Guilty Pleasures   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

”

He sat staring up at me, very still. It was not that lifeless immobility of the long dead, but it was a shadow of it fear ran up in my spine and into my throat. I fought an urge to draw my crucifix out of my shirt and drive him from my office. Somehow throwing a client out using a holy item seemed less than professional. So I just stood there, waiting for him to move.

“Why won't you help us?”

“I have clients to meet, Willie. I'm sorry that I can't help you.”

“Won't help, you mean.”

I nodded. “Have it your way.” I walked around the desk to show him to the door.

He moved with a liquid quickness that Willie had never had, but I saw him move and was one step back from his reaching hand. “I'm not just another pretty face to fall for mind tricks.”

“You saw me move.”

“I heard you move. You're the new dead, Willie. Vampire or not, you've got a lot to learn.”

He was frowning at me, hand still half-extended towards me. “Maybe, but no human could a stepped outta reach like that.” He stepped up close to me, plaid jacket nearly brushing against me. Pressed together like that, we were nearly the same height, short. His eyes were on a perfect level with mine. I stared as hard as I could at his shoulder.

It took everything I had not to step back from him. But dammit, undead or not, he was Willie McCoy. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

He said, “You ain't human, any more than I am.”

I moved to open the door. I hadn't stepped away from him. I had stepped away to open the door. I tried convincing the sweat along my spine that there was a difference. The cold feeling in my stomach wasn't fooled either.

“I really have to be going now. Thank you for thinking of Animators, Inc.” I gave him my best professional smile, empty of meaning as a light bulb, but dazzling.

He paused in the open doorway. “Why won't you work for us? I gotta tell 'em something when I go back.”

I wasn't sure, but there was something like fear in his voice. Would he get in trouble for failing? I felt sorry for him and knew it was stupid. He was the undead, for heaven's sake, but he stood looking at me, and he was still Willie, with his funny coats and small nervous hands.

“Tell them, whoever they are, that I don't work for vampires.”

“A firm rule?” Again he made it sound like a question.

“Concrete.”

There was a flash of something on his face, the old Willie peeking through. It was almost pity. “I wish you hadn't said that, Anita. These people don't like anybody telling 'em no.”

“I think you've overstayed your welcome. I don't like to be threatened.”

“It ain't a threat, Anita. It's the truth.” He straightened his tie, fondling the new gold tie tack, squared his thin shoulders and walked out.

I closed the door behind him and leaned against it. My knees felt weak. But there wasn't time for me to sit here and shake. Mrs. Grundick was probably already at the cemetery. She would be standing there with her little black purse and her grown sons, waiting for me to raise her husband from the dead. There was a mystery of two very different wills. It was either years of court costs ad arguments, or raise Albert Grundick from the dead and ask.

Everything I needed was in my car, even the chickens. I drew the silver crucifix free of my blouse and let it hang in full view. I have several guns, and I know how to use them. I keep a 9 mm Browning Hi-Power in my desk. The gun weighed a little over two pounds, silver-plated bullets and all. Silver won't kill a vampire, but it can discourage them. It forces them to have to heal the wounds, almost human slow. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and went out.

Craig our night secretary, was typing furiously at the computer keyboard. His eyes widened as I walked over the thick carpeting. Maybe it was the cross swinging on its long chain. Maybe it was the shoulder rig tight across my back, and the gun out in plain sight. He didn't mention either. Smart man.

I put my nice little corduroy jacket over it all. The jacket didn't lie flat over the gun, but that was okay. I doubted the Grundicks and their lawyers would notice.



2

I had gotten to see the sun rise as I drove home that morning. I hate sunrises. They mean I've overscheduled myself and worked all bloody night. St. Louis has more trees edging its highways than any other city I have driven through. I could almost admit the trees looked nice in the first light of dawn, almost. My apartment always looks depressingly white and cheerful in morning sunlight. The walls are the same vanilla ice cream white as every apartment I've ever seen. The carpeting is a nice shade of grey, preferable to that dog poop brown that is more common.

The apartment is a roomy one-bedroom. I am told it has a nice view of the park next door. You couldn't prove it by me. If I had my choice, there would be no windows. I get by with heavy drapes that turn the brightest day to cool twilight.

I switched the radio on low to drown the small noises of my day-living neighbors. Sleep sucked me under to the soft music of Chopin. A minute later the phone rang.

I lay there for a minute, cursing myself for forgetting to turn on the answering machine. Maybe if I ignored it? Five rings later I gave in. “Hello.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”

It was a woman I didn't know. If it was a salesperson I was going to become violent. “Who is this?” I blinked at the bedside clock. It was eight. I'd had nearly two hours of sleep. Yippee.

“I'm Monica Vespucci.” She said it like it should explain everything. It didn't.

“Yes.” I tried to sound helpful, encouraging. I think it came out as a growl.

“Oh, my, uh. I'm the Monica that works with Catherine Maison.”

I huddled around the receiver and tried to think. I don't think really well on two hours of sleep. Catherine was a good friend, a name I knew. She had probably mentioned this woman to me, but for the life of me, I couldn't place her. “Sure, Monica, yes. What Jo you want?” It sounded rude, even to me. “I'm sorry if I don't sound too good. I got off work at six.”

“My god, you mean you've only had two hours of sleep. Do you want to shoot me, or what?”

I didn't answer the question. I'm not that rude. “Did you want something, Monica?”

“Sure, yes. I'm throwing a surprise bachelorette party for Catherine. You know she gets married next month.”

I nodded, remembered she couldn't see me, and mumbled, “I'm in the wedding.”

“Oh, sure, I knew that.