La Vida Vampire

The light changed, and we crossed in silence. I had no trouble believing that Stony was recruiting, but it didn’t ring true that Holland feared the man. Not from the way he acted during the tour tonight. So who was Holland, really?

I almost took a shot at reading him, but as we stood at the corner of Charlotte and Cathedral, a half block from home, I spotted Maggie on her hands and knees on the sidewalk. She cradled one arm as if it were broken. Cat —giant, brain-rattlingmeow Cat—sat next to her, rubbing its face on the gray sweats Maggie wore. I didn’t think about moving, I was just there in a flash, hunkered beside her.

“Maggie!”

She rose so fast, we bumped heads.

“Ouch. Maggie, are you hurt? Is your arm broken?”

She rubbed her forehead. “Just my dignity. Some damn big cat wouldn’t move away from the door while I unlocked it, then the darn door stuck, and I strained my wrist trying to keep from dropping everything.”

I looked around us. Two bundles of paint sample strips fanned out on the sidewalk along with bulky fabric samples bound together with O-rings. Rolled papers I recognized as architectural drawings stuck out of the mix. Cat was gone.

“At least you didn’t break anything,” I breathed with relief, snagging her keys from the sidewalk. I’d puzzle over Cat later.

“May I help?” a masculine voice over us asked. Holland. I’d forgotten about him. We both assisted Maggie to her feet, and I made quick introductions while he bent to pick up and pass Maggie the fabric swatches and rolled-up drawings. When he leaned over again to get the paint sample bundles, a wind gust from the bay caught his short shirttail and flipped it up over the waistband of his polyester pants.

Where a butt crack might have been, I saw something worse.

In the small of his back, a matte black metal grip stuck out of his waistband.

Holland “Gomer” Peters carried a gun.





SIX


Surprised? Shocked? Full-scale flipping out?

Bingo, I was flipping. Way out.

Irrational, maybe, but who expects Gomer to be packing heat? Okay, he’s not Gomer. And, okay, the Jag Queens toted, but that was different. They wouldn’t shoot me, or Maggie either.

Would Holland shoot us? I hadn’t feared him until I saw the gun. Now his half truths and secrets seemed sinister. He almost caught me staring as he straightened with the last of Maggie’s things, but I stretched my mouth into what I hoped was a bright smile.

“Here, I’ll take those.” I snagged the paint samples from him. “Don’t want Maggie to strain that wrist more, do we?”

“Uh, no, ma’am.”

“Well, thanks for the escort home, Holland.” I turned to my roomie and nudged her toward the tenants’ door. “Let’s dump this stuff and check your wrist, Maggie.” When he moved to open the door, I rushed on. “Thanks, again, and, uh, have a good night.”

“You, too, Miss Cesca, Miss Maggie. Y’all take care now.”

I closed the heavy glass door, checked the automatic lock, and hustled Maggie to the elevator around the corner. Out of Holland’s line of sight and line of fire. Sure, if he’d wanted to shoot me, he could’ve done it anytime, but, hey, logic didn’t count when I was having a nice, healthy panic attack.

“Cesca, what the hell are you doing? What’s the rush?”

The elevator doors stuttered open, and I hip-bumped her into the car, thinking fast. “We need to get ice on that wrist before it swells too much. And aspirin. You probably want some aspirin, right?”

“I want to know what the problem is.”

I entered the penthouse code on the elevator panel and pressed our floor button rapid -fire five times. “Gomer. I mean Holland,” I corrected as the car chugged upward. “His real name is Holland. I told you and Neil about him. He was on my tour last night, and he came back tonight.”

“Wow, you must’ve made a good impression. You have a date?”

I snorted. “Hardly.”

“Why not? He looks a little goofy, but he seemed nice, and I saw you staring at his butt. Did you get cold feet?”

I didn’t want to worry her, but Holland had seen Maggie and now knew where we lived. She had to be on guard. We reached the sixth floor, and I lurched to the carved cypress penthouse door. “I wasn’t staring at his butt,” I told her as the lock slid open. “I was staring at his gun.”

“Excuse me?”

“His gun, Maggie. He had a gun stashed at the small of his back. Just like in the movies.”

“Maybe he’s a cop,” she said as we dumped her samples and drawings on the couch.

“Cops wear their guns in holsters.”

She considered a minute. “Not if they’re undercover.”

“Undercover?” I rolled the idea around, replayed his actions, his words. All right. It was possible. Except that Holland didn’t want to report Stony to the cops. His way of sidestepping because he was undercover?

“Cesca.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m thinking. I guess you could be right.”

“Tell me what happened tonight.”

I did, from the tourists who showed up to Holland walking me home and our conversation. I fixed an ice bag for her wrist while I talked.