward the backyard, such as it was; a patch of ground about 20x20, comprised mainly of dirt with a couple of patches of grass, like Charlie Brown's head.

The landlord recently built a staircase to the second floor, a mandate from the fire department. The wood was treated pine and being new, was in great contrast to the decaying skin on the house. The steps were solid and didn't creak.

When we reached the top, I looked in the window. That was when I saw the Russian- fucker. He was lying on a stained eight-foot couch, his legs on the arm, and his head lay on three yellowish pillows. Picking up a bottle of Mountain Dew, he drank as he watched television.

"I don't see anyone else," Toad said.

"Doesn't matter," I reply.

"What if there is someone else in there? Do we hold back?"

"No snowflake ever falls in the wrong place," I said. "You know what happens. Kill them."

I unload on the door with my foot, the glass above the wood shattered. Russian-fucker shot up like he had been awakened by a nightmare. He looked around like you do when you open your eyes in the middle of the night in pitch black. Reaching frantically like Helen Keller in a cave, he felt the air in front of him. I recognized him from the train; he wore the same shirt. I wasn't as fast as I was, but I was still accurate.

There was no discussion, like you see in the movies, no toying with the soon to be victim, for your own perverse pleasure. I tore into his chest like a boar with a double-edged Super Blue in my mouth. I'd never felt such anger in my life. I felt the crunching of the ribs and his blood and muscle was forced through my teeth, and I liked it.

Toad searched the apartment for anyone who might have been hiding. He checked closets, under beds. I continued to rip apart Russian-fucker. It would be difficult to describe how much I'd mutilated his body. Toad didn't find anybody, just unmade beds, and condoms on the bedside tables, beer cans and a sink full of moldy dishes. When Toad came back to the living room I was sitting in a chair near the couch and felt like I'd run a marathon. I had blood all over my chest, legs and arms.

The couch cushions were saturated, a layer of blood and guts that looked like brain matter covered the fabric. I didn't know what happened to his head or if it still resembled a human skull, but I didn't care.

"I wish there were more of him to destroy," I said flatly.

"C'mon," Toad said, helping me out of the chair.

If what Monogue told us was true, and so far he had been right on the money, the cops would be showing up to discover what was left of this Russian piece of waste. Now I had to get to the car without being noticed. I was a man who looked like he was dipped in carmine pudding.

### Chapter Forty-Eight

"Black hole sun, won't you come, and wash away the rain."

The apartment was impressive, albeit slightly faded example of a turn of the 20th century building, gothic windows, and arches streamed with ivy. From a second story window a dim light could be seen from the street, a slender figure prepared for bed. Izzy surveyed the block and was confident nobody could see her. She leaped onto the ledge and began to scale the corner of the building, clasped the bricks on each edge like a lizard. She looked in the window.

Turning to the door the young woman removed her robe and tossed it on the end of the bed, wearing only a navy t-shirt with UW-Milwaukee printed on the front. She sat at a desk and checked email. Her body was flawless with the exception of a little cellulite on the back of her thighs, just a smidge, but nothing that would get her thrown out of bed.

"This is a feed, this is a feed," Izzy thought, eradicating all lustful thoughts from her head. She noticed the tramp stamp above the girl's ass. As far as tattoos went, it was relatively un-slutty, the yin-yang symbol about the size of a fifty-cent piece. Climbing into bed, she picked up her Kindle and began to read. Izzy studied the woman, watched as she scanned the pages, a finger lightly caressed her throat. She was a third of the way into a book. It was a warm night and the window was open a crack. Izzy used her index finger to effortlessly lift the window to allow her to pass through.

The woman turned to see Izzy, she froze and looked around the room like an animal trapped in the corner, she searched for an escape. Trying to summon a scream somewhere inside her, nothing came out.

"Relax, please, relax," Izzy said.

Izzy took deliberate steps toward the bed.

"Shhhh," she said.

The young woman was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating and Izzy felt for her. She continued slowly toward the bed and noticed an engagement ring on the woman's finger. Izzy was lost in thought because she didn't hear the door swing open. Spinning around, Izzy was stunned to see a man coming out of the bathroom, wearing only blue uniform pants, a towel hanging over his shoulders. The man was young, maybe twenty-five, with large arms and a silver chain around his neck. His eyes focused on Izzy.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

Izzy shook off a narcotic-like trance.

The man instinctively looked to a chair next to the door, his towel fell to the floor. On the chair lay a beige shirt and a shoulder holster with a Glock 9mm.

"A cop's gun with a bunch of rounds," Izzy thought. She was close, he was a security guard.

He lunged for the gun, stripping it out of its holster while falling to the ground, in a seamless move, his pubic bone slammed onto the wood floor.

"That was amazing," Izzy said. "Nice move."

He wanted to roll like they did on television, but there wasn't enough room and he smashed his shoulder into a dresser. Raising the pistol he unloaded cluster of bullets. All of them ended up in the wall behind her. Izzy was lucky he was a rent-a-cop and not a real one and couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a bullet.

Izzy rose and clasped her hands around the cop's throat. His eyes nearly burst out of his head and the girl was in the throes of round two of her terror. The force of Izzy's jaw ripping open caused deep lacerations on each side of her mouth, the cartilage in her face was cracking. It wasn't pretty but it was indeed effective. Izzy threw her head back and like the release of a mousetrap, her jaw plowed into the cop's neck, deep and ferocious. This was a self-defense attack, with the sole intention of killing and she nearly ripped his head off his shoulders. The woman stared at Izzy. If there was a place deeper than deep shock, this poor girl was there. With a blank stare, a generous portion of her fiancés blood on her chest, she was in a world of hurt. If she had thought about screaming, it wasn't going to happen. Whatever color she had in her face ran out her toes, onto the sheets and hid under the bed.

She was in a dilemma. Neighbors must have heard the gunshots, she thought. When the young woman snapped out of shock, she might be able to describe Izzy. It was not good business to leave a witness in a botched feeding. After waiting ten minutes, listening for sirens or knocks on the door, Izzy figured she was in the clear and began to feed on the young woman. She gently pulled the covers off the woman's torso, who was basically catatonic. Izzy sunk her teeth just under the woman's left breast. The woman's eyes rolled back in her head and her body shook.

Quietly, she opened the front door to the apartment, peered into the hallway to see if anyone had heard the scuffle. Satisfied there was nobody, she returned to the bedroom and began rifling through drawers, taking whatever she could get her hands on, like the Grinch on Christmas. She was an original; a kleptomaniac vampire. Izzy reached into the security guard's pants and took his wallet and ripped his gold chain from his neck.

"I'm a lousy common thief," she said to herself. She was right about the thief part, but she sure as hell wasn't common. At the door, Izzy looked toward the bedroom, envisioning the beautiful future the woman might have had, vaguely wishing it could have turned out differently.

That's when she heard the baby cry. Her jaw fell open...again.

She opened the door at the end of the hall and saw a six-month old baby in the crib, dressed in his little Green Bay Packer pajamas.

"Fuck me," she said.

Delicately lifting the baby out of the crib, their eyes met. Izzy was amazed how the baby had regained his composure.

"You should be scared," Izzy whispered.

The baby felt like it belonged in her arms, right. She smelled the top of the baby's head and smiled at the combination of baby powder and that indescribable baby smell.

# # #

St. Patrick Parish was four blocks from the apartment. She placed the baby on the steps in the front of the rectory and rang the bell, figuring someone had to be in there at this time of the night.

"Where the fuck else would a priest or nun be at this hour?" she said to herself.

If she had to leave the baby on the steps, she hoped a wino didn't stumble upon it before someone from the church found him.

Izzy turned and walked to the curb. She heard the screen door open and stopped.

"Hello?" It was Father Moreno. He looked down to see the baby in a cardboard box, wrapped in a blanket.

"Oh my," he said, he reached to pick up the baby. "This yours?" he said, looking at Izzy.

"No," she said. "Found it on the corner. Some crack-head must have left it there."

Father Moreno inspected the blanket and realized this baby didn't belong to a crack-head, it was very high end, probably $150 dollars. He knew she was full of it.

"You just going to leave it?" he said. "We can't take the baby. This isn't like t-v."

Izzy backed away and turned.

"I can't help you," she said. "Call the police, but it's not mine. I just wanted to do the right thing."

Izzy was out of sight in a few moments. The priest caressed the baby's face with his index finger.

"Sorry you have to be in such a nutty world," Father Moreno said, but welcome just the same."

### Chapter Forty-Nine

"Hey nineteen, no we can't dance together."

Downer Avenue was about as trendy as it got in Milwaukee. An art deco theater, a few boutiques, and our business garage were just up the block. I sat on a park bench munching on popcorn I'd purchased at a kiosk on the corner. I pinched a cigar from my shirt pocket.

"Those will kill you," Izzy said.

I lit my cigar and exhaled.

"I started smoking when they said it was good for you," I said.

Izzy fired up a joint and held the smoke. She sounded like a cat coughing up a fur ball.

"Those things will kill you," I said.

"See, you're wrong," Izzy said, "this is good for you."

"Ah, medicinal purposes, right?"

Busses passed and belched diesel filth, which engulfed an old lady with her shopping bags. The temperature was in the high 70s, a beautiful night. I smelled prey. Everything started to move in slow motion, and our eyes became sharper, like you were wearing military night goggles and you saw the heat emanating from the bodies. Pretty cool.

"What? I don't smell anything." Izzy said.

I flicked my cigar to the cement and stepped on the butt, a waste. I started to walk toward our prey, Izzy followed.

"Tulio's never going to be happy until he's got it all, and that includes what we built here," I said.

"I know."

We jaywalked across the street.

"He's never been anything but bad news for me, us. Someone or something had better take him out."

"My vote is for a meteor," Izzy said.

I really needed to feed but I was feeling woozy. I zeroed in on the two young women I'd sensed a few minutes before. We walked into the alley next to the gyro place. I presumed the girls were going to smoke a joint, ecstasy, or whatever kids were doing. I was glad they were young, I didn't like to feed on withered flesh—old people were slower, which was a benefit these days for me, but youth was still preferable. As the man said, there is no aphrodisiac like innocence.

"Aren't you hot in leather pants," I asked Izzy as she passed ahead of me.

"Nope. I hope they're not shooting heroin," Izzy said. "Gives me a headache."

"I wouldn't mind," I said. "Dull some of the ache. The Who had it right, hope I die before I get old."

"I don't think that's possible at this point. You're already way old."

I'd finally picked up some cool cross-trainers. Since I lost a step in speed I had to compensate any way I could. Nature was cruel, therefore we must be cruel too.

As we suspected, the girls were doing coke. The spoon they were using fell to the cement and the brunette bent to get it and she looked remarkable in her jeans shorts.

Izzy cut in front of me.

"Hi ladies," she said. "Wanna party?"

They couldn't have been more than nineteen but they'd been around, they were college girls, not street scum. They had stamps on their hands from a local club, tramp-stamps on their lower back.

"Can't party in the club," the blonde said. "The bouncer takes your stuff if he catches you. Prick walks right into the girl's bathroom. Got to be illegal, right?"

"Right," Izzy said. She dipped her finger in the small bit of paper that held the girl's blow and tasted.

"God," she said, spitting onto the cement. "Whatever that is, it ain't coke. You girls are doing some baby powder, or worse."

"The guy told me it was," the shorter one said.

Izzy had a baggie in her pocket, probably ten grams.

"Shit," the blonde said.

"You got a straw?" Izzy asked, pouring a bunch on her hand. She turned to me and winked.

The blonde leaned forward and did a bump. Her eyes blasted open.

"Jesus," she said.

"Right?" Izzy asked.

The brunette almost pushed her friend out of the way to get at the blow.

"I think I love you," she said to Izzy, licking her red lips.

"I think I love you too," Izzy said.

They were truly beautiful and I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into them.

"Do you two wanna party?" the shorter one asked, looking at me.

"Hell yeah," I said too quickly.

If we got them to a secure place, their apartment, we'd be happier, safer.

Izzy extended her arm and opened her palm. I lowered my left nostril and took in about half a gram. My eyes widened. This was a good batch, maybe too good. My heart started racing fast, too fast.

"Wow," I said, before blacking out.

### Chapter Fifty

"Unlock my body and move myself to dance, moving warm liquid, flowing blowing glass."

The ambulance broke to a halt in front of the gyro place. Izzy called 911 a moment after Malcolm hit the cement. Two EMT's jumped out, the chubby one lugged the EKG monitor. He moved a little quicker than a loggerhead turtle, his thick thighs rubbed together like two latex pylons.

The taller guy carried an airway bag and the drug box, a yellow oxygen pack hung on his shoulder. He had to make his way to Malcolm through a dozen people that naturally gathered around flashing lights, like buzzards to a porch light.

"Vampires," Taller-guy said.

"Exactly," Izzy said.

"Move back," Taller-guy told the crowd.

A dozen or more people, mostly college kids, clustered and stared at Malcolm on the ground. A couple of students took pictures with their cell phones and laughed.

"How long ago did he go down?" Taller-guy asked.

"Maybe ten minutes," Izzy said.

"We'll do all we can," Fatty said.

"You'll do better than that," Izzy said.

"Did he take anything recently?" Taller-guy asked.

"Cocaine," Izzy said quickly.

"Thanks for being honest," he said.

Taller-guy ripped open Malcolm's shirt, prepped electrode patches, hooked wires. Fatty opened Malcolm's mouth and a puff of gas escaped. Malcolm's EKG rhythm on the monitor was a flat green line. Fatty's training took over, and he injected a long steel laryngoscope down Malcolm's throat, he found a vein and injected epinephrine, followed by atropine, followed by another epinephrine.

"Nope," Fatty said, as he pulled out the paddles. "Clear, clear."

Malcolm's body heaved from the shock, like an eel in a microwave oven. Both EMT''s were sweating hard, beads of Fatty's sweat fell off his nose onto Malcolm's chest. They shocked him again. Two weeks earlier this would have been amusing, Izzy thought. Today it was horrifying.

"Should I hit him again?" Fatty asked.

Malcolm's eyes puzzled the EMT.

"Man, something's off with this guy," Taller-guy said. "But I've got a pulse."

"We've got a heartbeat," Fatty said.

Izzy rode with Malcolm to the hospital.

"You're going to be okay," she said in his ear. "I'm here with you. You're going to be alright. Don't die on us. Please. We need you, Malcolm."

She laid her head on his chest and held his hand.

### Chapter Fifty-One

"I went back to Ohio, but my city was gone."

Hospital staffs, doctors and nurses, had a similar gait, like they'd been to the same walking instructor. A master-gaiter, if you will. They had a purpose in their step and made sure you knew this was their turf, not caring who knew it. Izzy picked up a magazine, then dropped it on the table.

"What the hell is going on here?" Izzy asked. "Where are they? Where's the doctor?"

Griffin appeared with three coffees from the cafeteria, old and burnt. After she took one sip, Izzy dumped hers in the garbage.

"What did they say?" Griffin asked?

"Not much," Izzy said. "Oh," she said like she just remembered, "his heart stopped earlier."

"Jesus," Griffin said.

Izzy scratched her right butt cheek through her leather pants.

"Sweaty," she said.

"I imagine," Griffin said.

"Let's get him out of here, as soon as we can," Izzy said. "He's better off at home."

"They must have gotten some blood," Toad said, his hand in pain and he favored the right to his left. "Going to know more than we want them to."

"Cool, we're going to kill all of them, right?

The doctor pushed through the double doors. Dr. Daniel Ewell was a forty-five year old cardiac surgeon. He was thin and his chin pointed sharply to the floor. An unprofessional five o'clock shadow cut across his cheek. He had pulled an overnight shift, the on-call physician in the hospital.

His pretty nurse stood dutifully by his side. She was in her early twenties with phenomenal breasts. The doctor thought for a moment before speaking, shoving his hands in his shallow coat pockets. He smelled clean.

"Hello," he said.

"Doctor?" Griffin asked.

The doctor looked at Izzy.

"You brought him in?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Well, I rode in with him."

"He's suffered a rather severe heart attack, as I'm sure you've guessed."

"Is he going to be okay?" Izzy asked.

"Well, it's absolutely serious and it was severe. We'll have to see. This type of heart attack is normally fatal. Frankly, I don't know how he came through."

Izzy recoiled when the doctor said 'fatal,' like she smelled rotting pork, her mouth contracted to a grim line. Dr. Ewell wasn't being callous; he was merely in possession of a lousy bedside manner. Doctors sometimes suffered a disconnect with people who didn't speak their language, like a sibling who can't tell a joke to save their life.

"Don't misunderstand me, please. It's just my responsibility to present all the possibilities to you," Dr. Ewell said. It sounded like some sort of apology but lacked conviction. "One patient's physiology handles it different from the next. Hell, he could be fine for all we know."

"How can we help?" Izzy asked.

"Well, diet is going to be critical," Dr. Ewell said, rubbing his chin. "I'll have my nurse give you a list of acceptable foods. Broth and other light dishes, at least until we see some improvement."

The nurse smiled and nodded, as though the doctor's statement needed her validation.

"Did you notice anything, well, odd about him?" Toad asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

The doctor continued.

"Couple of things you'll have to keep in mind when he gets home."

"Wait, he can't come home tonight?" Toad asked.

The doctor looked at Toad like he'd defecated in his pants.

"You're not serious," the doctor said.

