24
“That was more fun than a barrel full of barracudas.” I escort Kovac and Valdez from the service elevator through the maze of back halls to the lobby. Have I just become more involved in the Tilden Park investigation? Yeah, I think I have. I’m not that happy about it, but I’m not that ticked off, either. I don’t like the eye of suspicion cast on my building, and I sure as hell want to see justice done. “I’ve got those lousy vampires shaking in their platform shoes, don’t you think?”
“Your threat of eviction may not shield you for long, Ms. Teller,” Kovac says, somber, his cheek muscle twitching with annoyance at the fruitless interview. “What have you got in the way of anti-vampire protection?”
“Locks from floor to lintel, front door and back. Windows heavily mullioned with runic designs and latches that lock nice and tight. My Eye and my Cross, which I wear night and day. Will garlands of garlic bulbs help?”
Kovac shakes his head. “Garlic is an old superstition I’ve never seen work. Your locks and latches are good but some vampires–not all, but some–can shapeshift into mist and drift right under your door.”
“I can’t see Scorpio Rising shapeshifting into mist. I can’t see Jake, Flame, and Cuddles wanting to be anything other than Jake, Flame, and Cuddles.”
Kovac laughs his dry laugh. “You may be right.”
“They won’t dare disturb me.”
He looks skeptical. “Lock your locks, by all means, and wear your Eye and your Cross. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Valdez swivels her head so far around, I’m worried she’s about to impersonate Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.”
“Till tomorrow, Mr. Kovac.” For Valdez’s benefit, I add, “Do I need to bring anything special to my official statement?”
Valdez presses her lips together as if bringing “anything special” means something more than what I intend. I pity Valdez, but I can’t be held accountable for jealous ex-lovers reading meaning into my words that isn’t there.
“Your driver’s license and some other form of ID,” Kovac says curtly. “That’s it. Good night, Ms. Teller and take care.”
I let them out the front door. Kovac hobbles to his BMW parked in the roundabout, unlocks the door, and awkwardly lowers himself in the driver’s seat, steadying himself with the cane. Valdez dogs his heels, reaching out to help him. No dice. Kovac yanks the cane in after him, slams the door, and speeds down the driveway before she’s even opened the door to the mud-brown Buick.
Maybe Valdez should transfer to a police department in another city. Maybe in another state.
She is navigating the Buick down the driveway as Tesla pedals his silver mountain bike up. I hold the door open for him, and the beanpole wheels his bike inside. He goes to his mailbox, glances at my announcement, and grins.
“What, me, bespell my rent check?”
“Your check was shooting sparks all over the place. I could been electrocuted.”
“Sorry. That was meant for Stanley, not you, Abby.”
He props the bike against his hip, opens his mailbox, and plucks out letters and magazines. He locks the box and stuffs his mail in a pocket of his backpack.
I’m struck at how his motions exactly replicate his motions the night I met him. I don’t mean the motions of long habit. I mean the propping of his bike on his hip, opening the mailbox, plucking out the mail, locking the box, stuffing the mail in his backpack look eerily like an instant replay.
As I’m pondering that, a woman’s high heels click across the lobby and the thud of a man’s boots. Esmeralda walks arm-in-arm with Senor. She’s decked out in a silky red dress and her signature ruby heels. As for Senor, the man wears his customary red cotton kerchief and a silver chain, a white T, white jeans, and riveted black boots way too warm for the weather.
“Good evening, super,” Esmeralda says in her strangely husky voice. “You look scrumptious in hot pink. Like peppermint candy.”
Senor curls his lip in a semi-friendly snarl.
Neither of them gives Tesla so much as a glance. As for Tesla, the beanpole gazes at Esmeralda as if he would gladly fall to his knees and worship at her high heels, given half a chance. He sighs as if his heart is breaking.
Hmm! Curiouser and curiouser.
“Thanks, Esmeralda, and a good evening to you. Off to paint the town?”
“We’re going to see ‘The Last of the Bohemians.’ It’s playing at the UC Theater.”
“You mean that notorious cult film from nineteen-sixty-five starring Larry Spaghetti and Billy Queens?”
“That’s the one.”
“Whoa. I always meant to see it whenever that dinosaur played at the Buckeye Art House, but never got around to it. I want a ruthless review.”
“You’ve got it.” Esmeralda and Senor saunter out the door like supernatural royalty.
“Tesla.” I tug at his shirtsleeve. “Tesla?”
He’s staring after Esmeralda with dark, feverish eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“You and me, we should talk. How about dinner? Take-out, my place? What do you recommend?”
Tesla snaps to. “Take-out sounds excellent. I’m buying.” He hands me two twenties. “And I’ll bring down two bottles of an excellent Mendocino shiraz.” He waves away my protest. “To make up for the bespelled rent check, okay? What do I recommend? No contest. Call Too Cool Pizza, order two super-large veggies with extra sun-dried tomatoes and feta cheese.”
Holy carbohydrates. Pizza will mean I’ve got to take my lazy ass out for another jog, tomorrow or the next day. A long, long jog. But not in Tilden Park.
“Too Cool, two super-large veggies, extra sun-drieds and feta, it is.”
“All right!” Tesla hoists his bike under his arm and wearily climbs the stairs, just exactly as he did before.
I’m struck again by the sameness of his gestures. He is cursed. And I’m still wondering how and why.
“See you in an Abracadabra minute,” Tesla says.
********
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