The Last Werewolf
Page 24
“Got it. Hilarious. Did you know these two?”
He stowed the dart in one of his jacket’s innumerable pockets. Retrieved the Scotch. Now that the smile was gone it was as if it had never been. “The girl,” he said. “She’s maybe Mangiardi. The guy I’ve never seen.”
Mangiardi’s one of the Italian houses, one of the Fifty Families. I might have bombed a couple of their labs back in the day, but couldn’t believe this was a belated revenge attack. Vampires don’t go in for that sort of thing. Not on any kind of principle but because nine out of ten times they just can’t be bothered. All motivation derives from the primary fact of mortality. Take mortality away and motivation loses its … motivation. Thus vampires spend a lot of time lounging around and staring out of the window and finding they can’t be arsed.
“Well, it means nothing to me,” I said. “But I suppose I ought to say thank you. Whatever they want me for I don’t imagine it’s pleasant.”
“All part of the service, Jake. But listen, if you’re really grateful, there’s something we should discuss.”
“What?”
“Mutual benefit. We’ve got som—” His headset clicked: a squad communiqué. The white waxy face and lazuli eyes very still while he listened, processed, concluded. “Roger,” he said. Then to me, covering the mic: “Christ, they can’t be left alone for five minutes.” He swallowed the last of his drink and stood up. “This’ll have to wait. But look, we’ll find a time, seriously, okay?” His tone would have been just right if we’d been minor studio executives.
“I didn’t appreciate the gesture with the foxes, by the way,” I said.
“I know. I can only apologise for that. These rookies. I’m sorry, Jake, really.”
“And now you’ve broken my window.”
“We’ll fix it up first thing tomorrow. And again, seriously, I’m sorry about the foxes. Critters can be such a comfort. I’d love a dog, but with my life? It’s not fair on the animal. We’ll talk again.”
The temptation, immediately Ellis had left, was to call Harley. I resisted: Again, the Hunter could have planted a bug. I’d been sloppy to leave him unsupervised even for a moment, but the vamps had thrown me. Besides, a report would go to WOCOP this evening; Harley would get the story without my help. Which wouldn’t do me any favours, now that I thought it through, since he was already in anxiety overdrive. This latest—vampires are after Jake—would only give him something else to waste time and energy fretting about. I sent him a text: “Audio compromised. SMS only until further notice. Small incident here. You’ll get it from Ellis. DON’T WORRY. I’M FINE.”
Vampires are after Jake. It’s ridiculous. I haven’t seen a vampire in more than twenty years. A mistake? Or some new Hunt twist? But there, beyond argument, was the tranquilizer dart. If it wasn’t for us you’d be fast asleep and on your way.
On my way where? And for what?
Here it is again, the wearisome thing, life’s compulsion to woo, the suitor who won’t take no for an answer. Vampires, Jake. What’s that about? Stick around. Find out what happens.
Yes, well, I know what happens. More happens. Variations on the same half dozen themes. There are only six plots, Hollywood says, or twelve, or nine … whatever the number it’s finite, it’s small. If this is life trying to narratively intrigue me back in, it won’t work. I’m not coming in, I’m going out.
I went around the house closing all the curtains. The darkness outside was loud, now that I listened, with the sound of Life’s indefatigable random plotting, the gossipy simmer of a new assault on my resolve. It gave me a peculiar tender sad thrill of emptiness, as when you catch your wife in bed with another man and realise you don’t care, haven’t for years, feel a little pity for them, wish them both a little luck.
Back on the couch with a fresh Camel and a topped-up Glenlivet I kicked my shoes off, stretched my legs towards the fire and yawned. It was only six in the evening but the booze and hullabaloo had made me sleepy. In a concession to Life I thought back over my years of antivamp activism, sifted memories for high-ranking bloodsuckers I might particularly have ticked off. I couldn’t come up with anything compelling. Certainly Casa Mangiardi didn’t ring any bells, and I’d never seen the lately beheaded Laura or her young companion before, I was positive.
