Revamp the Night, Pt. 1 (short story)
Revamp the Night, Pt. 1 (short story)
A Halloween special! With Narration!
Welcome to Damsel’s Snuggery of Storytelling!
This is part one of an impromptu story inspired by some comments from (thanks, man!). Part two will make an appearance at some point, but for now, you can listen and/or read the first chunk of Revamp the Night. Enjoy!
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“The saxophone player’s quit again, boss. You want me to bring him in?”
Nico Pinnelli, owner of the Scarlet Night Club, took a slow drag on his cigarette. “That rat. What’s with these artist types, eh? You give ‘em a roof and a place to perform, and all they do is complain.” He tapped the ash into his empty tumbler on the bar and signaled the barman to pour him another. “Forget him. We have time before opening. Call Rita.”
My name’s Dominic Wade, and I’d been Pinnelli’s chief hitter at the Scarlet long enough to know that Pinnelli only operated in twos: if one way didn’t work, there could only be one other option. Saxophones were always the first choice, but the sultry singer Rita still brought the crowds, though it meant my men and I had to be extra watchful. I moved away from the bar and set my eyes on the small phone booth near the entrance. Somehow Rita sounded even better over the wires.
“What do you mean we’re low?!” Pinnelli slapped the bar, an action that meant more than his raised voice. I returned to the bar to stand near his right shoulder.
The barman shrugged nonchalantly and resumed cleaning the already spotless countertop. “Just what I said, boss. Conrad didn’t bring no shipment yesterday and between that and those cops cleaning up that rampage before our boys could, we’re low.”
Pinnelli whistled a breath through his teeth. “Of all the two-bit pieces of luck, I get the lesser.” He stared at the mirror behind the bar.
The counter stretched along almost the whole left wall of the club. The thick slab of mahogany, said to come from some backwoods jungle—I could never remember where—showed no damage, though I’d busted up my share of fights in the place. It was a sacred piece of furniture and if you sat at it, you were expected to think deep, great thoughts…and keep ‘em to yourself.
I joined Pinnelli in staring at the mirror. The tables, stage, dance floor, and a glimpse of the upper balcony were all I saw.
“Wade,” Pinnelli gripped me by the shoulder and pulled me slightly away from the bar. “You know how the customers get if we don’t have their type on hand. We don’t need another Sunday Butcher on our hands.”
“No, boss.”
“‘No’ ain’t a strong enough word, Wade.” Pinnelli licked his lips and glanced at the mirror’s reflection of the eight spouts behind the counter. I knew Pinnelli also envisioned his precious cellar of neatly labeled bottles being drained and smashed in a coldhearted rage. Pinnelli hated messes.
“Wade, find Conrad and my shipment. Do it quickly and quietly. I want you back before Rita’s first set is over. Take a shot of something before you go.” Pinnelli’s hearty slap would’ve sent a weaker man to his knees, but I didn’t even flinch.
Pinnelli stalked off toward his office, whistling to another employee as he went. When his door clicked shut, I leaned against the counter and the barman stopped his polishing.
“I need a shot of…” I hesitated. This could be a tricky run, and with such a man as Conrad involved, it might get messy. But I needed to avoid messes for the moment. “I need a shot from someone who died reading. And add a splash of charm.”
The barman chuckled. “You always pick the strangest combos, Dom. But I think I might have the charming professor you’re looking for. One moment.” He left his station and opened the narrow door behind the bar.
I looked down at my clothes. My plain white button-down and brown slacks were all my usual job required, but I jogged to my locker in one of the backrooms and grabbed the matching brown jacket. It smelled a bit musty, so I splashed on a little cologne and plucked a red carnation from the coatcheck girl’s counter, winking at the girl on duty as I stuck the flower in my lapel’s buttonhole.
A lone shot glass sat on the bar and I picked it up and gave it a sniff. It wasn’t the freshest I’d had on the job, but the soft tang and bitterness of the blood sliding down my throat still sent a buzz of contentment through me. I nodded my thanks to the barman and headed for the exit.
Dusk in West Haven was my favorite part of night. Most of the citizens were home and only those with urgent business darted along the sidewalks. Those, and the night workers like myself. Some folks didn’t like the dark corners and the rats dancing to their own rhythm, but nowhere else had I felt more at ease then on the slick pavement with only the dim street lamps to light my way.
