Vampire Miami (9 page)

“Pssht, whatever. So OK. Start from the
beginning. Tell me everything. Hector told me to take the night
off. We’ve got time before we have to meet Angelo and get a ride
back home.”

So Selah did. Maria Elena was a great listener.
She began with her father’s disappearance, and then threw caution
to the wind and told her about his investigation to Blood Dust, how
she’d decided to come to Miami to continue his work, to refuse to
give up on him and accept his disappearance. How she’d begun
dancing with Michael, about his backflip, the drinks, the music.
The hands on her hips. How good it’d felt. Maria Elena called her
crazy again at that point, but it was true—that moment had been
amazing. Then how she’d realized what was going on. The fear, the
bathroom, the panic.

Maria Elena insisted that she’d been at the door
the whole night, but finally admitted to taking a fifteen-minute
break to score some food. Selah continued on about the lounge, her
Omni, her decision to record.

When she finished, Maria Elena discarded her
second cigarette and began to run her hands through her heavy mane
of black hair. Lips pursed, she looked out at the ocean and shook
her head. “I don’t know if you are the luckiest or unluckiest
person I have ever met. Is it possible to be both?”

“I don’t know,” said Selah. “Apparently.” They
subsided into silence. Both stared at the ocean, and then, knowing
that Maria Elena would make fun of her, she asked, “So, what do you
know about Blood Dust? Can you tell me anything?”

“Not too much. It’s new, yeah? And probably the
one thing that’s illegal in Miami. I’ve heard that it’s big on the
West Coast, and it makes people act crazy. If you get caught with
it, you’re done. If you see people using or dealing, you got to
report them.”

“Damn,” said Selah. “I asked Michael if he knew
where I could get some.”

“You what?” Maria Elena just stared at her.
“Girl, he must really have liked you. If he’d reported you? He’d
earn a bunch of credits and you’d be done.”

“I know, I know.” Selah looked away. “Trust me.
I was kicking myself right after. I just don’t know how else to get
information. There’s so much I don’t know. What about this Dragon?
You know anything about him?”

“Him? Like I said, he’s a big deal. He works
directly for Sawiskera. You know who that is?”

Of course she did. The leader of the vampires,
the elusive king. He was as mysterious as he was fascinating, in
large part because people knew so little about him. There was only
one photograph of him online, taken in the nineteenth century, and
it showed a man of medium height in rough, homespun clothing, a
Native American with a dour, bronze face and eyes of such utter and
compelling night that even on a computer screen, it had given Selah
shivers. Sawiskera, said to be the most ancient of vampires, said
to have walked the US since before the first white men arrived, a
being of incredible power and potence.

“Sure,” said Selah, “the main vampire guy.”

“Right. So the Dragon works for him. He’s like
his right-hand man, or something. What he says is the law. He’s not
bad as far as vampires go. I’ve only seen him once or twice,
though, so who knows.”

“I see.” The feel of hands on her hips, how he
had so easily matched her rhythm. Those dark eyes boring into her
soul in that small room with the drain in its center.

“And … the Resistance? You know anything about
them?”

Maria Elena shrugged, clearly not impressed.
“No, not really. I know they’re a bunch of nerdy guys who hide in
empty buildings and run around causing trouble. I don’t know what
they think telling the world that there are vampires in here will
accomplish. It’s not like people don’t know.”

“Yeah,” said Selah, “but don’t you think what
they’re doing is important? Fighting for freedom and stuff?”

Her friend made a face. “I mean, sure. If you
think things are going to change. If you think the government is
willing to start a whole new vampire war. Me? I don’t think that’s
going to happen. All the good guys got turned into vampires. Now
it’s just a pack of cowards running things in DC, and I don’t think
anything this ‘Resistance’ puts out will really make a difference.
Other than annoy the vamps and get people killed.”

“I guess so,” said Selah.

“I mean,” said Maria Elena, waving her arm
expansively, “think about it. Maybe if they were killing important
vampires and blowing shit up. But making movies? Writing speeches?
That’s never going to do nothing.”

Selah frowned and looked away from her new
friend. It was hard to argue with her. The reality of what she’d
seen here on the Beach seemed much more compelling. A society of
sorts. People picking up their lives, somehow making do. Maybe she
was right.

