Vampire Cabbie - By Fred Schepartz Page 0,137

vampires are killers. I am not."

"But you're gonna kill me. Kinda makesyou a killer, don't it?"

He was distracting me. "My money, Jenkins!" I slapped him hard across the face. "Where is my money?"

Jenkins flinched not at all. He must have been very drunk. "How do you rationalize that kind of thinking, Farkus? Saying you're not a killer when you're here to kill me. Makes you a killer, doesn't it." This time, not a question at all, but an accusation.

I took one short step backward. "The issue here is not sophistry, Jenkins. The issue is my money and where it is and how you will return it to me."

"Tell you what. Show me yours, and I'll show you mine. Answer my question and I'll tell you about your money."

This was getting most tiresome, but patience was necessary because Jenkins could provide no answers after I had killed him. "Very well, Jenkins, ask me your question."

He grinned almost childishly. "You say you're not a killer, but don't you kill when you eat?"

"No. I take what I need and no more. Those I take from are left relatively unharmed."

He rubbed his chin and stared thoughtfully toward the beach. "You're here to kill me, but you claim you're not a killer. Kill anybody else recently?"

Blood spilled across the canvas of my inner sight. Frank Nelson, Bobo, his brothers, their father. Motherless spawn of Satan! These hands had killedfive beings in the past year?Five? The necessity to kill had not made itself apparent for forty years and now -

"Yes," was my only reply.

"But you're not a killer."

"They deserved to die. One was - "

"Deserved?"

"Do not interrupt. One was self-defense - a mortal - the other four were vampires who I killed to keep them from killing mortals."

"Hmmm," Jenkins replied. "Justifiable, I'll give you that, but what gives you the right to make that kind of decision?"

"Jenkins, confusing the issue with sophistry merely serves to prolong your pathetic existence."

"Yeah, okay, maybe. But you're here to kill me, and that's just for revenge, no other reason. How can you kill me and not be a killer?"

"I kill only when necessary. Killers kill indiscriminately."

He smiled, and I realized that he had backed me into an untenable position in this debate. "You don't have to kill me. Killing me don't mean anything one way or the other."

Quite the inhuman growl escaped my throat. Jenkins cowered visibly. "I have answered your question to the best of my ability. Now, where is my money?"

"Like I been trying to tell you, your money's gone. Like poof! Gone." He threw his hands up in the air, seeming to take strength from this cavalier gesture.

My mouth opened in a feral smile. Fingers clenched, the razor-claws wanting satisfaction. Blood filled my sight. Jenkins's beating heart pounded loudly. To Hades with the money! I wanted his blood, wanted to rip into his flesh, imagined his heart warm and still beating, could see the steam as hot blood struck my cold tongue, could feel his blood gushing down my throat.

I exhaled loudly through my mouth, fighting for control. Only through patience and discipline would my money be returned. "Please, Mister Jenkins," I said with almost no animation, "tell me exactly what happened."

He paused a moment, well aware that his life would continue for at least a little while longer, knowing it had almost ended just then. He smiled. "You never should have hired me, Farkus. I'm a pretty lousy financier. I did as bad a job on my own portfolio as yours. Got too greedy. Didn't feel like I could ever have enough money. Made some really stupid investments. Managed to piss away most of what I stole, and that was only the half of it."

"Yes."

"Well, I tell you, it's pretty hard to embezzle a lotta of money. Every monetary transfer caught someone's attention. There was always somebody wanting a cut. And, on top of that, being on the run, always having to look over my shoulder 'cause I knew you'd be after me, well, people can sense that. Everywhere I went, there was always somebody with a hand out. I'm sicka running. I've got about a hundred thou left, so here I am, last stop, end of the line. Since the day I got here, I knew I would die right on this beach. Today's as good a day as any."

He lit a cigarette, took a long sip from the nearest bottle and stared wistfully at the surf. Waiting for me to kill him, undoubtedly. Our eyes met, and his dull, bloodshot orbs did not flinch at my gaze. Then, they disappeared, replaced by golden, feral eyes with a bloated oval moon of black. Those eyes slowly glazed over, the bloated oval closing to a mere sliver, as if forced shut by a blinding light as darkness descended.

I had killed the jaguar. Killed it! How could I have killed that magnificent predator? How could I have shown it such contempt when it served no purpose to do so? And this wretch, this swine, this bloated mass of decaying flesh was absolutely correct. How could I kill him out of revenge and not be a killer? Had I not long evolved from that to a state able to kill when only absolutely necessary?

My gaze broke away from his, but from the corner of my eye, I could see that he continued to stare forward, as if my eyes still fixed upon his. "Have you no interest," I said, facing him once again, "in hearing how I managed without a fortune?"

Jenkins laughed and took another sip from his bottle. "Sure, what the hell. Had to get a job, right?"

"Precisely, I moved toMadison,Wisconsin and secured employment with a worker-owned-and-operated taxi company."

Jenkins howled with laughter. "Al Farkus, vampire cabbie. Hauling students?" He interrupted himself with his own laughter.

"It really was not such a horrible thing."

"Why should it? Hell, nothing wrong with working for a living. Most people do it, you know. 'Sides, Madison's a great town."

"There is certainly nothing wrong with working. Maybe I had forgotten, but now I know it for sure."

"Tell me all about it." Jenkins leaned forward, opened another bottle and lit fresh cigarette.

"I shall spare your pitiful life. In exchange, you may be my audience, my confessor even."I took a seat on the sand in front of Jenkins, pausing to listen to the crashing waves, to enjoy the salty scent of sea breeze. It seemed amazing that this story began merely one year ago. In an existence where a century feels like yesterday, where a decade feels like a mere moment, what is one year? Yet, it seemed like a year since I had drawn my last breath.

"Well," I began, "I might tell you the story begins inParis . Or maybe it might be more accurate to say the story really begins in the Black Forest of Germany. Or maybe the story begins simultaneously in both places. In a Parisian discotheque, a driving synthesized beat pounded repeatedly against my skull, a beam of sheer force, thick and blunt, until the edges smoothed, transforming into the rapidly beating heart of a deer fleeing through a dark forest, a predator closing, sensed but unseen, closing then overtaking, easily bringing it down, then plunging sharp fangs into its muscular throat.

"Playing with, but not drinking the glass of Pernod before me on the faux marble table, my eyes narrowed. Through clouds of blue smoke, the tightly crowded dancers became tree trunks, the flashing lights transformed into splinters of moonlight - gone from this rather unsavory Parisian district to the unspoiled confines of the Black Forest, a whole month spent in feral bliss, devoid of civilization, of words, of even clothing, not pretending to blend in with humanity, but wallowing in the fullest extent of my predatory nature, arising at nightfall, running free through the woods, stalking game, gorging myself on hot, wild blood, then burrowing in the ground before first light, only to rise again the next night. I even allowed myself to be stalked by a black bear who followed my scent and the trail of carrion for nearly a week before finally attacking. However, at the last moment, I turned and countered, barely managing to muster the leverage to send the bear toppling to the forest floor. My fangs sank into his neck, and that great creature's essence streamed into my mouth. I drank, but left him with life, this done out of respect, from one predator to another.

"A man approached my table...."