"No, I guess I'm not," Toad said.

Malcolm was barely conscious when they unhooked him from the I-V.

"Grab the bag," Izzy said to Toad, "and the metal thing."

Dr. Ewell was signing paperwork at the nurses' station when he saw them carrying Malcolm toward the exit.

"Hey," he said.

Izzy pushed him out of the way.

"It's okay," she said. "My husband's a veterinarian."

### Chapter Fifty-Two

"We share the same biology, regardless of ideology."

You wouldn't believe how easy it was to gain access to players in an NBA arena. Terrorists could plant a bomb under the stands, killing thousands. Kidnappers could take one of the overpaid, overly tall athletes, and escort him out a side door and into a van with darkened windows, real Silence of the Lambs.

Toad slapped a credential together using Photoshop and pasted it on a piece of plastic and affixed it to a lanyard. He knocked on a side door to the Bradley Center and attracted the attention of one of the guards, a retired cop with a red jacket. Toad pointed to his bogus credential.

"Media. Can you let me in here?" Toad asked." I really don't want to walk around to the other side of the building."

The glass door swung open.

"Thanks," Toad said, as the short and graying guard nodded, holding the door.

"Not a problem," the guard said. "Who did you say you were with?"

"WRTR," Toad said, lifting his fake credential and tilting it toward the guard, who probably didn't know what a real one looked like.

"Don't know that one," the guard said.

"Were new, Polka," Toad said, shrugging. "I know, I hate it too." He walked toward the doors, which led to the bowels of the facility.

The Bradley Center was the oldest NBA venue in the league, built before George Bush senior sat his wrinkled ass in the Oval Office. It was a dump. The service areas had gray walls of foundation brick illuminated by the old style lights you'd find in a mom and pop grocery store. A middle-aged skank with red hair nodded as she passed, her face pinched and distressed.

As long as Toad avoided security and anyone from the media staff, he'd be safe. Toad walked past the Zamboni, boxes of promotional materials. He checked out the cheerleaders who were warming up, then turned left and walked towards the court and looked up at the new scoreboard—the digital clock wound down, still four hours until game time. The Miami Heat was about to finish their shoot-around. The net was snapping with jump shots, the big men were working down low on their moves to the basket, sweating heavily on the hardwood floor. Toad walked around the side of the floor. The hip-hop was blaring on the speakers. He spotted Jawaan King taking ten-foot jumpers from the key. At 7'2, he didn't take too many shots out of that range. His body resembled a triangle, from the immensely broad shoulders to the trim waist. The only thing missing was a red 'S' on the chest and a cape. King was a third-year center but he played with much more experience. In a couple of years he'd make enough money to buy an island next to Johnny Depp.

Toad slid to the side, nodding at the players as they came off the court.

"Good luck tonight," Toad said.

"Thanks, man," King said, wiping his face with a towel as he passed.

The Heat stayed at the Hyatt, a couple of blocks from the venue. It was a nice afternoon so they walked. Keeping his distance, Toad followed. At the hotel a dozen fans asked for autographs.

The Hyatt's traditional atrium center allowed Toad a clear shot of the glass elevators. He watched as King got off the elevator on the 8th floor and watched him go in room 803, at the far end of the hallway.

At 6:40, the traveling secretary for the Heat was pounding on King's door. He called the manager who used a passkey. They checked the bathroom but King was nowhere to be found. The traveling secretary called King's cell phone, checked his Twitter and Facebook accounts, nothing. He asked players on the team when they'd last seen King and they told him after the shoot-around. By game time, still no word on King.

Andy Sunlightner, the coach of the Heat, checked his watch, the scoreboard, then addresses his team.

"Well, we've got a game to play," he said.

The Bucks beat the star-studded Heat 102-99 in overtime. Toad won $400,000 on his bet. It wasn't until six hours later they found King stuffed inside an industrial dryer in the basement of the hotel. Toad had nothing against King, no malevolence, it was just business.

### Chapter Fifty-Three

"And Harry doesn't mind if he doesn't, make the scene. He's got a daytime job, he's doin' alright."

"There's tragic news out of Milwaukee," Dan Patrick said. "Heat center Jawaan King, found dead, and believed to be murdered, in a Milwaukee Hotel."

Toad watched the Dan Patrick Show almost every day, it became a ritual; coffee, Captain Crunch and Dan Patrick.

"It is a gruesome scene, so bad in fact, we're not going with any footage here," Patrick said.

Toad slurped his milk, tilting the bowl to drink the sugary concoction.

"Why do I get the feeling you have something to do with this?" Izzy asked, walking in from the kitchen.

"Anything bad that happens in this town and I did it?"

"Didn't you?"

"Well, yeah," Toad said. "He was a great player, it was just business, nothing personal."

"That will mean a lot to his family. Why don't you send that in a Hallmark card. Might give them some closure, 'Sorry about the loss of your son, husband, whatever, it was just for my financial gain. You can have more kids.'"

"I'm trying to help all of us," Toad said. "Don't bust my balls when I'm trying."

"The Heat went on to lose that game against the Bucks," Patrick said. "Team officials say King was at the shoot around prior to the game, but wasn't seen afterwards. The NBA cancelled all games scheduled tonight in honor of King."

"Hope it was worth it," Izzy said.

"I think so."

"Want to watch something else?"

"Hell yeah," Toad said. "Swamp People is on."

### Chapter Fifty-Four

"I might like you better if we slept together."

I couldn't help but wonder when and why M-TV stopped airing music videos and started with the mindless drivel, reality shows about New Jersey assholes. No wonder this country was full of morons.

Izzy sat on the edge of the pool strumming an acoustic guitar, wearing cut-off shorts and a halter-top, her feet under the waterfall. The crew of 20 people, including camera operators, sound and prop people and a Korean director who thought he was Tim Burton, huddled around her. Izzy pilfered the director from an independent video, promising him more money and a blowjob that would make a straight man profess his love for ABBA.

The assistant director held a light meter in front of Izzy's face, then snapped the clapperboard for the scene. The name of the song they were filming a video for was 'Vertigo'. The accompanying video had little to do with the theme of the song, but nobody seems to notice. Perhaps they'll add the dizzy stuff in editing, I thought.

Two speakers blasted playback of the song and Izzy started to lip sync.

Simple in love is the way to go

Then we kissed, how was I to know

We parted lips, it was vertigo

Vertigo

It's not what you think it means

Vertigo

I'm not in love or even close

Vertigo

I'm not dizzy like in a romance movie you may have seen

Vertigo

I've been slipped a fatal dose

A year before, when we were still flush, Griffin and I each gave her 100-grand to produce the video, which she promptly spent and the contract wouldn't allow us to get our money back when things went south. A quick change of clothes and Izzy was strolling around the pool with a white Gibson SG.

"What's this about?" I said to Griffin.

"I think it had something to do with," Griffin paused, "hell, what are any of them about?"

Izzy was sweating and a makeup girl patted her down with a towel and applied more powder.

"I feel good about this," Izzy said, suckling a large bottle of water.

"It's got a definite personality," I said, trying to sound encouraging. "Looks to me you're getting your 300-grand worth." Izzy had come up with 100-grand on her own.

"No horses?" Griffin asked. "Seriously. I picture a white horse with you on its back in slow motion."

Izzy stared off into the sky as if searching for invisible spots.

"I like the way you think," she said. "But it's too late. Where were you when I was planning this thing?"

"I was just kidding," Griffin said.

"None of your band mates in this?" I asked.

"I'll give them a couple seconds of face time in the studio," Izzy said. I'm the one paying for this. Let's face it. I am Schadenfreude. I own this thing like Simmons owns Kiss. I must have some Jewish blood in me somewhere."

"Do you even know the definition of your band's name?" Griffin asked.

"Heck no," she said, 'I just think it has a great ring to it."

"Maybe you can get some little dolls made up, the Izzy doll. Give them away in cereal boxes, or a Happy Meal," Griffin said. "Or they could make Izzy into some kind of Transformer, right? Rock star into a big spider or something."

"Hmmmm," Izzy said. "You suck your mother's cock with that mouth?"

She glanced back at the director, who stood with his hands on his hips, like a gay hairstylist who was impatiently waiting for you to get off the phone.

"This stuff means a lot to you, huh?" I asked.

"It's what I do," she smiled. "I express myself in music. The only way I know how."

It was good to see her happy.

"Man, you're sweatier than a two-dollar hooker," I said.

"Least I'm gettin' some," she laughed, waving as she jogged back to the set.

### Chapter Fifty-Five

"Blinded by the light, revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night."

The Zippin' Pippin was Elvis' favorite roller coaster before he became a whale. Bay Beach paid a good chunk of change to have it ripped down in Memphis, refurbished, and brought up to Wisconsin. Griffin loathed crowds with a passion so he insisted we got there early. It was a hot day but the breeze off the bay made it quite comfortable. The Pippin was the sole reason we made the drive. Griffin and Sidney were fifth in line when the park opened and rode the roller coaster eight times before the crowd started to grow. I hated rides and refused to go in circles. Once I threw up on the Super Himmaleh and never got over it, so I waited at the bottom of the ramp.

"Hold it," I said, snapping a picture with my phone. I checked the image. It turned out just like I wanted. I framed Sidney alone, blocking Griffin out.

"Got it," I said.

"Let's just walk through the park, do a little people watching," Sidney said.

I purchased three blue snow cones and we sucked flavored ice and walked the twenty-acre grounds. I dumped my snow cone in a garbage can, wiping my hands on a paper napkin. We found a picnic table under an oak tree. It was still early and we were alone.

Griffin looked at Sidney and appeared like he was going to say something serious. I knew for fact he was.

"There's no other way than to come out and tell you," Griffin said.

Sidney's eyes moved back and forth between us.

"Does this involve both of you?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "It's kind of a delicate situation because if we tell you, you'll be the only one who knows, and that can be a rough situation to be in."

"Then I'm not sure I want to know," she said, her lip twitching.

"And I don't blame you," I added.

"What is it? Are you guy's gay? Is that what you want to tell me?"

Griffin smiled at me.

"You mean flaming?" I asked.

"I love him, but I don't love him," Griffin smiled.

"There was that time in Vegas," I said.

"Okay," Sidney said, irritated with our antics.

"You're are a doctor," Griffin said, "surely you've noticed something isn't right with us."

"Yeah, you're gay."

Griffin showed her the aging spots on his hand.

"Seriously, I mean, it's fairly obvious."

"I thought it was from sunburn," Sidney said. "It's not really something you bring up to someone, even if you're a doctor."

She twisted her mouth to the side as she tried to make some sense out of it all.

"What could be so important?" she asked.

"This is one of those things like the mob," I smiled. "Once you're in, you can't get out."

Griffin gave me an 'oh please' look.

"Sidney, we're in a tough spot," Griffin said.

"I've got enough problems of my own, so let's not play twenty-questions," Sidney said. "What is it? You're making me very uneasy."

"Vampires," I said quickly.

She skipped a beat.

"Vampires," she said flatly.

Griffin and I didn't say anything. If we had it would take away from the truth of the moment, set us back a few paces.

"What about them?" Sidney asked.

"As corny as it sounds..." Griffin said, looking into her eyes, unsmiling.

"You're vampires," Sidney interrupted. "Got it."

She laughed, putting her hand to her mouth. Griffin's eyes filled with questions and looked to me with a look that said what else kind can I do? All I could do was sigh.

"I know this sounds crazy, I don't want to do this to you," Griffin said. "I wouldn't believe me if I were you."

"We're wasting time," I said, "forget about it."

Sidney tossed her snow cone into a steel can from five feet away.

"Nice shot," I said, switching gears.

"Vampires," she said again, as though the number of syllables might have changed since she last said the word.

"Malcolm's right, I knew this wasn't going to fly," Griffin said. "Let's just forget it."

Sidney quickly looked at me, then at Griffin, back and forth and again—just like a spectator at a Ping Pong tournament.

"I mean, c'mon, right?" she said, as though asking for validation. "Why are you jerking me around like this?"

Griffin looked at Sidney squarely. His look wasn't urgent, but it was uncompromising, he wasn't trying to convince her.

"How many times are you going to ask that?" I said, growing impatient. "How many times do we have to tell you until you believe us?"

"A few more times, at least," she said.

Griffin turned to me and allowed me to read his mind. "It's too much, let it go for now."

"We need her," I said. I recognized this as a critical moment all of us.

I slowly turned my gaze back to Sindey.

"Look, Sidney, we need your help. I don't know if it even matters if you believe us or not, but you have to ask yourself, how long would two relatively mature men perpetuate a ruse like this if it weren't true? Do you really think we'd waste your time? It's your help we need, not your belief. "Okay," Sidney said, almost condescendingly. "I just need two or three hundred years to wrap my mind around this."

"We could demonstrate, maybe that would help," I said.

"Is this the part where you bite me?" she asked, exposing her neck. "Okay, go ahead. I'm ready."

I felt my blood surge at the sight of her exposed neck. My body began to move forward, as if on autopilot.

Griffin bolted in between us, his chest against mine.

"Think of something," Griffin said. "Anything."

"Oh," she laughed, "you're mind readers now. I can't believe we're actually sitting here talking about something so ridiculous."

"Sidney," I said, with as much sincerity as I could muster.

She tilted her head, recognizing something different in my tone.

"Just think of something obscure," Griffin said. "Something you've never shared with me. Anyone."

"You're serious?"

"I am," Griffin said.

"Like a fortune teller. Great."

After a moment, she rubbed her hands on her knees and allowed her head to drop forward, her red hair slid forward and covered her face. "Okay. I've got it," she said. "God, I feel like an idiot."

Griffin stared into her eyes for just a few moments. Sidney did the same, suppressing a smile.

"You're young, about ten," he said. Sidney's eyebrows lift and become curved, central to her forehead.

"And you're on a bike riding on a sidewalk. You're racing home and there's a woman in front of you carrying groceries."

Sidney looked at Griffin's eyes, her face slack and she said nothing.

"Scared, you hit the front brakes and you go flying, landing on your chest and face."

Sidney tilted her head forward in disbelief--picture a dog cocking his head when you asked him 'if he wanted to go for a walk.'

Griffin continued.

"You don't feel the pain because it happened so fast. Somehow you made it home and by that time your face had begun to swell and you had one tooth hanging from a string of your gums and you start to feel the throbbing around your face."

"Stop," Sidney said, putting her hand up. Stop."

There were tears in her eyes. "I've never told you that," she said, "never talked about that."

I looked to Sidney and saw that she realized we were sincere, if not insane.

"I'll get you a beer," Griffin said. "We can all use one."

He went to the pavilion. Now it was just Sidney, sitting so close our shoulders almost touched. It was almost sensual, I felt like I was part of her. It was wonderful.

"I know how hard this is for you to believe," I said. "We never would have told you," I shrugged, "but, we're in a pickle."

"Sure, pickle," Sidney said mechanically.

"It's still us," I said. "It's still Griffin. He's not a robot, he's just like you. Well, not anymore, but he was, is...I guess he kind of is again." I knew was rambling, perhaps nervous.

"Who else? Pet?" she asked.

"Vampire? Yes."

"Izzy and Toad?"

I nodded. "There's more. A lot more, but not with us. Around the world."

"Why did you tell me?"

"You mean a lot to Griffin." I was suddenly hit with the realization she meant a lot to me too. Now, we're in trouble. It's because of the train. We didn't know anything at first, but we noticed quickly. Things started to deteriorate, fast."

"That's how Pet died? The train?"

"At first we didn't know. But when the rest of us started getting sick...anything else would have been too coincidental."

"Sarin gas, right?"

"So they say."

"It's nasty, but it usually kills, fast. I guess we know why you're not dead, the vampire thing. God, I can't believe I just said that. If you're toying with me, I'll kill you both. Good god, I can't do this. Why are you doing this?"

"It turns out it did affect us. It's really affecting us. I figure we've got a week, maybe less. We're dying."

"Isn't that one of your things, not dying?"

"Maybe we've never been subjected to Sarin."

Sidney twirled her hair with her fingers, deep in thought.

"Pet had fewer defense mechanisms," Sidney said to her.

"I have no idea. Maybe it's because we were more active with our feeding. We really have no clue. But we do know the doors are closing."

Izzy pinched her chin and searched her Rolodex of questions.

"Feeding?" Sidney asked, checking off the first query on her list.

"Later."

Sidney consulted her mental questionnaire while looking at the water, the train taking the kids around the park. Griffin returned with a cardboard tray, which held three beers and three big pretzels, the foam slopping over the sides of the plastic cups.

"Had to wait for that little train to pass. I hate trains," Griffin said, setting the beers on the picnic table. Sidney finished half of hers in a just a few seconds.

"You ready to believe the unbelievable?" Griffin asked.

"She didn't pass out, if that's what you mean," I said.

"You wouldn't have a valium, would you?" Sidney asked, picking slivers of wood off the table.

"Dumb question," I said. "I'm your personal Walgreen's. I poured a patchwork of an array of colorful tablets, looking like Walt Disney threw up in my palm. Sidney pinched the valium, and shot it down with a gulp of her beer.

"So, let's say, for arguments sake, I buy the vampire thing," she said, her words wavered in doubt. "What now?"

"It's got to be our DNA," I said. "We don't know how we're different, dollars to doughnuts, we are, in lots of ways." I dipped a chunk of pretzel into the fake cheese. "You've never heard of anything like this before?" Griffin asked.

