Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (15 page)

“Girlfriend,” I corrected.

“Oh no, I’m afraid that’s not the case. I think Oliver
was
seeing someone, but not that weathergirl.” He sucked air through his mouth creating a thin whistle and shook his head vigorously, the most human action of our interface.

“That’s odd. Ms. Ali refers to Oliver as her ‘boyfriend’.”

“That is odd.” Snell grinned, as though we shared a secret. I caught on. He knew. Word certainly travels fast through the underworld. I couldn’t help but feel that Snell was involved in the accident that killed the poor girl.
Was it even an accident?

“Do you know the name of the woman he was seeing?” I remembered the picture of Oliver then; his wan smile and sad eyes were captivating. He looked like the type that never needs to sleep alone.

“I’m sure I have no idea.” He was finished and swiveled to the doorway. “Are we just about done here, Ms. Feral?”

“Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Did you know that Rochelle Ali died last night?”

He lost his smile and his piercing eyes bored holes into my head. “Of course,” he said. “What are you implying?” I had no response. Arthur Snell cocked his head and strode off down the corridor, barking, “Cartouche! Bernard! See our guest to the elevator.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, passing him.

I had time to consider the exchange in the elevator. Had Snell intimated his or Karkaroff’s involvement in the accident? Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid. But even if he did, what could I do about it? I certainly couldn’t go to the police. What of Karkaroff’s office, Starbucks, and the vampire standing in broad daylight?

At least I had a lead on my next step: I’d check into bowling leagues. How many alleys could there be in Ballard? I guessed not likely more than one, and can I just say…
ew
. Bowling alleys grossed me out. Do you know studies have found feces in the bowling ball finger holes
79
?

The elevator lurched, with what I thought was a coming stop at an early floor. But, the lights went out, and the darkness was infinite. There must have been a power outage. Except that a steady hum was audible from every direction, the hum of work in the building, voices, machines, the other elevators traveling up and down. The solid sound was interrupted by a thud and then a tinny sound from above, as though a child might be walking across the top of the box. The image caused my shoulders to shrug protectively. My mind wandered to the last set of tiny feet I’d heard—the reapers, those creepy little girls. My paranoia was projected into the darkness. I waited for the little Shirley Temples to drop on me with their shark teeth.

Creak
.

The sound, again, from above. I looked up into the black, and saw a lighter square in the dark. It accentuated the gloom, hung there, like an obscenity. Two round orbs of white floated there. Eyes.
Oh shit! Were they eyes?
I pushed into the corner of the car, and slid to the ground, my hands clutching my ankles. I needed to make myself small.

The elevator lurched, again. It hopped in a brief descent, no farther than a foot.

Followed by the rapid sound of passing air.

Whoosh!

Before I could get a bearing on my situation, I was stuck to the ceiling of the car, plummeting, screaming…

…and screaming…

…and screaming, like a little girl. But not those little girls, they don’t scream. They make you scream. My head turned toward the hatch. I thought the dim light caught a glint of smiling teeth. I closed my eyes.

Then the elevator slowed, making friends with gravity. I drifted to the floor and regained uncertain footing. The lights returned and the door opened to the main lobby. I scrambled out on my hands and knees. Certain individuals caught my eye, each stuck on me with the same leering mouth.

Do you think I pissed someone off?

Wendy’s turn-of-the-century apartment on Queen Anne Hill cost a fortune. The drafty rooms, single-pane windows, and shoddy plumbing were free of charge. In her defense, it was a straight shot from there to downtown boutiques, our hunting grounds and Pharmacy, where we were set to meet Gil. From there, naturally after a few quick drinks consumed, we’d be off to check out Lutefisk Bowl in Ballard
80
. I intended to drag the whole crew along, possibly kicking and screaming—you couldn’t possibly think I’d investigate a lead by myself, not after the past twenty-four hours. My death was becoming a very dangerous proposition, and we still had the issue of vanity to put to bed. I unrolled an Ace bandage from my arm.

