Never Cross a Vampire (11 page)

“Maybe so,” he said doubtfully as the door opened to reveal Wilson Wong, who wore a dark business suit and tie and a surprised look.

The two men exchanged words in Chinese and Wong turned to me as the waiter left.

“Please come in, Mr. Peters,” he said. “It is Peters, isn't it?”

“Right,” I said as he closed the door behind us.

It was less an office than a library. Three walls were filled with books. If there was a window, it was covered by books. A firm reading chair stood in one corner with a light over it, and a desk stood off to the right with neat piles of notes. Wong offered me a chair and I sat down. He joined me, passing up the reading chair so we'd be at the same level of comfort or lack of it.

In the basement of the theater two nights earlier, Wilson Wong had appeared the energetic gadfly. In his office, he looked anything but.

“It was my belief that our real names were to be kept secret,” he said, “but I am not surprised. Mr. Billings is not the most discreet of souls. Can I offer you some coffee, tea?”

“Tea,” I said, thinking it appropriate for the setting.

Wong went to his telephone, pressed a button, and said something in Chinese. I assumed he was ordering tea or my assassination, depending on whether I had come to the right or wrong suspect. He settled himself back in his chair and looked at me with curiosity.

“Now,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“The easiest thing is for me to tell you the story and you to give me some answers,” I said. He thought that would be fine so I got comfortable, meaning I let my sore leg hang free, and told him the Lugosi tale and my part in it. He listened, nodded, and paused only to answer the knock at his door and the delivery of tea on a dark tray. He put the tray on the desk and poured us both cups of tea.

“I'm afraid I can't help you greatly, Mr. Peters,” he said. “Unless your visit convinces you to eliminate me from your list of suspects, thus simplifying your task.”

“That's one way,” I said. “Now can you convince me that you have no reason to give Lugosi a bad time?”

“Rather easily, I think,” said Wong with a smile. “I have almost no interest at all in Mr. Lugosi. If you look around at my shelves, you will discover two kinds of books in both English and Chinese. Many of my books are sociological in nature. Some are historical and quite a few are on the occult. Although this business is mine through inheritance and is one in which I take deep familial pride, my primary interest is in the exploration of social groups, cults if you will, that use the occult as a focal point. While I do not display it prominently as a matter of pride, I hold a Ph.D. degree in sociology from the University of Southern California and I do some teaching at the university. I have also written two books on the subject we have been discussing for the University of California Press.”

“Then you have no real interest in …”

“No,” he finished for me. “The group itself is somewhat interesting but I've gathered about as much from them as I care to, and I have been contemplating removing myself from their midst, though it is difficult, considering the small membership. One develops a certain affection and understanding.”

“Los Angeles must be a pretty good area for your work,” I said, draining my tea cup and getting a refill.

“It is, indeed,” said Wong. “I think that is one of the reasons I concentrated on this specialization. I would be foolish to attempt to study the social life of the Eskimo with a base in Los Angeles.”

“I see your point,” I said. “Can you give me any suggestions or ideas about who might be the one in this group I'm looking for? What I know of vampires comes from some movies and reading
Dracula
when I was about twenty.”

Wong got up and walked to his desk with a sigh, looking for something.

“Like so many of the lower-California groups,” he said, “this one consists of individuals who are particularly ignorant of that in which they profess to be most interested, leading one to conclude that they are committed not to a belief in vampires and vampire lore but to role-playing and dressing-up. For example, no member of the Dark Knights is at all aware of the Aztec rituals that took place in this very area hundreds of years ago, rituals that are more closely allied to vampirism and its meaning than that of Dracula. The Aztecs regularly sacrificed young women and children and consumed their blood and bodies in the belief that this would prolong their own lives.