"I'm kind of new to this whole vampire thing," she said, shaking her head. "There were some problems in World War II. Some died in Europe, possibly from Sarin or something similar. To the best of my knowledge Bella Lugosi wasn't one of them."

She kept a straight face and I could see how this seemingly far-fetched notion of vampires was straining her sensibilities. I wanted to reach my arm around her, tell her this was all a joke, but for obvious reasons I couldn't. I imagined her accepting my hug and laying her head on my shoulder, her red hair falling to my elbow, which held her like a vice, pulling at her hip to bring her closer.

"If you help us, you're going to find some funky things in our strands," Griffin said.

He seemed a bit cavalier about the whole thing.

"I have to ask you," Sidney said, "what about the biting thing. Again, it's hard to accept these words coming out of my mouth. I feel stupid just saying this, is that something that happens? Fangs into the neck," Sidney asked, reaching for my beer.

"Don't bogart the whole thing," I said. "We try to avoid it," I said. "We refer to as tapping, but it's only used as a last resort. Not something we seek to do or anything we really enjoy, we just do it once in a while."

"Then it's like the movies?" Sidney asked.

"Not exactly, but not all that far off," Griffin said.

"The sun stuff is all bunk," I said. "Holy water, coffins, capes, all of it."

You're taking this better than I thought you would," Griffin said. He scratched his scalp, also understanding how difficult this must have been for Sidney to rationalize.

Sidney went still. "Well, I'm kind of hoping I'm just tripping on something and this is all a dream." She stared at the Bay in hopes it would wake her up from this surreal dream.

"I don't know if I'd take it so well," I said.

"Am I safe?" she asked," with the two of you?"

"Reasonably," I winked. She looked past me, and she was losing her patience. "Yes. You're safe," I said. "We seem to have changed in that respect too, developed an ability to hold back from instinct, be more selective in our targets."

"I need a little time to digest all of this?" she said. There was a look on her face like she was questioning everything she knew, all she'd learned in her life, all was suspect.

"I know," Griffin said, "but I think you can see that time is something we have little of. The hourglass doesn't have much sand left on the top." Griffin was soft-spoken now, the first time I could sense a degree of pleading.

Griffin took Sidney's hands. "My breath is getting weak. Malcolm had a heart attack, I've got more age spots than a giraffe, and I'm losing body parts."

"Body parts?" she asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Griffin said.

"A heart attack, really?" Sidney asked, placing her hand on my sleeve. I nodded. She could have asked me if I had a social disease, it was the same slow, reluctant acknowledgement.

"One more and that might be it," Griffin said. "Gone, ceased to be, no longer..."

"I get it," she interrupted. She fidgeted, rubbed her temples.

We were salesman at this point. She had to accept our 'pitch' or we were both doomed, no time for us to find someone else.

"This is a real pisser," Sidney said. "You guys must have thought one of the good things was getting to live forever," she said."

"Tell me about it," I said.

"So, what are we looking for?" Sidney asked, "some kind of antidote?"

"If that's what you'd call it," I said, "I would imagine so."

Her demeanor suddenly changed, like when someone puts on their lab coat, or a pianist cracking his knuckles before he begins a concerto, she was entering her doctor mode.

"I've been in this business too long to say anything is impossible. We will die trying," Sidney said. "I guess we all will."

"That's inspirational," Griffin said. "In a weird way, but what are you talking about with the 'dying' part?"

"I guess now is as good a time to tell you as any," Sidney said, rubbing her palms as one does before a fire.

"You're a vampire too?" I joked, resulting in no laugh. "What are the odds of that?"

"Breast cancer," she said, devoid of emotion , as level and certain as she would have told a patient. No room for emotion or equivocation.

"I'm not following you," Griffin said, narrowing his eyes as though he missed something she said.

"When the hell were you going to tell us?" I said.

"When I was ready," she replied. "You guys showed me yours, now I'm showing you mine."

"Not a time to be flippant," Griffin said. "Cancer?"

"The Big C," she said, finishing my beer. "Looks like we're all in the same boat."

Leaning back onto the top of the table it seemed she had found some sort of acceptance of it all.

"You know, it's kind of funny," she said, a small laugh escaping her lips. "You tell me you're vampires, and I don't care. I don't. The way I figure, I'll be dead soon anyway."

Griffin recoiled when she said 'dead,' taking a moment to reflect on the finality of the word, the word he'd uttered so often in recent years.

Sidney took a breath and continued. "You could tell me you're unicorns or Martin Luther King, doesn't matter. I don't have the time or interest to refute what you say, or the interest, for that matter. It is what it is."

She acted as though it was all okay, but it wasn't.

"You're in chemotherapy?" Griffin asked, taking her hand.

"Yeah," she said. "I really don't feel like talking about it, if that's okay." She looked into Griffin's eyes. "Later, when we're alone,"

It felt like I'd been stabbed. This was a woman who I'd grown to know, felt a kinship with, and she was looking longingly into my friend's eyes.

"When we get back to the city," Sidney said to both of us, "we'll take some blood from you two, and see what we have. Right now, I just want to go home."

She snaked her arms around Griffin's back and placed her head on his chest. For a moment, I wished he was dead. That she wouldn't have affection for someone else. Perhaps, be mine. If he weren't my friend, I may have punched Griffin in the face. Why should he be happy and not me? I should have been the one doing the comforting. I was alpha, after all.

"Why don't you two get a room," I said, like a complete asshole, as I walked toward the bumper cars.

### Chapter Fifty-Six

"Though his mind is not for rent, don't put him down as arrogant."

Her office smelt like rubbing alcohol and coffee. Sidney was hunched over a microscope looking for whatever doctors look for. She had her lab coat on and was very doctor-like, not the whimsical and flirtatious woman she was outside of work. Griffin and I were casual. He wore beige shorts and a polo shirt, I was in jeans and a black t-shirt. I was looking through drawers, cabinets, curious about what kind of stuff a genetic researcher would keep in her office.

"Yeah, just look at anything you want," Sidney said sarcastically, "not like the stuff is personal or anything."

"Sorry," I said. It was a Steve Martin kind of

saw-reeee, not a sincere apology.

I sat across from Griffin who was immersed in a crossword puzzle. He looked to me and offered a faint smile. I think he knew my feelings towards Sidney, but we never spoke about it.

For her part, Sidney was devoted to Griffin, the kind of relationship that looked like it had a chance, but both were looking down the barrel of a shotgun. An dubious start to a relationship.

Griffin rose in his chair and moved his chest forward, like a peacock shows his fathers. It was his way of letting me know he was protecting his interest in Sidney.

I smiled but I was torn. Happy for him and envious at the same time.

"Try to relax," Sidney said. "You're going to make me miss. Quit being a baby."

I forced my eyes to stare at the ceiling and I pinched my thigh to divert my attention. I was a self-proclaimed coward when it came to needles. I had no problem sinking my teeth into a chest cavity, but I was a stone-cold pussy when it came to needles.

"Give it up," Sidney said, "I know ten year olds that are tougher than you."

"Easy girlie," I smiled, "we may appear like we belong in a nursing home, but we can still mess you up."

I could tell she knew I was kidding, but with vampires, you never knew. It was like retrieving a bone from you dog under a coffee table. You approached with caution, never really knowing how the animal would react.

"Carful," Griffin said, "that stuff could burn a hole in the floor." He studied my blood as it was siphoned into the tube, he tipped a Red Bull to his lips."Geez, they call us vampires. How many of those do you need?" he asked.

He laughed. "Do you realize you may be the first person to take blood from a vampire?"

"Great," she said. "Do I get a free bowl of soup for that? My own Facebook page?" She turned her attention back to Malcolm. "And you, you're not the worst patient I've had," Sidney said, "but you're close."

She stroked my hand lightly, a friendly touch, but I still felt the shockwaves through my body like the first time you held a woman's hand on a date. Something as simple as touching hands was erotic. Wilt Chamberlain would think me a wuss. I inspected my arm and began to roll my sleeves.

"We could help you," I said, seemingly out of nowhere.

"If you ultimately help us, we'll be able to help you."

"I don't follow you," Sidney said, throwing the needles in the medical waste bin, walking to the sink to wash her hands. "We can help you," I continued, "you don't have to die. Comprende?"

"I have cancer," Sidney said, almost as an aside, "an antidote won't help me."

"Who's talking about an antidote?" Griffin asked.

"You think I'm going to let you bite me?" Sidney said, disdain hijacked her face. "I'm going to die, and I'm ready for it."

"Don't say that," Griffin almost screamed. "Nothing is etched in stone. Nothing. You hear me?"

He tossed his can into the garbage, so hard the liquid jumped out and splattered on the wall.

It had been more than a century since I'd heard such desperation in his voice. She looked at Griffin.

"Other than you, I'm not leaving anything behind."

My head snapped up and I realized she had unwittingly set herself up as the perfect tap.

"I think you should at least consider it," I said.

"How's that working out for you guys?" she said. "No thanks." She threw her lab coat onto her chair.

"Jesus," Griffin said, exasperated, "everyone who lived before you would give this some serious consideration. You said yourself you're not leaving anyone behind; That makes a big difference, believe me."

Sidney stretched by the window, her arms clasped behind her neck. She watched a couple flying a kite on Bradford Beach.

"Humans aren't equipped to make decisions like that." Sidney said. "I'll leave that to god, if there is one. Oh, sorry, you guys don't believe in god."

"I never said that," Griffin said.

"Me neither," I said. "Just because we're not altar boys doesn't mean we don't believe in god. After you've seen what we've seen, you certainly believe in the devil, so why not god?"

"You're out of your minds," she said. "I'm not going to be one of the 'undead.'"

"When you say it like that," Griffin said, "it sounds kind of creepy. Is wanting to live so crazy?"

"There is living and then there's living. You guys do the first one," she said.

"You'd rather go into an eternal nothingness than join us?" Griffin asked.

Again with the hugging.

"I would prefer living for a long, long time as me, but I can't say killing and foraging for human blood to survive is appealing."

"Still," I said. "At least you'd be something."

"I'm not so sure, it's all subjective," Sidney said, "I took a Hippocratic oath--do no harm, even to myself."

"Give me a break," Griffin said. "These are extenuating circumstances, and Hippocrates is dead. You don't think he'd give his right nut to be in your shoes?"

"It won't hurt, much," I said.

"We have some kind of anesthetic," Griffin said.

"Yeah, it's called morphine. And since you alleviated all my concerns, bite away. Just out of curiosity, would it be in the neck? The bite?"

"I'd prefer your arm," I said.

"I'd prefer somewhere else," Griffin said.

Sidney playfully slapped at him.

"Okay," I said. "We're decided."

Her smile dropped like a steel door." No, she said, a low tremble in a voice. Not decided, a light-year from decided. You guys are too close, don't see the pain you create. She crossed her arms in defiance. "If we're talking souls here, I'm going to keep mine."

I started to cough and it doubled me over, the wet, lingering cough. Griffin looked at me with concern. "We've got to find something for him," Griffin said.

"I wouldn't have a problem with that."

I looked to see if Sidney gave a hoot; she did.

### Chapter Fifty-Seven

"Do you dabble in depression, is someone twisting a knife in your back."

Pouring two cups of coffee, Izzy sat at the breakfast bar alongside of me. She was wearing an Aaron Rodgers retro-jersey and no panties.

"How you feeling?" she asked.

"You mean since my heart exploded? Not too bad."

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Looking for something interesting, found this' bucket list' on the Web."

Izzy looked over my shoulder and took a mental inventory.

"What's a bucket list?"

"Stuff you want to do before you croak."

"Easy. My wish is me and four guys."

"That hasn't happened? Kinsey would be so proud of you."

Izzy studied the list.

"How about flying a plane?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Golf?"

"Sucks. C'mon, at least look at something interesting."

Izzy looked further down the list.

"Ballroom dancing?"

"Gay."

"Ski in Vail?"

"I used to be a ski instructor in Vail."

"Hell, you know what you've done. You pick it."

"That's what I was doing."

"After all this time, there's probably nothing you haven't done."

"I think that's a double-negative."

"Have you ever thought of teaching grammar, asshole? You ever skinny-dipped on acid?"

"Last night," I smile.

"Is it too late to leave some kind of legacy?" Izzy asked.

"If we had a little more time, that wouldn't be a bad idea."

"Well, what would you have done, if you could? If you could wave a magic wand, what would you have contributed to the world?"

"In no particular order; get rid of politicians, find clean energy sources and hang oil barons, kill all prisoners in jail, even if a few innocent ones have to go, legalize drugs."

"I like the second and last one," Izzy said. "How about making porn a mandatory subject in high school?"

"I never thought I'd say this, but you're turning me off sex. What would you do with your magic wand?"

"I dated a guy with a magic wand."

"Seriously."

"Hmmmm. Ryan Gosling would mow my lawn, without a shirt."

"Mow your lawn? Is that a euphemism?"

"Ha. Now that you mention it, I guess he could cut the grass too."

"Besides that," I said.

Izzy drank her coffee and looked at the pool.

"Open for The Who, dig up Ronald Reagan's body and pee on it."

"You're waving a magic wand to pee on a dead President?"

"He annoyed me. I'd find out if Area 51 really had an alien visit, find out if Marilyn Monroe really died of an overdose.

"What about something that helps others?"

"I think the Marilyn Monroe thing would help a lot of people."

"What about curing cancer, cleaning the environment, saving the whales."

"Fuck them," Izzy said, "what have they done for me? I'm the one that's dying."

"Funny you didn't wish for an antidote."

"I thought we were having fun," she replied, sincerity in her eyes.

"We are, sweetie. That's all I want for my bucket list, for you to be happy."

"Aw, you're such a pussy," she said, reaching for my hand.

### Chapter Fifty-Eight

"Roland searched the continent for the man that done him in."

Two blocks from the final pickup site on route 44, Toad kept watch. He propped himself against the telephone pole. Dark circles under his eyes highlighted his pale skin. He hadn't fed in five days so even Toad was losing tonnage.

"Up the block," he said into his cell phone. "Get ready." Izzy and I sat on the front porch of a large ranch house, out of view from Newton Avenue.

"Look, I'm not digging this either," I replied, finishing a cigarette. I throw the butt in the bushes. "How many failed hunts can we have before we die? You have a better idea, I'm all ears."

Izzy didn't have a better idea.

The yellow Richardson bus barreled down the road about 10 miles per hour over the limit. Three children were to be picked up at the last stop, two third-graders and one in eighth grade. The driver was a stout woman about 50, she wore an oversized pink blouse and opened the door and said hello to the children mounting the stairs. The driver was checking her mirror then turned back to the door. I'm smiling when she sees me. I could smell the menthol cigarettes on her breath.

"Good morning," I said. My hands were shaking from my disease. I saw the terror in her eyes and she looked at the children.

"You can't be on the bus," she said, reaching for the handset on two-way radio.

"Hey, hey," I replied. "You don't want to do that."

She put it back.

It was 8:35 in the morning and the world seemed to have suddenly spun madly off its axis. I was in the midst of doing something I'd never dreamed. It was funny what you could do when you were starving. We no longer had the energy to hunt and we were trying to stay alive until Sidney came up with an antidote.

The driver knew all the kids. Some were grandchildren of friends she knew in school. The children, about 30 in all, sensed something was up. Toad walked through the bus.

"Okay kids. I need your cell phones."

Almost every kid on the bus handed a phone to Toad.

"It's alright," Izzy said, trying to soothe the kids.

The children ranged in age from five to fourteen and had various reactions to our presence. Some thought it was some kind of prank and giggled, while others became frightened out of their minds. Toad took a seat in the back.

"Are you hijacking us?" the driver asked.

"No, not in a traditional sense," I replied, gesturing for her to leave the driver's seat.

Izzy guided her to the seat behind me and I took the wheel, drove toward the Interstate.

A little girl in the front row screamed.

"Sandi!"

"It's alright," Sandi her. "They're not going to hurt us," she said, tears formed in her eyes. Her eyes pleaded with Toad. "Right?"

Toad shrugged.

"Not up to me."

Griffin nodded. Twenty minutes later I exited Route 60 off I-43. This was serious cow-country; farms as far as the eye could see. The ride was so bumpy two kids threw up from motion sickness. I located a corrugated tin barn we scouted and drove inside the open door and cut the engine. Izzy secured the back door so nobody could exit that way. I opened the door for Toad who got out and pulled the ropes to close the garage door. The radio came alive.

"Route 44, this is dispatch."

Sandi looked at me helplessly.

"Sandi, you there? You're late, supposed to be at the school."

A girl in the front row started to cry. There was no need for us to talk with the dispatcher, this was not a situation where ransom money would be involved.

"It's okay," Izzy said, comforting one of the girls.

Toad lined up kids.

"Off the bus," he said.

"Sit against the wall," I said.

The children and Sandi sat on the dirt with their backs against the wall. Since they were small, we would each need to feed on a couple of them, perhaps three in Toad's case. Izzy took my arm and pulled me into the corner.

"We can't do this," she said frantically, very out of character. "I'm changing my mind about this," she said. "This isn't what we do."

"I'm not going to starve because you suddenly grew a conscience," I said. "You'll see more clearly once we feed."

Izzy pushed her fingers through her hair and shuddered.

"No, I won't feel better," she replied, louder than she intended. "These are babies. Somebody's babies."

