Darrell Schweitzer - Full MoonCity

“Possibly,” Hersh conceded.

“Third, and most important. She doesn’t know diddly about black magic and sorcery.”

“This is LA, Tim. There are more witches, warlocks, and sorcerers hereabouts than any other spot on Earth, except maybe San Francisco,” he told me. “Take this guy Vincent X. Shandu, who’s the hottest mystic going. Calls himself a necromancer and charges a thousand bucks an hour. Or Professor Estling, who-”

“Who the hell would pay a grand to turn me into a shaggy beast?”

“Some warlocks charge less. We’ll have to find out who did the job.”

“How?”

“When I was writing Vampire Cops for HBO, we had an occult detective as a consultant,” Hersh said. “Name’s Fletcher Boggs. I’ll call the guy tomorrow and try to set up an appointment for you to-”

“What’ll he charge?”

“A lot less than a thou.”

“Okay,” I said after about half a minute. “Talk to Boggs. Does he make house calls? I don’t want to venture out in the world looking like this. Even with dark glasses and a hat-”

“Case like yours, he’ll come here.” He stood, moving toward the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow, soon as I find out anything.” He stopped just short of the doorway. “Or would you like to spend tonight at our place? Dottie is very understanding about-”

“Not that understanding,” I said as I followed him to the door. “I’ll be okay here by myself. And I really do appreciate your help.”

Hersh took hold of the brass doorknob. “Do you mind if we don’t shake hands?”

It had been, to put it mildly, a trying day. After attempting to pace back and forth across the living room, a process that usually helps me clarify my thinking, I decided to go up to bed. Pacing on furry feet, I found, didn’t aid my thinking at all.

I usually sleep in a pajama top. That night, my first as a wolf-man, the idea of taking off my clothes didn’t appeal to me. Nor did the idea of brushing my teeth.

I’d sleep in my plaid shirt and khakis. Stretched out atop the bedspread, I propped up three fat pillows and picked up the book I’d been reading from the bedside table. It was that bestselling self-help book, Trample ’Em Underfoot: The Route to Success.

Trouble was, it made me uneasy to look at my currently furry hands holding the damn book. Tossing it to the floor, I grabbed up the TV remote. After a couple of tries I was able to poke the on button with sufficient force to get the big set looming at the foot of the bed to come to life.

“Now some exclusive KMA-TV footage of the so-called Wolf-Man of Westwood,” said the handsome, though aging, news co-anchor. “Pretty interesting stuff isn’t it, Camilla?”

“Wolf-man?” I sat up.

The camera pulled back to include the stunning raven-haired Camilla Cardy. “It sure is, Will. And we want to thank viewer Wally Needham for donating this sensational footage that he was lucky enough to capture with his cell phone.”

“As we reported an hour ago on KMA’s All Night All News, ”said Will Noonan in his deep, handsome voice, “the alleged wolf-man was first spotted earlier this evening prowling the side streets of Westwood Village. Thus far police have found no trace of him.”

“Because of the proximity to the UCLA campus,” added Camilla, “early reports suggested that this was nothing more than a college prank.”

“Now that KMA has obtained exclusive pictures of this strange creature, however, we can confidently state that this is not a hoax or prank. Later in this hour we’ll be talking to Professor Marshall Terping of the USC Zoology Department as to the true nature of this phenomenon.”

Camilla said, “Let’s take a look at this exclusive two-minute footage.”

I leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

A very jiggly, long shot of the front of a Fanny’s Undies lingerie shop appeared. Coming out of the darkened store was a shaggy wolf-man. In his arms he clutched a tangled bundle of what looked to be lacy panties, half-slips, and frilly nightgowns. Clutched in his sharp teeth, dangling by one strap, was a white uplift bra.

The guy with the cell phone apparently got up the nerve to move closer at this point.

Dropping his collection of underwear, staring straight at the camera, and spitting out the bra, the wolf-man snarled at Wally Needham. Then he went loping away along the night street. In the distance a siren sounded, somewhere nearer a woman screamed. The film ceased.

The wolf-man had been wearing a plaid shirt.

Turning off the set, I dropped off the bed. “But that’s not my plaid shirt,” I told myself, starting to pace. “The shirt I’m wearing is the MacMurdie tartan. That wasn’t.”

Or was it?

I’d only seen his shirt up close for about half a minute and the color of the amateur footage was bad.

“No, that wasn’t me. I know damn well I haven’t been anywhere near Westwood,” I told myself. After I’d morphed into a wolf-man, I’d chased rabbits. As far as I could remember. Besides, it would’ve taken quite a bit of time for me to get down there on foot. And I couldn’t drive my six-year-old Volvo with furry feet.

But that meant there were two wolf-men, both fond of plaid shirts. A strange coincidence. But, no, that wasn’t me.

“I don’t have a lingerie fetish, either.”

My pacing slowed. All at once I felt very drowsy again. Not bothering to climb back onto the bed, I curled up on the floor and drifted into sleep.

• • •

I was awakened by an immense thunking sound from outside, followed by a harsh metallic snapping and an assortment of birds cawing and cackling along with an anguished flapping of many wings.

“Someone’s attacking the birdbath!” I exclaimed, popping up off the carpet.

As I started to run toward the bedroom door, I chanced to notice my feet. They were no longer furry. I stopped, held both hands up to my face. “Back to normal,” I said, chuckling.

Ducking into the bathroom, hesitating a few seconds, I took a look in the mirror over the sink. I was no longer a wolf-man.

From out on my front lawn came more loud, angry bird sounds.

Barefooted, I hurried to the stairs. I was only halfway down when my oaken front door was unlocked and flung open.

“Popsy?” called my daughter.

“Beth, you can call yourself Mutiny Skylark, you can even call yourself Carmen Miranda,” I said as I continued my descent, “but, damn it, don’t call me Popsy.”

“Sorry, Dad.” Wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt that had END OF THE WORLD TOURlettered across the front, my daughter entered the house.

I inquired, “What, pray tell, just occurred on the lawn?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing much.”

“What’s the condition of the birdbath?”

“Well, it sort of fell over.”

“What caused that, Beth?”

“I accidentally drove into it with my Porsche.”

“You seem to make a habit of driving into things.”

She shut the door with a backward push of one foot. “I do, yeah. It’s like you and your plaid shirts.”

“Want a cup of herb tea?” I headed for the kitchen.

“Don’t you have anything with caffeine in it?” she asked. “No, never mind. I know you don’t.” She followed me along the hall into the big white and yellow kitchen.

I took a half gallon of vanilla soy milk out of the yellow refrigerator, poured about a cup into my blender, peeled and cut up a banana, and tossed that in along with a spoonful of honey.

“Ugh,” commented Beth as I pushed the Blend button.

After the machine had roared for about a minute, I turned it off and poured myself a glass and sat down at the raw-wood table. “You’re really going to have to do something about your driving, kid.”