Vintage soul

SEVEN

Most of the citizens of the world travel through cities by the main roads. Heads down and collars pulled up against the growing chill of night, they slide past the mouths of alleys and turn away from shadowed stairways, particularly those leading down. Deeper in, where the veins of civilization are narrow and more easily clogged, where side streets and garbage-strewn tributaries trail off into unknown darkness, another city thrives.

The two coexist in reasonable peace, the citizens of each rarely crossing into the other’s world or brushing shoulders on purpose.

Still, there are gray areas. Life has certain requirements, and some of those requirements exist on the other side of boundaries otherwise avoided. At such boundaries, you sometimes find a crossroads. That’s what Club Chaos had become.

The only way to reach the club was through an alley. You walked down to where a neon sign said PHONE, and you stepped into the phone booth. Right off the bat it was strange, because there is no reason a phone booth would be located in a dark alley. Who would use it? Once inside, you dialed a number, and the booth spun like a revolving door and deposited you inside. There were several distinct numbers you might use to access Club Chaos.

The first, the number you’d find now and then on the streets, in phone booths or inked onto bathroom walls; the one in the fine print at the bottom of posters announcing live entertainment and cheap drinks; that number was obvious. You dialed sixty-nine and you spun into a world where morality was checked at the door. The music was loud, usually heavy gothic or industrial, pounding so loudly that the most important skill patrons developed was an ability to read lips and a willingness to communicate on a more primal level.

This was the area of the club where worlds mixed most freely. The undead haunted the shadows and held court with pale, thin children and aging junkies. Musicians searched for their own crossroads down chemical highways, always providing the backbeat and the melody required to sustain the groove. Donovan had spent plenty of time there, though not as much in recent years.

If you dialed the more complex 360, your entrance was different. When the booth spun, it didn’t stop at the one hundred and eighty degree point, as you’d expect, but spun on around. Logic said you’d step back into the alley, but logic was on hold at Club Chaos. What you entered with the 360 code was a very dark bar. There were no mirrors, few lights, only ranks of dark tables where quite conversations were carried on in low tones. The air was always smoky, and the music was always soft. It ranged from blues to light jazz, from Robert Johnson to Charlie Johnson and back again.

They called this central bar The Crossroads, and there was no set clientele. It was a place for business transactions and private liaisons. It was neutral ground where the two halves of the club, and of the city, met in relative peace. There were no bouncers in sight, but Donovan knew from experience that they would miraculously appear if they were needed. Trouble was rare, and when it erupted, was handled quickly and with great force.

Donovan stepped into the phone booth and punched in the second code without hesitation. He knew three codes personally, and knew of the existence of at least two others. He imagined the club as a giant wheel with alcoves all around its circumference, but he’d never had opportunity or reason to look into it. He had access to the third, more private club, but his business lay elsewhere this day. He needed information, and he needed to find it quickly. He might have found the information by dialing sixty-nine, but he wasn’t in the mood to scream over the music, and he didn’t like using other means of communication in such an exposed place.

Scattered patrons lined the bar and leaned in close over the tables. As he entered The Crossroads, a few heads turned in his direction, but no one spoke. There was no bell over the door, and there were no greetings shouted from the bar, or the tables. He was simply absorbed by the smoke and Billie Holiday’s crooning voice, and then deposited on a stool at the bar without ceremony.

The barman approached, polishing a glass tumbler carefully with a gleaming white towel. He had long hair, and the way he squinted with his right eye gave his face a sort of sideways, off-kilter aspect. He didn’t speak, just stopped in front of Donovan, who ordered bourbon and water on the rocks, nodded, and spun.

There were three others at the bar. Donovan turned and inspected them quickly. He didn’t let his gaze linger on any one person, or table, because it just wasn’t done. This was a place you came to if you needed privacy, as well as a private hideaway for making deals and sealing pacts. A lot of what happened here was never intended to be spoken of or described once a patron walked back out through the door and into the alley, and it was better still if they managed to develop a case of amnesia.

