The Inevitability of Hunger
I feel like you're jerking my chain about these blood-drained bodies laying around. What was it? Two women? I feel like you're gonna tell me vampires did it. Did you start to wonder that?
No, sir, I did not. Even killer vampires fear exposure and do not leave bodies laying about, not when it is so easy to dispose of corpses. Your serial killers, however, they prefer leaving their victims where they can be found, their way of sending a message to the rest of humanity that they are superior.
So? Didn't you wanna do something about this, regardless of who was doing the killing?
Again, no. This was an affair for the local constabulary.
A bit cold, Farkus.
No, just pragmatic. My main concern was what it always is, that hunger comes.
Hunger comes? Whaddaya mean by that?
You wanted to know what there was to do in the wake of this sad episode, what there was to do with an entire city tensed and on guard. Hunger comes, that is all I can say.
Nothing is more sure, more certain. The hunger comes with the inevitability of the rising sun, its spidery tendrils climbing up and down my spine, plucking a symphony on my nerve endings.
A thousand years ago, the hunger would come daily. Now, one fairly small feeding each week is adequate. It's a weekly event, something to be planned for, but nothing of any great consequence; the act itself takes maybe a minute, while the planning, in a highly public, well populated city, merely consists of deciding which end of State Street to search for sustenance. Certainly, my existence is not comparable to that of say, a shark, which constantly searches for food. However, these two murders in close succession changed the casual nature of my feeding.
My night off usually meant an excursion to State Street, but on a fairly warm night in early-April, I found this artery silent, the usual coursing corpuscles absent from the street, evidently somewhere they perceived as more safe.
Of course, the street was not completely devoid of people, but they traveled in packs, seeking protection in their numbers. Several pairs of police officers paced the sidewalks on foot. Other constables drove up and down in their cruisers.
For the first time since arriving inMadison , my solitary presence onState Street felt conspicuous. A tingle made my whole body shudder, not that the hunger had really asserted itself, just a suggestion that it might if there was no one to be found walking without a companion.
A bold newspaper headline caught my attention from the inside of a vending box:
"Madison Mangler Makes More Malevolent Mayhem."
I dropped coins into the slot and removed the newspaper - the last one actually, the display copy - and began reading. There was a maniac on the loose, the newspaper asserted, even though the authorities strongly stated their unwillingness to link those two killings with each other, let alone with the similar killing a few months before. The authorities called it a "copy-cat crime," saying they had no evidence whatsoever that these crimes were related. Still, it seemed the media had chosen to vociferously insist otherwise. These nameless, faceless maniacs known as serial killers seemed all the rage in America, and Madison's media acted almost like Wisconsin's capitol needed its own homicidal maniac just to put their city on the map.
As I stood reading, a rather undistinguished student passed, stopped and attempted to read the headline over my shoulder. I turned, and our eyes met for a mere instant before he continued walking, a decided alacrity to his step. As I watched his gait, a police car moved closer, slowed to nearly a complete stop, the officer behind the wheel scrutinizing me closely. I tucked the newspaper under my arm and moved with my own high degree of alacrity.
Hunger comes.
I drove my car into theFrances Street parking ramp, ducked down and waited for nearly an hour until distant footsteps drew my attention. At the far end of my row, a rather mercantile looking fellow in a gray pinstripe suit unlocked a large, black sedan. Quickly, I dematerialized, then rematerialized in the front passenger seat just as he opened the car door. Astonishment flashed across his face for a moment before my gaze met his.
In less than five minutes, I was in my car, leaving the ramp, having satisfied my hunger, but felt dismay over the clumsiness of the action.
For obvious reasons, I followed the stories closely, but found it increasingly difficult to find an available newspaper in the usual newspaper boxes. Thus, it became a ritual to buy the first morning paper from a dispenser immediately following shift's end instead of waiting until the next day when there would be none available. Sometimes, I would lie in wait, watching for the distribution person to refill the box. Then, I would take my newspaper and read in the moonlight.
The killings became an obsession for all ofMadison and quickly provided a bonanza for all ofMadison 's cab drivers. And, as if the heightened demand was not sufficient, cab business increased further when theUniversityofWisconsin started providing free cab rides for students after dark.
Publicly, the university was able to use the "U-Ride" program as a means to provide positive publicity for itself due to its quick response to a dire situation.
However, we cabbies knew better. Negotiations had commenced weeks before the first absurdly alliterated headline appeared in the newspaper. Having cut funding to a volunteer-based night-ride program for women, the university realized it had to provide a replacement, and this gave them the incentive to bring that notion to fruition.
