Chapter 11
What was more important than bagging the critter that had eviscerated an entire family? Nothing, absolutely nothing. But it was a while until full dark, and I had other problems. Would Tommy go back to Gaynor and tell him what I said? Yes. Would Gaynor let it go? Probably not. I needed information. I needed to know how far he would go. A reporter, I needed a reporter. Irving Griswold to the rescue.
Irving had one of those pastel cubicles that passes for an office. No roof, no door, but you got walls. Irving is five-three. I'd like him for that reason if nothing else. You don't meet many men exactly my height. Frizzy brown hair framed his bald spot like petals on a flower. He wore a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie at half-mast. His face was round, pink-cheeked. He looked like a bald cherub. He did not look like a werewolf, but he was one. Even lycanthropy can't cure baldness.
No one on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch knew Irving was a shapeshifter. It is a disease, and it's illegal to discriminate against lycanthropes, just like people with AIDS, but people do it anyway. Maybe the paper's management would have been broad-minded, liberal, but I was with Irving. Caution was better.
Irving sat in his desk chair. I leaned in the doorway of his cubicle. "How's tricks?" Irving said.
"Do you really think you're funny, or is this just an annoying habit?" I asked.
He grinned. "I'm hilarious. Ask my girlfriend."
"I'll bet," I said.
"What's up, Blake? And please tell me whatever it is is on the record, not off."
"How would you like to do an article on the new zombie legislation that's being cooked up?"
"Maybe," he said. His eyes narrowed, suspicion gleamed forth. "What do you want in return?"
"This part is off the record, Irving, for now."
"It figures." He frowned at me. "Go on."
"I need all the information you have on Harold Gaynor."
"Name doesn't ring any bells," he said. "Should it?" His eyes had gone from cheerful to steady. His concentration was nearly perfect when he smelled a story.
"Not necessarily," I said. Cautious. "Can you get the information for me?"
"In exchange for the zombie story?"
"I'll take you to all the businesses that use zombies. You can bring a photographer and snap pictures of corpses."
His eyes lit up. "A series of articles with lots of semi-gruesome pictures. You center stage in a suit. Beauty and the Beast. My editor would probably go for it."
"I thought he might, but I don't know about the center stage stuff."
"Hey, your boss will love it. Publicity means more business."
"And sells more papers," I said.
"Sure," Irving said. He looked at me for maybe a minute. The room was almost silent. Most had gone home. Irving's little pool of light was one of just a few. He'd been waiting on me. So much for the press never sleeps. The quiet breath of the air conditioner filled the early evening stillness.
"I'll see if Harold Gaynor's in the computer," Irving said at last.
I smiled at him. "Remembered the name after me mentioning it just once, pretty good."
"I am, after all, a trained reporter," he said. He swiveled his chair back to his computer keyboard with exaggerated movements. He pulled imaginary gloves on and adjusted the long tails of a tux.
"Oh, get on with it." I smiled a little wider.
"Do not rush the maestro." He typed a few words and the screen came to life. "He's on file," Irving said. "A big file. It'd take forever to print it all up." He swiveled the chair back to look at me. It was a bad sign.
"I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll get the file together, complete with pictures if we have any. I'll deliver it to your sweet hands."
"What's the catch?"
He put his fingers to his chest. "Moi, no catch. The goodness of my heart."
"All right, bring it by my apartment."
"Why don't we meet at Dead Dave's, instead?" he said.
"Dead Dave's is down in the vampire district. What are you doing hanging around out there?"
His sweet cherubic face was watching me very steadily. "Rumor has it that there's a new Master Vampire of the City. I want the story."
I just shook my head. "So you're hanging around Dead Dave's to get information?"
"Exactly."
"The vamps won't talk to you. You look human."
"Thanks for the compliment," he said. "The vamps do talk to you, Anita. Do you know who the new Master is? Can I meet him, or her? Can I do an interview?"
"Jesus, Irving, don't you have enough troubles without messing with the king vampire?"
"It's a him then," he said.
"It's a figure of speech," I said.
"You know something. I know you do."