The trouble with hairy, p.26
The Trouble With Hairy, page 26
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
As Chris watched, growing more confused with each of the crowd’s actions, people began throwing mutilated stuffed animals at the dummy’s feet and dousing them with gasoline. As the pile of tortured toys grew, some of the participants dug into the paper sacks and pillow cases that they were carrying, revealing a selection of cosmetics so varied and comprehensive as to cause Mary Kay herself to turn green with envy. The crowd roared its approval as eyeliner, mascara, bottles of nail polish and various other sundries were thrown onto the asphalt to be trampled to bits beneath eager feet. When every last eyebrow pencil had been reduced to rubble, the Asian man held a large, pink stuffed Easter Bunny over his head, set it aflame with a cigarette lighter and thrust it into the pile of stuffed toys.
The toys burned, if possible, even more brightly than the furs.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” demanded Chris’ red-cheeked captor. “That’ll show those bastard cosmetic companies who’s boss!”
Chris contented himself with nodding in agreement while making approving sounding grunts, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth, desperately seeking a clear path to either his car or the station entrance.
Suddenly, the wail of sirens could be heard over the gleeful shouting of the crowd and, a moment later, the distinctive honk of a fire engine horn pierced the air. The West Hollywood Fire Department had arrived.
As the engine entered the parking lot, the crowd, as one, sat down. The truck stopped immediately, horn blaring and lights flashing, but was unable to enter the lot due to the chanting protesters blocking entry. A very short, rotund man wearing a fire helmet scrambled out of the fire truck’s cab and began screaming at the seated people. They ignored him.
Looking like he was about to explode from rage, the man began waving his arms wildly and issuing orders to the firemen as they emerged from the truck. Soon, those seated near the front of the crowd were being bodily hauled off by the long-suffering fire fighters and deposited safely on the sidewalk.
Feeling rather foolish being the only person standing upright, Chris, with a series of short apologies for treading on fingers and toes, stepped gingerly through the crowd and reached the stairs to the station, narrowly avoiding grasping hands which sought to force him into participating in what resembled nothing so much as a sixties sit-in.
Chris reached the glass doors fronting the station and breathed another silent prayer, this time one of thanks. He turned to survey the crowd once more and, as the firemen began moving further inward amongst the seated protesters, he shook his head in wonder at the follies of humanity, pulled open the door and entered the station. When Chris was ushered into Clive’s office several minutes later, he noted that the captain didn’t seem to be particularly glad to see him.
“I hope you have good news.” Clive’s expression reminded Chris of a dejected basset hound. He looked up at Chris and his face fell even further.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing to the object clutched in Chris’ hand.
“What? Oh, this?” Chris held up a small, bright blue stuffed poodle, sporting a jaunty aqua and green plaid tam o’shanter hat and matching little jacket. It had been thrust into his hands by one of the protesters but he’d been so anxious to get away from them he hadn’t bothered to look at it before now. His nose wrinkled in distaste as he realized that a miniature noose had been wrapped around the poodle’s neck and the seam in its belly opened and re-sewn so that a small rubber knife was sticking out.
“Oh God,” Clive moaned. “Are they still out there?”
“En masse,” Chris commented dryly and he tossed the poodle into Clive’s wastepaper basket. “I think they’re burning you in effigy,” he told the captain gently.
“Burning?” Clive’s glum expression vanished in favor of one of alarm.
“Don’t worry. The fire trucks were just getting there by the time I got through.”
“Do you know Fred Delaney? The fire chief?” Clive asked Chris severely.
“No,” Chris replied.
“Then don’t tell me not to worry!” Clive picked up the telephone and dialed. He spoke briefly to someone on the other end and slammed it back down in its cradle.
“This is all I need,” he said. “You realize,” he continued, “that word got out about Louis.”
Now it was Chris’ turn to look alarmed.
