Amante de moi? What the hell did that mean? I decided not to ask. "Damn you, Jean-Claude, damn you."
"That, dear Anita, was done long before you met me."
"What does that mean?"
His eyes were as innocent as they ever were. "Why, Anita, your own Catholic Church has declared all vampires as suicides. We are automatically damned."
I shook my head. "I'm Episcopalian, now, but that isn't what you meant."
He laughed then. The sound was like silk brushed across the nape of the neck. It felt smooth and good, but it made you shudder.
I walked away from him. I just left him there in front of the obscene window display. I walked into the crowd of whores, hustlers, customers. There was nobody on this street as dangerous as Jean-Claude. I had brought him down here to protect me. That was laughable. Ridiculous. Obscene.
A young man who couldn't have been more than fifteen stopped me. He was wearing a vest with no shirt and a pair of torn jeans. "You interested?"
He was taller than me by a little. His eyes were blue. Two other boys just behind him were staring at us.
"We don't get many women down here," he said.
"I believe you." He looked incredibly young. "Where can I find Wheelchair Wanda?"
One of the boys behind him said, "A crip lover, Jesus."
I agreed with him. "Where?" I held up a twenty. It was too much to pay for the information, but maybe if I gave it to him, he could go home sooner. Maybe if he had twenty dollars, he could turn down one of the cars cruising the street. Twenty dollars, it would change his life. Like sticking your finger in a nuclear meltdown.
"She's just outside of The Grey Cat. At the end of the block."
"Thanks." I gave him the twenty. His fingernails had grime embedded in them.
"You sure you don't want some action?" His voice was small and uncertain, like his eyes. Out of the comer of my eye I saw Jean-Claude moving through the crowd. He was coming for me. To protect me. I turned back to the boy. "I've got more action than I know what to do with," I said.
He frowned, looking puzzled. That was all right. I was puzzled, too. What do you do with a master vampire that won't leave you alone? Good question. Unfortunately, what I needed was a good answer.
24
Wheelchair Wanda was a small woman sitting in one of those sport wheelchairs that are used for railing. She wore workout gloves, and the muscles in her arms moved under her tanned skin as she pushed herself along. Long brown hair fell in gentle waves around a very pretty face. The makeup was tasteful. She wore a shiny metallic blue shirt and no bra. An ankle-length skirt with at least two layers of multicolored crinoline and a pair of stylish black boots hid her legs.
She was moving towards us at a goodly pace. Most of the prostitutes, male and female, looked ordinary. They weren't dressed outrageously, shorts, middrifts. In this heat who could blame them? I guess if you wear fishnet jumpsuits, the police just naturally get suspicious.
Jean-Claude stood beside me. He glanced up at the sign that proclaimed "The Grey Cat" in a near blinding shade of fuchsia neon. Tasteful.
How does one approach a prostitute, even just to talk? I didn't know. Learn something new every day. I stood in her path and waited for her to come to me. She glanced up and caught me watching her. When I didn't look away, she got eye contact and smiled.
Jean-Claude moved up beside me. Wanda's smile broadened or deepened. It was a definite "come along smile" as my Grandmother Blake used to say.
Jean-Claude whispered, "Is that a prostitute?"
"Yes," I said.
"In a wheelchair?" he asked.
"Yep.
"My," was all he said. I think Jean-Claude was shocked. Nice to know he could be.
She stopped her chair with an expert movement of hands.
She smiled, craning to look up at us. The angle looked painful.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I said.
She continued to smile. I continued to stare. Why did I suddenly feel awkward? "A friend told me about you," I said.
Wanda nodded.
"You are the one they refer to as Wheelchair Wanda?"
She grinned suddenly, and her face looked real. Behind all those lovely but fake smiles was a real person. "Yeah, that's me."
"Could we talk?"
"Sure," she said. "You got a room?"
Did I have a room? Wasn't she supposed to do that? "No."
She waited.
Oh, hell. "We just want to talk to you for an hour, or two. We'll pay whatever the going rate is."
She told me the going rate.
"Jesus, that's a little steep," I said.
She smiled beatifically at me. "Supply and demand," she said. "You can't get a taste of what I have anywhere else." She smoothed her hands down her legs as she said it. My eyes followed her hands like they were supposed to. This was too weird.
I nodded. "Okay, you got a deal." It was a business expense. Computer paper, ink pens medium point, one prostitute, manila file folders. See, it fit right in.
Bert was going to love this one.
25
We took Wanda back to my apartment. There are no elevators in my building. Two flights of stairs are not exactly wheelchair accessible. Jean-Claude carried her. His stride was even and fluid as he walked ahead of me. Wanda didn't even slow him down. I followed with the wheelchair. It did slow me down.
The only consolation I had was I got to watch Jean-Claude climb the stairs. So sue me. He had a very nice backside for a vampire.
He was waiting for me in the upper hallway, standing with Wanda cuddled in his arms. They both looked at me with a pleasant sort of blankness.
I wheeled the collapsed wheelchair over the carpeting. Jean-Claude followed me. The crinoline in Wanda's skirts crinkled and whispered as he moved.
I leaned the wheelchair against my leg and unlocked the door. I pushed the door all the way back to the wall to give Jean-Claude room. The wheelchair folded inwards like a cloth baby stroller. I struggled to make the metal bars catch, so the chair would be solid again. As I suspected, it was easier to break it than to fix it.
I glanced up from my struggles and found Jean-Claude still standing outside my door. Wanda was staring at him, frowning.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I have never been to your apartment."
"So?"
"The great vampire expert … come, Anita."
Oh. "You have my permission to enter my home."
He gave a sort of bow from the neck. "I am honored," he said.
The wheelchair snapped into shape again. Jean-Claude set Wanda in her chair. I closed the door. Wanda smoothed her long skirts over her legs.
Jean-Claude stood in the middle of my living room and gazed about. He gazed at the penguin calendar on the wall by the kitchenette. He rifled the pages to see future months, gazing at pictures of chunky flightless birds until he'd seen every picture.
I wanted to tell him to stop, but it was harmless. I didn't write appointments on the calendar. Why did it bother me that he was so damned interested in it?
I turned back to the prostitute in my living room. The night was entirely too weird. "Would you like something to drink?" I asked. When in doubt, be polite.
"Red wine if you have it," Wanda said.
"Sorry, nothing alcoholic in the house. Coffee, soft drinks with real sugar in them, and water, that's about it."