The trouble with hairy, p.24
The Trouble With Hairy, page 24
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
“No wonder Chris told me to keep you at home,” she hissed, once the exodus was complete.
Louis felt his face grow red. He was causing his newfound guardian to have second thoughts about taking him in. Visions of having to go back to the Sheriff’s Station, there to be confined once again in that horrible cell, darted through his mind. Despair seized him and he drew breath to release his welling emotion with a long mournful howl.
Suddenly, he felt a tug at the front of his shirt and the next thing he knew, he was face to face with the city manager, her eyes, flashing with anger, only inches away from his own.
“You make one more sound during this meal,” she hissed, “And you are going to be eating Kibbles and Bits out of a tin bowl. You understand me, Fido?”
With horror, Louis realized he was about to cry. The tears were coming and, what was worse, he couldn’t think of anything short of a full-throated howl that would stop them. His glance darted toward Carlos but his expression of sympathy only threw Louis’ emotions into a bigger tailspin. Just when he was trying to be strong and forcefully attractive, he was about to start whining and bawling like a year old pup.
Fortunately, it was at this point that Renaldo, the restaurant’s owner, came over to the table, saving Louis, at least temporarily, from further embarrassment.
“Ms. Burman?” he inquired timidly. “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing that a rolled up newspaper won’t fix,” she snapped, releasing the hapless Louis.
“Good, good,” he beamed with false pleasure, nervously twiddling his fingers. “Ms. Burman?”
“What?”
“Ah, some of the other customers…well…they…ah,” he paused. “Well, there have been some concerns. Oh, nothing serious!” he hastened to add as Burman shot him a deadly glare. “But, I was wondering. Would you mind moving to one of the rear booths, the ones with the curtains?”
Burman thought of what she’d like to do to the man using curtains as her only weapon. Then, she thought better of it; it would only attract more attention.
“Oh, all right,” she said peevishly, and rose, throwing her napkin on the table.
Now beaming sincerely, Renaldo ushered them a rear booth that was set slightly back from the rest of the room and capable of being closed off with heavy curtains. Renaldo fussed over them for a few moments, making sure they were settled in comfortably. Louis was amazed at the attention lavished on them by the owner, totally missing the reason for it. He swaggered proudly past the other diners as they were escorted to their new table.
“As an apology for the inconvenience,” Renaldo said when he was finished fussing and trying to make amends with perhaps the most powerful person in West Hollywood. “I hope you’ll accept dessert with my compliments.”
“Thank you,” said Burman, slightly mollified.
Louis perked up at the mention of dessert. Unbeknownst to the other two, he shared one of Becky O’Brien’s obsessions — an unforgiving sweet tooth. Back in Albuquerque, a dessert was a rare treat. Louis began to wriggle with anticipation, resolving to be on his best behavior for the rest of the meal if only he could figure out just what the hell kind of behavior was expected of him.
“I’ll have the chef bring you out something special,” Renaldo promised, seeing Louis’ delight. “Something spectacular!” He twiddled away, first making sure to shut the curtains enclosing the alcove, hiding the trio from view.
“You’d think we caused a fucking scene,” Burman griped.
“We did, Pamela,” Carlos told her, gently. “We did.”
Burman fumed.
The rest of the meal proceeded pleasantly enough. Carlos was dazzling and witty in a way Burman had never seen before. Even Louis grinned several times. When they finished, their plates were whisked away and Burman silently congratulated herself on getting them through the rest of the meal without incident.
Dessert arrived on a huge cart, covered with a large white cloth. With great pride, Renaldo announced, “And now, compliments of the house…Baked Alaska!”
With a flourish, the cloth was whipped away and a huge covered silver platter was revealed. At the sight of the shiny metal, Pamela felt Louis stiffen at her side, but before she could utter a word, Renaldo had removed the lid, and whisked the plate bearing the frozen dessert out from underneath and thrust it in front of their faces.