Despite this monetary boon, I was ready for flight at first provocation. As it turned out, supreme good fortune was mine. Frank's disappearance interested no one; not a single constable visited Co-op Cab with questions as to his whereabouts. The only observed comment was placed anonymously on the sign bearing Frank's name under the heading "No charges, no advances." Next to his name, someone wrote, "abducted by aliens."
But what of the boy?
A few days after the news of the boy hit the papers, there was a call at the Silver Dollar, yet another of the many saloons off theCapitol Square . Dexter had said it was for a driver. Actually, it was three drivers. Shortly after pulling alongside the bar's picture window, Paul Davis, Jane Peronowski and Ken Singleton emerged.
I knew the trio somewhat. They all drove Friday nights and were members of the infamous "Saturday Morning Beer Drinking Committee," an aggregation of late-night drivers who, after shift's end, would drink beer in the driver's room and discuss cooperative politics, posting their unusually creative proclamations on "Democracy Wall" before departing. They often urged me to join their committee, but of course, I do not drink beer, and their meetings would usually last until well after dawn.
"Oh, no!" Ken shouted when he climbed into the front seat. "It's the Count! It's Count Farkus!"
"Run for your lives!" Jane shrieked. Paul screamed loudly. The other two joined him, their throaty shouts filling my cab with their beer-and-whiskey-tainted breath.
Finally, they stopped screaming, their shrieks replaced by near-hysterical laughter.
"Where may I take you?" I asked, simply acting indifferent to their rude behavior.
Jane was the first to regain some semblance of composure, reporting that they were going to the Club DeWash.
"Careful," Ken said. "It's the Count. Who knows where he'll take us or what he'll do to us."
"Yeah," Paul added, "he got that kid. Count, man, you shouldn't be leaving your leftovers lying around."
Hide in plain sight?
"Shut up, you assholes," Jane rebuked. "C'mon. Let's leave Al alone so we can get moving. We've already missed the opening bands. I don't want to miss any of Killdozer."
"No big deal," Paul said, "missing Art Paul Schlosser."
"But if we miss just one note of one Killdozer song," Jane said, "I'm gonna cut your brake lines."
"Won't matter after the Count's done with us," Ken said.
Without a word, I turned the cab around and proceeded toward the Club DeWash. By then, Paul and Jane were finally quiet. Ken began singing in a deep, gravely voice.
"Was that Killdozer?" I asked.
"Yeah," Paul said. "A song called, 'The Puppy,' about a real murder case, happened here a few years ago. Real losers. They were bikers, but didn't have motorcycles. And in court, they kept referring to the victim as 'the puppy.' Fuckin' creepy."
"This isn't the way to the Club DeWash!" Ken shrieked. Paul and Jane joined in. I had just turned ontoWest Washington , which led straight to their destination. "Where are you taking us? What are you going to do us?"
"Please don't hurt us," Paul pleaded. "Please have mercy on our wretched souls."
The trio again broke into hysterics. Jane patted me gently on the shoulder. "Sorry," she said. "We're just being assholes."
"Being an asshole ain't against the law," Ken said.
"But neither is being a vampire," I replied.
"It sure is when you break our laws." Paul's voice rang falsely earnest.
"The laws of you pathetic mortals apply not to one such as myself." It was my turn to laugh. And quite loudly as I felt my lips form quite the vulpine smile. "This being the case, you would be wise to show the proper respect and pay the proper tribute."
None of the four of us stopped laughing until we arrived at the Club DeWash. They paid the fare and included quite the generous tip.
My thoughts should have been exclusively centered upon survival, yet images of Nicole would not stop flashing across my consciousness - no longer Nicole superimposing herself upon Anya. I did see her at the cab company occasionally, gaining the furtive glimpse, which raised my spirits slightly, even if we avoided each other. On those instances, she always bore a queer expression, not so much of fear, but confusion. I simply felt sad, but certainly understood that what she had experienced would overwhelm anyone.
Oddly, even though we had not had much opportunity to get to know one another, she had indeed awakened something that lay dormant inside me, a very special hunger far more profound than mere blood.
What was to be done?
I shuddered while second-guessing myself over the entire Frank Nelson affair, especially the encounter with the prostitute. At the time, I thought I had been discreet. It seemed my actions had been relatively prudent, but in retrospect, my perceptions had been clouded by my own personal vanity.