"Sandi, where the hell are you?" the dispatcher said.

"Toad," I said. "Would you be a sport and turn that damn thing off? Izzy, let's get this over with, you're just prolonging the inevitable. Toad and I will take a few kids over to the other side of the garage and feed. I'll make sure they don't scream and scare the other kids."

"And how the hell are you going to do that?"

"I'll manage."

I started to walk towards the children.

"You," I said, pointing to the driver. "And you kids," I said, pointing to the next four kids in a row. "Go with him."

They got up slowly, with fear in their eyes, trembling. A first-grader pissed his pants.

"Malcolm," Griffin said. "I heard Izzy before and she may be right."

Griffin had a fever and could barely keep his eyes open.

"Look at yourself," I said. "You, out of all of us, need to feed the most. Go sit down and relax a minute."

Sandi grouped the kids together and held her arms around them.

"What the hell do you mean, feed?" Sandi asked.

"Hurry up," Toad said.

"I mean it, Malcolm," Izzy said from behind. "Stop this."

I was in disbelief, shocked when I felt the cold steel on the back of my neck.

"They are somebody's babies and we're not doing this," Izzy said.

"Don't be crazy," Toad shouted. "Izzy..."

"I'd listen to him," I said, the gun still at my head. "Put it down now and I'll forget this ever happened

"You end this now and I'll forget this ever happened," Izzy said, fire in her eyes. "This is different, you know you can die this time. Malcolm, you've kept us together, but this one is my call." She turned towards Toad. "You stay put too." Toad nodded. "I love you guys, and you know I've never done anything close to this, but I swear to god, you don't pull out of this and I will shoot you. Please don't try me. I don't bluff and I can't let this happen."

I looked to Griffin. He knew she meant it.

"Put the gun away," I said, "we'll stop."

Izzy stood for a moment and looked around in disbelief.

"You mean it?"

"Vampire's honor," I said, holding up two fingers like a Boy Scout."

"Oxymoron," she said.

She knew my word was good, we didn't lie to each other. Izzy sighed and put the gun back in her pants. She looked to Sandi. "You gather the kids," she said. "I'll call the cops and tell them where you are."

"Thank you," Sandi said, the emotion pouring out of her. "We won't tell them anything, I swear. You're doing the right thing, thank you. I won't tell them anything."

Izzy smiled at her.

"We need a ride to town, then you can take these kids back."

### Chapter Fifty-Nine

"I was dancing when I was eight, is it strange to dance so late?"

Not only were we faced with finding an antidote, now we had half the Sheriff's department looking for us because of the bus thing. Sandi lied, she told them everything.

The elevator jiggled to a stop. Sidney and I got off on the fourth floor of St. Mary's research department. Brushing her fingers upward against the bank of light switches, the door to the Center for Developmental Biology and Perinatal Medicine opened automatically. The fluorescent lights flitted on, casting the floor in a hazy white pallor that was oddly fatiguing. When we arrived at her office Griffin was already there, waiting for us.

Where have you been?" Sidney asked, sliding into Griffin's arms and gliding her hands up to his shoulders. I looked down and walked to the couch. My back felt like it was on fire. I looked at a magazine and drank my coffee. Seeing them together was difficult, though I wouldn't dare tell either of them.

"You wouldn't believe it," Griffin said. "The road manager for The Police gave me a ring and said Sting had laryngitis.

Sidney nodded.

"They couldn't have chosen anyone better," she said. She patted him on the butt and walked toward the lab.

They were so cute together it made me sick to my stomach.

Griffin grabbed a Red Bull from the fridge.

"Causes impotence," I said.

"How would you know?" he asked. "You haven't used your equipment in ages."

Sidney put on her white lab coat with nerd-like pens in her breast pocket.

"Nice pens," Griffin said.

She took a sip from his can.

"I don't think it's my pens you're looking at," she replied.

"I'm taking in the Gestalt, the whole picture, the entire enchilada."

"Stop, you're making me hungry."

Her private laboratory was cold and smelled like sulfur combined with Pine-Sol.

"This is where I've been spending my free time, when we're not playing tonsil-hockey.

"And?" I said.

"You have incredibly high levels of serotonin," Sidney said. "That can trigger aggression and risky behavior."

"Yup," I asked. "Sounds like me."

"You've got powerful sense organs. It must be why you have keen hunting skills. It's clear you not aging like, forgive the expression, normal people," she said. "I mean, under normal circumstances, if there is such a thing. You're losing hair rather rapidly," she said.

"Thanks," I replied.

Her clinical training was taking over.

"With almost no body fat your spine is curving. Like a boomerang."

"That's me. You try to throw me away and I come right back."

"And now your hands."

"Parkinson's?"

She nodded.

"All these things for me," I said. "And I didn't have time to pick up anything for you."

"Your organs are being attacked and you are degenerating rapidly," she said.

In the mirror I could see how small I looked.

"Malcolm, I need some more blood from you."

I rolled up my sleeve. I looked like Bella Lugosi in Ed Wood. The skin blotches and sores on my arms ran from elbow to bicep. Skin was hanging off my bones and I felt like I belonged in a POW camp.

Sidney rapped on my veins with her fingers trying to find one big enough. She slowly applied pressure to the plunger and we watched as the fluid entered my bloodstream. It hurt and I winced, a burning sensation that wouldn't stop.

"I know how they feel on death row," I said.

Sidney brought me a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

"Thanks," I said.

Laying back on the couch, resting my head, a warm rush coursed through my body and I imagined this was what heroin felt like. Sidney checked my pulse, then my heart rate. As she leaned forward I stared at her beautiful breasts. She had white skin and pink blotches appeared when she got excited or embarrassed. If I was dying, this wasn't a bad final memory.

"You're heart rate is slowing," she said.

So close, I could smell her breath.

"I don't think it's anything to worry about. I've got some epinephrine here just in case I need to hit you."

I felt like I wanted to sleep.

"I need you to stay awake," she said. "Now, we have to wait and see."

"I can't stay awake."

"Tell him he can't sleep," she told Griffin.

"You can't sleep," he said.

"I could have done that. Convince him."

"Malcolm," he said. "Stay up," he slapped my face.

I was awake even if it didn't look like it. I knew nothing was changing, the serum wasn't working.

"If anything is to happen, it would be happening by now," I said.

"I think you're right," Sidney replied. "I don't think this is it."

"Damn," Griffin said.

"This is just one," Sidney said. "I have a couple of ideas. Just make him comfortable while I do a little work. Don't let him eat or drink anything for a couple of hours. That's important."

"I'm hungry," I said.

"Shut up," Griffin tells me.

"You're the next Guinea Pig," I said.

"Sure," Griffin replied.

Griffin had deep circles under his eyes and his cheeks were caving. He looked like hell.

"What are Toad and Izzy doing?"

"Waiting," Griffin said. "Izzy seems to be having a tougher time than Toad, physically. Izzy was very emotional these days. Toad was Toad, he was good at masking his emotions."

"I guess I can't understand how this gas affected you, I can't make sense out of it," Sidney said.

"Perhaps they found our Achilles' Heel," Griffin replied. "We were dipped in the river but a part of us was left exposed, just that little bit."

"Yeah," Sidney said. "Sometimes a little is all it takes."

### Chapter Sixty

"Well I'm hot blooded, check it and see."

Until Sidney came up with something we needed some nourishment. The Red Cross was our best bet to score some blood since we were almost devoid of energy. Preserved blood wasn't nearly as beneficial as fresh, but it satisfied basic needs. The last person left the building an hour earlier.

I chose the Red Cross furthest from our house. It was on Capitol Drive, the core. If anyone were to see us breaking in, they'd make us honorary citizens of the neighborhood.

"This is so embarrassing," I said. "We've been reduced to the status of bums. It's a sad day when you can't catch your own prey. "we're a waste of life."

"Poor baby," Izzy said. "We're all in the same boat. Let's not make this all about you."

"Well, well," I said. "This dying thing has made you ornery."

"Just give it a rest," she said. "It's bad enough we have to do this. I can hardly walk. That bitch better come up with something fast."

"Shut the hell up," I said. "Don't call her that. Sidney is the only one helping us. "

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it like it sounded."

"Not much of an alarm system," Toad said.

"What sicko would break into The Red Cross?" Griffin asked.

"I've done it before," Izzy said, "long time ago."

"You've done a lot of things a long time ago," Griffin said.

The cooler wasn't even locked. Again, who steals blood? I thought.

"Blood can be stored for maybe five to six weeks," I said.

"Check the born-on date," Toad said. "If it works for Budweiser..."

Izzy looked for cameras.

"There's no security at all."

"Like taking candy from a baby," Toad said. "Every once in a while I go to a hospital room and snag a patient's blood bag while they're asleep, when I get the munchies."

Toad and Izzy rummaged around cabinets and drawers, grabbing syringes, bottles of this and that. Whatever wasn't tied down and might be of use later. I filled my bag and Toad poked his head inside.

"Some of these are frozen," I said.

"Like a popsicle," Toad said. "Toss me one."

He ripped the bag open with his teeth and started to suck the blood Popsicle.

Izzy pushed Toad aside and I tossed her a bag.

"Only 37 percent of the U.S. population is eligible to donate blood – less than 10 percent do annually," Izzy said. "Cheap."

"How do you know all that?" Toad asked.

"Blood is my business," Izzy said. "It's what I do."

On the way out Izzy noticed a poster in a WWII design that read, 'This Year I'm Giving Double.'

"Yeah?" Izzy said. "Well this year, I'm taking double." She pulled the tacks out of the wall and rolled the poster.

### Chapter Sixty-One

"Play that funky music, white boy."

"To you it may just be a song," Izzy said. "But when I hear music, it shoots through me like a high. If I like a song I can play it over and over, trying to get the rush again. And I always do."

"Like gambling," Chas said.

"I guess. It's how I express myself."

"I'm not knocking it," Chas said. "I'm just trying to understand. Guess the power of your dedication has an appeal."

"Every time you hear one of my songs, you know me a little better. It's complex, I know."

"I can follow," Chas said. "Nice to see you so happy."

Izzy snuggled to Chas on his leather couch.

"I keep a notepad by my bed, write down an idea," Izzy said. "Then I sleep on it.

"When you wake up it makes sense?" Chas asked.

"Yeah, it's magical, like it comes from somewhere else. Mozart said the same thing."

"I envy your gift," Chas said. "It must be a great feeling."

"You're talented," Izzy said. She kissed him softly. "You'd have to be when you do your thing. Understanding how to get the best out of a musician, making them sound better than they are."

"I have to tell you," Chas said, "You don't need any help."

"If you're trying to get me in the sack with all the flattery, you don't need it." She kissed him again, working her hand around his pants.

"Schadenfreude's next album is going to rock, I'll see to it," Chas said. "It's the least I can do for you."

"You're awesome," Izzy said.

"There is one thing I have to ask you. Why did you rob me?" he asked.

Izzy pulled away from Chas and pressed her shorts with her hands.

"Yeah, about that."

"It's okay," he said. "I'm just trying to understand. I mean, if you wanted to steal from me, why'd you call?"

"Truth is, I never thought I was going to see you again, and that's the truth. I don't date men a second time, ever. But I wanted to see you again."

"I'm glad," he said.

"You are?"

"I am," Chas said, pulling her toward him and she straddled his waist.

"Believe me, it is as surprising to me as it is to you. What did I steal?"

"Not much of value. I don't have that much of value, at least monetary," he said. He shrugged, embarrassed by the admission. "It was a snow globe. Been in my family forever."

Izzy felt badly because she robbed him and Chas was such a sweet guy.

"I really am sorry about that," she said. "I have a lot of bad habits. I'm not going to try to get the sympathy vote and make you think I can't help it. I can help it, but I don't want to, least I never wanted to. Maybe it's my way of remembering time together. I'm not good at the relationship thing. Everybody I love ends up leaving me, in one way or another. Trust me."

"Izzy, you don't have to explain things to me. I'm just glad you're here. And I'm here for you."

"I'm glad I'm here too," Izzy said. She leaned forward and rested her head on Chas's shoulder. "I really am sorry."

### Chapter Sixty-Two

"When I is a boy, I thought it just came to ya'."

Izzy dropped two quarters in the meter and set her helmet on the seat of her Honda. She had to sell the Harley and it broke her heart. She tossed her hair just like they did in the commercials. Izzy looked like Lily Munster with big streaks of gray and carried a book in her hand. If somebody knew her a month ago, they wouldn't recognize her.

Two skateboard-rats rolled by.

"Nice bike, grandma."

"Eat shit, you little virgins," Izzy said.

The hostess led her to a table near the window where Sidney was already sitting. It was one of those chain restaurants where everyone was supposed to be having a good time.

"Thanks for seeing me," Izzy said. "I know you're busy."

Izzy set her book on the table.

"Didn't know if I'd have to wait for you," she said.

Sidney spun the book toward her.

"Hmmm. Kubler Ross, Five Stages of Grief. A light read?" Sidney asked.

Izzy smiled.

"A girl has to keep her mind occupied."

The waitress placed a martini in front of Izzy.

"I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk. I hope you're okay with a martini," Sidney said.

"I cherish them."

Izzy took two large sips. Sidney stole a look at Izzy without being conspicuous, she noticed Izzy's gray hair and wrinkles.

"When I found out you'd heard about us, I was surprised. I mean, nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever been told. Some have suspected over the years, but nobody knew."

"You're surprised Malcolm let me live," Sidney said, very matter of fact.

Izzy appreciated Sidney's directness.

"Very," Izzy said. "It's not like him, but since we're all messed up, nothing makes sense anymore."

The waitress returned and held up her pen, forcing a smile.

"Two more," Izzy said. She turned to Sidney. "Any luck finding anything?"

"We had something, thought it would work, then nothing. Malcolm didn't respond like we'd hoped."

Izzy set down her martini.

"Can't even drink like I used to," Izzy said. "Can't taste food. I've become my grandmother. I wish I could say she invented something cool or invented penicillin, but I come from a long line of underachievers, I'm sorry to say."

"We're going to find something," Sidney said, reaching for Izzy's hand.

"Part of me hopes you don't."

Sidney didn't respond.

"This is kind of like a carnival ride that never stops," Izzy said. "Like my dad used to say, once you've been around the world three or four times, you've pretty much seen it all." She finished her martini. "Well, I've been around the world a hell of a lot more than four times and it turns out the old man was right."

"I've never been out of the country," Sidney said. "I come from a long line of broke people."

"Aren't you doctors supposed to be rich?"

"You obviously haven't been reading the newspaper," Sidney smiled, finishing her martini. "So, why are we here, Izzy? It's not that I don't like to see you, I just know this isn't your style, to chit-chat."

The waitress brought two more martinis and once again lifted her pen to take an order. Izzy waved her off.

"This is going to sound crazy. I met someone I like. Not just sex, but someone I like, you know?"

"That's great," Sidney said.

"It's weird, that's what it is. You don't like someone when you are like we are. It's asinine and troublesome. We're designed for a wham-bam thing, not love."

"Is that what this is? Love?" Sidney asked.

"Hell, I don't know. It's different, I can tell you that."

Izzy polished off three big olives.

"I've also has some other feelings, very odd, emotional feelings."

"Like?"

"Like, I want a baby."

"Good god, Izzy. That's crazy."

Izzy's eyes shot up.

"Why?"

"I mean, that's just crazy."

"I can't help feeling this way, you know? I mean I was a woman at one time. A long time before you were born, I've got the plumbing to prove it. Wanna see?"

"I'm good," Sidney said. "I believe you."

"It's not like I really want to have a baby, it's just the fact I'm thinking about it."

"I suppose it's natural," Sidney said. "Is this new? This desire?"

"It has intensified since the train," Izzy said. She sipped her drink.

"Really, we can do a checkup, if that's what you want. Get you some kind of answer. Why don't we do that and see where it leads."

"Sure. Let's get to the bottom of Isabelle Marie Jefferson."

### Chapter Sixty-Three

"I can't stand to fly, I'm not that naïve."

Timmerman Field is north of Milwaukee, a small airport for propeller planes. Izzy and I walked to what appeared to be a husband and wife sitting on the ground near the drop zone. They introduced themselves and waited for the instructor to arrive, which he did just a few minutes later.

"All right," a handsome, rugged dude with a leather flight jacket said. He clapped his hands together. "I'm Cal. Who is crazy enough to jump out of a perfectly good airplane?" he asked.

Inside a small hangar, Cal showed us an instructional video of a guy describing the jump.

Cal winked at Izzy and me.

"Hey, it's great to see some seniors here," he said. "You're as young as you feel, right?"

He put up his hand to 'high five' us. We walked away.

Jumping into thin air was on my bucket list and Izzy thought it would be cool. We decided to do this a few days ago and hadn't envisioned how much we'd aged since then. I was worried my bones would shatter when we hit the ground.

"I need each and every one of you to sign your name on the line that is dotted," Cal said. He was from Colorado and he looked it, blonde hair, and crow's feet around the eyes. Picture John Denver mating with Robert Redford and you've got Cal.

"We need to know where to send your body parts in case of an accident," he smiled.

Izzy rolled her eyes and I wondered how many times Cal had unleashed this canned dialogue.

Above the drop zone, specks floated out of an airplane from a flight just before ours. As they neared the ground, the specks screamed with joy. Happy they were landing instead of falling.

