waybill, working as quickly as possible. The work almost complete, Kern's high-pitched yodel drew my attention.
"Well, look what the cat done drug in," Kern said. "Frank Nelson! How the hell are you?"
Reflex action drew my attention toward the doorway where stood my belligerent fellow driver, now marked as Frank Nelson, his bulk obscuring most of the opening, his countenance every bit as cheerful as a block of granite. "Kern, Truck," he grunted.
"Long time, buddy," Truck said with a warm smile. Frank's expression remained intensely blank, eyes staring straight ahead.
"Hey, Frank," Kern said, jerking his thumb toward me, "you know the Count?"
"Yeah," Frank said, finally smiling. "I know 'im." He finally turned, his gaze boring into me as if to see right through me.
Chapter 7
Testimony of the Ostrich
Christ! Time to disappear, I'd say. What the hell happened? I thought your victims don't remember 'cuz you hypnotize them or something.
Let me explain. Normally, they do not remember, but sometimes recall is possible. For instance, there was aLondon prostitute whom I had dined upon about a hundred years ago who had a sudden attack of recall. This breakthrough occurred when she spied me riding in an open-air carriage one warm evening after I had spent an enjoyable outing at the symphony with a pair of acquaintances. When the carriage had passed the corner where she attempted to peddle her wares, she saw me, and immediately her face went through several rapid contortions of puzzlement, fear, more confusion, then finally recognition. The woman ran in front of the carriage, forcing the driver to come to a sudden stop.
"Guvnor!" she screeched. "Show yourself! I know you're in there. You can't hide."
We simply ignored her for the moment. My acquaintances, Igor Petrenko and Claude LeBlanc, both antique dealers with whom I had done much business, looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders, then looked at me and smiled knowingly.
"Count Farkus," Petrenko said, "I had no idea. Consorting with a woman of this type. I never would have expected this from you."
LeBlanc laughed. "Our dear Count has always been full of surprises. You know this woman?"
I made a show of flashing a relaxed smile. "It would seem, if I do not, I shall soon."
The prostitute moved to the side of the carriage, studied us, then pointed accusingly at me. "You! You're the one." She turned to my associates. "This one's a pervert, he is. He bit me on the neck. Left teethmarks. They stayed around for a week."
A whip cracked in the night. The woman squealed. As the carriage lurched forward, I tossed a few coins at her feet. I never saw this prostitute again and quite frankly, never worried. Even though the amnesiatic effect of my "attack" had apparently worn off, which can happen, though only rarely, it was obvious that she simply was unable to comprehend what had happened to her.
Therefore, there seemed little need to pay much heed to Frank's reaction. If he had remembered what had happened, he certainly would not believe that he had encountered a "mythical" creature such as myself. More likely, Frank would attribute the memory to overconsumption of alcohol or some of those hallucinatory drugs these young people seem so compelled to ingest these days.
Not that this situation could not present hazards, but considering that this secular society finds such notions the height of absurdity, it seemed hiding in plain sight was still the best option. Surely, this fellow would simply not believe he had been attacked by a vampire. Perhaps, he would think me a homosexual who, as the Americans would say, had made a pass at him.
Once again the folly of vanity, you say? Perhaps, you just might be correct on that point.
Be that as it may, for the time being, I would wait and see if the situation developed further. My greatest concern at that time was making money, and again, my destiny was on the road.
It was on the road, as a matter of fact, where I had experienced my own rush of memory regarding the prostitute, even though I had not thought about her for quite some time. It was a passenger who aided this process, pointing out the tart's contemporary counterparts, peddling their wares just a few blocks east of the Capitol in a rather sleepy residential area just up the street from the Madison Gas and Electric coal-burning plant.
"Look at that," he said, pointing at a pair of women standing on the corner, smoking cigarettes and pulling their long coats close