“Relax,” Clive told him. “They don’t know who or what he is. Only that we let West Hollywood’s version of the Zodiac Killer back out onto the streets. And if that’s not enough,” he went on, “I’ve been trying to keep the mayor off my back and come up with a reason for letting our menace to the pet community back onto the streets.” He looked at Chris, his expression hardening. “A logical reason.”
“I hope I can make you feel better.”
“No one could make me feel better,” Clive sighed. “If those idiots from C.R.A.P.M. out there end up turning me into human wiener roast…” He looked at Chris accusingly. “…just remember whose fault it is.”
“Would a name help?” Chris asked mildly.
Clive’s eyes narrowed and, he was suddenly extremely attentive. “That name wouldn’t happen to belong to the person responsible for Bobby Falberg’s death?”
Chris paused for dramatic effect and then, deeming the theatrics unworthy of him said, “Guy Chartreuse.”
Clive picked up the telephone, but Chris reached out and firmly pressed the hang up button.
“You know,” Clive commented mildly, still holding the dead receiver, “I’m getting pretty annoyed with people doing that.”
“Sorry.” Chris’s apology was perfunctory. “We need to be discreet, remember?”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” Clive said dryly. “Well, what do you want to do? Put out a trail of Milk Bone biscuits and hope he follows it to a jail cell?”
“Of course not.” Chris stopped to think for a moment. “Is there anyway you can tap into the hotel and motel registries? He may be holing up in wolf form in some alley, but the hotels would be a place to start.”
“That’s what I was trying to do,” Clive said with studied patience, “when you hung up on me.”
Chris’ apology this time was more sincere and accompanied with one of his odd little formal bows. He remained silent while Clive picked up the telephone and spoke to one of his anonymous uniformed minions and started the search rolling. When he was finished, he turned to Chris expectantly.
“He may be using an alias but, it’s worth a shot? Anything else you can think of?”
“No, you’re probably in a better position to take care of this than I am. Just one thing, once you locate him, keep things quiet. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t send someone out to arrest him. He’s very, very dangerous.”
“Like I didn’t know that.” Clive leaned back in his chair and looked longingly at his bottom desk drawer. “Christ, I need a drink. You want one?”
“No thanks.” Chris’s smile revealed the merest hint of fang. “Just had one.”
Some of the color drained from Clive’s face. “Very funny.” He opened his mouth to continue, thought better of it, and closed it again.
“What?” Chris inquired.
“I was just thinking,” Clive began slowly, “How about your friends? The ones you said moved to the city, I mean. Do you think they could…?”
“Help?” Chris asked. He shook his head, ruefully. “It’s mostly ghouls. Scared of their own shadows. Maybe a few demons, but they’ll be about as much use as tits on a water buffalo. Of course, now that the LA subway’s finished, it’s just a matter of time before we get flocks of goblins. But we don’t have the luxury of waiting. Even if they’d be willing to help, which I doubt. No, I’d say we’re on our own.”
“I really don’t want to know,” Clive said to nobody in particular, “What goblins and subways have in common.”
“They’re both underground.”
“I said,” Clive repeated firmly, “That I did not want to know.”
Just then the telephone on Clive’s desk buzzed softly. He grabbed it.
“Anderson.” Chris watched the captain’s shoulders slumped visibly and his eyes roll heavenward, his face settling into a look of defeat as woebegone as any Chris had ever seen.
“Well, do something,” Clive demanded desperately. “I don’t care! Anything!”
He slammed the phone down and moaned, “Oh God.”
Chris looked at him sharply. “What’s wrong? Another murder?”
“Not yet,” Clive replied grimly, rising from his desk and glancing into small mirror hanging on one wall of the office while he smoothed his hair. “Stay put for ten minutes and you can be my witness. We’ll try for justifiable homicide. Maybe they won’t convict me.”
Chris gave him a quizzical glance.
Clive turned to face him and with tense formality announced, “The defender of the defenseless, the hero of the downtrodden, protector of the innocent and palm presser extraordinaire is on his way.” He paused dramatically, “You’re about to meet the Mayor. Who, by the way, may not get out of this office alive!”