"I'm not sure if I can do this," I said. "I don't want to shit my pants."

Izzy gently touched me on the arm.

"I've got so many straps, cords and buckles on me, I feel like I'm on a date."

On the plane we were wearing blue jumpsuits that made us look like janitors on the cover of Vogue.

Now in the air, our plane made a large circle about five miles around.

"Okay," Cal said. "This is the drop zone. Keep your hands on your chest when you're falling, I mean, jumping."

Not a good time to joke about a life-ending leap, I thought. Each of us fledgling jumpers was attached to an instructor.

"You can't really screw this up," Cal said. "Wherever you go, one of us is going with."

Izzy's instructor was also rugged. He looked like he could have climbed Mount Everest before breakfast. He too had thick blonde hair and numerous visible tattoos on his arms.

"You're next," Cal told Izzy.

"I've never been in a plane this tiny," I said.

"Are those clouds under us?" Izzy said. "This is really stupid."

"Get on your knees," Cal told Izzy.

"Cool," she said. "I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard that."

Cal attached himself to Izzy and started to tighten the belts.

"Put your goggles on," he said. "And keep your hands to your chest or hold on to the harness."

Cal gave thumbs up to the pilot.

"Door!" Cal yelled.

The door was flung open.

This was the same door we all walked through twenty minutes earlier. The wind whirled throughout the plane.

"You're three miles up now," Cal said. "This is going to be fun."

On the drive home my hips hurt from the impact, but we made it. I looked at Izzy and smiled.

"Thanks," Izzy said. "That was cool. Next up, crocodile wrestling."

"Oh god, no."

### Chapter Sixty-Four

"I would die 4 U"

Jumping out of a plane was for young people and morons. I was in the latter category.

"Done with this bucket-list," I said. I moved toward, more appropriately, inched my way toward the sofa. It was a nightmare. I exemplified every stereotype you could think of; the hunched shoulders, reaching for the arm of the couch, my knees felt like they'd been hit with a crowbar.

"We've still got two things to do," Izzy said.

"If this is what getting old is all about, I can see why people kept Kevorkian on speed-dial."

Izzy lay face down on the couch, her forearms under her pillow, looking out at the lake. The whole scene was comical, tragic, four people wasting away, melting in front of each other's eyes.

"I'm not getting the same kick out of the drugs," I said. "I think my body is rejecting everything. Our supply is virtually non-existent and the scumbags that work for us, we can't even go near them looking like we do."

"Kubler Ross said we have to accept our fate," Izzy said.

"What is a Kubler Ross?" I asked.

"Some nut-job who is some kind of guru on death."

"Great."

I had purchased a brace for my back.

"I can't reach my feet," I said, "be a doll and take off my shoes."

"You're serious," Izzy said.

"Have I ever asked you to take off my shoes before? Yeah, I'm serious."

"Okay, but if you hear me calling for someone to wipe my ass..."

Izzy sat on the floor with her back against the couch.

"There' something I haven't told you," she said flatly.

"There's a lot of things I haven't told you," I said.

She licked her lips and picked at her cuticles.

"It's about Pet."

I opened my eyes.

"What?"

"I never told you because it didn't matter. I mean, it mattered, but I didn't see any sense in telling you."

"Get to the point."

I sat forward even though it hurt like hell.

"The trip she took to Florida, with the money?" I asked.

"Yeah."

She turned at looked at me, no emotion in her face.

"What?" I asked. "What did he do?"

Izzy didn't say a word. She didn't have to.

"You sure?" I said. "I mean, really sure?"

"Pet didn't want to tell you. She felt she'd already failed you by not getting him to take us back. She didn't want to upset you."

I didn't know what to feel. There was absolutely nothing inside me. No rage, sadness, vitriol, just a sense of purpose and unwavering knowledge of what I had to do.

"She told you right after?" I asked.

Izzy nodded.

"It's a woman thing. She did what she felt she had to do."

My arms became restless and I felt weak, like my blood sugar was dropping.

As I stood I flipped the glass coffee table. It spun in the air and crashed to the ground. Izzy jumped. I picked up a chair and threw it into an antique china cabinet, smashing three of the shelves.

"I'm going to fucking kill," I screamed.

We had a ceramic lion from India or someplace and I threw it into the flat screen. Izzy wasn't about to say a word.

"Believe me, I am going to take such pleasure in killing that piece of animal."

I kicked at the edge of the couch but missed. I was completely exhausted and drenched in sweat. I plopped on the couch and breathed heavily, grabbed my heart. It took a few minutes until I caught my breath, Izzy just sat nearby.

"Okay. You make some plane reservations. I want to be there first thing."

She put her hand on my knee.

"Okay."

### Chapter Sixty-Five

"There's a hole in my life."

A 2002 Dodge minivan was all they had left at the car rental at Palm Beach International. It was off-season and all the good cars were up north or somewhere more deserving.

"You've got to be kidding me," Toad said, his belly pushed up against the steering wheel. "How are we going to look tough in this thing?" he asked.

"It's just a car," I said. "Gets us from A to B. Speaking of which, get us from A to B."

Griffin took about a minute to get into the back seat and I rode shotgun. The air conditioner was blowing hot air. I wondered how we're going to handle Tulio, if we ever made it there.

"Son of a bitch asked me if I had an AARP card," Toad groaned, flicking the air conditioning controls back and forth. "Trying to kill me in here."

The heat was hard on all of us. I had a tough time breathing, Griffin was having trouble keeping his eyes open and Toad wouldn't shut up. By Australian Boulevard we finally had the air conditioning raging and it was blissful. On the side of the road a typical scumbag Florida couple stood by their stalled pickup truck. They smoked cigarettes like chimneys. The man, with a long sun-bleached beard, drained a Busch beer and tossed the can on the road. I wished we had time to run them over.

We arrived on the island and there wasn't much activity. It was late October and most of the residents wouldn't be down until December or after Christmas. Maybe for a weekend here and there, but the season wouldn't start until after Thanksgiving.

"Park over here," I told Toad, motioning to the service entrance of the Beach Club. Palm Beach cops gave an unsolicited enema to anyone who looked like they didn't belong, like us. More important, I didn't want Tulio to see us before we got to him. I went to his house periodically when we lived in Miami so I knew it well.

The minivan would blend in with the other employee's low-rent cars.

"We'll cross here to the beach," I said. "Our best bet is getting in by the sea wall."

Tulio's estate was on the edge of a large bend in the road. If you drove straight, you'd run into one of his ten-foot cement walls. The seawall was 20 -feet high and owners up and down the coast could lower stairs so you could get from the estate to the beach. If we were at full-strength, we would have scaled the wall but that was ages ago. In our physical condition we'd be lucky to climb the stairs.

The Atlantic was relatively calm. In the distance a large freighter with its red and white cargo holds was on its way to Miami or Ft. Lauderdale.

From behind a palm tree on the estate I saw Philippe, looking around cautiously. He waved to me and reached for the control to lower the stairs.

"Tell me again why he's helping us?" Griffin asked, tilting his black Ray Ban's, revealing his bloodshot eyes. "Does it make sense?"

"He's had it with the asshole," I said.

"Haven't we all?" Toad asked, wiping sweat from his forehead with his hand. "If we don't get out of this sun, I'm going to drop like a dead walrus."

The staircase was painted blue and blended in with the Caribbean feel to the island.

Griffin went up first, followed by Toad then me.

"Thanks," I said to Philippe. "Where is he?"

"Library," Philippe said, "though I don't know why. The son of a bitch doesn't read."

"Probably jerking off," Toad said.

"You guys look terrible, like you're a hundred. What happened to you?" Phillipe asked.

"Never mind," Griffin said.

"You know which building?" Philippe asked. "The round building in the middle, looks like some kind of astronomer thing."

I remembered.

"Be careful of the guards near the front entrance," Philippe said. "They don't listen to me, only Tulio."

He bribed a couple of others with Heat tickets, told them to take the night off. He said Tulio insisted.

"Somebody killed the Heat's star player," Philippe said, "you believe that shit?"

"Yeah, heard something about that," Toad said.

Philippe led us through the main house. It was huge, spacious and beautiful. Large white metal hurricane shutters were attached to every window.

"This goes bad, I'm dead," Philippe said.

"You'll be fine. Just get out of here and call me later," I said.

"How do you want to do this?" Toad asked.

None of us had any experience with weapons, never needed or wanted to deal with them, but Philippe and I worked something out. He gave each of us a KelTech .380.

"Try not to kill each other," Philippe said.

He handed me keys to one of the cars.

"Take the Ferrari if worse comes to worst," Philippe said.

"You'd better let me have those," Toad said.

"Right," Griffin said, "the man who drives a 75 Blazer."

"Ferrari's only have two seats," Toad said.

"It's an FF," Philippe said, "four seats."

"Come on," I said, "we are wasting time."

There was a walkway from the main house to the library. From the lower level of the library you could get to the driveway. The waterfall in the pool covered any sound we made by walking. "Let's just go in fast and furious," Griffin said.

"How do these things work?" Griffin said, holding his gun in the air.

"Just make sure the safety is off and pull the trigger," Toad said, "a lot."

I breathed deep and nodded at Toad, who reached for the handle. It was unlocked. Toad slowly opened the door. Tulio was at the far end of the room watching a porno movie, drinking an Amstel Light. I was glad he relieved he wasn't relieving himself.

Toad wiped his sweaty hand on his shorts, then returned the gun to his right hand. He moved forward and looked dizzy, disoriented. The heat was getting to him. He fell forward, fainting, his head hit the door and the rest of him hit the ground, his gun skidded across the floor.

Tulio must have eyes in the back of the head. I'd never seen a mortal move that fast, then again, my eyes weren't what they used to be. Tulio dropped down the spiral staircase before Griffin and I couldn't get through the door. Toad's voluminous body impeded our movement.

"I'll go after him," I said. "Get fat ass on his feet."

Moving toward the staircase I saw Tulio didn't think to grab his gun, which rested on the table. The spiral staircase was tight and my shoulders scraped the sides. I heard a car roar to life and only made it to the door when I saw the Bentley racing down the driveway to the opening gate. Tulio didn't have the luxury of talking to a guard, who had been ordered to walk the compound. By the time we go to the Ferrari, Toad was moving pretty well and I pushed him into the backseat. Philippe ran toward us.

"Miami," Philippe said. "He called and asked me for Carlos' number. You assholes better get him. I can't believe you missed. He was a sitting duck, for Christ's sakes."

"Why isn't he going to the cops?" Griffin asked.

"I don't' know," Philippe said. "I know I would. For some reason I know he's going to Miami. Maybe he figured he couldn't kill you here, I don't know."

"Let's go," Griffin said. "Wait. What is he driving?"

"Just look for a maroon Bentley doing a couple hundred miles an hour, that's your man."

### Chapter Sixty-Six

"Got the ring my sister gave me, said it is my mom's. The day she died of cancer, I stole her morphine and gone."

The driver's on I-95 between Miami and Palm Beach were out of their skulls. We were doing 120 in the left lane and people were passing us via the center lane, probably doing 140, easy.

Tulio danced in and out of traffic. We blew our chance to get him at his house, somebody must have tipped him off. Fortunately, there was a Miami Marlins game and we had a bottleneck up ahead.

Tulio cut across four lanes of traffic and exited on Hialeah Boulevard. It was everything I could do to follow him through the maze of cars. An asshole in a Jaguar was intentionally trying to screw me over in traffic, not letting me through. I pushed in front of him, scraped the front of his car. His mouth fell open like he'd dropped an infant and I gave him the finger. Every moment he was ahead of us gave Tulio that much more of an opportunity to get away.

The traffic opened up as he headed west and I gained on him, maybe four car-lengths behind. In my rearview I saw the jerk in the Jaguar, his fists still pumping, he stuck his head out the window and screamed at me. He cut across two lanes and sideswipes a van with Christ's Lutheran Church painted on the side, almost sending the flock to their maker prematurely. Drivers in front of us watched the maniac plowing towards them in a Bentley and pulled to the side, not wanting to get involved.

Tulio picked up speed on an open stretch, and more cars pulled to the side. He took a look in his rearview and never saw the gas tanker in front of him. He tried to go around the tanker but the truck fishtailed and Tulio slammed into the right rear. The Bentley looked like it was hit by a free-safety on an over the middle pass, a quarterback who left him hanging out to dry until he was hit in mid-air with the ferocity of a freight-train.

The front fender of the Bentley dropped to the cement and the front of the car looked like an accordion. Tulio slowly pulled himself out of the window of the car and let himself down to the ground. Face down he looked like he was sleeping, drunk. His forehead was badly cut. The asshole probably wasn't wearing a seatbelt. All of us were relieved to see he hadn't been killed in the crash---we wanted to kill him ourselves.

Toad was out the door before I came to a stop. The driver of the tanker got out to see what happened and other drivers started to rubberneck. Toad puts his arms under Tulio's pits and dragged him toward our car.

Toad slammed the door, Tulio moaned in the back seat. I hit the gas and zigzagged through the stalled traffic. Toad punched Tulio in the throat.

### Chapter Sixty-Seven

"Sometimes goodbye is a second chance."

We found the location through Tulio's supplier in Miami, and it had an industrial mixer, a big sucker. He sent someone to let us in, used the place on occasion. I knew Carlos Garcia when I worked out of Miami. Alex, the guy we dipped in the acid bath in Milwaukee, wanted our action and fed Carlos lies about us. He told Carlos we were stealing from him, in the neighborhood of two million dollars. While that wasn't much to a guy like Carlos, it was more the principle of the thing. I'll never know why he believed Alex over us. Perhaps it was convenient to install someone else in our place so he could take more of a cut. He never tried to have us killed so in this trade that was kind of a friendship.

It turned out Tulio was running to Carlos for help. Carlos was as surprised as we were. They had no intention of helping him in any way. We were about to save Carlos the trouble of getting rid of him, something they were going to handle in the next couple of weeks.

I set him up in a chair. Tulio's face looked bad and I had to fight the urge to get him a towel, but I fought it."

"What can you give us to spare your life?" I asked.

There was no way in hell we were going to spare his life after what he did to Pet, but you never knew what a scumbag like him had been holding back all these years. It was just good business to check.

"All I have is money. Cash. Lot's of it and it's all yours."

"In any other situation I'd consider it," I said, "but this is about Pet."

"I didn't touch her. What did she tell you?"

"If you didn't touch her, then why did you mention that?"

"I don't know. I'm nervous."

"She's dead," I said."

"What? I didn't know."

"Toad, can you get the man some water please?"

"Tulio, I want to be perfectly clear. Griffin over there wants you dead. Toad wants you dead. I, on the other hand, am open to negotiation. Give me one thing I need and I'll spare your life. You've known me a long time, Tulio. You know I don't mess around. You've got about one minute left."

Tulio chugged the water without stopping.

"Spike," he said.

"I'm listening," I said.

"He set up the train. It was him."

"Spike isn't smart enough to set up a burp," I said. "Who helped him?"

"Nobody," Tulio said. "I have no idea."

"Hmmm, sounds like you don't know much about anything. But you're sure it was Spike?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm sure."

I could see Griffin and Toad trembling in anger. Toad moved toward Tulio and I held up my hand, in essence asking him to stop.

"Why would Spike attack us? What could he possibly gain?" I asked.

"The city. He wanted Milwaukee. For himself," Tulio said.

"Really." I said.

"And that's after you cut us off," Griffin said. "That's goddamned convenient." He turned to me. "What are we waiting for? Drop him."

"I had nothing to do with it," Tulio said. "I swear."

"Grab this asshole," I said. "If he had anything to tell us, this pussy would have done it."

Tulio's gold chains dangled below him and he found himself propped over the rim of what was an enormous stainless steel mixing bowl. He was staring four feet down into a viscous mix that resembled cooked oatmeal. His face was bloodied from the accident and he couldn't move his legs. The rim cut into Tulio's ribs, cramping his breath.

Outfitted with a stainless steel serrated blade system, the agitator could mix more than 2,000 gallons of inert ingredients. It was a very efficient mixer, FDA-inspected and ISO 9002 compliant.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tulio moaned. "I'll make it up to you. I'll pay back everything. How much do you want? I'll give you anything you want."

"Can you make the Cubs win the World Series?" I asked.

"I'm begging you," he cried. "Oh, Christ!"

"One question," I said. "Have you ever known a vampire?"

"What?"

"Have you ever known any vampires?"

"No. No."

"Yes you have."

Griffin looked to me for permission. I nodded.

"Wait," Toad said, as he ripped the gold chains from Tulio's neck with his good hand.

"Okay."

We tossed Tulio over the rim as he gave an animal-like whelp as he flopped through the air and landed face-first into the muck. Before Tulio could suction himself out of the gruel-like mixture, the agitator shuddered alive with a great whooshing sound that quickly turned shrill.

"Now that's a contaminated batch," Toad laughed. "Like the fat kid in Willy Wonka."

In the grander scheme of things, Tulio was expendable and the world was a better place without him. It was as Brutus said about Caesar's death; it was for the common good.

"Well, our good, anyway.

### Chapter Sixty-Eight

"I am trying to break your heart."

Chicago was tainted forever. It was the last place Pet ever saw and it broke our hearts to be there, but we had some unfinished business, needed some closure. Needless to say, we didn't take the train. Griffin was coughing, Izzy nursing a shoulder. She'd become so incapacitated with arthritis it was difficult for her to move her right arm and wore a sling. Malcolm's back was hunched and his knuckles gnarled. We were indeed the living dead, the unwell.

