The trouble with hairy, p.2
The Trouble With Hairy, page 2
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
Peter smiled, thinking of how one of his customers had purchased, at a healthy sum, what Peter had assured her was an authentic Rembrandt. Although it had actually been forged by a master almost a century after Rembrandt had gone to his grave, the workmanship was so exquisite Peter doubted that anyone but a museum expert would be able to tell the difference. The forgery was even more unlikely to be discovered as he impressed its value and rarity upon his client so deeply, he’d been told, she kept it locked in a vault on her Bel Air estate, never letting it be seen, terrified burglars would abscond with her treasure.
The bulk of his business, however, came from his workers’ talents at refinishing and restoring. Antiques in their original condition were, obviously, more valuable than those that had been damaged and repaired; Peter’s employees were masters at hiding their work.
With the help of a cooperative insurance appraiser and a series of kickbacks, Peter managed to acquire a not insubstantial personal fortune of his own. However, as luck would have it, the appraiser had died about eight months ago, rather quickly, of viral meningitis brought on by AIDS. Bereft of the other key player in his scams, Peter looked very carefully for a replacement. Finally, he’d settled on a young woman who, due to the tremulous economy, had recently lost her job at Butterfield’s, a huge auction house up on Sunset.
After an introductory two months of candlelight dinners, dancing at downtown clubs and expensive gifts and flowers, Peter was ready to make his move. Slowly, during the next six weeks, he had gradually prepared her for his business proposition, subtly combining the details with the most exquisite seduction he’d performed in years. It wasn’t long before the young woman was so enamored she would have agreed to the selling of her grandmother had Peter been able to arrange a buyer.
After a lifetime of flawless seductions, sheer happenstance proved Peter’s undoing. Three days ago, while he had been enjoying himself in the supposed privacy of his rented condo in the company of a stunning brown-eyed boy of twenty-six, disaster struck. His prospective business partner, using the key Peter had so foolishly given her the week before, showed up unannounced. Her arms were laden with bags of delicacies from the Chalet Gourmet with which she planned to cook a gourmet dinner for her new beau. It took her only scant moments to dump the bags on the kitchen counter before proceeding into Peter’s bedroom.
Peter heard her open the door, but her brief detour didn’t give him quite enough respite. She entered the bedroom just in time to see Peter’s guest madly shrugging into his jeans over one of her negligees as Peter himself desperately tried to wipe off the lad’s make-up, hide the false tits under the bed and get dressed himself — all at the same time.
Leaving the Dungeness crabs and pâté de fois gras to rot on the kitchen counter, she drove straight to the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station to file a criminal complaint. The next morning, two deputies showed up at the shop, ostensibly to “make inquiries.” But Peter knew what they were really after; it was only a matter of time before they would reappear — this time with search warrants and antique experts of their own.
Peter was caught, and he knew it. Desperate to salvage what little he could of the situation, he faced a dilemma: liquidate every asset he possessed at a fraction of its value and skip town, or hire a clever lawyer and try to face the music and avoid the dance. There would be a trial of course, and it would be expensive and embarrassing. But given the almost constant stream of news reports of more serious criminals being released onto Los Angeles streets having served little or no jail time, Peter felt he might be able to avoid wearing a dreaded orange jumpsuit for more than a few weeks at most. He decided to stay.
That night, the nightmares came. There were several of them, and the theme of each was suspiciously similar. Peter was spread-eagled, face down, on the cement floor of the Los Angeles County Jail while twenty men named Bubba forced their way into his most private parts. Waking in a cold sweat, his plans abruptly changed. A few telephone calls to acquaintances with less than savory reputations and one to a fence he knew began the K-Mart Blue Light Special sale of his business assets and personal belongings.
Now, with several cashier’s checks totaling almost two million dollars in his pocket, along with a pre-paid airline ticket to Toronto under an assumed name, all that was left was to tie up a few loose ends and destroy the remaining evidence.