I swallowed the last of my Scotch, put my feet up, rested my eyes. Fuck them, anyway, whatever they wanted. Under Grainer’s orders (God being dead, irony etc.) the Hunt would watch my back. I had a suicidal date with WOCOP’s werewolf-killing maestro just over a week from now, and boochies or no boochies I intended to keep it.
17
EVEN BY MY own efforts I make a pretty convincing woman, but for the rendezvous with Harley back in London I had professional help.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” I asked. “I mean, why can’t I wear trousers? Women do wear trousers, after all.”
“In trousers you’ll move like a man. The body language will give it away.” This was Todd Curtis, a friend of Harley’s, and he was waxing my legs from the knee down. I’d been instructed to shave them before leaving the Zetter. The waxing was an extra—and in my view—unnecessary precaution.
“Look, if they get that close I don’t think it’s the legs that’ll—Ow! Jesus Christ. ”
“Three more and you’re good to go.”
Todd, good-looking, understatedly muscular with dark curly hair cropped very close and a thin face of calm Mafioso cruelty, was the sort of gay man very few heterosexuals would be able to tell was a gay man—though on discovering his profession they’d start to wonder. He and his team specialise in elite transvestism. For film, stage and television, yes, but also for private clients and drag competitions. Turnover last year, he told me, was just under a million euros.
“The weather’s on our side,” he said, selecting a three-quarter-length fake chinchilla from the rack his assistant had wheeled in. “The coat will do a lot of the work. How are the shoes?” We were in a massage cubicle at a health and beauty spa in Knightsbridge. Conditions were cramped and the air-con was set for nudity. The wig didn’t itch (my wigs don’t itch, Todd had said, calm as God) but the makeup caused mild claustrophobia. I’d been tailed from the Zetter but had given the two agents the slip in Covent Garden. WOCOP’s hooked into a lot of the city’s CCTV but Harley knows the blind spots. These, plus four cab changes, made it virtually certain I’d reached Halcyon Days unmarked. Virtual certainty notwithstanding, Harley’s life was at stake. Hence Todd, hence the new me.
He stowed the dart in one of his jacket’s innumerable pockets. Retrieved the Scotch. Now that the smile was gone it was as if it had never been. “The girl,” he said. “She’s maybe Mangiardi. The guy I’ve never seen.”
Mangiardi’s one of the Italian houses, one of the Fifty Families. I might have bombed a couple of their labs back in the day, but couldn’t believe this was a belated revenge attack. Vampires don’t go in for that sort of thing. Not on any kind of principle but because nine out of ten times they just can’t be bothered. All motivation derives from the primary fact of mortality. Take mortality away and motivation loses its … motivation. Thus vampires spend a lot of time lounging around and staring out of the window and finding they can’t be arsed.
“Well, it means nothing to me,” I said. “But I suppose I ought to say thank you. Whatever they want me for I don’t imagine it’s pleasant.”
“All part of the service, Jake. But listen, if you’re really grateful, there’s something we should discuss.”
“What?”
“Mutual benefit. We’ve got som—” His headset clicked: a squad communiqué. The white waxy face and lazuli eyes very still while he listened, processed, concluded. “Roger,” he said. Then to me, covering the mic: “Christ, they can’t be left alone for five minutes.” He swallowed the last of his drink and stood up. “This’ll have to wait. But look, we’ll find a time, seriously, okay?” His tone would have been just right if we’d been minor studio executives.
“I didn’t appreciate the gesture with the foxes, by the way,” I said.
“I know. I can only apologise for that. These rookies. I’m sorry, Jake, really.”
“And now you’ve broken my window.”
“We’ll fix it up first thing tomorrow. And again, seriously, I’m sorry about the foxes. Critters can be such a comfort. I’d love a dog, but with my life? It’s not fair on the animal. We’ll talk again.”