I motioned to Izzy and Griffin to come to the side of the building. Toad patrolled the front. It was a three-story home in Wrigleyville, across the street from the ballpark. On the roof, sturdy bleachers were constructed so fans could watch the game from over the walls in left field. Spike was ahead of the curve and built the bleachers back in the early 1990s.

There was a game and it was picture-perfect, seventy-two degrees, the sun just beginning to set.

"What a shithole," Izzy said.

"Yeah, but a great view of the game," I said

I moved away from the building to get a better look to see if lights were on in Spike's apartment--they were.

"If anybody is in there with him, get them before they make a noise," I tell the others. "We won't get a second chance."

I was bothered by the thought one of the last things I possibly would ever do was murder someone. With any luck at all, Spike was about to die.

Izzy nodded and rubbed her arm and scratches like a meth addict. I gently stroked her cheek. Griffin reached into his backpack and took out a sandwich bag full of powder.

"We have to get amped up."

"One for the road," Toad said.

"We are risking our ass on this, you know," Izzy said. "We're weakened."

"It's still four against one," I said.

"I put some crank in this batch," Griffin said. "A little more pep in our step."

Griffin and Toad spooned a gram for each of us into their palms.

"Easy," Izzy said. "You're mortal now."

"He's strong, so respect that," I said.

We had never murdered anyone before, with the exception of that pond scum Alex.

Griffin turned to Izzy.

"If you need any motivation, just remember Pet. Once more unto the breech," he said, appropriately referencing one of his favorite quotes from Henry V.

I twisted the light bulb until it went dark. Our backs rested against the sides of the door, like in a cop show on television. Izzy knocked. She put her head down seemingly psyching herself up for the task at hand and it served to keep her identity from Spike, at least until the last moment.

"Yeah," we heard from inside.

Izzy shifted her weight from leg to leg, clenching and unclenching her fists. The door opened and Izzy looked into Spike's eyes. As soon as his eyes meet with Izzy's, he knew why we were there. He tried to slam the door, but she wedged herself inside. Spike ran up the stairs.

Izzy was still the fastest of any of us and she took off after him. Spike was at the top of the stairs, beginning the second set to the roof.

When Spike reached the door to the roof, a private entrance from his house, he found it locked. He fumbled for the keys as Izzy hit him from behind, smashing her bony shoulder into his kidney. Spike groaned and bent forward, then he rear-kicked Izzy in the head, sending her down the hallway. He was surprised at how quickly she went down. She wasn't knocked out but she was fazed.

Spike turned to see Griffin a few feet away.

"You filthy bastard," Griffin said, using all his adrenaline to send his fist across Spike's jaw. Izzy was right, compared to us Spike was like Samson.

Spike picked up Griffin up and thrust him into the wall, Griffin's head hit the oak molding. Izzy dug her thumbs into Spike's eyes, He grabbed her wrists and turned them sharply outward, crushing them with his hands.

The top of the blade came within six inches of Izzy's face after I ran it through Spike's abdomen. His blood spewed on Izzy's face and chest. Judging by his moans, it appeared to hurt more on the way out than in. Spike had enough energy to turn and kick me in the chest, which sent me down the stairs.

Spike turned back to Izzy and started to punch her in the head, repeatedly. Griffin was very groggy and didn't have much left. He used what little energy he had to slam into Spike, causing him to turn onto his side. Izzy threw her body over Spike's legs and pinned him.

I positioned myself over Spike with a large Japanese dagger.

"This is for Pet," I said, and I brought my arms down in one quick motion. As the blade disconnected Spike from his head, it sounded like a solid but dull snap. Izzy was closest to Spike's head as it rolled once completely around and faced upwards. His eyes still blinked as the blood poured out of his skull. The nerve reactions kept his face as it was on impact. Some speculated the brain was alive long enough to register what had happened.

"Fuck you, you pig," was all I said, and I spit on his face.

Spike's mouth opened and closed twice before becoming still.

"Even a dumpster is too good for this guy's head," I said, turning to descend the stairs.

### Chapter Sixty-Nine

"My girlfriend, she's at the end, she is starting to cry."

During the pelvic the exam Sidney pulled Izzy's hips to the end of the table. Sidney booked an exam room on the third floor. Izzy's feet were in the stirrups. "This completely sucks," Izzy said, "I only do this when a guy is going down on me."

"You'll forgive me if I resist," Sidney said. "I keep forgetting this is the first time you've done this."

"Back in my day they didn't do this kind of stuff. Jesus, listen to me, back in my day. Oh, god. It's all over except the crying."

"Well, you look normal on the outside," Sidney inserted the speculum.

"Izzy groaned, "That's cold, low temperature stuff."

"We keep it in the freezer. You may feel a little discomfort. This is your first exam, you might feel a little tense. Try to stay calm. Hum or something."

"What are you looking for in there, if you don't mind me asking."

"Anything unusual. Redness, swelling, discharges. Okay, here's the tricky part. You're going to feel a little pressure on your abdomen. I'm going to press down on your ovaries."

Sidney made the face doctors made when they're searching for something, looking away with a wrinkled brow.

"Okay," Sidney said. "Come into the office when you're dressed."

Izzy was still buttoning her blouse when she sat across the desk from Sidney.

"I know you appreciate directness," Sidney said.

"Love it," Izzy said, lighting a cigarette.

"It's not going to happen," Sidney said quietly. I'm afraid you can't get pregnant. I'm so sorry, Izzy."

"You sure? That's it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Izzy inhaled deeply, blew the smoke towards the door. "I don't know why I even thought of it, to tell you the truth."

"Even if we say we don't want a baby, we want a baby, as women. We can't help it," Sidney said. "Somewhere deep down, I know it hurts. It hurts me."

"Right. I'm sorry. I forgot."

"Nothing to be sorry about," Sidney said. "Not in my cards. I'm glad I'm not leaving an orphan."

Izzy reached across the desk and takes Sidney's hands.

"Well, we've both been dealt a lousy hand. Let's get drunk."

### Chapter Seventy

"I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black."

"There's a big difference," Griffin said.

Sidney waited for her chemotherapy appointment at St. Mary's Hospital. Griffin had accompanied her for the last two visits.

"You have a choice now. You didn't ask for cancer. This is a way out, a chance to have life."

"It wouldn't be my life, you understand. It would be the life you have now, and from the looks of things, you're not that happy with it. Why would you want me to be a part of something you've been trying to get out of?"

"You're right," Griffin said. "But you're not me. I have my reasons for not wanting to continue on. I just want you to have a life, any life. I've already spent an eternity alone and I'm not going to spend another."  
"I love you and I'll take what we have left, together," Sidney said.

"Don't be crazy, this is your chance."

"No, you are my chance."

Sidney pulled Griffin towards her and kissed him.

"I don't want to go on," Griffin said.

Sidney lightly pressed her palms on the side of Griffin's face. He continued.

"I left them...to die. My wife and kids were separated from me. I couldn't find them. I looked for days. I can only assume they were killed. I'm sure they were."

"I'm so sorry," Sidney said.

"I didn't have the guts, didn't have the balls to take my own life. I've never been able to forgive myself since. Why do I get to go on and not them? Griffin asked. "Tell me. There's no reason I should have lived."

"Dr. Corrigan? We're ready for you," The nurse said.

Sidney was crying as she kissed him.

"Wait for me?"

"I will."

### Chapter Seventy-One

"That's when I reach for my revolver."

Toad bellied up to the long glass case filled with watches, jewelry of various makes and quality. Of course there was the odd assortment of hunting knives and collectibles. Behind the counter were signed photos of movie stars, athletes. Izzy flipped through a pile at the end of the case.

"I want this signed Pat Sajak picture," she said.

From the corner of his eye Toad almost didn't recognize her, thinking her an old woman. Two dental chairs were against the wall below six electric guitars ranging from Made in Mexico Fender Stratocaster's, all the way up the ladder to an authentic Les Paul.

Toad decided to go to Chicago to move a few, if not all of the items he stole from King, the dead basketball player. The store smelled like hot dogs from a Vienna Beef cart, which held a permanent spot on the sidewalk out front.

"What you got there?" the clerk asked, looking at Izzy. He was of average height with a thick red stubble on his cheeks coming together in a three inch Van Dyke. His hair receded drastically leaving a patch of red hair in the center of his scalp.

He set a purple bag on the countertop, like Barney the dinosaur's nut-sack. The best term for what Toad took out of the sack was 'bling.'

"Man," the clerk said, chewing his gum rapidly, "let me take a look at this."

He lifted two heavy gold chains out of Toad's hand and moved it from palm to palm like a Slinky, two belonged to Tulio. The chains were placed on the glass counter and he ran a magnet over them. Izzy was looking out the windows, somewhat disinterested, but kept an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

The man smacked his thin lips together and reached out his hand.

"What else?"

Toad fished a two-inch diamond encrusted 'K' out of the bag, probably sixty stones on a silver chain.

"Nice," the man said.

Izzy reached up and removed the Les Paul from the rack and lightly touched the neck.

"How did you come by these things?" the man asked, his eyebrow cocked as he fingered the diamonds, blowing a small bubble, he closed his eyes when it snapped.

"My brother passed away, killed, actually," Toad said. "He left me all of his things."

The clerk stuck a magnifying glass into his left eye socket.

"His name started with a 'K' I'm supposing."

"Yes," Toad said. He paused a moment. "Kirk."

"Uh-huh."

"They're real, right?" Toad asked.

"I think so," the man said, setting the diamond pendant on the counter. "What were you looking to do with these? Pawn or sell them?"

"Ha" Izzy said, "just like that t-v show, he said the same thing."

The clerk looked at Izzy with a blank face.

Izzy leaned on the counter, revealing her breasts, old habits died-hard. She was oblivious to the fact no man wanted to see an old woman's tits, even this disgusting creep looked away.

"Sell," Toad said.

He shuffled his feet and placed his hands on the edge of the counter, he winked at Izzy.

"Okay," the clerk said, "chains are good, probably 24 Karat. The diamonds are pretty clear. Give me a few minutes in the back, check some prices."

Toad was reluctant to let this guy take anything out of his sight but figured it had to be done.

"Okay," Toad said, "but don't take too long."

In the corner was a collection of baseball memorabilia. A couple of dozen autographed baseballs, bats and gloves from Major Leaguers filled a glass case.

"Where the is this guy?" Izzy said.

Five minutes passed before Toad checked his watch and rapped his fingers on the glass counter. Toad looked around the counter and into the backroom but couldn't see the clerk. He felt something was wrong.

"You want that guitar?" he said to Izzy.

"Yup," Izzy said.

Looking around Toad's shoulder, she saw the squad cars.

"Cops," she yelled, rushing to lock the door. "That son of a bitch."

The cops got out of their car, guns drawn. Toad's eyes grew glassy and he put his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Can't go to prison," he said.

The clerk came around the corner.

"They had a reward. Sent pictures of what they were looking for. The basketball player," he said. "I can't be caught with that stuff."

Toad resigned himself to his bad luck.

Diminished greatly in strength, Izzy had enough to punch the clerk in the throat, doubling him to his knees.

"Get out the back," Toad instructed Izzy. "No matter what, don't turn back.

"Toad..." she said.

Toad recalled a story Griffin once told him about a hippopotamus under attack from big cats in Africa. The cats mauled the hippo, bringing him down, but he kept getting back up until he finally made it to water. The cats waited on the edge of the reservoir, patiently, for hours, just hanging out, grooming themselves. The hippo stared at them from the water. After a few hours, for unknown reasons, the hippo slowly walked out of the water, accepting his doom and the lions obliged.

"No time. Please." Toad pressed his car keys into her hand.

Toad looked out the window. He was willing to die for Izzy to escape.

"Go."

Izzy ran around the counter, and jumped over the groaning clerk.

Darting through the back room, she jump-kicked the door, setting off the alarm. Izzy turned right in the alley, labored up the street to Toad's Blazer.

Toad's hands rested on the glass case behind him. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world. The cops shot the door lock and almost took it off its hinges. Toad took a deep breath and reached behind his back for a gun that was never there. He felt bad for the cop who was about to kill him and what it might do to his or her life, but it was worth it for Izzy to get away.

The police didn't say 'freeze,' or 'hold it right there,' as they would in an episode of Starsky and Hutch. As he swung his right arm without a gun, two bullets ripped through his chest and another traveled through his neck. Toad gurgled blood for a moment and fell on top of the clerk. Now there were just three left.

### Chapter Seventy-Two

"Where have all the cowboys gone?"

Izzy asked Griffin and me to meet her at the UWM Union, said she didn't want to go home. We didn't know what she wanted to say, but assumed it was important. The Union was a dreary amalgamation of coffee shops, fast food and cafeterias where students could eat or finish a last-minute term paper. It reeked from fast food and Patchouli oil.

"What's up?" I asked. "Everything okay?"

It was clear she had been crying, still was.

"No," she said, "it's not."

Griffin had trouble holding his head upright. To the young students walking around our table we must appear like retirees meeting for coffee and a doughnut.

"It's Toad, isn't it," Griffin said, his head faced his lap.

"Yeah," Izzy said.

She didn't have to say anything more. My face grew hot and I closed my eyes. I cleared every thought from my head. I breathed through my nose, nothing but blackness in my mind. Good. That was what I intended. I wondered how long I could keep this empty feeling, my mind devoid of any thoughts. It was wonderful, peaceful. I was crudely pulled back into reality.

Griffin hadn't lifted his head. Izzy looked around for something to focus on. She looked back to me, her leg involuntarily jumping up and down, something they've recently coined' restless leg syndrome.' They had a name for everything, I thought.

"In Chicago," she said, "cops shot him."

"On the street? I asked. "Why? Why did they shoot Toad?"

"We were at a pawn shop," Izzy said. "He tried to unload some jewelry from the basketball player."

Griffin slowly raised his head, eyes black and red.

"I don't know," Izzy said, wiping her face. "Somehow the guy was tipped off. The cops sent some kind of warning to all pawnshops in the Midwest."

"He was always ignoring the rules," I said. "Trying to skip proper planning, too much work."

Izzy became animated, angry.

"Don't say that!" Izzy said. "Have some fucking respect."

"He liked shortcuts," I said. "Things happen when you don't plan. He should have known they were looking for the stuff."

"How dare you?" Izzy said, her face full of rage. "He was trying to do something for us. For you, you bastard. He could never live up to your expectations, you know? Never got your approval."

"I'm not his father," I said flatly.

"You were like a father to him and you knew it. It doesn't matter if you never said it. You knew what you meant to him. I don't know why he wanted your worthless approval anyway. You're a selfish asshole."

Griffin tried to calm Izzy.

"I understand," Griffin said. "You don't..."

"And you," she said to Griffin. "You're such a pussy. You knew the relationship between them, and you never helped Toad. Too worried about how he would feel," she said, motioning her head to me. "As far as I'm concerned, you both share the blood on your hands. Toad wasn't the smartest guy, but he cared. Cared about all of us."

Izzy stood and threw her coffee across the room.

"Fuck the both of you," she said, then left.

I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. Instead, I looked to Griffin and I couldn't read his face. Maybe he agreed with her, maybe not.

"It doesn't matter," he said.

"You really think so?" I said.

It took him a while to respond.

"I don't know, Malcolm," he said. "All I know is I'm tired. I'm tired and this is all getting very old."

### Chapter Seventy-Three

"Act your age mamma, not your shoe size."

Pizza grease had soaked through the bottom of the cardboard disc. Izzy was on her stomach and reached for another piece of pepperoni and onion. Wearing only a t-shirt from Chas' closet, she nestled herself on his stomach and bit into the pizza.

"This is nice," Chas said, pinching a joint with his fingers. Izzy was a bad influence on him. "June and Ward Cleaver we are not."

Izzy laughed so hard she had to stop the pizza from being jettisoned from her mouth.

"Stop, stop," she said.

"Here's the dirtiest sentence in television history," Chas said. "Ward, you were a little hard on the Beaver last night. Get it? Leave it to Beaver?"

Izzy almost choked from laughter.

"You asshole," Izzy said, wiping her mouth with a towel.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Chas said, putting his arm around Izzy and pulling her to the bed. "I'm not used to people laughing at what I said."

"Thank god there's more pizza," she said, grabbing an end piece.

Chas poured more Chianti.

"Who'd of thought we'd be like this," he said. "I never thought I was your type."

"You're not Mr. Right," Izzy winked, "you're Mr. Right Now."

Chas nodded, a big grin on his face.

"I'm kidding! Jesus Christ, I'm just kidding. Geez, don't take everything I said so seriously. You're so sensitive."

Izzy stroked Chas' hair. "I care about you. I do."

"I care about you too."

"You have no idea what a departure this is for me," Izzy said. She dropped her pizza on the wax paper and kissed Chas.

"I've had my share of, well, dates. But the time we've spent together has been special, real. I've talked with you about things I've never shared with anyone, ever. Do you understand? I mean, that must mean we have something. Right?"

For a moment Izzy thought about telling Chas about her pathology, but let it go.

"Yeah," Chas said, "I suppose."

"I'm done with music," she said. She leaned on her elbow. "Done, finished."

"I don't understand," Chas said. "It's who you are. How can you do that?"