“The Chinese vampire,” he continued, still searching for something on his desk, “is far more frightening than the Transylvanian vampire or Oupire. The body of the vampire in China is said to be covered with greenish white hair and to have long claws and glowing eyes. Chinese vampires can fly without turning into animals. To prevent a corpse from becoming a vampire, animals—particularly cats—must be kept away from the body, and the rays of the sun or moon must not touch it or the corpse may receive Yang Cor and be able to rise and prey on others.”

“Fascinating,” I said, shifting the weight on my leg.

“But you are interested in the group,” he said, “and not in being a vampire historian. My assessment from past experience suggests that the short thin man with the New York accent is not a believer either—though, I confess, I do not know what he is trying to gain from the group. He is certainly no scholar. Ah, here it is.”

Wong pulled out a sheet from a pile before him.

“I wrote some notes on the members and planned to do a bit of follow-up, but not really very much,” he said. “Getting the names was no great problem, though I do not plan to use them in my writing. However, I thought some background on each might be useful. If you do gather such information that might be helpful and if it does not violate your ethical code, I would be glad to pay a research fee.”

“I'll think about it,” I said. “I'm not sure what my ethical code is on this thing. What about the woman?”

“Yes,” said Wong, looking at his sheet. “Bedelia Sue Frye. In some ways a very interesting example, totally within the role, totally the vampire during the meetings, never a break or flaw, but the vampire she portrays is not one of historical significance or myth but one of movies. A definite possibility for you, Mr. Peters.”

“Hill?” I said, referring to the tall guy who had said nothing.

“A voyeur, I would guess,” said Wong. “Respectable by day. Likes to do something dangerous, but not too dangerous. He needs to have a secret. He is never comfortable engaging in any of the rather juvenile rituals, but he clearly gets satisfaction from watching. A possibility for you, Mr. Peters.”

“And Billings,” I said.

“A sad man unable to sustain his fantasy within his body and abilities. A sad man. But that is an observation from outside. I view his state as sad. I have difficulty knowing how he perceives his own state.”

“Well, Mr. Wong,” I said, getting up on my incredibly stiff leg. “You've been a big help.”

He walked over and extended his hand.

“Then I take it I am no longer a suspect?” he said.

“You're still a suspect,” I said. “The only way to get off my list is to become a victim, and I'll still be suspicious.”

Wong laughed.

“Academic research lost a good man when you decided to become a detective,” he said.

“I didn't decide,” I said, following him to the door. “It just happened.”

Wong walked at my side through the restaurant and out the front door.

“If I can be of further assistance,” he said, “please feel free to return.”

I thanked him and turned. The parking lot was not quite as full as it had been, and there was no one in sight when I reached my car door. The sky suddenly went dark or a shadow went over the sun. At least that was my impression. I looked up to see which it was. What I saw should have moved me into action, but it didn't. It simply froze me on the spot. On top of my Buick stood a caped figure in black. It leaped at me, swinging some object in its hand. My body finally reacted, dropped flat, and rolled away, taking only part of the blow from the object on my retreating head. The dark figure turned to try again, and I covered my face and head with my arm as I rolled away on the gravel parking lot.

“Nosferatu,” came Wilson Wong's familiar voice, and the black-caped figure turned to face him. The guy in the cape swung his shiny club at the Chinese professor, who dropped to the ground and threw a well-timed kick at the back of the leg of our daylight vampire. The guy lost his balance and his club, righted himself before he hit the gravel, and ran out into the street with billowing cape.

“Are you all right Mr. Peters?” Wong said, sitting up, his suit a mess.

“I think so,” I replied, joining him and touching my bleeding scalp. “Was that judo?”

“No,” said Wong, helping me up. “I was on the wrestling team at USC. A simple leg drop. But the years have eluded me. I was lucky. We'd best get you to a doctor.”

I touched my head, trying to assess the degree of damage from years of experience. Koko the Clown was perched on my shoulder, ready to take me into the inkwell if I passed out, but I silently told him he'd have to wait, that we'd play some other time.

“I think I'll be all right,” I said. “I just need some water and a bandage and a place to clean up a little.”