The city didn’t spare the weak or lazy. You worked hard for your square of carpet and if you had the time, a quick jaunt to a jazzy club settled the mood so you could go back out the next day and do your damned best to climb to the next rung. No sir, life in West Haven took you by the throat and squeezed; you either joined the dead or kicked the devil to the curb—he’d still follow you, but at least you had one step ahead of him.
Me? I’d come to this place as a young buck looking to enter the car mechanic business, wide eyed and as innocent as a tub of butter. I didn’t last a week. When Pinnelli’s men found me gasping my last on the floor of a corner mart, it didn’t take much convincing to turn me. I wanted back at those knuckle beaters for taking away my one chance to work for a respected manufacturer, and for ruining my only suit. I went a little overboard when I found them and that’s what led to Pinnelli making me his hitter instead of his mechanic. You can pay anyone to change oil, but finding a man who put the dead back in the ground was worth more than a personal grease monkey.
A cop car cruised by and I picked up the pace. No sense being out on the watched streets more than I had to.
Snatches of music drifted through the open windows I passed; Pinnelli wasn’t the only one who preferred saxophones. Grizzled commentators rehashed yesterday’s game from every corner club’s radio, and not for the first time I wondered why day workers flocked to those places and why, despite having long forgotten the taste of food, did it smell so good? Ronny’s signature hash ’n’ dash haunted me like no ghoul ever had.
I shook the food crazed thoughts from my head even as the smell wafted over me while I crossed the footbridge spanning Greyhound Speedlane.
Rita lived in the small apartment complex by the Speedlane and it was on my way to Conrad’s; Pinnelli would’ve already called her, but I could check on her anyway.
She could afford to live in a nicer place, I knew. Somewhere with flower gardens and fountains, or a quaint cafe that served tea, sandwiches, cookies and pastries, at one great price. (That’s what all the signs said.) Or she might like a bookstore where groups of women gathered to discuss which philosophers had died normally and which were of the undead and now lurked in some remote mountain village. They might debate the merits of the hottest film star and whether or not he read the Haven Chronicler or Scholars & Sons and…ugh! Damnation! That professor blood was taking over my thoughts. Maybe I should’ve asked for a crime novelist instead.
I cut a direct path across the lawn by Rita’s building and bounded up the steps to the entrance. Without even looking, I hit the buzzer for her apartment. “Rita. You in?”
A few seconds ticked by and then she answered. “Dom, you old rascal. What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a guy say hello to his best girl?” I winced. How much charm had been in that shot?
“You stay right there. I’ll be down in a moment.”
I turned to face the lawn. It really wasn’t a safe place; Rita had told me more than a few stories about poltergeists, witches, werewolves and even a necromancer. We didn’t get those types coming to the Scarlet, but I’d seen my share of new corpses to know she told the truth.
The door swiveled open and I held out a crooked arm for her. She slid her thin arm around mine and leaned forward to catch my gaze.
“What? No more flirting? Just who did you drink, anyway?” She pulled me forward and we set off briskly toward the main road.
“I…it was just some professor type,” I scratched the back of my neck.
“And?”
I could feel her smile and I risked a look down at her. Sure enough, her dazzling smile beamed up at me, the humor reaching to her bright green eyes. Her black hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, effectively hiding her pointed pixie ears. She was the finest lady I’d ever seen. Pinnelli never told me where he found her or how he signed her on as one of his leading attractions, but she’d been worth every drunken scuffle and broken chair.
“Oh Dom, it’s a shame you can’t blush. You just look like a bat with its claw caught in a child’s neck,” she patted my carnation and sighed. “What a man you must’ve been in the old days. We could’ve had so much fun.”
“Could’ve” didn’t sound anywhere close to what I wanted, but those thoughts were reserved for my free days and a glass of dead poet. “Look, Rita,” I placed a protective hand on her arm. “I don’t have time to take you to the club. Pinnelli’s sent me out on an errand and I need to take care of it quick. But I’ll see you before you leave,” I added quickly when her eyes narrowed.
She arched an eyebrow and pulled her arm free. “Woo me and leave me, is it? Very well, Dom. You go play fetch while I set the night afire. Ta-ta,” she raised a hand in farewell as she sashayed down the sidewalk.
I opened my mouth to call her back, but a sharp blare from a passing car cut across the moment. I hunched deeper in my jacket and headed in the opposite direction.
Conrad’s place crouched under a looming brick building like some cat waiting to lash out at unsuspecting legs. I’d seen my share of grundy dens, but his hovel took the biscuit and the jam. Two of the windows were boarded up, the front door didn’t quite fit in its frame, and the awning over the whole front couldn’t support a rat’s last breath, much less keep out the sun. Maybe that’s why he kept such quarters: he didn’t want the likes of me rolling up at bad hours.