He unlocked the workshop, and closing the door behind him, flipped on the inside light with relief. No windows here to emit a telltale glimmer. He noted with satisfaction the stacked cans of solvents and lacquers, the pile of turpentine-soaked rags over in the far corner, and the dry ancient wood of a set of dining room chairs he’d purchased a week before. It would all burn very nicely.
He turned off the lights as he left but made sure to leave the workshop door open after first removing the batteries from the smoke detector and replacing them with the dead ones from his portable compact disc player. Unlocking his office door, using the flashlight once again, it was a matter of moments to perform the same surgery on the single smoke detector in the center of the ceiling.
Finished, he looked around the office one last time and lovingly ran his hands down the fine inlaid wood of the desk.
It’ll be a shame to lose this.
Peter was not entirely without regrets. The desk and a few small Sixteenth Century German portraits hanging on the side wall of the showroom near the damaged Hepplewhite chair were the most valuable things in the shop.
“I guess it can’t be helped,” he muttered, and going to the file cabinet, he removed a huge stack of invoices and other papers to spread haphazardly across the desk.
The desk lamp had been prepared earlier. The wiring was carefully stripped so he had only to throw the switch by the door. Peter was preparing to do so when suddenly he froze.
There was a sound from the front of the shop. It was almost below the threshold of his hearing, but nevertheless, he was sure he’d heard something. Quickly clicking off the flashlight and pulling the small handgun that he kept for emergencies from the desk drawer, he moved to the office door in silence. On the way, he mentally replayed his preparations thus far. The smoke alarms, the solvents, the papers, the wiring — none were so unusual that he couldn’t claim ignorance if the sheriffs had finally arrived.
Peering into the dimness of the shop didn’t mollify his concerns. Even with the faint glow from the street lamp outside, he could see no one. He picked up a small, imitation Aztec vase that he’d acquired in southern Mexico, and seeking to flush out the intruder, he gently tossed it across the room where it shattered against the base of a Victorian brass plant stand. Turning and aiming the pistol in the direction of the stand, he breathed a sigh of relief when, after a minute or so, there was no further movement in the shop.
Nerves. Peter grinned to himself, and shrugging, went back into the office. Or maybe my subconscious, a little angel on my shoulder. He was about to return the gun to its drawer and realized it was unregistered. Sloppy, sloppy. He chastised himself with a small grin, and pocketed the gun instead.
“Well, here goes nothing,” he whispered as he threw the office wall switch.
There was a sharp pop, followed by a crackling sound as the desk lamp shorted. A few seconds later, some of the papers he’d strategically placed under the lamp cord burst into flame. He stood for a moment, watching in satisfaction, as the lacquer of the desk began to burn, slowly at first, and then much faster as the flames greedily leapt forward. The wall bearing the electrical outlet backed onto the storage room closet so when he noticed the paint on the wall start to blister, Peter figured it was time to head for the Los Angeles International Airport.
Leaving the office door open to provide greater cross-ventilation, he quickly moved off toward the hallway leading past the workroom and to the rear exit.
That’s funny, Peter thought as he approached a dark bundle in the hall. Who left that pile of upholstery material there? He giggled wryly. Why, it could be a fire hazard!
He continued chuckling at his little private joke and approached the pile of material. His laughter ceased abruptly, however, when the upholstery fabric began to move. For a brief second, which seemed much longer, Peter’s mind went blank with shock. He quickly recovered, and drawing the pistol from his pocket, he aimed at the pile of cloth.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, as his finger tightened on the trigger.
The response was a deep, guttural, nerve-shattering growl, and Peter’s eyes widened when the ersatz pile of cloth stood up, increasing in size until a figure fully six inches taller than Peter’s own six-foot frame loomed above him.