Wong led me back through the restaurant, past now-curious customers, and helped me clean up. The waiter gave us a hand and found some cloth for a bandage. A shot of something alcoholic offered by one of them sent a bolt through me, threatened nausea, and then gave me the power to move.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Whoever that was, he lacked true style,” Wong said.

“But he was effective,” I added.

“Yes,” said Wong. “It appears as if Mr. Lugosi
is
in some danger.”

I made it back to my car without further problems, fished my .38 and holster out, and clutched them to my bosom. A sudden chill ran through me, and I turned quickly, thinking someone was breathing down my back from the rear seat. It was empty. I locked the doors and eased into the street, looking for dark Fords and darker strangers.

I made it back to the theater by 4:30. Nate was eating Jujubees and David was wiping tears from his eyes.

“Hi, kids, how was the show?”

“Great,” said Nate, scrambling into the back seat.

“I got scared,” said Dave, moving next to me, “and Nate the Great wouldn't take me out.”

Nate reached over to hit his brother on the head.

“Cut it out,” I said. “If you guys want to do this again with me, cut it out. Okay?”

“Okay,” they agreed.

Dave wiped tears from his red face and looked at my bandaged head with curiosity.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“Nazis,” I said. “I had to kill them.”

“How many?” Dave said, with his mouth open.

“Thirty-one,” I said.

“He's kidding you, dope,” Nate said from the back seat, popping a handful of candy in his mouth and turning to watch a fire engine through the rear window.

I got them back home at five and Ruth greeted us at the door.

“Baby's taking a nap,” she said. “I'm just starting dinner. How was
Dumbo
?”

“Terrific,” said Nate. “It scared Dave.”

“The part where the zombies …” he began, and I cut in.

“The part where Dumbo's mother dies,” I said. “Right, Dave?”

Dave nodded glumly.

“What happened to you?” Ruth said, looking at me up close. My bandage was high on my head, and my final suit was only partly presentable after a roll in the gravel.

“Near riot at the show,” I explained. “Kids trampled me in the rush for tickets.”

“Trampled right on his head,” Nate confirmed. “I saw it.”

Ruth didn't know what to believe.

“Staying for dinner?” she asked. “Tuna on noodles.”

“Phil home for dinner?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I think I'll skip it,” I said. “I've got some work to do.”

I was almost to the car when I heard her say, “Toby, take care of yourself.” There was real concern in her voice, and I turned to look at her, wondering whether she saw me the way Wilson Wong saw Sam Billings. It was depressing.

I should have headed home to nurse my aches and see whether there were messages from my midget and giant investigators, but Ruth's words had cut deep. My response, I knew, would be to push harder, to prove I could take care of myself and come out on top, which I was not at all sure I could prove.

My car and body knew where I was going without being told by my brain. The car took me from the valley down Laurel Canyon and headed toward Sherman Oaks and beyond to Tarzana. There was about as much chance that a beauty school would be open on Sunday night as there was that Japan would launch its attack on California in the morning. But I couldn't face going back to the boarding house. I would have tried my ex-wife Anne but didn't have the energy to talk my way into her apartment for a flash of sympathy and a firm goodbye, which would have been more discouraging than nothing at all. I found a parking space with no trouble and looked west to see the sun going down. Night would be here soon, and other peoples' vampires would rise. My vampire paid no attention to such fineries as tradition. His trade tool was a tire iron and a good surprise.

Personality Plus was on the second floor of an ordinary neighborhood office building. It was open. The reception area had a counter behind which were shelves of bottles of hair products—hair conditioner, shampoos, mostly green with bubbles in them. A cardboard ad for Breck shampoo was displayed prominently on the counter. The carpet was marine blue and green, long-wearing but with no depth. Large color photographs, some of them badly faded, featured what were meant to be the latest hairdos, but the quality of the pictures led me to believe that they were probably a few years old.