“Is this going to hurt?” I asked.

“Nope.” Wendy’s tongue protruded from her mouth with determination.

Wendy made sweeping popsicle stick circles in white and blue liquid leather, on a sheet of wax paper. Achieving the closest approximation to dead skin color, she rolled the paper into a perfect Martha Stewart cone and snipped the tip off.

“Here we go.”

“Are you sure this is going to work?” I looked from the paste to her face. Wendy stared back, sucking her teeth in irritation, as if to say,
duh
.

My skin hung open like a careless gouge in a leather sofa. The string from my shitty sewing job was already removed and lying coiled on a floral plate, its length dotted with yellow goo. Wendy promised the
As Seen On TV
liquid leather repair would do the trick. I had my doubts, but held the rough edges of the tear together, anyway, praying for beauty leniency. Wendy drew a thin bead of paste across the seam, then pressed a patch of flexible fabric across the top for me to press and hold, like a tourniquet, she said. She wrapped it with gauze and tied a flouncy bow.

“There you go. Good as new.”

I held out the haphazard wrapping, like I’d been garnished with bird crap. “How long ’til it sets?”

“A few hours, Amanda. You’ll be good as new, and you won’t even be able to see the cut.”

“Do you work for the company, or something?”

Wendy disappeared into her bedroom, and like the undead equivalent of Wonder Woman, returned changed and accessorized. She must have spun into the black lycra exercise jacket with hood, leggings in the same color and material, and black track shoes. Wendy had no intention of exercising; the tear in the illusion was draped about her neck, ears and wrists. She refused to go anywhere without her “babies,” her own terminology for bracelets, earrings and necklaces, mainly pendants. Bling would have been more accurate, as she was workin’ it tough, like a gangsta rap ho.

“Pretty,” I said.

“You don’t think it’s too much? Nightclub to bowling alley is quite the fashion conundrum.”

She had a point, and I came around, losing the sarcasm. “It’s perfect.”

She sat on the sofa and watched me pull together my outfit. “Did you ever tell me about how you became a zombie?” I asked her, holding up a dark floral Betsey Johnson dress.

“You want to know about Ricardo?” Suddenly, things were serious
81
.

“Yeah.” I threw the dress aside and joined her on the couch.

It’s my own fault really. I asked the question. I guess it didn’t matter that I expected a single sentence response. Without stopping to take a breath, Wendy launched right into her story, hogging attention like an evening news eyewitness.

Three Strikes

 

Inconsiderate Interlude of the Bitter & Pathetic Part Two: Wendy

“Do you remember that wind storm back in November? The one where we lost power for like a month? Well, I was sitting around my apartment, freezing my fucking ass off and feeling sorry for myself. I had every intention of sticking it out, and being the tough bitch. But I’m not that girl.

“I checked into the Inn at the Market, and went looking for a decent bar. I stumbled into the Well of Souls by chance, just followed a random guy in through that back entrance in the brick wall. The place was pretty empty. It was late afternoon, and still light, so that had a lot to do with it. Ricardo was at the bar, of course, and when I saw that man, I bee-lined.

“He mixed me a Long Island Iced Tea, which I took to be a come-on. I mean there’s only one reason to drink Long Island Iced Teas, right? To get drunk and make out in the bed of his truck, right? At least that’s the rule in Lynwood, where I’m from. Of course, I didn’t always follow the rules, even back then. Like you know how I don’t force my bangs into a vertical wall? I was a rebel like that.

“Anyway, Ricardo was just really super nice, totally interested in me, and so sophisticated, you know? We started to hang out. It’s like he saw something in me. I see how you’re looking at me and yes. Yes, I knew he was dead, it’s not like he hides it and people at the Well are not exactly discreet. The whole vibe was just so intriguing and glamorous. I couldn’t get enough.