Hunger is danger. Existence is risk.
All I wanted was to taste the prostitute's orgasm, to taste that which is the sweet metaphor of life, even more sublime than the hot, steaming river of life which courses through the veins of all those mortals.
She gave me nothing, she herself being the form of life, but the essence of sheer nothingness, not even death.
My hunger remained.
At least there was work and much money to be made, even if those infernal U-Rides had come to dominate our business. Yes, all calls are good calls, but most U-Rides were short, and the students very seldom tipped. Generally, those calls took longer to load, and each one generated additional paperwork.
Thus, when a U-Ride took me east of the Capitol, I did not hesitate to bid when Dexter called an east-side intersection that was a little farther from my destination than most drivers preferred to travel. The intersection was east of U-Ride's zone of operation. Hopefully, it would be a cash call and not some other account where there is no tip.
"Count, four-forty-four Kedzie," Dexter said, adding, "Cash."
"Excellent," I replied, happy to get a call with at least a chance of a tip as well as the opportunity to see some different scenery. The streets were finally clear of snow, but the trees were still completely bare, thus allowing the concrete, steel and plastic of civilization to dominate the landscape.
My mood was not even altered by the fact that it took a phone call from Dexter to get her out of her house. Sometimes, the passengers watch, sometimes, they do not. Itis preferable when they do watch, time, after all, being money.
A young woman emerged, dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt and sweatpants, a large bag slung over her shoulder. Long flaxen hair cascaded down her shoulders. Even in the dimness of night, she looked rather plain.
"Where may I take you?" I asked once she was securely inside.
"The Rising Sun," she replied. Instantly, I felt regret for making her say that she was going to that message parlor of ill repute just off theCapitol Square . She, in fact, was a regular customer, and even if she had never been in my cab, I was fairly certain the Rising Sun was to be her destination. Still, I had to ask.
"You guys busy?" Her tone was chipper.
"Yes. With the publicity regarding those killings, it seems everyone wants to take cab rides rather than walk."
She sighed in agreement. "I hope we'll be busy tonight. I only had two programs in six hours last night."
Her frankness was shocking. I certainly had no intention of asking about her work, and if she had told me her destination was 117 W.Main , I would have taken her to the Rising Sun without mentioning the name of the establishment. However, it seemed admirable that she could be honest about her vocation, though many would treat her with disdain. Indeed, the woman was quite genuine; the ride progressed pleasantly as we simply chatted jovially about this and that until we arrived.
"That will be five dollars," I said, feeling myself smile, having enjoyed this little interlude between U-Rides.
"Well, here you go." She handed me a five and two ones, the notes folded twice upon themselves. "If you're working late, you might get me going home. I'm Jasmine."
I turned and faced her. She smiled and looked directly into my eyes. "My name is Al."
"Nice to meet you, Al." She extended her arm and shook my hand firmly.
A week later, I got another call for Jasmine, but this time it was a delivery.
"Count," Dexter said, "go to the Walgreen's at the East Side Shop. Pick up a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream and four dozen non-lubricated condoms. Turn your meter on with the time on when you pull up to the Walgreen's. Take the stuff up to Jasmine at the Rising Sun. Charge her the meter, plus a dollar-fifty handling charge, plus the cost of the goods."
Motherless spawn of Satan! What in the name of the four winds of Hades was Chunky Monkey ice cream? And four dozen condoms? In my short tenure, I had delivered food, cigarettes and, one snowy night, a newspaper, but ice cream and condoms? How bewildering.
Upon climbing the stairs up to the Rising Sun, Jasmine was waiting for me just inside the half door at the establishment's entrance. But this was not the same plain woman who had ridden in my cab.
Glamour was at work here. Glamour in the classic sense, which tricks the eyes and bewitches the heart. Jasmine wore a faux silk Chinese dress, her breasts pressing hard against the blue fabric, the color identical to that of the evening sky when the last remnants of sunlight have passed beyond the horizon. Her hair was pulled back just enough to accentuate what was really a noble set of cheekbones. She had done up her face to the point where her skin appeared smooth and flawless without giving her the appearance of being "painted."
"Hi, Al," Jasmine said upon seeing me, seeming pleased with herself that she had remembered my name.
I handed her the bag, and she promptly examined the contents. "You did say non-lubricated condoms, did you not?"
She lifted the ice cream container from the bag and rolled it in her palms while licking her lips. "Yeah," she said, nodding her head, smiling at me. "I prefer K-Y jelly."