“Look. Tomorrow I’ll take you downtown to get an
ID. If you want one.”

Selah considered it. “That would mean I’m part
of this, right?” She gestured back at the beach. “This world?”

“Yeah,” said Maria Elena. “You register, you get
signed up, sure.”

“I don’t know.” Selah looked down at her hands,
then out over the ocean. It was so beautiful. She felt a sudden
desire to swim out and float amongst the waves. Allow them to wash
the dry sweat from her skin. “I don’t know if I want to be part of
this. Part of this world you work in.”

“Your call,
chica
. But you can’t earn
credits if you don’t have an ID. And no ID means no protection if
you ever get in trouble.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it.”

“Sure thing. We’re neighbors now. You just let
me know if you ever change your mind, OK?”

“Sure,” said Selah, smiling. She touched her
pocket reflexively for her Omni, felt a lurch when she realized it
was gone. “Thanks.”

“OK,” said Maria Elena. “Let’s get going. We
don’t want to miss that ride, and trust me, I know for a fact that
Angelo won’t wait. You ready?”

“Yeah,” said Selah, getting up. She felt dizzy
suddenly, and tripped on something. Maria Elena steadied her. “I’m
good,” said Selah. “Just tired.”

“
No te preocupes
. Let’s get you home.
Come on.” So they walked back, Maria Elena’s arm around Selah’s
waist, along the sidewalks, through the sparse crowds, back down
Lincoln and then out to where the car was parked, and where it
turned out that Angelo was waiting for them after all.

Selah and Maria Elena arrived back at the
Palisades at around five in the morning, just as the eastern sky
was beginning to lighten. The guys dropped them off, and Maria
Elena led her to an abandoned shack where she always hid while she
waited, checking it out with her gun drawn. When she decided it was
clear, they sat down, heads resting against the wall and Maria
Elena told Selah about a small place that had once stood just two
blocks away that had sold the best
cortaditos
, or little
Cuban coffees. The trick, Selah was told, was adding plenty of
sugar. As Maria Elena spoke tiredly but with nostalgic enthusiasm
for the
croquetas
and
empanadas
and the crotchety old
men who’d sit on Calle Ocho playing dominoes, Selah sensed how her
friend used to love this city. Perhaps loved it still.

They had an hour to kill, and Maria Elena spoke
fondly of the illegal bonfire parties she’d once gone to on the
beaches of Key Biscayne, of friends long gone, people Selah
should’ve met, would’ve loved. She even spoke of the old corruption
with a certain wry fondness, recounting outrageous stories of graft
and money laundering, vote robbery, and outright bribery. An old,
bad, wonderful Miami that she’d known and understood. A city of
human excess and vanity that’d made sense to her, that’d been hers
and that she’d been a part of.

The sun rose slowly, and Maria Elena began to
ask her about the outside world. What life was like in New York,
what people thought of Miami, what high school was like. Explaining
to Maria Elena about her old life, Selah found that her new friend
already knew it all from watching old movies and going online—it
was just that she didn’t seem to quite believe it was real. That
everybody owned their own car, went to restaurants, or that
electricity was readily available everywhere.

Not that life had ever returned to normal after
the War; it had simply changed, adjusted. People tended to avoid
going out alone at night, even though it was now safe. Everybody
was fascinated with the vampires, and the media constantly focused
on them. President Lynnfield had extended Martial Law and refused
to allow Congress and the Senate to convene. There were a lot of
civil protests, but they always resulted in mass arrests and the
riot police moving in.

Maria Elena didn’t care about the politics, the
big picture. She was greedy for descriptions of football games, of
what it was like to hang out in the food court, go shopping for
clothes. Selah indulged her, laughing as her friend tried to
imagine what it was like to sit bored in class or take a hot shower
every morning.

Eventually they dozed, and Selah came in and out
of consciousness. There was a great palm tree on the street corner,
and it was infested with birds that twittered and cried out to each
other with great vigor and stridency. Parrots, Maria Elena informed
her. Selah looked up at the mess of fronds through the window from
where she sat, marveling, trying to see a colored feather, but
failed to make out a single bird.