Donovan had been coming to The Crossroads for many years, and he respected their policies. He’d made use of the place several times in his own business dealings, and had always appreciated that they were courteous and discrete.

At the far end of the bar, a very thin woman leaned over a cup of something hot. It might have been herbal tea, but Donovan didn’t think so. When he’d entered the room, she’d turned to the door — maybe hoping to see someone else slip in — and he’d seen her eyes. They reflected what light was available in the room and flashed silver. They were a seer’s eyes, and every time Donovan met such a gaze he had the urge to turn away. For a brief moment he considered approaching her — it was possible she could find his answers for him without the personal risk and trouble other methods entailed, but he decided against it. Consulting a seer had its perils, and was never cheap.

A couple of stools down from her two others sat together. They leaned in close and brushed shoulders as they whispered. One rose abruptly, pushed back from the bar, and headed for the door. The other signaled the bartender to refill his beer glass. Donovan didn’t hesitate. He rose, slid over a few stools to sit beside the man, and indicated to the barman that he was buying.

The man seated beside Donovan didn’t look up at his approach. There was also no complaint when the bartender refilled the beer glass and stepped away down the bar, discreetly out of hearing.

“Hello Windham,” Donovan said. He took a long, slow sip of the bourbon and water and watched the other man in silence.

Up close, the man’s profile took on stark angles. He was razor thin. His long hair wasn’t exactly greasy, but it also wasn’t clean. He wore a dark trench coat, despite the fact that in San Valencez there were only a few days of the year cool enough to warrant it. There were gloves on the bar beside him, and Donovan noted that the man’s hands were uncommonly long and slender. His skin, where it was visible, was very pale and tinged a light yellow. A quick assessment by one who didn’t know him would have placed Windham in Johndrow’s group, but it would be a mistake.

Jasper Windham was a collector. He made his living finding things; ingredients for potions, amulets, missing persons, things that others didn’t want found. Windham wasn’t the only collector in the city, but he was one of the best. Donovan was pleased to have found him so quickly and easily.

“You come here just to buy me beer?” Windham asked, turning to face Donovan at last, “or you need something?”

Windham’s voice was very dry, hardly more than a whisper, as if the vocal chords that formed its sound were made of aged parchment. He wrapped his fingers around the fresh beer, and Donovan saw that they circled the glass completely and folded in under his palm. The nails were yellow and chipped.

Donovan met Windham’s gaze and smiled thinly. “You know me too well, old friend,” he said tipping his drink gently in Windham’s direction. “I don’t have much time for casual drinking these days.”

Windham continued to stare pointedly, not speaking. He sipped his beer, and then placed it back on the bar.

“There are strange things happening,” Donovan continued. “They are things that concern me and quite a few others as well. I’m looking for some information.”

“I don’t deal in information,” Windham replied, dropping his gaze. “I find things, you know that.”

Donovan nodded, despite the fact his suddenly reluctant companion was no longer looking at him.

“Yes, I know.” he said. “I also know that if someone wants something, you are one of their first choices for finding it. That’s why I’m here. There are a lot of things ending up — missing. Did you hear what happened at Johndrow’s party?”

Windham’s head swiveled snake-quick.

“I had nothing to do with that. I wouldn’t even have tried with Kline there, and I don’t do kidnapping.”

“I didn’t suggest that you did,” Donovan replied, taking another sip of his bourbon. “I’m not sure who was behind it, but the same person visited me, and now it’s personal.”

Windham watched Donovan carefully, but no longer seemed inclined to interrupt.

“Something of mine was taken,” Donovan continued, “and if my suspicions are correct, there will be more things taken before our thief has finished. I think I know what he’s after…what I’m trying to find out is if he’s tried to get you to find it for him.”

Windham held his silence. He had grown very still, and Donovan knew he was poised to defend himself, or run.