Vampires do not blush, which was good, for I certainly would have turned quite crimson at that very moment. Instead, I just took her money, which included a five-dollar tip and descended to my cab to get my next call.
A lightning bolt of inspiration struck me later that night.
On my very next night off, I climbed the steps up to the Rising Sun to have an appointment with Jasmine. What had she called it? A program?
It seemed insane, yet something compelled me to do this, for in a world of imprudent choices, this might be the least of all possible evils. Certainly, it represented a compromise between the street-whore and Nicole. Jasmine seemed a reasonable and professional sort, and regardless of how much ease there could be finding sustenance onState Street or anywhere else in this town, a certain other hunger remained, a certain need had to be satisfied.
Also, considering the mood of fear and hysteria permeating the city, even the smallest mistake could be magnified ten-fold; it might prove useful to have an associate with which to make certain rather special arrangements if circumstances so dictated.
The burly fellow at the door told me Jasmine would be available shortly. He took my money and instructed me to have a seat in the waiting room, which lay just inside the door. The room was stark and shabby with imitation walnut paneling covering the walls. I sat in a bright red wing chair, upholstered with cheap vinyl that squeaked with each movement. A matching chair and sofa surrounded a coffee table covered with pornographic magazines of varying measures of taste and distaste. A television sat where it would in anybody's living room. A VCR sat atop of the TV, surely for the viewing of pornographic videos.
The fellow at the door - not so much of a pimp, Jasmine would tell me, but more of a bodyguard - had collected fifty dollars from me, and I would tip Jasmine another fifty. Though extravagant, this expense was not unreasonable considering my lack of expenses for food and drink.
Jasmine appeared shortly. "Oh, hi, Al" she said, smiling broadly with recognition. "I guess turnabout is fair play."
"Yes. It is."
Jasmine led me to the room where she plied her trade. As I followed, white, rounded flesh from underneath her short, matte-black skirt revealed itself ever so slightly with the rising and falling of her steps.
"What'll it be?" She closed the door and faced me, her breasts bobbing up and down under the clingy fabric of her nearly see-through gauzy top. The room was stark with white walls, the only furniture a black, vinyl couch sitting against one wall and a padded massage table in the center of the room. A shower lay in an adjacent alcove.
I dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the massage table. "I just want to talk."
"Okay," she said, scooping up the fifty. "I'm all ears."
"I know you work outside this place." My voice was little more than a whisper.
Jasmine nodded. "I think all you cabbies know that."
"Indeed. We are often privy to many secrets that we do not divulge. May I expect the same discretion from you?"
The woman smiled warmly. "Sure, Al. Hey, everybody's got a secret. You, me, everybody. What's yours? Thrill me."
I paused, taking a moment to consider whether this was not the most moronic action of my long, protracted existence. "My secret will likely shock you. You probably will not even believe it."
"Go ahead, flatter yourself." She laughed loudly and took a seat on the message table, crossing her legs, showing ample amounts of muscular flesh. "You guys always think your little secrets are so damn shocking. Hell, you wouldn't believe some of the things I've heard, some of the things guys wanted me to do. Guys want me to strap on a dildo and fuckthem up the ass. Guys want me to fuck their dog while they watch. So, if you can really shock me, I'd be pretty damn impressed."
"I can appreciate your unique position to observe the wide variety of human deviance." A momentary pause allowed me to carefully choose my words. "There is much strange in this world we live in."
Jasmine slapped her thigh and nodded her head vigorously, then pulled at the chain around her neck, lifting a piece of rose quartz from between her breasts. She fondled the crystal between her fingers. "Tell me about it. I just moved outta my apartment. Place was haunted."
"Really?" I felt myself smile. "You believe in the unseen, the unexplained?"
"Yeah." Her voice was hushed, as if she did not want anyone to hear her denounce the doctrine of scientific secularism.
"What if I were to tell you that I am not what I appear to be?"
"And what are you really?" She leaned forward, her expression earnest despite the sarcasm dripping from her words.
"I am a creature of the shadows, rising with the sunset, subsisting on the blood of the living."
Jasmine laughed loudly. "And I suppose you vant to suck my blood."
"Yes," I answered, "as a matter of fact, that is exactly what I desire."
Jasmine stood and backed quickly toward the door. "I scream, and you're flying down the stairs faster than you can say Bela Lugosi."
