Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (3 page)

6.

I was boxing at a sparring club in Fullerton called Jacky’s. The club was geared towards women, but there were always a few men hanging around the club. These men often dressed better than the women. I suspected homosexuality. The club gave kick-boxing and traditional boxing lessons. I preferred the traditional boxing lessons, and always figured that if the time came in a fight that I had to kick, there was only one place my foot was going.

Crotch City.

I come here three times a week after picking the kids up from school and taking them to their grandmother’s home in Brea. Boxing is perhaps one of the most exhausting exercises ever invented, especially when you box in three-minute drills, as I was currently doing, which simulated actual boxing rounds.

My trainer was an Irishman named Jacky. Jacky wore a green bandanna over a full head of graying hair. He was a powerfully built man of medium height, a little fat now, but not soft. He must have been sixty, but looked forty. He was an ex-professional boxer in Ireland, where he had been something of a legend, or that’s what he tells me. His crooked nose had been broken countless times, which might or might not have been the result of boxing matches. Maybe he was just clumsy. Amazingly enough, the man rarely sweat, which was something I could not claim. As my personal trainer, his sole responsibility was to hold out his padded palms and to yell at me. He did both well. All with a thick Irish accent.

“
C’mon, push yourself. You’re dropping your fists, lass!”

Dropping one’s fists was a big no-no in Jacky’s world, on par with his hatred for anything un-Irish.

So I raised my fists. Again.

During these forty-five minute workouts with Jacky, I hated that little Irish bastard with all my heart.

“You’re dropping your hands!” he screamed again.

“
Screw you.”

“
In your dreams, lass. Get them hands up!”

It went on like this for some time. Occasionally the kickboxers would glance over at us. Once I slipped on my own sweat, and Jacky thankfully paused and called for one of his towel boys who hustled over and wiped down the mat.

“You sweat like a man,” said Jacky, as we waited. “I like that.”

“
Oh?” I said, patting myself down with my own towel. “You like the sweat of men?”

He glared at me. “My wife sweats. It’s exciting.”

“Probably because you don’t. She has to make up for the two of you.”

“
I don’t know why I open up to you,” he said.

“
You call this opening up?” I asked. “Talking about sweat and boffing your wife?”

“
Consider yourself privileged,” he said.

We went back to boxing. We did two more three-minute rounds. Near the end of the last round, I was having a hell of a time keeping my gloved fists up, and Jacky didn’t let me hear the end of it.

When we were done, Jacky leaned his bulk against the taut ropes. He removed the padded gloves from his hands. The gloves were frayed and beaten.

“
Second pair of gloves in a month,” he said, looking at them with something close to astonishment.

“
I’ll buy you some more,” I said.

“
You’re a freak,” he said. He studied his hands. They were red and appeared to be swelling before our very eyes. “You hit harder than any man I’ve ever coached or faced. Your hand speed is off the charts. Good Christ, your form and accuracy is perfect.”

“
Except that I drop my hands.”

“
Not always,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve got to tell you
something
so that you think I’m earning my keep.”

I reached over and kissed his smooth forehead. “I know,” I said.

“You’re a freak,” he said again, blushing.

“
You have no idea.”

“
I pity any poor bastard who crosses your path.”

“
So do I.”

He held out his hands. “Now, I need to soak these in ice.”

“Sorry about that.”

“
You kidding? It’s an honor working with you. I tell everyone about you. No one believes me. I tell them I’ve got a woman here that could take on their best male contenders. They never believe me.”

Around us the sparring gym was a beehive of activity. Both boxing rings were now being used by kick boxers. Women and men were pounding the hell out of the half dozen punching bags, and the rhythmic rattling of the speed bags sounded from everywhere.

“You know I don’t like you talking about me, Jacky.”

“
I know. I know. They don’t believe me anyway. You could box professionally with one hand behind your back.”

“
I don’t like attention.”

“
I know you don’t. I’ll quit bragging about you.”

“
Thank you, Jacky.”

“
The last thing I want is you pissed-off at me.”

I box for self-defense. I box for exercise. Sometimes I box because it’s nice to have a man care so vehemently whether or not my fists were up.

I kissed his forehead again and walked out.

7.

I drove north along Harbor Blvd, through downtown Fullerton and made a left onto Berkeley Street. I parked in the visitor parking in front of the Fullerton Municipal Courthouse, turned off my car, and sat there.

While I sat there, I drank water from a bottle. Water is one of the few drinks my body will accept. That and wine, although the alcohol in wine has no effect on me.

Yeah, I know. Bummer.

My hands were still feeling heavy from the boxing workout. I flexed my fingers. I couldn’t help but notice my forearms rippling with taut muscle. I like that. I worked hard for that, and it was something I didn’t take for granted.

I sat in the minivan and watched the entrance to the courthouse. There was little activity at this late hour. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find here but I like to get a look and feel for all aspects of a case. Makes me feel involved and informed.

And, hell, you never know what might turn up.

Two security guards patrolled the front of the building. So where had they been at the time of Kingsley’s shooting? Probably patrolling the
back
of the building.