Louis threw himself backwards, moving only a few inches before he was brought up by the back of the booth. A low grumble started in the back of his throat and a moaning sound came out of his mouth. Carlos looked at him, dumbfounded with astonishment.
“Get that away, you idiot!” Burman shouted, and leaning forward, she shoved at the platter containing the Baked Alaska.
“I beg your…” Renaldo started to say, but Burman’s wildly flailing hand struck the side of the plate.
The Baked Alaska slid from side to side, wobbling madly. Renaldo, losing his one handed support underneath the platter, shifted his grip and leaned forward over the table trying to compensate. He failed miserably.
The Baked Alaska and the platter parted company. The Alaska sailed through the air to self destruct on the front of Carlos’ sweater. Gobs of ice cream splattered the walls of the booth, a particularly large gobbet kissing Pamela Burman smack in the center of the forehead.
As if this were not enough, the platter skittered off in the other direction, clipping Louis on the chin and tumbling down onto his lap. With a shriek of pain, Louis batted at the plate, causing it to tumble off his lap, directly onto his bare feet. His howling increased in volume.
To her horror, Pamela Burman watched as Louis’ five o’clock shadow proceeded on to six o’clock — then to quarter of seven and onwards toward eight thirty. In a burst of desperate inspiration, she wiped the dripping ice cream from her own forehead and threw it straight into Renaldo’s eyes. A split second later, she’d wadded up her linen napkin and crammed in into Louis’s mouth.
“It’s okay,” she shouted through the parted curtains at the two waiters who were rushing over to the table. “Just a little accident. No harm done.” The waiters paused for a moment and then, more slowly, kept coming, whipping out towels to clean the mess.
Louis kept trying to howl through the mouthful of cloth, scrabbling madly at the floor in an effort to kick the burning silver away from his rapidly blistering feet. Carlos sat, stunned, looking at Louis’s reddening hands and face, unable to do anything.
Please God, Burman prayed. Get me outta this.
She reached across the table and grabbed Carlos by the collar, pulling him halfway out of his seat so she could hiss into his ear.
“Keep those fucking waiters away,” she ordered and pushed him out of the booth, where he grabbed at the tablecloth in an effort to keep from tumbling to the floor. Burman ducked under the table to try and grab the platter, but Louis kept kicking wildly; just as she would manage to get a grip on it, he would kick it out of her hands. Inevitably, it crashed down upon his bare feet each time.
“Hold still, goddamn you!” she shouted as Louis started to thrash his legs anew.
The first waiter arrived table-side just in time to witness Carlos’ losing battle with the tablecloth. His legs were unable to avoid Carlos’ body as Carlos lost his grip and crashed to the floor, pulling the tablecloth with him and sending cutlery and china in all directions. The waiter tripped, seemed to recover his balance for a split second and, as the tablecloth tangled around his legs, tripped again.
The first waiter’s feet left the floor and he crashed onto the table; the second, diving to catch his companion, collided with the blinded Renaldo and ricocheted back against an adjoining table, toppling it over where it came to rest upside down on top of the poor man.
Burman finally got a good grip on the platter and flung it, like a Frisbee, out from under the table. It flew through the air, narrowly missing Renaldo, and connected with the rear end of a busboy as he bent over to help the second waiter to his feet. There was a yelp, and the busboy pitched forward, his solar plexus connecting with the upturned table leg, knocking the wind out of him. He went down for the count.
Burman reached out from under the table and grabbed the end of the tablecloth from where it was twisted around the first waiter’s legs. With a mighty tug, she yanked it free, sending the waiter, off balance once again, spinning away like a top. Smacking her head painfully on the underside of the table, she climbed back into her seat and threw the tablecloth over Louis, covering his head and upper body.
“Come on,” she shouted, and pushing Louis in front of her, she scrambled out of the booth. She paused and grabbing her purse, threw it at Carlos. “Pay him for the damage and meet me at the office!”
Pushing Louis in front of her like some huge ghost, she guided him past the startled stares of the other diners and out the front door. She steered him around the side of the building, through the parking lot and around back. Whipping the tablecloth off his head and yanking the napkin from his mouth, she yelled, “Jesus Christ! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“My feet,” Louis moaned.