I quickly rebuked myself, having foolishly taken for granted that even Jasmine would be affected by this wave of fear and suspicion sweeping across the city. Quickly, I sought to ease her misgivings. "Please, Jasmine. Fear not. If I am indeed that monster of your streets, your so-called Madison Mangler, I would not tell you I am anything unusual."
Jasmine exhaled loudly and stepped away from the door, regaining her perch atop the message table, arms crossed about her chest. "Then, you're just crazy. Crazy is okay, but it'll cost you extra."
"Please," I said. "Please listen to what I have to say. Iam a vampire. I have been for a thousand years."
"Oh yeah sure!" Jasmine snorted. "If you're a vampire, prove it."
Ah, skeptical, but somewhat open-minded. Applying concentration, I commanded my fangs to come forth from their retracted hiding place, then lifted my upper lip.
"Big deal," she said. "I used to know a guy with teeth like that. Big guy, worked in the trees, had pet wolves. You gonna tell me he was a werewolf?"
"I do not presume to insult your intelligence."
"I should hope not. Got any other tricks, Drac?"
A chuckle escaped my lips. She would certainly laugh at my next attempt. "Look into my eyes."
She did not laugh. Her eyes met mine, and momentarily, she was taking off her dress, turning it inside out, then putting it back on.
"So, you're a hypnotist," she said, studying her clothing when released from this gentle spell. "Doesn't prove anything."
If there had been a mirror in the room, perhaps that might have been a way to prove my point. Instead, another tactic would have to suffice. "I want you to watch me very carefully," I said finally.
"Whatever you do won't prove anything," she said. "How will I know you didn't just hypnotize me again?"
"Do not look into my eyes. Then, you will know you have not been hypnotized once again." I shut my eyes, willed the cells in my body to move farther and farther apart until I disappeared in a cloud of mist, then rematerialized behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. Jasmine turned, a loud gasp escaping her throat. She shook noticeably
"I will not hurt you." I held up both hands palms outward and took a couple steps backward. "Please do not worry. My requirements call for only a very tiny amount of blood."
She crossed her arms in front of her. Slowly, the fear dissolved from her face. "Okay, so it won't kill me when you take my blood, but if you bite me, will I turn into a vampire?"
"Certainly not." I felt myself smile.
Jasmine demurred in response to my gaze. "What do you want me to do?"
"Please enter," I said, responding to the knock on the door. Jasmine crossed the threshold of the cheap motel room. She wore a short, white dress with a halter top divided into two sections like the wing-covers of a beetle. Alabaster cleavage pushed through the slit between the two segments of the halter. A silver comb held her flaxen hair away from one side of her face, the hair carefully swept forward on the other side.
"Hi, Al," Jasmine said with an easy smile, closing the door behind her. She noticed the hundred-dollar bill sitting on the dresser, scooped it up and put it in her purse, then glanced in the mirror and only saw a stiff set of clothes sitting atop the bed. For a short moment, there was a visible chink in her calm veneer.
"Thank you for coming, Jasmine," I said, rooted to my spot, watching her every move, listening carefully to her heart race; she was nervous.
Without a word, Jasmine turned and faced me, then reached around to the back of her neck, unhooked the clasp and let the twin halter segments fall to her waist, revealing large, pale breasts. "Do you like what you see, Al?"
In fact, I did. Her breasts were well rounded, firm, though they sagged a bit, but pleasantly so, like a teardrop, as opposed to those infernal implants that leave women's breasts the consistency of concrete. The nipples were erect; she had probably rubbed them just before entering. Still, despite this intellectual deconstruction, the sight of her was most certainly pleasing.
She smiled at my response. "You were a bit vague when you told me what you expected. What do you want me to do?"
"Take off your dress."
Jasmine nodded. She slipped her dress over her hips, let it fall to the floor and stood before me in nothing but thin panties. There was a slight roll around her abdomen, and her legs were not model-thin, but she looked fit and well toned, certainly more healthy than these cadaverous American women.
She studied my reaction then smiled, stepping out of her remaining undergarments. "You want more for your money than just staring at a naked body, don't you?"
"I want you to seek the source of your feminine mystique. You will entice it, cajole it."
"Got a pretty strange way of putting things, Al. Translation, you want me to whack myself off?"
I nodded silently. "I want you to seek and find your own pleasure."
The woman laughed. "You want me to whack off until I come? That's when you bite me, right?"
"Precisely, my dear. I'll take some blood, but only a little bit, hardly enough to even render you light-headed."