“I know you don’t share information on your clients,” Donovan said. “I’d be pretty unhappy with you myself if you did, but I’m thinking the one I’m looking for might not be a client yet. Maybe he talked to you… or someone you know. Maybe you didn’t like what you saw, or heard. Maybe you’re still thinking about it. Maybe I have enough money backing me to make you think twice.”

“I’m listening,” Windham said. His whispery voice was almost lost in the soft jazz. It dropped into the conversation like a ghost lyric behind the saxophone.

“I think he’s looking for bone marrow dust,” Donovan said, getting straight to the point. “But not just any dust. This would be from a very particular bone, and a very difficult donor. I’m not going to give you any more details until I know where we stand, but I bet I’ve said enough.”

Something flickered across Windham’s expression, just for a moment, and then he sat still and silent as stone again. Donovan sipped his whiskey, and waited.

“I might have heard something,” Windham said at last, turning back to his beer. He spoke quickly and kept his head down, muffling his words further with the proximity of the polished wood bar, and punctuating his words with quick sips of cold beer. “No one contacted me directly, you understand, but there is a general call out on the street, if you know where to find such requests- very handsome wages, I might add — for such an item. It’s difficult, and the last I’d heard no one has attempted to fill the order. Whoever does won’t have to work for some time to come, but the risks…”

“Assuming we’re talking about the same item,” Donovan said, “how many sources would there be — locally?”

Windham glanced at him, trying to read his intentions, then replied with a shrug.

“One.” He said, dropping some of the secrecy. “There is only one such grave within a hundred miles. It’s in the older section of the ShadyGroveCemetery, between here and Lavender. I’m sure you’re familiar with the location.”

Donovan nodded. There had been all sorts of strange occurrences at the particular graveyard Windham had named.

“That place is pretty well guarded,” he said. “I can see how the job could be complicated.”

“Are you looking, too?” Windham asked.

“I’m looking, but not for someone to do the work,” Donovan replied. “I want to see to it that the one who is seeking it doesn’t come into possession of this particular item.”

“He won’t get it from me,” Windham said with a shrug. “I doubt he’ll find a collector in the city who’d go for it. There’s too much chance of getting caught, and the records for that section of the graveyard are sketchy. It might take hours just to find the right grave, and what if someone took him long ago? There’s no way to tell without digging him up, unless you’re a necromancer, and no one wants to attract attention.”

“That’s understandable,” Donovan replied. “You’re certain these bones… meet the criteria?”

“Absolutely,” Windham said without hesitation. “On that much the records are solid. The grave belongs to Father Antoine Vargas. He was one of the first priests to serve at the Cathedral of San Marcos, by the Sea. I’m sure you know the place?”

“I’ve seen it,” Donovan said.

“Father Antoine was, apparently, very sensitive to demons. He was retired at an early age by the church for performing exorcisms. This would make him unsuitable, except that the first few of these ceremonies were sanctioned by The Church. The records I found show that he was unaccountably successful in these rituals, though the church never acknowledged it. He made quite a stir in other parts of the city at the time.”

Donovan nodded thoughtfully. “Why is it so difficult to find his grave, then?”

“He was not in favor with the church for the last decade of his life. Apparently, despite the success rate his exorcisms claimed, The Church didn’t like the idea that there could be such a concentrated, acknowledged burst of evil in one place. He was replaced with another and given a small cottage by the beach and enough money to live off of, which it seems he used little of before one of his rituals finally claimed him. The grave was paid for by parishioners — not by the church — and it is marked only with a flat stone. The inscription, according to my sources, reads simply ‘Gone to God.’

“Of course, locating the grave is the least of the problems,” Windham sighed. It was obvious he would have loved to accept this particular assignment, and Donovan had to fight back the frown that threatened to crease his brow.

“You said the price for this job was high,” he said, controlling his voice. “How open is the call?”

