Scott Mariani - Uprising

‘On a strictly assholes-only basis,’ he always insisted in his gravelly bass rumble.

‘Who’s gonna lament the demise of a few pushers, pimps and paedos?’ And that was pretty much good enough for Alex.

Rudi’s establishment sprawled across three floors between a yacht broker’s and a private members’ club on St James’s. His gold 911 Turbo was parked outside, glinting in the lights from the windows. The music was thumping out into the street. Alex and Greg bypassed the chattering throngs of hopefuls gathered on the pavement and steps outside, who were waiting to get tables. Two doormen dressed in cloaks and fake fangs spotted Alex and ushered her and Greg inside, bowing stiffly as they walked in up the red carpet into the lights and noise.

The place was decked out like a gaudy gothic cathedral, lit by huge candelabras and chandeliers that looked like torture implements suspended on chains from the vaulted ceiling. Marble pillars gleamed in the swirling spotlights from the bar.

Sumptuous red satin drapes billowed down from archways thirty feet high.

The joint was packed. About a hundred people were crowding the bar, yelling to get their drink orders in. Waitresses in leather basques with pointy teeth and heavy eyeshadow roller-skated round the tables, and the waiters had slicked-back hair and long black capes. Mock-Transylvanian tapestries and giant framed prints from vampire movies adorned the walls: Christopher Lee, Klaus Kinski and Bela Lugosi as Dracula through the ages; Wesley Snipes in Blade; Tom Cruise as Lestat; a larger-than-life cutout of Peter Cushing coming out at you from behind a curtain, wielding stake and mallet.

‘This place is incredible,’ Greg shouted over the hard rock beat. He pointed up at a black and white print that hung over the bar. ‘Hey, I saw that one. The old Nosferatu movie — scary guy with the ears and the fingernails. What was his name?’

‘Max Schreck,’ Alex told him.

‘Right.’ Greg froze. ‘Shit. Over there. At that table. That’s—’

‘Yes, it is. And no, she’s not one of us. She just likes people to think she is. And stop pointing or I’ll break your finger off. You’re embarrassing me.’

‘Alex! Baby! Great ta see ya!’ said a booming voice.

Rudi Bertolino stood no more than five feet tall. He was almost perfectly spherical in shape, balding on top with a ponytail that dangled down the back of his Hawaiian shirt, jinking with gold chains and medallions as he came stomping out of the crowd with a huge grin and slipped a chubby arm around her waist. ‘Great! Great!

Hungry?’

‘Only for what you’ve got to tell me,’ she said.

Rudi grinned even wider. ‘Shame. You gotta taste the Brasato al Barolo tonight.’

He smacked his lips.

‘Maybe later.’

‘Hey, no problemo. Let’s step into my office.’ As he led them away through the noisy crowd he jerked his chin back at Greg. ‘Who’s the guy?’ he rasped out of the corner of his mouth. ‘New boyfriend?’

‘New partner, Rudi. I mean professional partner.’

‘Since when did you ever—’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘He looks like a dork,’ Rudi muttered.

‘Leave him alone, okay?’

Rudi led them along a passage and through a door that said ‘manager’, into an enormous room done out in purple velvet and leopardskin upholstery. ‘Come in, come in. Take a seat.’ He motioned at a couple of armchairs.

‘I see you’ve been doing some filing,’ Alex said. The chairs were covered in heaps of documents. Rudi strutted over and swiped them away, creating a blizzard of paper. ‘Fuckin’ bills. Fuck ‘em anyway.’ He threw himself onto a giant red sofa shaped like a pair of lips and put his silver toe-capped boots up on the coffee table in front of him. ‘Jeez, it’s good ta see you again, Alex. What’ll ya have?’

‘Something with a bit of body to it,’ she said, settling into one of the leopardskin armchairs. Greg did the same.

‘How ‘bout you, soldier boy?’

Greg looked stunned. ‘That obvious?’

‘Like anyone would actually want their hair cut like a fuckin’ shoe brush.’ Rudi laughed as he reached behind him and jabbed an intercom on the wall. ‘Daisy, three Red Juice Specials, right now.’

‘Red Juice Specials?’ Greg asked uneasily.

‘Speciality of the maison,’ Rudi said. He winked at Alex. ‘From the guy’s neck to your sweet lips, darlin’.’

Daisy came wobbling into the office in fishnet stockings and high heels, carrying a tray with three tall glasses of thick frothy red juice, iced, with cocktail umbrellas in.

Greg stared at them and turned pale.

‘Fucksamatter with him?’ Rudi said.

‘Greg’s new to our ways,’ Alex said.

Rudi beamed. ‘Knew it. Not juicin’ yet, huh, boy? Whaddaya, squeamish?’

‘Shooting the enemy from a distance, even using a knife in close quarter battle, isn’t quite the same as sinking your teeth in and drinking their blood,’ Greg muttered, still gazing uneasily at the drinks.

‘Relax, you ain’t gonna kill anyone, tough guy,’ Rudi rasped. ‘You get yourself a juicy piece of ass — ‘scuse my French, Alex — you bite her right here in the neck, you use the Vambloc after. Kills the infection, she don’t remember a thing and the holes heal up so fast, by the time she wakes up you can’t even see ‘em.’ He roared with laughter. ‘You’re gonna love it, being a vampire. Man, once you get the taste for it, the buzz, the feel of the juice, still warm, flowin’ down your throat…ain’t a fuckin’ feeling in the world like it.’

Alex sipped her Red Juice Special. The blood was fresh. ‘Anyway, Rudi, we didn’t come here to discuss the ethics of vampire nutrition. You said you had something for me.’

Rudi nodded. ‘Yeah, well, there’s something goin’ on, sure as shit. I been hearing stuff. You remember Paulie Lomax, big guy, looks like a turkey?’

‘Four-finger Paulie.’

‘That’s the guy. Know the rathouse pub down at the docks where he likes to drink?’

Alex nodded. ‘Makes the Slaughtered Lamb look like Maxim’s.’

‘Well, Paulie Lomax told me that he and this buddy of his called Vinnie were down there one night last week when they got talking to these sailors. Guys couldn’t speak hardly a word of English, but Paulie and Vinnie get the feeling they’re seriously fuckin’ freaked out about something. After a while they get it out of them that they were on a ship that came in from Eastern Europe someplace. Hardly any cargo on board, just these crates. You wanna know the weirdest? No paperwork. Customs let

‘em right through. Could have been fuckin’ cocaine, guns, plutonium. But it wasn’t.

Whatever it was, it put the shits up ‘em. Half the crew got sick.’

‘Sick how?’

‘Some kinda fever. But this was no ordinary fever. Guys were getting nightmares, talking about getting visited in the night in their bunks. And getting sicker every night.

Had these puncture wounds on their necks. Right here. Ship’s doc said it was mosquito bites. I mean, mosquitoes in fuckin’ fur coats?’

‘Go on,’ Alex said, frowning.

‘From what Paulie and Vinnie could make out, a chopper came and took the cargo away before they even got to port. Now the ship’s still in the docks. Captain wants to head home, but two of the crew are missing and the rest won’t get back on board ‘cause they say the ship’s cursed.’

‘Missing?’ Greg said.

‘Gone. And you know which crew members it was? The ones who were sickest from the bites. One minute they’re lying raving in bed, next they’ve upped and walked.

Sounds like you know what.’

Alex said, ‘I think I need to talk to these sailors.’

Rudi smiled. ‘Beat you to it. Paulie told Vinnie to tell ‘em that there’s this woman who deals with this kind of shit, a real expert. They wanna meet you, tonight, at the dock. Said they found something.’