Jasmine shook her head. "You know, Al, I know the customer is always right, but I have an idea that might make this more fun for you. More fun for both of us."
"I am listening."
Jasmine leaned against the dresser, the flesh of her ample, but well rounded backside spreading behind her as she spread her legs ever so slightly. "As you put it, Iam a professional, and I'll do whatever the client wants and is willing to pay for, within reason, of course. But I want you to know, under almost all circumstances, I don't come with Johns. It's too personal. But this situation is kinda a unique."
"Kinda unique is perhaps a bit of an understatement."
"Hell, I might scream like bloody fuckin' murder, 'I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming', but it's all part of the show. This is very, very different."
"I understand. You do not have to do this if it makes you feel uncomfortable."
"No. I want to do it, but - "
"But perhaps you are proposing some sort of trade, some sort of quid pro quo?"
"Romans were a kinky bunch, but yeah."
"Surely, Jasmine, I hope you will find me not an unreasonable person."
She shook her head. "You're pretty old, right, Al?"
"Yes. Quite old really."
"Know a lot of tricks?"
"If you mean sexually, I suppose that might stand to reason. I have had many liaisons over the centuries, not as many as you might think, but I have experienced sexual relations with a wide variety of people from a wide variety of cultures."
"With a wide variety of techniques?"
"Of course."
Jasmine smiled broadly and licked her lips in an almost vulgar manner. "You got a deal, Drac. I'll do what you want, but you gotta help."
"I can agree to those terms." Jasmine moved to the bed and sat beside me. My hands began to slowly caress her all over, gently pressing and kneading her breasts, back, stomach, inner thighs. After a long time caressing every inch of her body, my hands finally probed between her legs.
"You are already wet," I said.
"It's because of the way you do me," Jasmine replied.
"Ha!" I snorted. "You probably say that to all your clients."
The woman laughed. "Ido say that to all my clients, but you're not like any of my other clients. To tell the truth, I can't help but find this whole thing pretty damn exciting."
My fingers worked insistently, but gently, enticing, not forcing. Jasmine threw her head back, her arms wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me close to her. I held my other hand on her stomach, lightly caressing her soft skin, feeling, monitoring, waiting, hoping she was indeed full of life and not an empty vessel masquerading at being alive.
"Stick your fingers in me," Jasmine said, pushing my hand away from her clitoris.
I probed and caressed the sensitive skin, searching, knowing the very special spot I would find. My eyes closed, my fingers probed, and there it was. Her stomach tightened, then contracted violently, her legs closing tightly around my hand. A loud, guttural shriek passed her lips.
I turned and reached for her, firmly gripping her shoulders as she twitched violently. Fangs plunged into her throat, breaking flesh. Hot blood shot into my mouth. The room disappeared, replaced by a blinding flash, my entire being pierced by a wall of glass shards glowing like molten gold.
Then, blackness. Jasmine quaked beneath me. Another wave of glowing arrows pierced my being, slightly smaller than the first. Then, blackness again. Another golden explosion, then blackness, again and again, until the sensation receded into reality.
We found ourselves wrapped tightly in each other's arms. After a bit, we parted and smiled at each other, both slightly embarrassed.
"Wow!" Jasmine said, still breathing hard.
"Ahh," I replied, smiling, "you probably say that to all your clients."
Jasmine slapped me playfully on the arm. "I do, but this is different. Christ, I should be paying you."
She rose abruptly, almost forgetting herself, then remembered and steadied against a rush of dizziness that never came. Jasmine picked up her dress and pulled it over her head. "You really didn't take much blood."
I watched her as she dressed, savoring the sway of her breasts as she tucked them back in their halter. "My sweet," I said wistfully, "you have provided something much greater than mere blood."
A certain irony struck me about this encounter with Jasmine. Had business not been so good, she would have been an unattainable extravagance. Yet, the reason for the increased business was the same as that which had caused me to seek her out. Regardless, after that first session, I sincerely hoped future encounters would be affordable, even within the realm of the earnings of a hard working cab driver. She did indeed satisfy my hunger. Also, I found her most likeable.
However, as April progressed and Mother Nature loosened her fist, the days warmed, buds formed on the trees and the fear seemed to wear off somewhat as the lack of further developments kept the story out of the newspapers. No killings followed, no clues materialized and the coming of spring reduced the student populace to absolute giddiness. A high temperature of a mere forty degrees and students sashayed around town in shorts! Mostly the Scandinavians, of course, with their flowing Nordic blonde hair and long sinewy legs, but soon everyone followed their example.