The temptation, immediately Ellis had left, was to call Harley. I resisted: Again, the Hunter could have planted a bug. I’d been sloppy to leave him unsupervised even for a moment, but the vamps had thrown me. Besides, a report would go to WOCOP this evening; Harley would get the story without my help. Which wouldn’t do me any favours, now that I thought it through, since he was already in anxiety overdrive. This latest—vampires are after Jake—would only give him something else to waste time and energy fretting about. I sent him a text: “Audio compromised. SMS only until further notice. Small incident here. You’ll get it from Ellis. DON’T WORRY. I’M FINE.”
Vampires are after Jake. It’s ridiculous. I haven’t seen a vampire in more than twenty years. A mistake? Or some new Hunt twist? But there, beyond argument, was the tranquilizer dart. If it wasn’t for us you’d be fast asleep and on your way.
On my way where? And for what?
Here it is again, the wearisome thing, life’s compulsion to woo, the suitor who won’t take no for an answer. Vampires, Jake. What’s that about? Stick around. Find out what happens.
Yes, well, I know what happens. More happens. Variations on the same half dozen themes. There are only six plots, Hollywood says, or twelve, or nine … whatever the number it’s finite, it’s small. If this is life trying to narratively intrigue me back in, it won’t work. I’m not coming in, I’m going out.
I went around the house closing all the curtains. The darkness outside was loud, now that I listened, with the sound of Life’s indefatigable random plotting, the gossipy simmer of a new assault on my resolve. It gave me a peculiar tender sad thrill of emptiness, as when you catch your wife in bed with another man and realise you don’t care, haven’t for years, feel a little pity for them, wish them both a little luck.
Back on the couch with a fresh Camel and a topped-up Glenlivet I kicked my shoes off, stretched my legs towards the fire and yawned. It was only six in the evening but the booze and hullabaloo had made me sleepy. In a concession to Life I thought back over my years of antivamp activism, sifted memories for high-ranking bloodsuckers I might particularly have ticked off. I couldn’t come up with anything compelling. Certainly Casa Mangiardi didn’t ring any bells, and I’d never seen the lately beheaded Laura or her young companion before, I was positive.
I swallowed the last of my Scotch, put my feet up, rested my eyes. Fuck them, anyway, whatever they wanted. Under Grainer’s orders (God being dead, irony etc.) the Hunt would watch my back. I had a suicidal date with WOCOP’s werewolf-killing maestro just over a week from now, and boochies or no boochies I intended to keep it.
17
EVEN BY MY own efforts I make a pretty convincing woman, but for the rendezvous with Harley back in London I had professional help.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” I asked. “I mean, why can’t I wear trousers? Women do wear trousers, after all.”
“In trousers you’ll move like a man. The body language will give it away.” This was Todd Curtis, a friend of Harley’s, and he was waxing my legs from the knee down. I’d been instructed to shave them before leaving the Zetter. The waxing was an extra—and in my view—unnecessary precaution.
“Look, if they get that close I don’t think it’s the legs that’ll—Ow! Jesus Christ. ”
“Three more and you’re good to go.”
Todd, good-looking, understatedly muscular with dark curly hair cropped very close and a thin face of calm Mafioso cruelty, was the sort of gay man very few heterosexuals would be able to tell was a gay man—though on discovering his profession they’d start to wonder. He and his team specialise in elite transvestism. For film, stage and television, yes, but also for private clients and drag competitions. Turnover last year, he told me, was just under a million euros.
“The weather’s on our side,” he said, selecting a three-quarter-length fake chinchilla from the rack his assistant had wheeled in. “The coat will do a lot of the work. How are the shoes?” We were in a massage cubicle at a health and beauty spa in Knightsbridge. Conditions were cramped and the air-con was set for nudity. The wig didn’t itch (my wigs don’t itch, Todd had said, calm as God) but the makeup caused mild claustrophobia. I’d been tailed from the Zetter but had given the two agents the slip in Covent Garden. WOCOP’s hooked into a lot of the city’s CCTV but Harley knows the blind spots. These, plus four cab changes, made it virtually certain I’d reached Halcyon Days unmarked. Virtual certainty notwithstanding, Harley’s life was at stake. Hence Todd, hence the new me.