Bad times had arrived though, and I made no bones about my intent as I banged a fist on the doorframe. “Conrad! Open up, ya hear? Conrad!” I moved from the door and cupped my hands against the glass to get a clearer look inside.
The place was a mess, as usual. Boxes of who-knew-what were piled high and deep around the perimeter of the office. The small square of open floor in the middle held enough trash to make a garbage man squirm, and a single rickety chair—Conrad’s sorry attempt at a throne. The door to the back room stood cracked open and a flickering yellowish light pooled limply on the pitted tile floor.
Pinnelli sure knew how to find the sleazy lumps of the world. Not sure what that said about me.
Conrad didn’t look to be coming to the door, if he was inside at all, but I wouldn’t lay good odds on my setting foot across the threshold; I had no invitation to enter. Just to check, I reached out a hand for the door handle. My fingers got close but it felt like pushing against the wrong side of a magnet. I tucked my hands back inside my jacket and studied the dirty street.
The other buildings appeared abandoned, their windows grimy and cracked, the signs faded, trash of all sorts gathered in corners—the silent onlookers to the unfolding decay. I couldn’t tell what the buildings might hold, other than degenerates too zonked to care. We had our share of run-ins at the Scarlet but if there was one thing that could be counted on, it was Pinnelli’s dedication to class and glamor, and that’s why we only served vampires, excluding Rita, of course. There wasn’t another group in town that cared about appearances quite like us, but then again, we’d have to live with ourselves the longest, so it didn’t make sense to hate our surroundings.
But here…I kicked a tin can down the street and watched it bounce and roll a merry trail until it hit a sign standing in the sidewalk. I almost didn’t give the sign the first glance, but its curlicue writing caught my attention.
WALK-INS WELCOME
I grinned and strode to the sign. The shop it stood in front of might be a barber or manicurist or a half-priced tax auditor for all I cared. Lifting the sign, I went back to Conrad’s and leaned it against the door. I waited a moment, then reached for the handle, grabbed, and twisted.
Conrad’s place looked worse up close. Bugs of all sorts scurried in, around and over the garbage. The smell threatened to beat my lungs to a pulp while none-too-kindly trying to burrow into my eyes. A rat, the unofficial owners of West Haven, sneered at me as though all it’d take was one contemptuous remark from me to summon a horde of rats swarming up my body. Those cheeky vermin.
I pointedly ignored all moving things in the room and went to investigate Conrad’s chair. I’d seen him sitting on it countless times, one arm resting casually on the armrest and the other hand propping up his chin. He was one of those washed out medical students who’d discovered he liked shredding bodies more than fixing them. Nice fella for the kind of job Pinnelli needed done. The chair appeared how it always had, scuffed, worn and nibbled on by the territorial rats.
I wouldn’t know if a scuffle had taken place in the main area, so I set off toward the back room, ears pricked for sneaking movements. The door opened without a sound and I stepped into the small office to see a table overflowing with papers, another sad chair, and a trapdoor in the black and white checked floor. A gas lamp sat beside the trapdoor.
If I had the time I’d put the dead professor to use and read every scrap of paper on the desk; it never hurt to know about employees. But a quick perusal of the topmost sheets would have to do. I brought the gas lamp over to inspect the papers and noticed the lamp’s glass was scorching and the handle had gathered some warmth too. Conrad had left in a hurry then, and a good while ago.
The top papers were invoices for blood orders, smaller than what we got, probably private parties. Same prices though, so at least Conrad charged all his customers the going rate. Everyone knew he had the best product in town, but saint’s blood! there were a lot of invoices. Why did he still operate out of a dump like this place when he could afford a glitzy penthouse?
Perhaps all the money went to maintaining his warehouse. Beyond the general location of the place, the only other thing I knew about it was he’d had it blessed, consecrated, sanctified and enrolled in the faith hall of fame by some big cheese churchman. Just thinking about it made my eye twitch.
I found the invoice for Pinnelli’s last order and everything looked right except…I flipped the paper over and my lip curled. Someone had scrawled a phone number on the back and stamped the symbol of a bleeding heart.
So that’s why the order never made it to us. The competition had finally decided to cross the river and take our goods. Conrad the idiot! Did he honestly think those lice running Veinglory would take as good a care of him as Pinnelli did? As soon as they found his sources and some humans bold enough to enter his warehouse, Conrad would find himself swimming with the type O’s. The fool! He’d staked us good and proper.