"It's just over," she said, "and I'm relieved, you know? Don't know why I have this hole in my heart, this need to be accepted, admired."

"I didn't know that's what this was about," Chas said. "I just thought you loved it."

She shook her head.

"I've got to tell you something else, and I don't want you to freak out. I drew up a will."

"Are you alright?" Chas saw the obvious changes in her physically but never mentioned them.

"Yeah, for the most part. But I wanted you to know, since I don't have any family, per-se, I've left you everything I have. It's not a fortune, but it's all I've got. Some guitars, a condo, some cash."

Chas sat up, moving the pizza and wine.

"What the hell are you talking about? Are you sick?"

"Like I said, not really. I mean, I don't know. Just let me do this, okay? Let me feel good about something."

"Fine," Chas said. "If it makes you feel better, fine. Let's talk about something else."

"Yeah," Izzy smiled. "Like what are you leaving me in your will?"

Chas grabbed her little waist and tickled her.

"Just kidding," Izzy shouted. "I'm just kidding."

### Chapter Seventy-Four

"Something touched me deep inside the day the music died."

Izzy couldn't stand to look in the mirror. Her tits were sagging, enough bags under her eyes to require luggage tags. Malcolm and Griffin seemed to have been hit harder with physical ailments, the arthritis, hip problems and heart attacks. But as any woman will tell you those maladies were nothing compared to the loss of beauty.

She'd agreed to meet Anthony in his loft, which doubled for his office. Anthony Zaris produced Izzy's video and was a fan of her work. He gave her a chance when nobody would even give her a listen.

Anthony poured vodka for each of them.

Izzy tried to cover her face, embarrassed by her aging. Anthony handed her the drink.

"Any word on the contract?" Izzy asked.

Anthony sat behind his desk.

"Yeah," He said.

"Is that it? Nothing else? I hate it when I have to pry stuff out of you."

"Look, it's not good. They're going to pass."

Izzy closed her eyes. She tilted her glass and finished her vodka.

"I told a friend last night my so called career was over, but I don't know if I even believed it until now."

"Izzy, c'mon. Just one producer, just one label," Anthony said. "Your music is unique, it takes chances, you know? I wouldn't be in the trenches with you if you weren't good."

"And I appreciate it, I really do." Izzy couldn't sit still and look at the framed records on the wall, the success stories staring her in the face.

"I think this is it for me."

Anthony noticed the veins popping out of Izzy's arms. The gray in the hair she hadn't bothered to color.

"Are you sick or something?"

Anthony tugged open the drawer on his desk, perused the contents. He found a joint in the back of the drawer. It was stale and he lit it, inhaled with gusto. He offered it to Izzy, who refused.

"Something like that," she said. "I can tell you one thing, I'm sick of chasing something that's never going to happen. Seems there's a lot of things that aren't going to happen."

"Like what?" he asked.

"I like you, but some things are private, things like this."

"You want to end the band? Is that the thing?"

"Who gives a shit anyway?"

"I do."

Izzy changed her mind and reached for the joint.

"All good things must end," she said, sucking hard on the blunt. "And it's not like the Beatles breaking up, is it."

She flicked off the ash and put the joint to her lips.

"Just take some time to think about things," Anthony said.

"I'm done thinking. I need a real paradigm shift, and I think it's coming."

### Chapter Seventy-Five

"Only the lonely, only the lonely can play.

It started to rain as Izzy left Anthony's loft.

"Just my luck."

Stepping onto the sidewalk she slipped and landed on her butt, a nasty fall. Something flared in her back.

"Is this some kind of joke?" she said, staring at the sky. "Are you torturing me for any specific reason?" She paused. "Never mind," she said, "I know why."

The rain picked up and it was too wet to ride her motorcycle, so she walked toward the Hampton Inn, where she could get out of the rain and have the desk clerk call a cab. She heard the clang of the railroad signal and looked toward the tracks and saw a young mother struggling to push her baby's stroller over the tracks. The railroad safety-arm lowered, signaling the train was approaching. The woman was yapping on her cell phone and swayed too far to the left, off the rubber-coated crossing.

"Hey" the woman shouted. "The wheel is stuck!" she said, keeping an eye on the train. After a moment she freed the wheel and continued.

The commuter train was traveling 40 miles and hour, average speed for a crossing with no scheduled stops. Izzy looked at the train, which wasn't slowing, then back at the woman and sensed something was horribly wrong.

The stroller caught in between the rails a second time.

"Move!" Izzy shouted, and began running toward the tracks. "The damn train is coming!"

The woman recognized she was in deep doo-doo and pushed hard on the stroller, bending a wheel.

"You dumb bitch," Izzy screamed, running at full tilt. "Get out of there!"

The engineer finally saw the woman wrestling with the stroller and sounded the horn.

Izzy dove into the woman's back, thrusting her forward. The woman instinctively covered her baby's head like a football and landed onto the adjacent track, mostly on her elbows. Izzy rolled over the rail and felt the whoosh of the skidding train, her body pushed forward from the air-wake. She regained her senses and sat Indian style.

"You know, dumb bitches like you don't deserve to be a mother."

### Chapter Seventy-Six

"Imagine there's no heaven, it's easy if you try."

We were sitting in the last pew of St. Patrick Parish. For whatever reason I liked it there. Sitting alone I'd meditate every once in a while. It smelled of flowers, incense and it was peaceful.

Griffin sat next to me.

"Izzy's gone," he said.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"Gone as in gone. She left. Here's her note."

I took the missive.

This sucks. I'm gone. --- Izzy.

"She planning on roaming off and dying in the woods like some wounded bear?" I said.

"I'm not surprised and at the same time I'm shocked," Griffin said.

I thought it was pure Izzy. Why wait around for the ending of a movie you know is going to end badly?

"What about that guy? Chas?"

"Suppose we could try to get in touch with him," Griffin said. "Maybe he went too."

"I was here about a week ago," I said. "Met this priest. Father Moreno."

Griffin coughed into his handkerchief and inspected the mucus.

My eyes were watering and I couldn't tell if it was because of tears or glaucoma. "The guy gave me a bible. Isn't that a hoot?" I said.

"A hoot? Seems like he knew you were a troubled soul. It could have been worse. He could have given you Chicken Soup for the Soul, or Tuesday with Morrie."

"Tuesday's."

"Whatever," Griffin said.

"I threw the bible away, right in front of him. He was just trying to help. What kind of man does that?" I asked.

"Is that what we are? Men?"

Griffin eyed the large crucifix over the altar.

"Look at him," he said, "we all get crucified, in one way or another."

"Least he had a father who loved him."

It was a beautiful church.

"Wish I'd spent more time in one of these, if for nothing else but the architecture."

"She'll be in touch," Griffin said. "I just hope we're around to get in touch with."

The door behind the altar opened and I watched as Father Moreno entered the church from the rectory. The priest walked toward me, never breaking stride. Right in front of Griffin, he handed me the baggie of cocaine I left on his desk.

"It's all about choices," Father Moreno smiled. "Make good choices." He went back to the rectory and was gone as quickly as he came.

"He makes it seem so easy," I said

### Chapter Seventy-Seven

"I want a new drug, one that won't make me sick."

When Dr. Niels Stone was in his lab, you could expect to hear Rush, Tom Petty or their equivalent on the sound system. He was in his 40s but was already one of the most respected genetic researchers in the country.'

Sidney wasn't having any luck discovering an antidote. She sought Dr. Stone's help.

"DNA repair defects are seen in nearly all of the diseases described as accelerated aging disease," Dr. Stone told Sidney. She had known him since she started at St. Mary's. He was her mentor when she came to work in the center. He still worked in genetic research but was partially retired because of some high-tech Internet stocks he purchased in the 90s.

He invited Sidney to his lab because he figured Sidney needed a fresh perspective.

"This case is different," Sidney said. "He was one of the victims in the Sarin attack on the train recently."

Dr. Stone nodded, and drank from a can of Coke Zero. "It normally kills fast," Dr. Stone said.

"I know." Dr. Stone walked around his glassed-in laboratory, looking for his glasses. "Who is your index?"

"His name is Malcolm, a 39 year old male subject, generally good condition."

"How did you come across him?" Dr. Stone asked.

"Uh, just came in."

"He just happened to seek out a genetic researcher?" Stone said, curious but not judgmental.

Sidney shrugged her shoulders.

"Beats me."

Dr. Stone dropped a little of Malcolm's blood on a slide and bent to take a peak. He sighted the sample through his microscope.

"I've observed tissues aging, organs systems prematurely aging," he said. "Accelerated aging diseases display different aspects of aging, but never every aspect, they often called segmental progerias. But I've never seen it associated with a nerve agent."

"I'm sure I'm missing something," Sidney said.

He reached for another vile with a clear liquid and added it to the slide.

"If it turns purple, it's infected, Sarin."

Dr. Stone stood and checked his watch. Ten seconds later he looked at the sample.

"Yup, take a look," he said. "Some of the cells are swollen."

Izzy looked at the sample.

"So, that much we know."

Dr. Stone replaced the slide with a fresh one and put another drop of Malcolm's blood under the microscope.

"So, what are you looking for?" he asked, "you think this Sarin is affecting the aging process?"

"I don't know much of anything," Sidney said. "All I know is he's been aging, rapidly, since he was involved in the attack. A friend of his too."

"Can you bring him in so I can get a look at him?"

She shook her head.

"Won't do it. He has some fear or nervousness around people he doesn't know," she lied.

"But not around you?"

"He's a riddle," she said.

Dr. Stone rested his hand on his hip and drank from his can of Coke Zero.

"Most of the DNA repair deficiency diseases show varying degrees of accelerated aging" or cancer."

"So, what do I do?" Sidney asked, "I'm looking for a direct reversal."

"In a word, photolayse," Stone said. "It's found in many bacteria, lower eukaryotes, insects, and plants. The gene is present in mammals but may code for a protein with an accessory function in another type of repair. Specifically, monkeys."

"The kind that fling poop?"

"The same. They hypothalamus has proved effective for some DNA reversals, efficacy rate is high, despite it coming from a poop-flinger.

"Why do you think the gas is cloaked in his blood, despite having traces of Sarin."

"Like I said, the cells are swollen, you wouldn't have known to look for that. I've tested animal subject who have had an infection a long time before they showed any symptoms. Sarin is a man-made killer for effective killing in WWII, and it doesn't know the war is over. It will never rest until it kills its host."

"Why monkey hypothalamus?"

"Like many mammals they've developed antibodies to protect itself against certain viruses and infections.

Sidney took another look at the sample.

"You think I may be able to reverse it?"

"I think it's worth a shot," Dr. Stone said. "You don't have that many options, and you've got to work fast. So, like you said, reverse it."

Sidney smiled.

"Piece of cake. By the way, where the heck am I going to find monkey hypothalamus?"

### Chapter Seventy-Eight

"Is it wrong to understand, the fear that dwells inside a man."

It was cold and I pulled the collar of my coat over my neck. I huddled inside, now a man I'd only seen in pictures or elderly relatives long ago. In retrospect it wasn't even that cold, perhaps it was just me.

"Blood must be thin as water," I said. "I'm shivering." The arthritis in my shoulders was excruciating.

Sidney nodded, and looked at me with a physician's assurance. "You'll be fine," she lied, "just get some rest.

"I don't think any of us have slept the last couple of days," I said. I was right, too. I knew I hadn't and by the look of Sidney's eyes, it was clear to me she hadn't either.

"It's no wonder," Sidney said, "some mind-bending stuff going on."

I looked at her as she stared off into the distance, over our pool and at the neighbors treetops about a quarter mile away. Cancer is a wicked disease and it takes its sweet time whittling you down to nothing. Then, as if it had overslept, it decides to accelerate. Sidney was starting a quick decline.

The house was empty with just Griffin and me and it felt like a cave, now warmth whatsoever Sidney had stayed with us the last few days, mostly tending to Griffin who was hanging by a thread. If either of us lived through the next couple of days, we promised each other we were leaving, whomever was left was out of there. There was too much pain in the house, too many things to remind us of Pet and Izzy. Photographs, guitars, everything they touched. I wanted to burn everything in a massive bonfire in the yard and have my memory erased, if that were possible.

Paintings were already loaded on a neat trash pile in the garage, along with everything else I could haul out on my own. It was good to have something to do and not have to look at Griffin, who was vanishing.

We sat around the pool, having energy for little else. Sidney no longer went in to work, didn't give a hoot, became dour and melancholy. I missed her and I was only a few feet away. I could have been with her every moment of the day and it wouldn't have been enough.

Neither Griffin nor I were drinking, first time in years. Any recreational substances at this point would only accelerate our demise. I was sure of that. I stared at the solitary syringe on the tray half full with a liquid and a million things ran through my mind. Inside that syringe was antidote for just one person. A laughable amount of fluid that carried so much weight, the destiny of three people.

"Can't tell you how much this is killing me," Sidney said. There was defeat written on her face. "There was only so much. I tried everything. There was nothing more I could do." I watched her swallow and her lips trembled.

"You did everything you could," Griffin said. "Please don't feel bad. Sweetheart, stop."

When he said 'sweetheart,' I felt cold, pain shot clear down from my neck to my fingers.

Griffin reached for Sidney's hand. I envied their intimacy, to have someone close at what could very well be the final hours of your life, well, that was something I yearned for. Nothing else mattered to me anymore. The cars, houses, women, they were all ephemeral. The only thing that mattered were my friendships, the loss of people I loved, the fact I wouldn't leave the world a better place, the fact she was with him.

The math was simple; one of us was going to die. I loved Griffin and truly didn't want him to die, but what the hell, he was the one that always wanted to, right? I tried to reason it this way, but I knew I was just a pussy. The thought of dying, while not appealing, may have been preferable to losing anyone else. I certainly didn't want to be the reason he died.

"You didn't have a lot to work with," I said to Sidney, "we're lucky we got the one. Aren't we?" I looked at Griffin.

"Absolutely," he said.

"That's crap," Sidney said. "If I had more time, I could find more."

"I know you could," I said, "but that's a luxury we don't have," I said. "If you get the chance, thank your friend, Dr. Stone, for putting you on the right path, even if this only works for one of us." Griffin nodded in agreement.

"Before we break out the champagne, let's make sure it does work," Sidney said. She suddenly seemed unavailable to us, she was checking out. Sidney picked up the syringe and examined it. Her eyes widened with an idea.

"What if we cut it in half, split what's there? That may work," she said with a hint of a smile, a smattering of hope. "You think?"

Griffin manufactured a small, sweet smile.

"That's not the way Dr. Stone figured it, honey," Griffin said. "He seemed confident even what we have here might not be enough."

"Who determines who gets it?" Sidney asked, "because I'm not equipped to do that?" She started to cry. "That's not fair to me. I can't be a part of that."

I sat up and moved to hold her, comfort her. That's when Griffin cut me off, cock-blocked me, moved to Sidney.

"How about rock, paper, scissors," Griffin said, trying desperately to lighten the mood. He looked to me for support.

"Yeah, rock, paper, scissors," I said.

A miniscule laugh came from Sidney, so small you'd have required an audio expert to have heard it. I found it interesting we were doing the comforting. I suddenly realized this is what love was...sacrifice. If you'd die in place of someone else, how could that not be love?

There was an immense pause, so quiet and enduring, we all looked at each other expectantly, waiting for someone else to speak. Three cars arriving at a stop sign at the same moment. Who has the right of way?

"Besides, I'm not going to take it anyway," Griffin said, as calm and transparent as a child.

Sidney was shocked, angry, hurt, all tightly rolled into a condensed emotion, like Campbell's soup.

"What? You're not even going to discuss this? That's completely selfish." She turned to me, "right?"

"You're being an asshole," I said, looking away from Griffin. "This is ridiculous and it's just like you."

Griffin coughed into his hand.

"What's just like me, huh? The suicide stuff? Yeah, maybe it is. I can decide what I want for myself, I don't need either of you to do it for me. I make my own choices."

I understood. This was his way of trying to make Sidney more comfortable with his decision. Griffin was trying to distance himself from her with the hope it would make his death easier for her to handle. He looked deeply into Sidney's eyes. "Okay?" he said sweetly.

"No, not okay. It's not fair to any of us," Sidney said. "Malcolm, you or me."

"The way I see it, it's really my choice," Griffin said, folding his arms, the conversation was over.

"If you're not going on, I'm not going on," she said, and she meant it. "I've spent an eternity alone, without you, and I'm not about to spend another one."

Son of a bitch, I thought. They're even going to die together, I can't win.

"I'm not staying without you," she said.

"Great," I said. "Why don't you two find a nice and cozy place to kick off. Go on, just do it already."

I felt like a ten year old, taking my ball and going home. "Then nobody takes it," I said. "We'll go together. Just don't bury me next to him," I said. Griffin and me were like an old married couple, too familiar with each other and been through too much together to leave.

"This is nonsense," Sidney said, "complete lunacy."

Griffin rubbed his eyeballs. The conversation was taking a lot out of him. I was feeling exhausted as well. I knew it wouldn't be long until this discussion was moot. They were going to find Griffin and me face down in a puddle of our own bodily fluids.

"Maybe I will have a beer," Griffin said. He labored to get out of his chair, truly pathetic. He looked like a turtle trying to right itself after some jackass tipped him on his back. There was something in the way he said it, like he wasn't being sincere. "Nothing would hit the spot like an ice-cold Budweiser," he smiled. "That could be their new tag-line. 'When you're about to die, pop a Budweiser."

