11
Poor old Stanley wasn’t so loony tunes, after all. What other stripe of entities are the rest of my tenants?
As I climb down the last spiral of the staircase, I hear Brand’s comradely laugh echoing up from the lobby. I dash down the rest of the stairs. “Brand? Oh my God, Brand?”
Wait a minute. Did I just sound like Barb?
He’s changed into black leather jeans and a black leather tank top showing off the swell of his biceps and the lurid glory of his tattoos. A braided black leather cord dangling with a resin cabochon imprisoning a little blackish-red scorpion, long dead and desiccated, decorates his chest.
Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had quite enough of Scorpios and scorpions and people in black leather for one night.
He slings his foxy arms around the shoulders of two girls, who wind their arms around his waist. Each heavily pierced and tattooed, one boasts pink spikes sprouting from her scalp, the other inky tresses grazing her waist. They gaze up at him with adoring kohl-smeared eyes and the dazed expression of bespellment.
I have no doubt that Brand is thrusting his power into each girl, thrusting through her skin with just one touch. He’s branding their hides, all right.
From across the lobby, I can smell the whiskey and marijuana fumes cutting through the cheap musk of the girls’ perfume. Whatever power either may possess, she surrendered it to Brand with the first swallow, the first toke.
Suddenly I understand why Barb craves him and loathes him and spends her days in a fury about him. I understand why, and I barely spent two hours driving in a car with the man.
“Abby?” He widens his bloodshot eyes. “I thought that was your Mustang. Man, I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?”
What am I doing here?
What is he doing here?
He shoves the girls away and staggers toward me, arms spread wide, ready for another of his great big bear hugs.
“You let your hair down. I love a lady with long hair.”
He reaches out, seizes a curl.
Not this time, Wild Turkey. I step back, but he doesn’t notice. He sways on his feet, very drunk and very stoned.
Just the way I can’t stand a man.
“You here for the parties? Hey Trish, hey Zarah, this is dear Abby, man. Abby is so cool, she got here ahead of us. Can you believe this place?” he says to me. “Wow. The Garden of Aba, Aca–damn, I can’t say it. It’s like the biggest, coolest party place in town. Come on, girls, we’ve only got all night.”
Each girl rushes to him and plants herself beneath his arm as if she can’t bear to be away from him for more than a second.
Like I said, bespelled.
Their cozy threesome staggers up the stairs. The staircase lurches and sways beneath their feet, canting crazily to one side, then to the other, mimicking their drunken movements. The girls giggle and shriek.
“Abby, you coming?” Brand calls over his shoulder. “The girls say the parties here are awesome.”
“You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
“Don’t take too long, babe.”
An unwelcome image intrudes in my mind’s eye as they climb up out of my sight. Brand lying naked on a black leather couch, Flame crouched over him. Her fangs buried in his chest, her hands busy elsewhere.
Will Brand’s crazy, wild power contend with the vampires’ power? Challenge them, taunt them, take their sex-and-feeding frenzy to new depths of depravity? Will some other kind of crazy, wild coupling take place at Twenty-seven tonight?
I don’t know. I just don’t know. I think I don’t want to know.
I head for the door.
* * *
Hi-Ho Silver and I cruise up a side drive to the back of the building, searching for our garage. A dozen garages stand next to an open parking lot and a cluster of Dumpsters. An aging black Rolls Royce painted with lurid licks of orange and yellow fire broods in its slot. Huh. Scorpio Rising doesn’t want to pay extra for a private garage, I guess. I’ve got no sympathy for the undead superstars after witnessing their sordid little setup, but maybe they are a bit hard up for cash.
I test three keys before I find the one that opens the padlock. No push-button Genies here. I yank the double doors open, nearly dislocating both my shoulders. Yow. I’m grateful for the garage. Not so grateful for the garage doors.
I pop the car trunk and take out my sleeping bag. I pat the large chrome galloping mustang on the grille. “We did it, Hi.”
Back in Number One, I take my suitcase and my sleeping bag to a spacious bedroom off the living room. There isn’t a stick of furniture except a bed built for two with a brass frame so oxidized, it’s nearly black. I unroll my sleeping bag on the bare mattress. Where on earth had Stanley slept? I have no idea, but I’ve got great plans for the bed frame.