The darkness lifted by gradual degrees, dawn
stealing across the streets as lightly as the finest Brooklyn cat
burglar. Restless, Selah stood and moved to the empty window. She
watched as ruined cars slowly changed from shadowy hulks into
defined objects with shattered windows, faded paint and flat tires.
Past a chain-link fence that ran along the far side of the train
tracks, tucked behind a two-story warehouse. A huge mural had been
painted on it with surprising talent, depicting a man from the
waist up, his hands raised as if in supplication to the heavens,
face tilted, pain and fervor in his eyes. An ocean of gray Hebrew
letters swam behind him as if painted on the surface of the ocean,
swelling and pinching in size so that the whole effect was
mesmerizing.

They stood when they heard the steel door to the
Palisades begin to grate and rattle. Maria Elena climbed tiredly to
her feet, and hauled Selah up after her.
They don’t like what I
do,
she had said on the drive home,
but I’m one of them. I
grew up in the area. They won’t kick me out, no matter what they
say.

And she was right. Yawning, rubbing her eyes
like a child, Selah filed in after her new friend under the
disapproving glare of an unknown watchman and into the small marble
lobby where only a solitary lantern illuminated a face-down novel.
They passed through and into the courtyard, and Selah was surprised
to see people already at work. A dozen men and women crouched
amongst the rows of vegetables, which filled most of the courtyard,
tending and weeding. Apparently, the irrigation system was
malfunctioning, and two guys were standing at the base of a pipe
that fed down from the courtyard’s ceiling into a water tank in the
corner. A third man was up on the sixth floor, leaning out and
shaking the pipe, trying to get it aligned correctly with the
gutter feed.

Maria Elena ignored all this and said a sleepy
goodbye, giving Selah a tight hug and then wandering off toward a
far stairwell. Selah thought of following her, crashing with her
for the day, but that would be cowardice. She stood for a while,
watching the people work, repressing yawns and standing with her
arms crossed against the wall. A couple of kids fed the goats while
an old man milked one of them, squirting fresh blasts into a shiny
metal pail.

Selah went upstairs. Up that staircase, past the
spot where she’d cried and hid the night before. Down the hall
toward Mama B’s room. Their room, perhaps. People nodded warily to
her as she passed them. Up to the door, and saw that it was cracked
open. She stared at that. The only door in the whole hall that
wasn’t either wide open, residents already downstairs, or
completely closed.

Selah studied the grain of the door’s wood.
Frowned at nothing, chin lowered to her chest. She thought of the
wild girl who had fled this room but eight hours ago, burning with
wounded pride and anger, determined to prove her grandmother wrong.
To show her that she could take care of herself, could pursue her
wild investigation and uncover crucial clues that would lead to her
father’s liberation. That girl felt like a different person. She
hadn’t yet walked through that strange night world of IDs and
forced gaiety. Hadn’t danced with a vampire, or faced probable
death in a terrifying little room with a drain for blood in its
center.

She entered just as a kettle began to shriek.
Mama B was up. She could hear her in the kitchen, humming a tune,
the clink of porcelain, and then the kettle’s shriek was suddenly
cut off. Selah walked across the living room and stood in the
kitchen door. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks over the stove,
small copper pots beside them. Built-in shelving in the corner held
a display of plates, cups, mugs, spices. A bundle of garlic in a
bowl, a portrait of Jesus against one wall. The walls of the
kitchen were painted a beautiful, soft Tuscan yellow, and in what
little dawn light came through the chinks in the hurricane
shutters, it seemed a gentle, comforting place. Mama B was bending
down to turn a valve of a small gas tank that was tubed up to the
stove, and with a grunt, she straightened and took up the cherry
red kettle and poured water into a mug. The smell of instant coffee
filled the room.

Selah said, “Hi.”

Mama B set down the kettle. She began to
tremble, and then turned and crossed the room and buried Selah in
her arms, held her close, pressed Selah’s head to her chest, her
arms around Selah’s shoulders, holding her tight, so tight, and in
her ear Selah could hear Mama B say over and over again, “Oh my
baby girl, my baby, oh my Lord, thank you, Lord. Thank you, thank
you, thank you.”