Then, came that one-week vacation from classes, known as spring break, andMadison was a ghost town, leaving me tormented by Tacitus, which I was again attempting to read, feeling in a mood for self-flagellation. Thankfully, a call at Buck'sMadisonSquareGarden spared me the tedium.
And thankfully, the gentleman was actually watching from inside the bar and promptly emerged after I had pulled up, for once disproving the image of this particular establishment as represented by Dexter, who so frequently would refer to the place as "Buck's Madison Square No-Load."
It was a good call as well, going all the way to the far north side of town. This call could be a cornerstone of my shift, a good run on the meter, with a good tip, except I found myself wordless, my mind rendered into a stupor by that infernally dull Tacitus.
Unfortunately, my passenger filled in the blanks left by my silence, babbling drunkenly the entire trip. The thought entered my mind to bite him, or at least take momentary control of his consciousness, just to get him to hold his peace, but alas, the man sat in the backseat well out of my reach.
To compound matters, he wanted to pay with a check. "I am sorry, sir," I was forced to say. "We do not accept checks."
"What do you mean, you don't take checks?"
"Just what I said, sir. We do not accept checks. If the check is returned for insufficient funds, I am held personally responsible."
"There is nothing wrong with my check."
"Perhaps, there is not, but I have no way of knowing that."
"Hey, I know your owner. We play golf together. If he were here, he'd tell you there's nothing wrong with my check."
Dale's words during orientation echoed through my skull. "We are a cooperative," I replied, more sharply than I would have expected, surprised to be defending the serfs for once. "We are all owners. We are owned by no one but ourselves."
"Yeah, that's what you think." The man slapped the top of the front seat loudly. "You must be pretty new if you don't know my friend. We go back a long way. Wake up and smell the coffee. My friend, he's the one who really owns you guys. You might not know him now, but you'll get to meet him someday - when you fuck up and he tells you to hit the bricks."
It seemed obvious that Kern would say this guy was using the oldest line in the book. Much to my surprise, I found myself getting angry that he was attacking our cooperative.My cooperative!
After a moment's consideration, I replied, "Right on the outside of the cab it says, 'worker owned and operated.' We are a cooperative, all owning an equal part, as per very specific guidelines from state law. Sir, it seems apparent that you are living in a fantasy world."
"Jesus fucking Christ, what planet areyou living on?"
"Obviously, not the same as you are, sir."
The man said not another word, loudly tearing free a check, tossing it over the front seat and exiting the cab. I considered chasing him, but after studying the check, it seemed best to just leave it be. He had paid the whole fare, plus a two-dollar tip. The check was numbered in the 6000s, and this neighborhood was fairly affluent. If the check did in fact bounce, as the Americans say, I would hunt this man down and collect my pound of flesh.
I left the man to his folly, drove back uptown and found a free cab stand where I languished with only Tacitus for company. Out of boredom, I closed the book and turned on the radio. The FM band offered only that infernal rock 'n' roll or that pathetic country music. Desperate, I switched to the AM band, hoping to find some classical or maybe some jazz. Instead, my ears were the recipient of a nearly overwhelming aural assault:
"Molly steps back in." The high-pitched voice was a bit haggard, a bit tense, but chipper. "Two strikes. Two outs. Here's the pitch. To left and deep! Heeeeey! Get up! GET UP! GET OUTTA HERE! GONE! A grand salami! Molly's done it! He's hit a grand salami! The Brewers win! THE BREWERS WIN!"
Silence. Had the poor man suffered an aneurysm and suddenly found himself lying face down, his skull full of blood, death taking him very quickly?
No, the voice returned, but motherless spawn of Satan, what in the name of the blistering winds of Hades was that? Curious, I continued to listen.
It was a baseball game. All that commotion over a bunch of illiterate grown men chasing a little ball while thousands of beer-swilling members of what Mencken called "the booboisie" watched in rapture - all of these people, players and spectators alike, too daft to comprehend a real game, like cricket.
Still, the passion was admirable. Apparently, the Brewers of Milwaukee, playing at their home arena, were trailing by three scores when a fellow named Paul Molitor attempted to hit. The announcer had called him Molly - once again, another example of Americans and their nicknames. Molly, with one fierce strike, allowed his team to overcome their deficit and replace defeat with victory.