Sidney looked at him as if to say, you're such an asshole.

"Bring me three," Sidney said. "I'm done with you, both of you."

Griffin moved like George Burns about five minutes before he died. He cupped Sidney's face with his hands. She looked up to him, her eyes moist and bloodshot. Griffin gently whisked away strands of her red hair. He leaned in and kissed her. It was one of those slow, deliberate kisses, their lips barely touching. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen and I had this overwhelming urge to hurt him. Griffin smiled and started for the kitchen.

"I'll get the beers," Sidney said, wiping her cheek. "You relax."

Griffin shrugged and let her go. His lips moved and I could have sworn he said goodbye.

He picked up the syringe and inspected it, like it was a firefly in a jar.

"Looks nasty," he said. "Grapefruit juice with a drop of olive oil."

"That may be what's in there," I said, laying back in my chaise lounge. I put on my sunglasses and it felt good to close my eyes.

I heard Griffin's feet move on the cement behind me, scraping his calloused feet like Frodo. The sun felt good and I was glad to sit still, do absolutely nothing.

If I'd ever been stung by a bee, I couldn't remember, perhaps when I was a kid. What I did feel was a sharp burn on my neck, deeper than I imagined a bee's stinger would go.

I reached for my neck, intending to smack away the bee. I grazed Griffin's retreating hand and felt the syringe in his fingers.

"What the hell?" I said.

Griffin let the syringe drop to the tray.

"There," he said, settling onto his white outdoor ottoman. "I feel better already," he said, contentedly clasping his gnarled and arthritic fingers on his stomach.

I don't know what I felt more, horror for feeling spared or self-hatred for my selfishness.

Sidney came back with the beers, placing two on the table and keeping one for herself. She froze when she saw a solitary drop of serum falling out of the needle.

"What?" she said.

"The son of a bitch stuck me with the needle," I said. "I had my eyes closed." I must have sounded like a complete jerk, like a kid tattling on my brother for the broken window.

I saw her heart break when she looked at Griffin, upon seeing her pain, mine did too. She turned on me, her teeth grinding. "I can't believe this."

"He just did it," I said.

How can you describe pain and relief at the same time? I felt relief because at that moment I had hope that whatever was killing me could be reversed. I felt miserable because there was nothing I could do to take it back and give it to Griffin.

Sidney was pissed and half-jogged to Griffin's room, he went after her.

I touched my neck where he'd stuck me with the antidote, inspected my fingertips There was nothing peculiar about the way I felt. No tingling, no rush of new life or hazy visions. Sidney thought it would work fast, but I would have to wait to see if she was right. A little while, at least.

# # #

"Get the hell out of here," Sidney said, her voice muffled, face buried in the pillows on Griffin's bed.

He paced the room slowly, picking at his fingernails. On the wall were pictures of Izzy and Pet. From his bureau he picked up a necklace he'd given Pet as a gift, he took it from her jewelry box after she died. Griffin sat on the mattress, gently stroking Sidney's arm. She pulled it away.

"Can you please leave me in peace?" she said.

Griffin stared at the bedpost, his mind wandered.

"I'd say I'm sorry, but this is the right thing to do, it feels right. For so long I've been looking to go away. This was how it had to be."

"I'm so glad you're fine with it," Sidney said, she turned her face away from Griffin.

"How much longer would we have had, really? You told me you weren't willing to go on. Just look at this as me going ahead, checking out the landscape. You'll come join me."

Sidney rolled onto her back, her face puffy and red. "I suppose that makes everything fine, huh? A nice fantasy about us meeting in some kind of paradise. Why didn't I think of that?"

Griffin lay back on the bed, his head resting on Sidney's shins. "Aw, damn," he said. "it's a long road. I'm no hero, I'm not brave. I'm scared as hell."

After a few moments Sidney sat upright, pulled his head to her lap. He looked up at her like he was a baby in a crib, somewhat helpless, a little pitiful, a shell of his former self.

"It's something we can hope for," Sidney said. "Do you know how much you're loved?"

Griffin stared back into Sidney's eyes, craving a little more time with her.

"Yeah, do you?"

### Chapter Seventy-Nine

"It seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind."

Sidney didn't go for the hospice thing. 'It's like god's waiting room,' she told Griffin, both laughing during their final hours together. We'd made up an area off the kitchen so Griffin could be close to the bathroom. Sidney comforted Griffin as a nurse and someone she loved. Slapping pillows, rubbing his feet, reading to him while lying next to him on the bed.

I wasn't privy to any of this. Sidney made sure this was exclusively for her and Griffin. Whatever he and I shared in our time together was in the past. Sidney was determined to let Griffin live out what little he had in love, as a human being.

For me, the antidote worked, Griffin had injected me the previous day and I felt the changes almost immediately. Griffin was so happy for me he cried, Sidney was so devastated I could feel her anger whenever she looked in my direction. She wanted me to die and end what she perceived a vile existence, I could feel it. Sidney wanted no part of my world. She'd made that painfully clear on many occasions.

Griffin's kindness toward me was unrivaled, that's just who he was. I consoled myself by thinking Griffin wanted it this way, but the notion didn't make me feel any better. Griffin had made up his mind and didn't want to continue, we had to respect that choice.

I regained all power I had before the Sarin, and I was at full-strength. My hearing, speed and ability to read minds returned. The powerful and indelible need to feed also returned. I hadn't fed since I returned to form, but that would change soon.

"How are you doing?" Sidney said to Griffin, inserting tiny ice cubes in his mouth, which he accepted. She wasn't waiting for a response because he couldn't make one if he'd tried. Griffin appeared to understand some of what we were saying, like they say people can when they're in a coma, but even I couldn't be sure. He was extremely thin and seemed to be losing more weight by the minute.

"He wants you to know he loves you," I lied. He didn't have enough energy to send me a thought.

Griffin blinked his eyes, which Sidney interpreted as a sign I was right.

"He needs to know you'll be okay," I said.

"I will," she said, nodding and stroking his thin hair. "I never told you this, but you are the only man I've ever loved. I love you," she pressed his hands to her lips. "So, so much."

I could see she was trembling and fighting the need to cry, to burst out. She leaned and kissed his forehead.

"I'm so glad for what we have. I'm so lucky, and I will see you again, I promise. We will have our own eternity, you and me."

Griffin coughed then moaned. It occurred to me I'd never seen someone die of natural causes. The witness to thousands of deaths, most by my hand, this was the first I'd seen without blood. He was my friend, I felt badly but couldn't cry, not since the antidote went into effect.

Griffin took a deep breath and Sidney reached for his wrist to take his pulse. It was faint. If she were at the hospital she would have ordered a code blue. All the while, she had cemented a smile on her face, conveying a sense of peace to Griffin.

I was glad there would be no code blue, I couldn't bear to hear his ribs crack with chest compressions. As it was, all I could do was watch my friend disappear. The pink warm flush in his cheeks began to dissipate.

A man who had lived for so long, loved for so many years and seen more than anyone really should have to see, was passing away. Griffin was about to die in front of two people who loved him, and I was glad for that much.

Sidney offered him some water, which he strained to accept. He started to cough and I thought he was having trouble swallowing, but later understood his organs were failing. The Russian-fucker, Spike, Tulio, they'd all gotten their wish. They'd killed off most of my clan. My loves. You'd never have thought we could feel on the scale we did.

Griffin was gone in less than a minute.

I gasped, surprising myself. I expected Sidney to let loose, cry, wail, but she was silent. I was ready to cringe as her wails filled the house, but they never came. Sidney backed away and allowed me to say goodbye.

I reached under Griffin's frail shoulders and hugged him, he felt so light in my arms. I kissed his cheek, then gently laid him back down. He was gone and I hoped at peace.

I wished I could have felt more.

### Chapter Eighty

"Girl, I'm just a vampire for your love."

She drank for six hours but it did nothing to deaden Sidney's pain, and I knew it wouldn't. This wasn't the sort of thing that alcohol or drugs could fix, you could never numb yourself enough—but you kept trying.

I was amazed I had the ability to feel something for my friend. It wasn't grief, but at least it was something. I couldn't decide if I was grateful or resentful for the emotion.

I sat behind Sidney in a leather chair, the drapes were drawn in the den. I'd lit a fire, even though it was unnecessary. The air conditioning was at 60 degrees, but building a fire gave me something to do. Sidney rested her head in her hands, then she pulled her hair back and tied it into a ponytail, drying her cheeks. I watched her slowly walk to the bar to pour another glass of vodka, her hair disheveled, hygiene being the least of her concerns.

"What do we do about his body?" she asked, with the same lack of emphasis she would use telling the bagger paper instead of plastic. Shortly thereafter, several ounces of Kettle One were splashing into her glass. I was sure she was just looking for something to say, occupy her mind.

"Let me worry about that," I said softly. Truth was, I didn't know what the hell I was going to do. I caught my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. My skin was taught, hair was thick and my muscles were back in tone. How vain, I thought to myself, how worthless it all is. I'd rather have nothing in heaven than everything in hell. Then again, I wasn't sure about that. I was a walking contradiction.

"I'm glad I'm dying, relieved," she said, falling back onto the couch. "I'm sure you're thrilled as punch with your decision...to let him go."

I knew it was grief talking, so I kept my temper in check.

"We both know it's what he wanted."

"Doesn't really matter, does it?" she said, the ice cubes slapping her lips as she finished the vodka.

"Don't say that!" I said. "We're diminishing his decision. Give the man some credit."

"I'd rather you gave him some life, yours, if you can still pull it off. Bring him back from the dead or something."

That one kind of stung.

"You don't have to suffer anymore, if that's what you want," I said. "I can make it so you don't feel as much pain over Griffin..."

"I want to feel the pain for Griffin, don't you get it? You jackass? It's all I have left of him."

"Sorry to say, I don't get it."

"Well, that's perfect," she said, once again rising for the bar. "You don't get much. He was twice the man you are, you know that? I don't see you sacrificing yourself for someone else. Taking care of yourself, that's what I see. Doing a fine job of it, too."

I twirled my ice cubes with my index finger. I felt better than I had in weeks. I was more alert, stronger and what's more, I felt like I could do anything, euphoric. It was difficult to continue the conversation, but I owed her that much.

"I loved him too, you know. I've known him a hell of a lot..."

"What is this, a competition?" she interrupted. "Great, you knew him longer. You feel worse. Let me have them make you a medal, a trophy maybe?"

Sidney didn't sit down this time, instead she walked to the mirror and stared.

"Can't you just leave me alone."

"No, I can't. I'm sorry."

"I'm going home."

"Why would you say that? We're family here. Both of us loved him."

"Why don't you just go and kill something, that's what you're best at, right?"

That one didn't hurt.

"How long do you figure you have?" I asked, trying to calculate in my head how much time I had.

"Before I die? Is that what you mean?" She laughed a little, then shook her head. Sidney set her glass on the mantle and left the den.

I stared at Lake Michigan and thought of Griffin and the others. They had choices to make and they each made one they could live with, or die with. I didn't have that kind of courage, never did. Sometimes I think I relished being alpha because I needed them more than they ever needed me. They made me feel of value. I realized I was left to deal with my own worst enemy—me.

Sidney had gone to Griffin's room. I dropped onto the couch and laid my head back on the sofa. My whole body ached for her. Not just sexually but in friendship, a need to simply be around her. Great, I thought, just what the world needs, a lovesick vampire.

I couldn't help it if I loved her. The heart wants what it wants, as they say. It's not like I planned this. She touched something inside me, nobody else had been able to do that. I wanted to become a better man for her and I wasn't sure if that was possible.

I removed photographs form the wall. Some with me and Izzy, Griffin and Toad, it was all too depressing. I wasn't about saving things so I tossed them into the fire and watched them burn. Any photo with Pet had already been destroyed.

It had been a couple of hours since Sidney went to lie down and something didn't feel right, so I checked on her. I knocked on her door and received no response. I knocked a second time, still nothing. The thought of Pet laying on her bed flashed through my mind and I panicked. The door was unlocked and I entered quickly.

She was calm, deliberate and not happy to see me.

"What do you want?" she said, cold as gasoline. She spoke so quickly I jumped back, certain she would have been asleep. "Come to comfort me? Is that what you thought?"

"No need to be vile," I said.

She was sitting against the wall, the drape from the window pinned in between her back and the windowsill. In her hand was one of those razors used to open cardboard boxes, the blade out front about a half an inch. Box cutters, they're called, the kind the terrorists used. I jutted my chin toward her hand and the razor.

"Give me that," I said, "before you do something stupid."

"Just mind your own damn business," she said, "close the door behind you. I don't need you here. I don't need you at all."

"I can't do that," I said, inching my way towards her. It was surreal, like a scene in a film where the cop was trying to talk the person off the ledge. "This is stupid," I said. It was everything I could to do refrain from saying, Griffin wouldn't want it this way," but I had the good sense to keep silent.

Sidney put the blade near a vein on her arm. It looked like she meant business and she was breathing deep, summoning the nerve. "You know, you standing there isn't going to stop me. This isn't a threat, a call for attention, this, whatever this is, is over. End of painful, pathetic story. At least Griffin had the balls to face his fate. What's your story?"

She was going to cut herself, I was sure of it. The only thing left for me to do was decide how to react. She didn't give me the chance. Without hesitation, she pulled the blade up the Ulnar artery and the blood pressure spewed the blood everywhere, up, to the sides, over her chest.

"Shit," I said.

"Shit," she said, her eyes widening. She seemed genuinely surprised she was able to pull it off and the mess she'd made. Sidney dropped the blade and was mesmerized at the torrents of blood pouring out of her arm, like it was coming from someone else. She put her weight on her 'good' arm and stood, walking around me toward the door. I wanted to hold her, but didn't try.

"Leave me alone," she said weakly, as she passed.

She would bleed out within ten minutes, I thought, sooner if she kept moving. By the time she reached the kitchen, she'd lost a lot of energy and a great deal of blood. The blood trail from Griffin's bedroom to the kitchen was thick. When I reached the kitchen she sat with her back against the stainless steel refrigerator, her head bobbing like a drunk. I was angry at her actions, angry she could be so selfish. Pissed at her desire to die and her commitment in doing so. She was thorough. She knew where and how to cut the vein.

"This is what I want," she said, trying to look up. Respect that, can't you?" Her words were beginning to slur.

"It's not what I want," I said.

It took everything she had to lift her head. I had to think, make the right decision and I didn't have much time.

"There's nothing for me here," she said, using every ounce of energy to look into my eyes. "Absolutely nothing."

I knelt beside her. Of all the horrible things she'd said to me over the past couple of days, that was the worst. She'd be gone soon if I let her, perhaps a couple of minutes.

It was time. If not now, when? I reasoned.

I caressed her shoulders lightly, not wanting to alarm her. I worked my way down her biceps to her forearms, my fingers around her wrists and I felt her warm blood from her veins. Her eyes were defiant but not strong enough to deter me.

Releasing her hands, I slowly, delicately put my arms around her shoulders. Sidney rolled her head from side to side, like a woman who'd been heavily sedated, unable to articulate her feelings. She raised her arm to strike my face. Her wrist hit my cheek with the ferocity of a wet noodle, a thick splotch of blood remained on my cheek.

"Shhhh," I said. "It's going to be alright."

Her breathing slowed, panting now, as your dog would before it slipped away, her tongue slightly out of her mouth. Any fool could tell you she was about to die.

Sidney seemed to know what I was about to do and was desperately trying to pull away, but she had nothing left.

"I don't love you," I thought she said. No, I wasn't certain she said that. Or more honestly, if she did say it, I wasn't ready to hear her.

I was at a point of no return. There was a small part inside me—very small-- that implored me to stop.

I recalled the legend of vampires sending a sense of calm into their victims and I reached deep to send her that message. From my toes I summoned every available cell in my body to send solace into Sidney, to ease her fear, ease her pain. As her breath became more infrequent, time seemed to slow for me. In my entire vampire existence, tappings were lightning fast-- wham-bam done. This reticence was new territory for me.

I lowered my jaw to her beautiful neck and I smelled her skin—blood and roses. At this moment of truth, it was her scent that drove me wild. Not sexual, but fulfilling. I'd never held Sidney before and I suddenly felt whole, despite the fact she was bleeding out and destroying my Calamander wood kitchen floor, which runs a hundred-and-eighty bucks a square foot.

I opened my jaw slowly, carefully. Then I closed as gently as I could manage, but deep enough to be effective. I felt the warm blood pass my lips, my teeth, onto my tongue and on my throat. Griffin was right, it was warm and coppery--and it was perfect.

She was already limp and I hoped I may have actually quelled some of her fear. I felt her muscles tighten then relax, as though she'd fallen asleep. Tapping Griffin, my friend, then later taking his Sidney, his love, I should have felt horrible. But I didn't. I felt vibrant.

In a few minutes her arm started to heal and I knew it had happened. The long and nasty wound up her arm began cauterizing itself. As her body warmed, I felt warm with the knowledge I would never be alone again. I looked at Sidney laying with her head in my lap.

Love took all forms, I thought, and life was full of choices. I'd like to think I made a good one. Good, bad or indifferent, it was a choice Sidney and I would have to live with for a very long time.

I was okay with that.

197