“When Ricardo offered to give me the breath, I was all for it. It means you can’t die; who doesn’t want to live? Except for those goth people who seem to glamorize suicide. That’s so crazy, right? I stayed with him until after closing and he took me to his loft, which is fucking amazing, super-massive and hip. Just like you’d imagine. Then he kissed me; it was the first and last time. He said it wasn’t a romance thing, and, I guess I was okay with that.

“When I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I began to obsess on how my actual life would end and my new one would begin. I was certain that however it happened I would be in control of it and there’d be no scars of any sort. There seemed to be plenty of options, drowning in the tub, suffocation, pills.

“For my first attempt, I decided on pills, I figured a handful of Nytol would do the trick. I loaded a platter with a bowl full of pills and a glass of wine, and set them by the bed. I fluffed a ton of pillows, lit what seemed a hundred candles, turned on the classical station, and put on a satin slip dress. I lay down and fanned the fabric and my hair out like I was readying for a photo spread in
Elle
. It was a perfect environment to start my undeath; soothing, romantic, pretty.

“The first few pills went down fine, so I took more, washing them down with mouthfuls of merlot. My last handful was a mistake, a few too many clogged my throat, and I started to choke. Let me tell you, that shit hurts. I bolted from the bed to the bathroom and Heimliched myself into the toilet. Did that sound dirty?

“I was totally embarrassed, but clear of mind: Pharmaceuticals were out.

“My next attempt was drowning. It seemed so tragic and desperate, so I rented a period costume from Harry’s on Greenlake, a real Jane Austen drama queen nightmare. I even did my hair like Emma Thompson’s in
Sense and Sensibility
and went light on the make-up. I filled the tub with warm water and got in, pushing the dress and undergarments beneath the water so they’d float around placidly. I was going for a look, more than practicality. Plus, I didn’t check the calendar. My brother used his key and brought some skank into the apartment. I wasn’t supposed to be there—every third Wednesday is pretend bachelor day. What can I say, he’s a pig, but I love him.

“I guess it’s true what they say: third time’s a charm—It’s also true about keeping plastic bags away from toddlers, those things are dangerous. There was only minor bluing but I was lucky to have gone without all the fanfare, because of…you know.”

“Because of what?”

“The bladder and bowel issue.”

“Mmm. I try to forget.” I didn’t really have a response to Wendy’s story. I was kind of jealous that she’d played a role in the decision-making of what we’d become. I wondered if I’d have made the same choice. But then, I wouldn’t have been caught dead using an alley entrance, so I’d have never found the Well on my own.

We headed off for our premiere at Pharmacy. Gil was supposed to have gone ahead and secured both a scenic banquette (if they had them) and our name on the VIP list. We weren’t disappointed—you had to give it up for Gil, he had the social pull of a Hilton or the celeb du jour.

We marched past the line of glowering fashion victims, Wendy in ghetto fabulous and me in my most thoughtful ’80s semi-casual chic—hair slicked back torturously into a ponytail, big gold hoops, two black smudges on my eyes like skull holes, big-necked cashmere sweater exposing shoulder, and far-too-trendy leggings (they’re having a rebirth, which will soon be followed by a re-death, probably by the time you read this, or by the time I’ve finished writing this sentence)—we made our entrance.

Doctor D.J. Kevorkian’s Prescription for Lounge

 

Les Baxter •
Tropicando

The Gimmicks •
Ya Ma Le

Jazzanova •
Fedime’s Flight

Esthero •
Country Livin’

Block 16 •
Slow Hot Wind

Bent •
Swollen

Thievery Corporation •
Lebanese Blonde

Thunderball •
Vai Vai

Da Lata •
Beija Flor

Alan Moorhouse •
Expo in Tokyo

David Snell •
International Flight

Feist •
Mushaboom

Pharmacy sparkled like big shiny Tylenols. Towering Lucite columns filled with pharmaceuticals held up the white tile ceiling. The music was Brazilian techno-lounge, so flutes swirled like dust devils between dreamy beats. The waitresses wore naughty nurse outfits and pumped shots directly into patron’s mouths with oversized syringes. There were no booths, but we found Gil lounging on a sparkly chrome hospital bed, sucking blood through a straw from a glass test tube.