I found myself amazed by the seriousness with which these mortals placed upon these games. There might be murder, mayhem or high property taxes, but these people seemed more interested in discussing the latest exploits of their Brewers, Badgers or Packers. Extraordinary.
Further proof of this American preoccupation with sporting events came at shift's end when I found Kern and another night driver, Henry, discussing the baseball contest as they completed their paperwork. Supremely overweight, with a shaggy beard and wild, greasy hair restrained by a soiled baseball cap, Henry was about as jocular as a tall glass of vinegar, but apparently he truly loved his sports; this evening's baseball match was the only topic of conversation where I had ever witnessed any joy or animation on Henry's part.
"Man, oh, man," Henry squealed, "what a game! What a game!"
"That was an exciting conclusion to that contest," I interjected, settling down before an adding machine at the table next to theirs. They turned and stared. When inRome , I suppose.
"I didn't know you were a baseball fan, Count," Kern said.
"Figured you more for soccer," Henry added, then turned back to Kern. "Europeans dig soccer because they're so used to long, protracted land wars. That's why Americans can't get into it."
"Actually," I countered, "it was an accident that I managed to hear the conclusion of the contest. I was searching for something palatable to listen to when I heard the game-winning stroke."
"A great call," Henry said. "I love it when Uecker calls a home run. 'Get up! Get up! Get outta here! Goooooooooooooooone!'"
"I love the tips I get when outta-towners hear Bob, and I tell 'em it's Bob Uecker, and he belongs to us." Kern laughed loudly. "They're used to the buffoon on the Miller Lite commercials, but they don't know he's aMilwaukee boy, born and bred."
"I must say, I found him quite evocative," I replied. "Baseball is not a game of which I have ever paid much consideration, but certainly the man's passion for the event was quite compelling."
"Ever been to a baseball game?" Kern asked.
"It has never been high on my list of priorities."
Kern slapped himself loudly on an ample thigh. "Well, it's high time you shifted your priorities. A group of us are going to the Muskies game Monday. Wanna come with?"
"Muskies?" What on Earth is a Muskie? Was that not a senator from the state ofMaine ?
Henry answered my apparent consternation. "That's the Madison Muskies. The A's single A club."
"I am afraid I still do not understand." Motherless spawn of Satan. When will the Americans ever learn to speak English?
Kern shoved the adding machine aside, tucked his waybill into the envelope and sealed it with the attached string. "The Brewers play in the major leagues. That's the highest level of baseball in the country."
"Whole fucking world!" Henry interjected.
"The Japanese might disagree," Kern countered, "but anyway, there's twenty-six major league teams. Each major league team has several minor league teams where they develop their younger players. The highest level in the minor leagues is triple A. All the major league franchises have one of those teams, plus two double A teams, two single A teams and then one instructional league team where the youngest players start out."
"Single A is a very low level?" I asked.
"You got it, Count," Henry replied.
"These Muskies must not be a very good team."
"Well, it's not major league quality," Kern said, "but it's right here inMadison , it's really cheap and it's lots of fun."
"And beer's only a buck a can," Henry said, licking his lips.
"Yeah, so how 'bout coming with?" Kern asked. "We're meeting at the Crystal Corner about six thirty. Game time's seven thirty. It'll be fun."
Count Farkus going to a baseball game! The notion seemed laughable, yet how else might I spend my night free from the shackles of indentured servitude? Tacitus was growing increasingly tedious. Also, I had been discovering a burgeoning erosion of my resistance to developing friendships with my fellow drivers. Though they had seemed so young, uncultured and uncivilized, I discovered that many were of a decent sort. Hardworking, honest, sometimes even witty and sharp of intellect. Much to my surprise, not only had the cooperative's appeal become apparent, but I had begun to find that I liked many of these people. Besides, letting them get to know me and see me as a normal person had to be a help in my efforts toward camouflage.
The game would be played in at least partial sunlight. Yet, even though the mid-April sun would not quite be settled beyond the horizon by six-thirty or seven-thirty, the rays would be weak enough to cause a bare minimum of discomfort.
"I will join you fellows at your baseball contest," I said finally, still wondering what in the name of the hundred false promises of heaven was a Muskie.
Kern smiled. Henry laughed heartily, holding his jiggling belly. "You sure got a funny way of putting things, Count," Kern said.
I merely nodded. "Who else will be attending this contest?"
"Well," Henry answered, "you, me, Kern - "
"And Nicole," Kern said, grinning broadly. "You know Nicole, right?"
The smile dropped from my face. "Yes, I do."