I glanced at the trapdoor but like all jitterbugs he’d slapped on a couple curses and hexes so no welcome sign could bypass it. Sometimes I wish I had a human chump to take the brunt of hassles like this. Well, if this was the way Conrad wanted to take his business, then he shouldn’t be surprised when the shiv of injustice found a place in his ribs.
I stuffed the incriminating invoice in my jacket and stomped my way back out into the night. I needed to return to Pinnelli and tell him his blood merchant had defected.
The run back to the Scarlet took only a few minutes. When I reached the front I saw the line of customers had already stretched to the next block.
Music pulsed from inside, the instrumental medley that always preceded Rita. My gaze slowly tracked up the wide stone club peppered with windows shedding a dull red light. Up on the roof I saw the heads of the men on patrol; they kept intruders in their right place and let the revelers know when the sky turned gray. We had a solid thing going at the Scarlet, a reputation for doing our work well and keeping the nasty business out of sight of the humans, and the others. But if Veinglory wanted to play fast and free with the order, we wouldn’t keep the action inside the lounge.
I nodded to the man at the entrance and headed down the side of the building to the back door. No rats here.
There were no special markings on the back door, just a solid slab of black wood. I knocked twice and kicked once. The lock slid free and the door opened a fraction. I pushed my way in and breezed by the few workers putting on the finishing touches to their uniforms.
“Where’s Pinnelli?” I asked the room.
A few hands waved in the direction of the bar. I moved with only a touch of reluctance to the curtain separating the worker’s room and the main area. It was at times like this I was glad to not feel the nerves of lesser men nor the tingle of sweat trickling down inconvenient places. That was one thing to admire about humans, I supposed: they experienced fear in their very soul and it got them out of danger quick. As a matter of course, my kind didn’t feel fear, but all the same I hoped my professor could work a little of his charm.
I saw Pinnelli standing near the bar, a few businessmen paying court to him while the band ran a peppy piece in anticipation of Rita’s appearance. The tables were filling up and the more discreet customers where picking up drinks and wending their way to the balconies. I took up position a respectful distance down Pinnelli’s eyesight and waited for him to break his conversation. My professor had many ideas on what to say but my baser instincts hoped the invoice could do most of the talking.
Minutes ticked by and I watched the club slowly reach capacity. The barman handed out more shots than pints. Good. That would buy us the night at least. Most customers didn’t like to mix the specialty shots with the standard blood.
Pinnelli walked by me and without a word we both headed for his office. Rita bounded up on the stage and the audience cheered.
“Thank you all for coming out tonight!” she waved and blew kisses. “Let’s start things off with a lively tune. This one’s called ‘Midnight Race.’”
I heard the first chords of the piano before Pinnelli shut the door to his office. He took a seat behind his neatly ordered desk and laced his fingers together. “Well?”
I’d long suspected that Pinnelli kept his office intentionally bare of any potentially interesting objects so you couldn’t help but look at him. It certainly had its desired effect.
I withdrew the invoice and stepped forward to slide it across the desk. “I found this at Conrad’s place.”
Pinnelli looked supremely unimpressed but reached out one finger to bring it closer. He still seemed nonplussed at reading it and stared up at me, brows drawn.
“Flip it over,” I gestured at the paper.
He did.
Silence.
More silence.
It was good news for me at least. If he didn’t feel the need to rage, that meant his other option was deep thinking, and all without the need for the mahogany bar.
He rose slowly from his seat and walked around the desk to stand before me. “Does anyone else know?” he asked in a low voice.
“That Conrad’s working for the competition?” I asked just to be sure we were discussing the same thing. “I can’t be sure no one else got there before me, but it felt quiet.”
“And no one will. Wade, go out to…” he appeared to struggle with himself for a moment. “Go to Veinglory and get Conrad. I’ll not let some young upstart take what I’ve spent centuries building.”
“No, boss,” I nodded and stepped back to the door.
“One more thing, Wade.”
“Boss?”
“Take Remi and Monica with you.”
I opened my mouth to give a strident and lengthy refusal, but one glance at Pinnelli’s red eyes had me swallowing my protest. Nodding once again, I wrenched the door open and emerged into the raucous applause of the audience.
A vampire, werewolf and human walk into a bar. When did my life become a joke?
TO BE CONTINUED…
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