“
Puta madre,
” he said, in his best Antonio, replete with sleazy air kisses and tongue flitter.

“Listen bitch, you may talk to your momma like that. But it’s not gonna fly with me unless you’re willing to back it up with some action.” I slithered my hands up to cup my own breasts and pretending to lick a nipple.

Gil mock-gagged and reached around himself, pulling an imaginary knife from his back. He motioned for Wendy to squeeze onto the bed, for emotional support. “Wendy?” He drew her close. “Will you protect me from the awful hetero-dead girl?”

“I certainly will, baby. But then you’ll have some payback. That’s okay, right, Gil? You’re up to it.” Wendy was nuzzling Gil’s ear.

“You’re both pigs,” he said, pulling away sharply, slurping from his drink. “So what’s the plan?”

“I figure I should bring you two up to date,” I said, collapsing onto the other side of the bed, like a Southern vapors victim
82
. “While you two secretaries have been busy widening your lazy asses, I’ve been quite the sleuth—of course, the Devil may have me marked for death—but otherwise, it’s been a productive couple of days.”

“You had a run-in with Elizabeth Karkaroff?” Gil asked, shuddering.

“Not quite, but I did talk to Snell.” I held out my hand like a crossing guard. “Anyway, that’s
way
getting ahead of myself. I was meeting with Claire Bandon at Burlesque of the Damned, you know, trying to pump her for information about Liesl. She had some unflattering things to say about succubi, but I…”

“Like what?” Wendy interjected, doing a little digging in the dirt, herself.

“Well, mainly insinuating that Liesl might be away with her so-called business partner, or incubus, whatever, sucking the life juice out of men and impregnating women with demon seed. That sort of thing.”

Gil looked back and forth between Wendy and me, a mirror of disgusted expression, before saying, “But…that could be true, no?”

“Absolutely not.” I shook the thought from my head.

“Besides,” said Wendy. “How could you possibly explain Liesl’s text message?”

The glowing green “help” flickered in my memory. I assumed she’d been abducted right after texting, dropping the phone in her entry. What other explanation could there be? Gil said, “I forgot about that. I guess you’re right.”

“Yeah, because why would she be secretive about work stuff, even if it is semen harvesting and murder.” I paused. “Why would we care? We’re no strangers to that.”

As if on cue, all three of us broke into a laughter that seemed to inform the waitress that vodka injections were in order. She came at us skipping. This one was a cutesy candy striper.

“Open wide,” she said and pulled a frosty cold syringe from a block of dry ice on a tray. The liquid went down like an eager prom date, only smooth (see inset). Wendy sucked the last drop from hers and dug out a twenty for the girl.

Pharmacy

Martini Injection

 

1 oz. chilled high-end vodka

 

Serve in Rx syringes.

From a bed of ice, set to fog by a splash of dry vermouth.

She glanced at Gil and motioned for reinforcements. An adorable male nurse who could easily have been a porn star before someone turned him zombie, rolled over an old-fashioned IV cart and strung up two bottles of clear—gin, presumably, from the juniper smell—and another filled with AB negative, clearly demarcated. He handed us each a rubber tube with a shut-off switch attached to control the flow. Gil was drooling, Wendy grabbed the zombie’s ass; it struggled for release behind the white uniform. He wagged his finger at her and strutted away.

“Anyway,” I continued, dabbing the corners of my mouth with my fingers. “While Wendy was exploding all over the toilet at Convent…”

Gil patted Wendy’s leg and looked sad.

“Shut up,” she barked and glared at me for revealing a “girl secret.”

I filled them in on everything I’d found out about Oliver, that his girlfriend was the weathergirl, and that after our talk over tea, how the bitch rammed me and wasted herself. Also, that I didn’t think it was an accident.

“Why is that?” Gil asked.