When I got to the part about Aubrey smashing me into the wall, he said, "You are kidding."
"Want to see the bruises?"
I finished the story and watched his solemn, square face. His large, blunt-fingered hands were folded on his desk. The check was lying beside him atop his neat pile of manila folders. His face was attentive, concerned. Empathy never worked well on Bert's face. I could always see the wheels moving. The angles calculating.
"Don't worry, Bert, you can cash the check."
"Now, Anita, that wasn't..."
"Save it."
"Anita, truly I would never purposefully endanger you."
I laughed. "Bull."
"Anita!" He looked shocked, small eyes widening, one hand touching his chest. Mr. Sincerity.
"I'm not buying, so save the bullshit for clients. I know you too well."
He smiled then. It was his only genuine smile. The real Bert Vaughn please stand up. His eyes gleamed but not with warmth, more with pleasure. There is something measuring, obscenely knowledgeable, about Bert's smile. As if he knew the darkest thing you had ever done and would gladly keep silent - for a price.
There was something a little frightening about a man who knew he was not a nice person and didn't give a damn. It went against everything America holds dear. We are taught above all else to be nice, to be liked, to be popular. A person who has set aside all that is a maverick and a potentially dangerous human being.
"What can Animators, Inc., do to help?"
"I've already got Ronnie working on some things. I think the fewer people involved, the fewer people in danger."
"You always were a humanitarian."
"Unlike some people I could mention."
"I had no idea what they wanted."
"No, but you knew how I felt about vampires."
He gave me a smile that said, "I know your secret, I know your darkest dreams." That was Bert. Budding blackmailer.
I smiled back at him, friendly. "If you ever send me a vampire client again without running it by me first, I'll quit."
"And go where?"
"I'll take my client list with me, Bert. Who is the one that does the radio interviews? Who did the articles focus on? You made sure it was me, Bert. You thought I was the most marketable of all of us. The most harmless-looking, the most appealing. Like a puppy at the pound. When people call Animators, Inc., who do they ask for?"
His smile was gone, eyes like winter ice. "You wouldn't make it without me."
"The question is, would you make it without me?"
"I'd make it."
"So would I"
We stared at each other for a long space of moments. Neither of us was willing to look away, to blink first. Bert started to smile, still staring into my eyes. The edges of a smile began to tug at my mouth. We laughed together and that was that.
"All right, Anita, no more vampires."
I stood. "Thank you."
"Would you really quit?" His face was all laughing sincerity, a tasteful, pleasant mask.
"I don't believe in idle threats, Bert. You know that."
"Yes," he said, "I know that. I honestly didn't know this job would endanger your life."
"Would it have made a difference?"
He thought about it for a minute, then laughed. "No, but I would have charged more."
"You keep making money, Bert. That's what you're good at."
"Amen."
I left him so he could fondle the check in privacy. Maybe chuckle over it. It was blood money, no pun intended. Somehow, I didn't think that bothered Bert. It bothered me.
Chapter 18
The door to the other office opened. A tall, blonde woman stepped through. She was somewhere between forty and fifty. Tailored golden pants encircled a slender waist. A sleeveless blouse the color of an eggshell exposed tanned arms, a gold Rolex watch, and a wedding band encircled with diamonds. The rock in the engagement ring must have weighed a pound. I bet she hadn't even blinked when Jamison talked price.
The boy that followed her was also slender and blond. He looked about fifteen, but I knew he had to be at least eighteen. Legally, you cannot join the Church of Eternal Life unless you are of age. He couldn't drink legally yet, but he could choose to die and live forever. Funny, how that didn't make much sense to me.
Jamison brought up the rear, smiling, solicitous. He was talking softly to the boy as he walked them towards the door.
I got a business card out of my purse. I held it out towards the woman. She looked at it, then at me. Her gaze slid over me from top to bottom. She didn't seem impressed; maybe it was the shirt. "Yes," she said.
Breeding. It takes real breeding to make a person feel like shit with one word. Of course, it didn't bother me. No, the great golden goddess did not make me feel small and grubby. Right. "The number on this card is for a man who specializes in vampire cults. He's good."
"I do not want my son brainwashed."
I managed a smile. Raymond Fields was my vampire cult expert, and he didn't do brainwashing. He did do truth, no matter how unpleasant. "Mr. Fields will give you the potential down side of vampirism," I said.
"I believe Mr. Clarke has given us all the information we need."
I raised my arm near her face. "1 didn't get these scars playing touch football. Please, take the card. Call him, or not. It's up to you."
She was a little pale under her expert makeup. Her eyes were a little wide, staring at my arm. "Vampires did this?" Her voice was small and breathy, almost human.
"Yes," I said.
Jamison took her elbow. "Mrs. Franks, I see you've met our resident vampire slayer."
She looked at him, then back at me. Her careful face was beginning to crumble. She licked her lips and turned back to me. "Really." She was recovering quickly; she sounded superior again.
I shrugged. What could I say? I pressed the card into her manicured hand, and Jamison tactfully took it from her and pocketed it. But she had let him. What could I do? Nothing. I had tried. Period. Over. But I stared at her son. His face was incredibly young.
I remembered when eighteen was grown-up. I had thought I knew everything. I was about twenty-one when I figured out I knew dip-wad. I still knew nothing, but I tried real hard. Sometimes, that is the best you can do. Maybe the best anyone can do. Boy, Miss Cynical in the morning.
Jamison was ushering them towards the door. I caught a few sentences. "She was trying to kill them. They merely defended themselves."
Yeah, that's me, hit person for the undead. Scourge of the graveyard. Right. I left Jamison to his half-truths and went into the office. I still needed the files. Life goes on, at least for me. I couldn't stop seeing the boy's face, the wide eyes. His face had been all golden tan, baby smooth. Shouldn't you at least have to shave before you can kill yourself?
I shook my head as if I could shake the boy's face away. It almost worked. I was kneeling with the folders in my hands when Jamison came in the office. He shut the door behind him. I had thought he might.
His skin was the color of dark honey, his eyes pale green; long, tight curls framed his face. The hair was almost auburn. Jamison was the first green-eyed, red-haired black man I had ever met. He was slender, lean, not the thinness of exercise but of lucky genetics. Jamison's idea of a workout was lifting shot glasses at a good party.
"Don't ever do that again," he said.
"Do what?" I stood with the files clasped to my chest.
He shook his head and almost smiled, but it was an angry smile, a flash of small white teeth. "Don't be a smart ass."
"Sorry," I said.
"Bullshit, you're not sorry."
"About trying to give Fields's card to the woman, no. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again."
"I don't like to be undermined in front of my clients."
I shrugged.
"I mean it, Anita. Don't ever do that again."
I wanted to ask him, or what, but I didn't. "You aren't qualified to counsel people about whether or not they become the undead."
"Bert thinks I am."
"Bert would take money for a hit on the Pope if he thought he could get away with it."
Jamison smiled, then frowned at me, then couldn't help himself and smiled again. "You do have a way with words."
"Thanks."
"Don't undermine me with clients, okay?"
"I promise never to interfere when you are discussing raising the dead."