Windham glanced up at him sharply.

“You aren’t thinking about horning in on the business?” he asked. His voice had grown suddenly shrewd, and sharp.

Donovan laughed and took another sip of his whiskey. He turned fully in his seat to face the thin, cadaverous man beside him.

“Not a chance,” he said flatly. “I like what I do just fine. I have only two reasons for being here. The first is to see that this thief doesn’t acquire what he needs to complete a particular ritual, and the second, if possible, is to find out who he is. If I had what he needed, he’d have to come to me again, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose he would, at that,” Windham said, nodding thoughtfully. “I’m not going after this one, in any case. Security is tight on that graveyard, and though there are always ways around it, most of them are too costly and difficult to make it worth my while. I’d have to cut someone else in…”

He glanced at Donovan shrewdly.

“It won’t be for sale when I’m done,” Donovan growled.

It was Windham’s turn to laugh. “Can’t blame me for thinking about it. I’ll keep checking, but last I heard, most of the collector’s felt the same as I do. It’s too risky. We figure he’ll have to go out of state, maybe out of the country to get what he needs, and that could take a long time.”

“He doesn’t strike me as very patient,” Donovan said. “My guess is that if he can’t get someone else to collect this for him, he’ll go himself. He’s certainly got the skill. I don’t suppose you’d just tell me who it is and save me the trouble?”

Windham drained his beer and stood.

“I’d love to help you,” he said, “but the call that went out is anonymous. The instructions are clear, and payment is secured through a third party — one I won’t be naming — but I doubt even he knows the face of the buyer. I guess your new friend knows you’re coming.”

“I’d be disappointed if he thought otherwise,” Donovan said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded wad of bills. He peeled two off the end and held them between his thumb and forefinger.

“If you hear anything more about this, I want to know. If someone else takes the challenge, even if they fail, or if your contacts happen to notice a particular order going through channels out of state, I want to know about it. Don’t wait, send a messenger. If the information is good, I’ll double the usual fee.”

“I told you,” Windham said softly, slipping the bills from between Donovan’s fingers and sliding them into the pocket of his trench coat. “I don’t deal in information.”

“Still,” Donovan flashed a smile that wasn’t quite a smile, and Windham nodded.

Donovan watched as the thin man turned away and scuttled to the door. It spun and he was gone. No one looked up at his passing.

Donovan turned back to the bar and paid for the two drinks. He had what he needed, now it was time to put it to use before his window of opportunity — and Vanessa’s — closed.

He turned to the door, but before he could step away from the bar, it swung open. A pale figure in a dark sports coat, mirrored glasses that mocked the shadows, and dark hair stepped from the booth. He was followed in quick succession by four others, each so much like the last that they might have been pressed from the same mold.

Donovan spared them only a glance, and then headed for the door.

“DeChance?” the thin, dark man said. It was inflected like a question, but Donovan knew better.

Donovan glanced up and, as he drew nearer to the man who’d spoken, he saw it was a vampire. More correctly, it was five of them. They all appeared to be in their early to mid twenties, but Donovan knew better than to make age assumptions in such a situation. He stopped and smiled as politely as he could manage while sizing them.

“I’m Donovan DeChance, yes,” he said at last. “You are?”

“Just call me Vein,” the slender young vampire said. “That’s what everyone calls me.”

“Vain?”

“You heard me.” The vampire stepped closer, but Donovan held his ground. None of these had the aura of age that Johndrow and the elders possessed, and he suspected most of them were not long in “the blood.”

“How can I help you…Vein?” Donovan asked.

“We know you’ve been hired to find Vanessa,” Vein replied coldly. “We don’t think much of that decision. We’ve decided to take the matter into our own hands, and we’ve come to find out what you know.”

“Does Johndrow know you’re here?”

Vein hesitated, and Donovan had his answer. “I didn’t think so,” he said. “Well, since he hired me — and you didn’t — and I don’t know who the hell you are, vanity aside, I don’t see how I can help you.”