Burman looked down, wincing at the raw blistered wounds. She looked at the young man’s face; a huge angry red welt had formed, leaking fluid, where the plate had caught him on the chin. His hands, where he’d thrust the platter away, looked as if he’d laid them on the surface of a hot stove.
“Oh, Louis,” she said in a small voice, shocked at the damage.
He began to cry, cradling his injured hands to his chest and weeping, silently this time. She moved toward him, arms outstretched and he flinched as she enfolded him.
“There, there,” she said, with unaccustomed tenderness as he started to relax, burying his face in her bosom as melted ice cream dripped from her forehead onto the back of his neck, and sobbing uncontrollably.
She was still rocking him gently when Carlos found them ten minutes later. After one glance, Carlos quietly turned and went to get the car. Had he not known her better, he would have sworn he’d seen tears brimming in Pamela Burman’s eyes.
CHAPTER 15
Christopher Driscoll was desperately trying to shake the foul mood building within him. Several times during the commotion attendant to their move he’d caught himself being unjustly short-tempered with Troy — not that Troy was doing anything more irritating than usual — and sometimes unable to prevent himself from being downright bitchy.
In addition, the meeting at the Sheriff’s station, their late night visit to Pamela Burman’s and the subsequent stop at Louis’ demolished apartment had absorbed most of the previous evening. Consequently, Chris had forgotten to eat again, and now, was incapable of venturing out into the sun to assuage his hunger without risking painful burns.
What was worse, his bad mood intensified the habitual light-headedness that he was wont to feel when he’d neglected to feed. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on even the most menial tasks. As Troy was fond of pointing out, even at his peak Chris was not the most graceful woman in the world. Weak from hunger, he frequently reached his full potential for clumsiness and became a walking disaster area. The first few post-dawn hours of this morning had been no exception.
After dropping Becky at home and Clive at the station just after daybreak, he’d returned home and drafted Troy into helping him do some more packing. While gathering up the linens, Chris had tried to carry too many throw pillows from the bedroom to the living room. His arms full, he slipped on a pair of blue jeans Troy had dropped on the floor and got them tangled around his feet. Though it may have been more logical to set the pillows down and free his legs from the denim’s embrace, Chris instead, with a brief flash of anger, decided no mere pair of jeans would dare to trip him up and determined to keep right on walking.
Predictably, he tripped. The pillows went sailing across the living room, one of them with enough force to knock a pair of carefully wrapped Waterford candle sticks off the dining room table with the inevitable result. Chris grabbed for the pillows as they flew from his arms, overbalanced and came crashing down, chest first, onto one of the end tables. The wooden table smashed into smithereens. Chris was able to avoid serious injury by twisting wildly as splinters shot toward his chest. Concerned with his own self-preservation, he was not, however, able to rescue a Lalique ashtray and an antique ceramic lamp from flying off to their respective dooms.
Troy wisely refrained from giggling and tentatively suggested their remaining possessions might be safer if Chris were to do something that wasn’t quite so hazardous to the furniture. Perhaps Chris could get started packing up Troy’s toiletries? After all, even at his worst, what could he do? Drop a bottle of mouthwash?
Picking himself off the floor, Chris stormed into the bathroom, his mood, if possible, even darker than before. He seized the corner of the medicine chest door and wrenched it open, at which point, without any prior warning, the mirrored door came off and the rest of the medicine cabinet pulled almost completely free of the wall, hanging by one screw. Chris flung his hand out trying to catch both the door and the cabinet before they plummeted to the tiled floor. He succeeded only in shattering the mirror with one hand, while the other brushed against the hanging cabinet with just enough force to cause the cabinet and the sole remaining screw to separate.
The metal cabinet plunged straight down, plopping into the center of the ceramic sink, sending chips of pink faux marble everywhere. The cabinets’ contents flew hither and yon, each and every glass bottle of aftershave or cologne obliterating itself against the porcelain bathroom tiles.