On cue, the office door was flung open and a tall, handsome, if rather harried, gray haired man stormed in.
“I’d like a word with you, Captain,” he demanded in a tone that clearly stated that any other business Clive might be involved in would just have to be put on hold.
“Good afternoon, Daniel,” Clive said with false brightness. “Won’t you come in?” he added with slight sarcasm.
Eversleigh was oblivious to Clive’s tone. He approached the desk and forcefully pounded his fist on it, causing Clive to wince as the vibrations sent cold coffee slopping over the side of his neglected cup to pool on the polished wood.
“Dammit, Clive! I want to know, right now, just what’s the status on this thing. And why the hell do you have deputies out there arresting decent, god-fearing, concerned citizens?”
Clive cleared his throat softly and motioned toward Chris. “Christopher, meet Daniel Eversleigh. Daniel, this is Christopher Driscoll. One of our new citizens.”
Eversleigh, who had been too intent on making a show of righteous outrage, hadn’t noticed the chestnut haired young man, but at Clive’s mention of the word “citizen,” his entire demeanor changed. Instantly, Daniel Eversleigh went from roaring tiger to everyone’s favorite Uncle Dan.
Chris watched, admiring the man’s technique, as the mayor drew himself up to his full height and struck a pose, worthy of Lincoln at Gettysburg. The vampire’s brow wrinkled in concentration as he rose to shake the mayor’s hand and he experienced a weird sense of deja vu. Suddenly, thanks to Troy’s devotion to old movies, Chris had it; he was even able to identify the pose. The mayor bore a striking resemblance to Errol Flynn in The Sea Hawk.
“Well, well,” Daniel said, “A new citizen!” He turned to Clive. “Obviously our captain is assisting you with whatever misfortune you may have suffered by bringing the full might…” Daniel looked meaningfully at Clive, “…of law enforcement at our disposal to your aid. Whatever the problem, robbery, car theft, even…” He paused to glare at the captain again. “…Even if it is something as trivial as a cat up a tree, or a barking dog, or rabbits on your lawn…”
He turned back to Chris, “As mayor of this town — up for re-election in April, I might add — I give you my personal assurance that our fair city’s resources are at your disposal, continuing to help ensure West Hollywood is a safe place to live.”
“You forgot to mention our pot-bellied pig rescue program, Daniel,” added Clive innocently.
The Mayor glared at him, unwilling to show temper in front of a potential voter. “Ah, terrible, terrible,” he said, somehow managing to shake his head mournfully while at the same time, never relenting in his deadly glare at Clive. “It’s a sad day when an upstanding citizen like George Hilton, a model of community activism and leadership, should lose a four-legged companion so dear to his heart.” His glare intensified. “Especially with the culprit still at large thanks to certain people who would rather arrest upstanding citizens exercising their constitutional rights of free speech in a public parking lot than arrest an insidious disrupter of the health and welfare of West Hollywood’s non-human community.”
Chris successfully repressed a smile at Eversleigh’s unintentionally appropriate choice of the phrase “non-human”.
“Look Daniel…” Clive allowed slight ire to creep into his voice. “…your upstanding citizens just tried to produce the sequel to The Towering Inferno in my parking lot. With me in the starring role. Arson was still a public safety issue last time I checked.”
“Arson?” The mayor was indignant. “Arson? What about the First Amendment?”
“What about malicious destruction of public property?” Clive shot back.
“Dammit, Anderson!” The mayor leaned his imposing height forward over Clive’s desk, towering over the seated captain. “Either you cease arresting citizens exercising their constitutional rights or…or…”
“Or what, Daniel?” Clive’s tone was more curious than belligerent although he was still annoyed.
“Or I’ll institute a lawsuit against this city so fast…”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Daniel!” Clive finally exploded. “You’re the fucking mayor! You can’t sue yourself!”
Daniel Eversleigh blinked rapidly in confusion, thrown off balance in the face of Clive’s angry logic.