“Oh, you’ll help me,” Vein replied. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know there are other ways I can get the information — and there are other uses for one of your…vitality.”

Donovan chuckled. “You’re kidding me, right? First off, son, even Johndrow knows better than to confront me like this. You are out of your league. In fact, what are you, a hundred? A little more? You aren’t even old enough to address me without calling me sir.”

Vein took a step forward, and the others spread out at his shoulders, glaring at Donovan from beneath their own dark shades.

“What are you guys, The Men in Black?” Donovan asked dryly. “Area 51 isn’t too far…head down Highway 5 and cut across on Interstate 10 — you can’t miss it.”

“You’re a funny man,” Vein said. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“This is a lot of fun,” Donovan said, steeling himself, “but I really do have to get going. I have a job to do, as you well know, and I doubt very seriously if the Council of Elders would appreciate you wasting their money by getting in my way. If you’ll excuse me?”

The five who had spread out closed in around him and Donovan slid his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the crystal pendant coiled there. He hadn’t expected such an encounter, and hadn’t really prepared for it, but he always carried basic defenses.

A shadow flickered across the wall behind the five. Donovan followed the motion with his eyes, but didn’t move his head. It happened again, and he breathed more easily. Vein and the others hadn’t noticed, but behind them, to either side of the strange entrance to The Crossroads, hulking, shadowy figures had materialized. They might have stepped from the wall their entrance was so sudden, and so silent. Donovan wanted to know how they did it, but he knew better than to inquire into it too closely. It wasn’t any of his business, and in situations like the one confronting him, it was a godsend. There would be no ‘altercation’ in the club today, or any day. It was part of the club’s appeal.

“You’ll think this is just a cliche attempt to get out of a bad situation,” Donovan said conversationally, “but I really think you should look behind you.”

Vein stared at him, unblinking, but one of the others glanced back and let out a startled sound. Vein turned, more slowly. He saw the bouncers gathered to either side, weighed their size against that of his followers, and glared.

“I wouldn’t try it.” Donovan said.

Vein turned back with a snap of his head, and his eyes blazed.

“I don’t’ need advice from you,” he said.

Donovan shrugged and took a step back toward the bar to distance himself. Vein turned back toward the shadowy bouncers, who were closing in, and he scowled.

“Come on,” he said to the others, as if it had been his purpose all along. “Let’s get out of here.”

The dark shapes stepped aside as the five vampires, one by one, stepped into the booth and spun out of sight. Donovan watched them go. Vein was the last.

“We’ll see you later, DeChance. You can’t stay here forever.”

The booth spun, and Vein was gone. Donovan glanced around at the bar. The bartender was polishing another glass and staring up into the rafters as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. No one else in the club had paid the slightest attention to the commotion at the door, or if they had, they’d managed to get their eyes directed at their tables before Donovan turned.

Donovan turned back to the phone booth, and found that he was alone. There was no sign of the bouncers. He hesitated. He thought about heading back to the bar for another drink. If he left them out there long enough, he figured they’d get bored and look for him later. He could always buy the seer a drink and spend a fun half hour avoiding her gaze.

There was only one way in or out of the club, unless you went to a lot of trouble and paid a lot of money, and even the more secretive exits could be watched. He didn’t know if Vein knew any of them, but it didn’t matter. He had no time to go looking for someone to let him out, and he wasn’t inclined to run from such a ridiculous challenge.

With a sigh of resignation, he arranged his charms, gripped a dark, green crystal pendant in his right hand, and stepped into the booth. He lifted the receiver, and then placed it back in its cradle. The booth spun, and he stepped into the alley beyond the club and stopped. Vein and his followers stood waiting. The moon was rising, and there was no one else in sight.

“Hey fellas,” he said, taking a step closer and smiling as he lifted the green crystal over his head, “did you miss me?”