“Fuck!” Chris yelled and, in anger, slammed both fists down on the rim on the ersatz marble counter on either side of the chipped sink. His luck held true; the counter cracked down the middle and, with a deceptively graceful movement, it split lopsidedly in half and one side crashed to the floor.
In response to the rather distinctive noise made by bathroom fixtures as they are destroyed, Troy came rushing into the bathroom to see what was the matter. Barefoot as usual, he slipped on the huge pool of mingled Aramis, Paco Rabanne and Obsession. For a second, it looked like he’d be able to maintain equilibrium but, with a yelp as a shard of glass penetrated the sole of one foot, he hopped up in the air to be free of the sliver, and slipped again the instant he landed. Troy’s feet flew out from under him and he toppled forward, his head slamming into the center of Chris’ chest with an audible thump.
The two wobbled for a split second, arms and legs flailing and then, slowly, Chris tumbled over backward, through the shower doors around the tub. Once again, glass shattered. By the time Chris, flat on his back at the bottom of the tub, had managed to push Troy off his chest, the bathroom looked vaguely reminiscent of Guadalcanal and stank from the mingled smells of conflicting colognes, with an odor surprisingly similar to that of the Studio One dance floor on a Saturday night.
“Well, that was mildly amusing.” Troy delivered the line with the sophisticated ennui of George Saunders at his most bored.
In a white hot fury, Chris pushed his lover away and, leaving Troy to clean up the mess, stalked into the bedroom. He grabbed the doorknob, pausing briefly in malicious anticipation, and then slammed it closed behind himself. He was to be denied even the small satisfaction of a relatively uncomplicated door slam.
The doorframe splintered from the impact, the door leapt free of its hinges and the knob came completely off in his hand. While Chris was staring dumbly at the knob, the wooden door came crashing down onto his head.
“Temper, temper, dear,” Troy’s voice floated in from the bathroom.
With a snarl, Chris flung the doorknob against the wall. A small puff of disintegrated plaster marked the impact. He glanced toward the window and then toward the clock, realizing that it was already well past eight in the morning. Convinced that to remain awake any longer was just courting disaster, he climbed into the heavy metal guest bed and slammed the lid.
He was unable to get to sleep; his growing hunger and his guilt about his earlier behavior kept him awake. Tossing and turning uncomfortably for almost three hours, he finally gave up altogether and went out into the living room, planning on apologizing and cuddling up on the couch with Troy, perhaps to lose himself in one of those inane Hollywood movie musicals that his lover so adored.
Troy, using his head for once, had vanished. Chris looked in vain for one of the ubiquitous, albeit mystifying and illogical notes that Troy usually left around the apartment but either Troy had forgotten to leave one or they’d already packed the note pads. Too late, he’d remembered Troy’s appointment with Becky at the morgue.
He briefly debated calling the coroner, hoping Becky’s unfailing good humor could cheer him up. But he decided that the importance of interrupting her to alleviate his temporary bad mood paled next to the importance of the attempt to cure Troy’s allergies.
“Probably just a bad case of the blahs,” he said aloud as he flung himself full length on the couch and prepared for a day of boredom. Paper rustled beneath him and, with a snort of irritation, he rolled over and tossed an errant copy of The Gay Gazette across the room. A moment later, he reconsidered and, rising from the couch, went to retrieve it. At least it would provide him with something with which to pass the time.
He frowned to note the pet murders were still front-page news and, opening the paper at random, he began to read the editorials. He amused himself for awhile, reading the complaints of several crackpots and concerned citizens, each one of which seemed convinced that they were infinitely more qualified to run the city than Pamela Burman and the city council. In an ironic tribute to Becky and Clive’s accuracy in describing West Hollywood’s city government, Chris noted that in all of the editorial battling Mayor Daniel Eversleigh’s name was not mentioned once.
But despite the odd screwball, the real issue of the day was the growing citizen concern at the rapid depletion of the city’s pet population.