Behind me was a wooded area; above that were condominiums. A bluejay swooped low over my hood and disappeared into the branches of a pine tree. A squirrel suddenly dashed along the pine tree’s limb. The jay appeared again, and dove down after the squirrel.

Can’t we all just get along?

When the guards disappeared around a corner, I got out of the van and made my way to the court’s main entrance. My legs were still shaky from the workout; my hands heavy and useless, like twin balloons filled with sand.

The courthouses consisted of two massive edifices that faced each other. Between them was a sort of grassy knoll, full of trees and stone benches. The benches were empty. The sun was low in a darkening sky.

I like darkening skies.

Shortly, I found the infamous birch tree. The tree was smallish, barely wide enough to conceal even me, let alone a big man with broad shoulders. As a shield, it was useless, as the additional bullets in Kingsley’s head attested. To have relied on it for one’s sole protection of a gun-wielding madman was horrifying to contemplate. So I did contemplate it. I felt Kingsley’s fear, recalled his desperate attempts to dodge the flying bullets. Comical and horrific. Ghastly and amusing. Like a kid’s game of cowboys and Indians gone horribly wrong.

I circled the tree and found four fairly fresh holes in the trunk. The bullets had, of course, been dug out and added to the evidence. Now the holes were nothing more than dark splotches within the white bark. The tree and Kingsley had one thing in common: both were forever scarred by bullets from the same gun.

The attack had been brazen. The fact that the shooter had gotten away clean was probably a fluke. The shooter himself probably expected to get caught, or gunned down himself. But instead he walked away, and disappeared in a truck that no one seemed to remember the license plate of. The shooter was still out there, his job left unfinished. Probably wondering what more he had to do to kill Kingsley.

A hell of a good question.

According to the doctor’s reports cited in a supplementary draft within the police report, all bullets had missed vital parts of Kingsley’s brain. In fact, the defense attorney’s only side effect was a minor loss in creativity. Of course, for a defense attorney, a lack of creativity could prove disastrous.

Someone wanted Kingsley dead, and someone wanted it done outside the courthouse, a place where many criminals had walked free because of Kingsley’s ability to manipulate the law. This fact was not lost on me.

Detective Sherbet had only made a cursory investigation into the possibility that the shooting was related to one of Kingsley’s current or past cases. Sherbet had not dug very deeply.

It was my job to dig. Which was why I make the big bucks.

I turned and left the way I had come.

8.

“
So how often do you, like, feed?” asked Mary Lou.

Mary Lou was my sister. Only recently had she discovered that I was, like, a creature of the night. Although I come from a big family, she was the only one I had confided in, mostly because we were the closest in age and had grown up best friends. We were sitting side-by-side at a brass-topped counter in a bar called Hero’s in downtown Fullerton.

I said, “Often. Especially when I see a particular fine sweep of milky white neck. Like yours for instance.”

“
Ha ha,” she said. Mary Lou was drinking a lemon drop martini. I was drinking house Chardonnay. Since I couldn’t taste the Chardonnay, why order the good stuff? And Chardonnay rarely had a reaction on my system, and it made me feel normal, sort of, to drink something in public with my sister.

Mary Lou was wearing a blue sweater and jeans. Today was casual day at the insurance office. This was apparently something that was viewed as good. She often talked about casual day; in fact, often days before the actual casual event.

“Seriously, Sam. How often?” she asked again.

I didn’t say anything. I swallowed some wine. It tasted like water. My tastebuds were dead, my tongue good for only talking and kissing, and lately not even kissing. I looked over at Mary Lou. She was six years older than me, a little heavier, but then again she ate a normal diet of food.

“Once a day,” I said, shrugging. “I get hungry like you. My stomach growls and I get light headed. Typical hunger symptoms.”

“
But you can only drink blood.”

“
You mind saying that a little louder?” I said. “I don’t think the guy in the booth behind us quite heard.”

“
Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“
We’re supposed to keep this quiet, remember?”

“
I know.”

“
You haven’t told anyone?” I asked her again.

“
No. I swear. You know I won’t tell.”

“
I know.”

The bartender came by and looked at my nearly finished glass of wine. I nodded, shrugging. What the hell, might as well spend my well-earned money on something useless, like wine.

“Have you tried eating other food?” asked Mary Lou.

“
Yes.”

“
What happens?” she asked.

“
Stomach cramps. Extreme symptoms of food poisoning. I throw it back up within minutes. Not a pretty picture.”

“
But you can drink wine,” she said.

“
It’s the only thing I’ve found so far that I can drink,” I said. “And sometimes not even that. Needs to be relatively pure.”

“
So no red wine.”

“
No red wine,” I said.

My sister, with her healthy tan, put her hand on my hand. As she did so, she flinched imperceptively from the cold of my own flesh. She squeezed my fingers. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Sis.”

“I am, too,” I said.

“
Can I ask you some more questions?” she asked.

“
Were you just warming me up?”

“
Yes and no.”

“
Fine,” I said. “What else you got for me?”

“
Does the blood, you know, have to be human blood?”

“
Any mammalian blood will do,” I said.

“
Where do you get the blood?”