Chris was trying to think of something suitable to say to diffuse the tension in the room even further but he was distracted by a familiar, albeit, angry voice just outside the doorway.
“For God’s sake, Claire!” Becky’s voice floated through the open door. “Not me! He meant the mayor! Keep the mayor out!” A second later, she entered the room out of breath and, seeing Daniel Eversleigh, affected an innocent air while trying to conceal a huge bag full of Mrs. Field’s cookies.
“Daniel!” she exclaimed, feigning surprise, “You’re here already! I thought you stopped off in the men’s room. Or were held up by the crowd?” she suggested hopefully. “Or maybe even got a little singed?”
Now it was Becky’s turn to be the recipient of the mayor’s hostility.
“I see you’ve abandoned your diet,” he commented with scathing implication.
“Oh this?” Becky was distinctly uncomfortable. She turned to Clive and changed the subject. “It’s a madhouse out there.”
“I know,” Clive said.
“It just got worse after that thing with the pigeons,” Becky said brightly.
“The pigeons?” Daniel and Clive asked simultaneously.
“They were sitting on the telephone wires over the parking lot, just above the bonfire. I was coming in when one of those crazies threw a few cans of hair spray into the fire. Yelling something about Final Net being tested on field mice.”
She dove into her bag and pulled out a cookie, pausing to examine it carefully. She nibbled at it hesitantly and a look of bliss settled across her face.
“Peanut butter,” she breathed in ecstasy.
“The pigeons?” Clive reminded her
“Right. Well the cans exploded. Nobody was hurt,” she hastened to add as Clive reached for the phone once again. “Unless you count the pigeons.”
“Becky,” Clive began with forced patience, “I’m very tired. Would you please stop speaking Ashanti or Welsh or Outer Mongolian and tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”
“Sure.” She swallowed and took another bite. “Do you have any milk?” Her eyes roved hopefully to the refrigerator before she noticed the look on Clive’s face and hastened to continue her story.
“One of the pigeons got caught by the fireball from the hair spray. You should’ve seen it. It went up like the Doves of Peace at the Seoul Olympics. You know, the ones that were roosting on the Olympic Torch when they lit it? Anyway, the burning pigeon was trying to fly home to the safety of mommy and daddy pigeon and the rest of them caught fire.”
There was silence in the room.
“Flaming pigeons,” Daniel commented, without expression.
“Dozens of ’em,” Becky said, relishing Daniel’s rare lack of words. “Flying all over the place. Every time one of ’em got near a relative… Whoosh! Instant roast squab. Oh, yeah,” she added as an afterthought, “some of the tree tops caught fire, too. Fred Delaney’s trying to put everything out but we still may have to use the back exit.”
The mayor drew himself up to his full and most imposing height. “This…this travesty is entirely your fault, Captain. If the citizens of West Hollywood perish in a fiery conflagration,” he continued, wagging his finger in Clive’s face, “we will go to our graves knowing full well who’s to blame!”
Clive clenched his fists. No matter what Daniel would say next, he would have to forcibly restrain himself from cold-cocking the mayor.
“Hi, Chris,” Becky said, determined to change the subject and defuse Clive’s anger.
Daniel raised one eyebrow, slightly suspicious that Becky had managed to meet a new resident before he had been given the opportunity. Remembering the vampire’s presence, he once again became a veritable paragon of good humor.
“I’m terribly sorry for this interruption, young man,” he said almost unctuously. “Would you mind awfully waiting in the hall for a moment while I interrupt? I would not ordinarily ever dream of delaying a citizen’s complaint for one instant, but the captain and I must transact some important business, vital to the continued health and prosperity of our fair city.”
“Oh, speak English, Daniel,” Becky said tiredly, and sank into her usual chair. The mayor turned beet red, but Becky ignored him and addressed Clive.
“I was at Mrs. Field’s picking up a snack and I saw him storming around the corner in your direction. There wasn’t time to call and warn you so I figured I’d try to head him off at the pass.”
