be quite foolish to leave blood-drained corpses lying about."
"But what would you do if it was a vampire committing these crimes?"
"Stop him." My terse reply was followed by a tense silence that fortunately lasted only a short interim, ending when Nicole laughed and pointed out a store just a few blocks from my apartment called "Gifts of the Magi Occult Shoppe." Strange that I had never noticed it before.
My laughter echoed hers, our mood returning to a certain modicum of lightness.
"Do they sell Aleister Crowley greeting cards?" Nicole asked, between laughs.
"I do not know, but it does make me wonder. There is such a thing as social science, yet something that once upon a time employed totally legitimate scientific methodology gets scoffed at and dismissed as occult. It seems absurd."
"Yes, Al, quite. Quite absurd."
****
As the students say, "Friday night inMadison is party central." Despite the presence of a roving killer, that year-round carnival known asState Street was in full revel, so giddy they were with the blossoms of spring. Strolling crowds filled the sidewalks, spilling out into the street, crowding around the jugglers and the various troubadours, young people, older people, white, yellow, brown and black, wearing standard western garb or traditional clothing from their home countries, speaking in at least a dozen languages other than English.
I searchedState Street for flags, wondering if it was indeed not Mardi Gras orRio . It was near bar time, but there was a lull in the board business. Being the ever-enterprising cab driver, I sought the business wherever it might happen to manifest itself.
Technically, I should not have been cruising State; cabs are only allowed on this mall when picking up or dropping off passengers and are supposed to enter and exit on the same block. Driving at a snail's pace, I rehearsed my excuse speech.
"Sorry, officer," I would say. "I had a call here, but when I arrived, they were already gone."
In front of Pic-A-Book, which marked the lower end of State nearest the campus, where most of the action was situated, Catfish sat on a bench, playing some Robert Johnson with his Bayou slide guitar, wearing his trademark straw cowboy hat and bushy Fu Manchu. A small crowd gathered, watching Catfish and tonight's guests, a skinny kid playing upright bass and a big, burly, bearded man who hauntingly stroked a violin.
I rode the brake in front of The Pub. No takers; the people in the window seemed content to remain there, displaying their cards numbered one to ten, held up to assess the relative aesthetic qualities of those passersby.
Ahead, Art Paul, tall, lanky and bug-eyed, sang to his loyal fans, strumming a battered guitar, a kazoo mounted to his neck with a wire coat hanger. Kern once said, if Bob Dylan were mentally retarded, he would be Art Paul. Kern also said Art Paul did Dylan better than Dylan did Dylan. The absurd statement actually seemed to make sense, for both troubadours certainly shared a similar quality of voice, or the lack thereof.
From within Monday's Tavern, a petite blonde emerged sans jacket, despite the evening chill. She darted across the street, waving and yelling. I drew the cab to a stop. The woman opened the left rear door and climbed inside.
"Thanks for stopping," she said. The woman reeked of beer, schnapps, sweat, smoke and perfume. Her heart beat rapidly, but slowed quickly.
"Where may I take you tonight?"
"Just over to Langdon. One-oh-three. Sorry it's not farther."
"That is okay." I eased the cab forward, waiting for the slow-moving pedestrians to yield to the greater power of my cab. "So, how are you tonight?"
"Drunk and tired. I just wanna go home."
"Well, I will get you there quickly."
The woman leaned back in her seat. Moments later, we were in front of her house at the corner of Langdon and Carroll.
"That is two-fifty."
"Just a second," she said, digging into her pocket, pulling out four separately wadded-up ones and handing them to me. "Keep it."
"Thank you very much." As I watched her open the door, my gaze drifted toward her building. Above the door were two Greek letters, Delta and Gamma.
"You are a Delta Gamma?" I asked.
The woman answered enthusiastically. "Yeah, I am."
"I wish to express my sorrow over Dawn Stevens."
The woman's tone sobered. "Thanks. You know, we're doing all we can. Putting up posters all over town, talking to parents, Dee Gee alumni, trying to raise more money for the reward. We're not giving up hope."