“Jesus Christ!” he breathed, and turning, bolted for the front door of the shop, his hand frantically fumbling in his pocket for the keys. As he passed the workroom door once again, a huge explosion shook the shop as the paints and solvents caught fire. The force of the impact lifted Peter off his feet and sent him hurling into the front of the shop where he crashed against a newly created faux Edwardian loveseat. The loveseat tipped over backwards, sending Peter sprawling painfully onto the floor where he smashed his hand against an imitation Remington bronze, shattering several small bones. He finally came to rest amidst a clutter of broken glass and toppled objects’ d’arts.
Bewildered by the pain in his hand and only dimly aware that both the back of his shirt and the skin on his back were smoldering, Peter heard a high-pitched shriek of pain from the rear of the shop. Scrambling to his feet, eager to avoid both the inferno of his former business and the originator of the sound, he froze again — this time in horror.
A huge form, blazing with flame, came looming out of the hallway toward him. Peter watched aghast, unable to move, while the intruder slowly approached, knocking a heavy wardrobe and two large marble birdbaths out of its way as if they were papier maché.
What the hell…? he had time to think, as he watched the flames surrounding his attacker slowly flicker and die out.
His unspoken question was answered. Peter managed a good look at the thing as it grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him into the air, his face meeting its face. Fortunately, mercifully, he fainted before the wickedly sharp fangs closed on his throat, ripping out the flesh to expose his spinal column.
Peter was lucky. He didn’t feel his life’s blood pumping out onto the shop floor. Nor did he experience the additional pain as he was subsequently ravaged by tooth and claw.
Of course, by the time his body was thrust back into the fiery inferno of his once-pristine office, he was incapable of feeling anything at all.
Captain Clive Anderson was, quite frankly, amazed at the extent of the destruction. He stood before the half block of burned out store fronts on Melrose Avenue, reflecting that not since Old Man Terellian’s massive heart attack four months ago had there been so much damage from a single fire. Gregor Terellian had been the owner of one of West Hollywood’s most notorious local businesses, a gay coffee house called Sodom and Creamora. The brouhaha that resulted when the Business License Commission got its first look at the proposed business name was nothing compared to the huge picket lines of born again Christians who flooded Santa Monica Boulevard once the shop finally opened.
But the protestors only provided Sodom and Creamora with extra publicity, and due in no small part to the delicious assortment of low fat, sugar-free baked goods that Old Man Terellian baked himself, the coffee shop’s business started off with a bang. Unfortunately, it also ended with one.
Early one morning, Terellian turned on the oven to begin baking and prepared to light the pilot. At the same time, an entertainment attorney on his way to a power breakfast at the Beverly Hills Hotel, swerved to avoid a group of early morning Boys’ Town Gym patrons who were crossing the boulevard on their way to work out. The lawyer was faced with a dilemma: drop the cell phone and perhaps blow a potential twenty-five million dollar deal with Paramount, or hope the Porsche wouldn’t be too badly damaged as it left the road. The deal, however, was worth far more than the car, and the attorney made the only decision he could. He clutched the telephone even tighter as the front end of the Porsche plowed through the little wooden tables in front of the coffee shop, destroyed Terellian’s artfully arranged stack of muffins sitting on the front counter and blasted through the plaster wall leading to the bakery proper.
The impact of the crash was loud. So loud, in fact, that it scared Gregor Terellian, quite literally, to death. The pilot remained unlit.
But God is just; the attorney did not escape unscathed. He got out of his car in a rage, vowing to institute a lawsuit against the coffee shop, the City of West Hollywood and anyone else who came to mind, for putting a coffee shop in a location where it was obviously just waiting to be hit by an errant Porsche. He stormed through the wreckage, and confronted with Terellian’s lifeless form, panicked, and without thinking, fumbled for his cigarettes and lit one.
The fire had been devastating. Although Terellian and the lawyer were the only human casualties, the conflagration was uncomfortably close to City Hall — almost directly underneath it, in fact. Fortunately, Pamela Burman, West Hollywood’s irritable city manager, arrived at work to find her office only slightly singed. Nevertheless, she had lambasted Clive for an hour and a half and lobbied the Transportation Commission for two weeks before she was finally able to get a crosswalk installed between the row of shops leasing the mini-mall space below City Hall and the gym, convinced that by this simple expedient, future fires could be avoided.