My cell phone trilling sends me sprinting into the living room. I pull the cell from my handbag.
Holy low interest rates. Has Carla sold Mama’s house so soon? But why would she call me at this hour? It’s nearly midnight Berkeley time, nearly dawn Buckeye Heights time. Oh, shit! Has the house burned down?
“Hello?” Then thumb’s-up, I’m in charge here now. “This is the Garden of Abracadabra. How may I help you tonight?”
“You work fast, don’t you, you freaky slut,” rasps a female voice. In the background I can hear a buzz of talk, raucous laughter, a jukebox blaring “Tumblin’ Dice.”
“Hey, Barb, what’s happening?”
“Put him on the phone.”
“Put who on the phone?”
“Brand, you moron. Put him. On the. Phone.”
“Brand’s not here. Ah. Actually, he is here–”
“I thought so.”
“But he’s not here with me.”
Silence, as she puzzles that out. Then, “Who the fuck is he with?”
Lordy, lordy. Give me patience. I sigh. “Two women. Young, skinny, tattooed, pierced. Black leather. Pink spikes for hair, the other Vampira black.”
“Oh, man. Trish and Zarah. Those treacherous bitches. They live upstairs in the unit above mine. ‘Go get me a beer,’ he says like he’s the little king. So off I go to the corner store with my own freakin’ money and when I get back, he’s gone. I turn my back on him for one second, and he’s off with the neighbors. Neighb-whores.”
“Hey, he’s all yours, Barb. Do not make this my problem.”
“Were they drunk? Were they stoned? Were they, like, fawning and drooling all over him?”
I sigh again. I do have sympathy for a psychopath like Barb, if not a whole lot of respect. The woman has no clue what sort of sorcerer she hooked up with.
“Yes, to all of the above.”
“Where did you say you’re at? The Garden of who?”
“The Garden of Abracadabra. Seven Mirage Way. Take a right on Hillegass, a left on Derby, then a sharp right. Brand and the girls went upstairs to a party. I’m guessing at Number Twenty-seven. Hey Barb, how did you get this number?”
“You’re in his little black book, you tramp.”
The notebook in his back jeans pocket. Of course. “You mean he didn’t take his little black book with him tonight in case he meets someone?”
It’s a cruel remark. Oh, well.
“I’m comin’ over there right now,” she snaps. “I’m comin’ to cut out his cheatin’ heart. Cut up those girls, too.”
I’m hoping she’s just more ticked off than usual, but I have every intention of staying out of her way. “Have yourself a ball. Buzz the console by the front door. The Odd Person will probably buzz you in. You want the third floor.” I mull over what Brand said. The parties are awesome. “They know about some other parties here tonight, but I can’t help you with that. And Barb?”
“Yeah?”
“Do not ever call me again.”
I close the phone and knead my temples. I’m not the headachy type, but a throb starts pounding behind my eyes.
I turn off all the lamps except one, pause and listen. Now I hear a peculiar gentle bubbling sound. Not menacing, but I can’t tell exactly where it’s emanating from. No weird rustling whispers. No phantom footsteps. This is progress.
From my perch behind the handsome craftsman desk, I survey my new domain. The living room looks delightfully larger without Stanley scuttling around and cowering. It’s the kind of room you’d see in a before-photo in a fancy interior design magazine. Marvelous twelve-foot ceilings complete with crown moldings. Plank hardwood floors pleading for a good brisk sweeping and a loving rub of lemon wax. A fireplace with a pearl-gray marble surround and a box of some ecologically responsible wood substitute. Java Logs, which I have yet to try. Then there are all those enormous windows thumb-tacked over with flowery Indian bedspreads and strung with garlands of garlic bulbs. I decide to leave the windows alone. Tomorrow, tomorrow.
After I’ve degreased, degrimed, aired out, cleared out, and polished the place up, my mother’s vintage Stickley living room set will look right at home.
But, wait.
Not my mother’s Stickley.
It’s my Stickley now.
“The Horde,” I had whispered at her deathbed. “What are you talking about, Mama? What is the Horde?”
********
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