Jeanne Stein - Blood Drive

I know nurses are underpaid, but I can’t believe this is the best Carolyn can afford.

I enter through a courtyard strewn with plastic pool chairs yellow with age. I maneuver around them and make my way to a row of mailboxes attached to the wall under a portico of crumbling stucco. Carolyn hadn’t given us the apartment number. In fact, she hadn’t mentioned that she lived in an apartment at all. But I find the name Delaney under a handwritten slot with “2A” printed in a thick-tipped black marker. There are stairs with rusty banisters on either side of the courtyard, but no indication which apartments are to the right or left. I choose left and start up.

I’m rounding the top of the staircase when a door opens and a man with a broad back and stocky shoulders backs out of a doorway and right into me. He slams the door and then turns with a glare.

I’m not sure which of us gets the bigger shock.

It’s No-neck from Beso de la Muerte.

The glare disappears. Like a puppy given an unexpected treat, he wriggles with delight. “Wow, what are you doing here? Did you come to see me?”

But I’m looking past him to the door. “2A.” I narrow my eyes and frown. “Not in your wildest dreams. Do you live here?”

He grins. “Me? Nah. I’m just here collecting rent for the guy who owns this building. Broad inside was late paying up.”

“Then why would you think I’d be here looking for you, Einstein?”

“Don’t have to be a smart ass,” he whines. But the grin changes to a leer and he gives his crotch a tug. “Sure you don’t want a taste? I have plenty left-and you kind of cheated me before.”

I don’t know what makes me angrier. The implication that part of the “rent” he collected from Carolyn was sex or that I owed him something of the same. I grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him against the wall. “Does Carolyn know what you do in Mexico?”

He tries to pull away, the same stupid smirk on his face. “Come on. What difference does that make? Sex is sex. I just like the added thrill of doing it with vamps. You’re the first one who wouldn’t spread her legs-”

Before he gets another word out, I have him upended over the balcony. I know it’s not the smartest thing I could have done. What if someone catches me dangling a two-hundred pound gorilla by one ankle over a balcony? But sometimes you have to give in to base impulses.

And I now have his full attention.

The smirk is gone. The kid is white with fear, so scared he can’t speak. I yank him back up and again slam him against the wall. Hard. “Does she know about Mexico?” I ask again.

He swallows, Adam’s apple dancing as he tries to find his voice. “Yes. She thinks it’s cool.”

“Does she know about me?”

“How could she? I didn’t know who you were. I still don’t.”

I let my fingers find his windpipe and squeeze ever so gently. “And we’ll keep it that way, won’t we?” He gives a shaky little nod, but I’m not convinced. I exert a little more pressure. “You won’t mention seeing me here. In fact, you won’t come back here. Ever. If you do, I’ll find you. I can do it. Trust me, it won’t be hard. Do you understand?”

It’s amazing how being strangled clarifies thinking, even in the densest individual. He blinks his eyes in rapid-fire succession. At the moment it’s all he can do, I’ve cut off his air supply.

I release my hold and he falls to his knees, clutching his throat and coughing.

“I take that as a ‘yes.’ Now get out of here.”

The dancing puppy has turned into a whipped mongrel and he slinks down the stairs. I watch him go, but not with any feeling of satisfaction. Whipped puppies have teeth and I know his type. He’ll go home, change his shorts and plot revenge. But he may go to Beso de la Muerte to get it. I’ll let Culebra know what happened. I don’t want this idiot kid to take out his anger on an unsuspecting vamp. Culebra will know how to handle him.

From the balcony I watch the kid squeal out of the parking lot in the Volkswagen. I wouldn’t have thought it capable of such speed. I let another minute or so go by just to make sure he doesn’t come back. Then I knock on Carolyn’s door. I hear a rustle from inside, a murmur that sounds something like, “Fucking kid. What’s he want now,” and the door swings open.

If I thought Carolyn Delaney looked bad the first time I saw her, the way she looks now is a hundred times worse. She’s wearing a worn terry robe so stained and tattered I can’t be sure if the color is dirty brown or faded gray. The robe gaps open at the waist, breasts spilling out of a lacy bra that looks like she might have had it since her college days. Only now there’s way too much breast and not enough bra and the effect is not pretty. Her hair is unwashed and uncombed, her face splotchy. She smells of sex, musk and tobacco.

The expression of horror when she recognizes me is no doubt mirrored on my own face at seeing her like this.

She pulls the robe closed, runs a hand through her hair, and stands blocking the door. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she says. “How did you find me?”

“You gave us your address. Last night. Remember?”

“I gave you my telephone number, too,” she grumbles. “I expected you would call if you had any news.”

Her attitude is beginning to annoy me. “Carolyn, are you going to let me in or not?”

But as I say it, I move toward her and she has no choice but to step back, waving a hand in a reluctant invitation to come inside.

Cautiously, I do. The idea of being in a closed room with this woman is about as appealing as having sex with No-neck. But there is a reason I’m here-Trish-and I force myself to swallow back the revulsion.

And as if it finally dawns on Carolyn that maybe I’m here for some important reason, like the whereabouts of her daughter, and she should show a little maternal concern, she says, “Do you have any news about Trish?”

But I’m looking around the apartment and wondering how a nurse could live in such squalor. There are dirty dishes on every conceivable surface, including the couch and tattered chairs scattered around the room. Empty beer and soda cans litter the floor. An ashtray, whose first life was a jam jar, is so full of butts and ashes the contents spill over onto the grease-stained pizza box it’s perched upon. Makes me wonder what her work area at the hospital is like, or how often she washes her hands.

When my gaze sweeps back to Carolyn, I make no attempt to hide my disgust. “This is where you and Trish live?” I almost add, “No wonder she ran away,” but I don’t, though I dearly want to.

She responds with self-righteous anger. “We don’t all live in big houses on Mt.Helix,” she says. “Or in beach houses. Some of us have to struggle to get by.”

But I’m stuck on the “beach houses” part of her tirade. “How do you know where I live?”

“You told me. Last night. Remember?” She throws my words back at me, hands on hips and head cocked to one side.

Echoing my own words doesn’t distract me, though. It only ratchets my dislike of this woman up another notch. “No, I didn’t tell you that last night. And I do remember. So, I’ll ask you again. How do you know where I live?”

“What does it matter?” she snaps right back. “Aren’t you here because of Trish?”

She’s right, but she seems to know more about me than I like. I want to pursue it, but there’s a more important reason I’m standing in this dump. “Yes, I’m here about Trish. But no, I don’t have any news. What I have are questions. Like why you didn’t tell us last night about your trouble with the law? And that Trish has run away-twice? Those are pretty important details to have left out.”