Clive sighed at the memory and thanked God that, with this second fire, Burman was out of town visiting one of her innumerable nieces in Chicago, and, hopefully, giving the Windy City’s Police Department some grief for a change.
To those in the know, Melrose Avenue has long been renowned as one of the trendiest shopping areas in Los Angeles, surpassed only by Montana Avenue in nearby Brentwood and the world famous Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills proper. Its eclectic mix of second hand clothing stores, small exclusive interior design studios and tschotske shops attracted a wide variety of patrons, from the fabulously wealthy to struggling artists. An eager shopper with time to spare could browse the street for hours, buying wind-up toys, rare potted orchids, authentic World War I flying jackets or designer condoms before stopping into The Compost Heap for a glass of wheat grass juice or an iced, decaffeinated, guaranteed-from-organically-grown-beans Cappuccino.
Most of Melrose Avenue lies within the City of Los Angeles, but the five or six blocks intersecting West Hollywood are among the most exclusive, hosting an expensive assortment of furniture stores, clothing boutiques and cafes. The construction of the Pacific Design Center, a huge blue-tinted glass building housing some of the most unique design showrooms in the country, sometimes referred to as the “Blue Whale” by local residents, provided a natural anchor for the springing up of boutiques and shops specializing in the rare and beautiful. And, along the north side of this block, in the shadow of the P.D.C., some of the most distinctive shops on Melrose Avenue are located — correction — had been located.
The entire block of stores, once a proud example of trendy Melrose mercantilism, was reduced to a blackened heap of rubble; some of the embers were still glowing softly in the moonlight. The antique shop where the fire started had burned quickly. The fire department’s investigators had already informed Clive they had found the remains of semi-melted, twisted cans of paint and varnish inside.
On the east side of the shop, a used clothing store, specializing in outfits that had once been worn by movie and television stars, had added even more fuel to the fire, helping to send it happily on its way to the next business establishment — a book store specializing in Hollywood and Broadway memorabilia. To the west, an exclusive baby clothing boutique provided more inflammables. The cute jumpsuits, intended to outfit the little tykes as pint-sized, adorable replicas of Puff the Magic Dragon, Yoda or the Energizer Bunny, burned nicely. The corner shop housed Pauline’s Little Peckers, specializing in rare and exotic birds. The proprietress was awakened from a sound sleep and summoned to the disaster site by a friend who lived nearby. She was presently standing in the company of one of the firemen, sobbing against his yellow slicker and bemoaning the tragic holocaust that had snuffed out the lives of her beloved feathered babies. Pauline had not appreciated Fire Chief Fred Delaney’s kind attempts to help ease her loss by suggesting that she consider purchasing a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise as an alternative career.
Although Clive, like Will Rogers before him, had rarely met a man he didn’t like, West Hollywood’s fire chief was a man who made liking him difficult. Delaney was a short, florid man whose officiousness and self-importance rapidly wore on the nerves. What’s more, Delaney was a bigot. His prejudice was unintentional; Fred would have protested high and low that he was the most liberal and tolerant person he knew, yet he invariably offended almost anyone he spoke to within three minutes of beginning the conversation. In his own way, Clive was as outdated as Fred. He found the concept of being called an “African American” ludicrous, and whenever anyone referred to him that way, he stifled a snort of laughter at the mental image of himself tromping through the savannah in a Versacè suit whilst carrying a spear. Nevertheless, Clive winced whenever he and Delaney were forced to engage and tried desperately not to be offended by the man’s racism. He’d sometimes thought of bringing the subject to Fred’s attention but the discussion would be certain to lengthen the conversation, and that prospect was simply too frightening to contemplate! Better to let Fred blather on while making an ass of himself, nod sagely in feigned agreement with whatever came out of the fire chief’s mouth, take great pains not to encourage him in any way, and escape at the earliest opportunity.
