stunk up the futon. Was that so bad?
“What’s it like outside?” I asked, taking the hint and running with it.
“It’s nice,” Nate said quickly.
“Very refreshing,” Gary added.
“Sleep on a bench refreshing or head for the bus station refreshing?”
“It’s… brisk,” Gary amended.
“Kinda chilly,” Nate agreed.
“I got an old coat if you need one,” Gary offered.
It was indeed brisk, and the old coat Gary gave me smelled vaguely of vomit. To help cut the chill, I took with me a half-empty bottle of vodka that I might have also paid for. I started walking in the general direction of Chinatown, on the other side of which was South Station.
I had decided being poor in Boston in November really sucks. And the damnable thing is I couldn’t even remember how I’d ended up in Boston in the first place. Last time I’d spent any time there was in 1912, and there was nothing that compelled me to stick around then. Possibly I just hopped aboard a train at some point, not much caring where it went so long as it had a bar car, and rode it until it came to a stop. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d done that.
I was thinking it was time to consider accessing a larger quantity of funds. As I said, I do have some. I’m just not exactly sure how much. I kept walk-around money in my bag, which was in a locker in South Station, which I hoped was always open because that was also where I planned to sleep. The rest of my money was in a Swiss bank account, so I was going to have to make a few calls. I don’t think the Swiss issue ATM cards, but I never really checked.
Sobriety was also something to consider, although it should be noted I was considering it while gulping vodka. The idea that the red-haired woman was still alive was something worth sobering up for. Maybe it was time to start looking again. It would end in frustration as always, but it was still something to do.
About two blocks from my destination, I saw something curious—a hooker. At least I assumed she was a hooker, because if she wasn’t, her fashion sense was abhorrent. She was dressed in knee-high leather boots, a denim miniskirt (which she’d manually torn along the side to expose half of her left buttock,) and a faded black sleeveless half-shirt that read “Appetite for Destruction” on the front. Her hair was black and very large—length and height—and she’d gone overboard completely in the make-up department. Her skin was a pale white.
What made the view so curious was that it was about ten degrees with the wind chill, and she didn’t look cold at all.
“Lookin’ for fun, baby?” she asked as I approached. I sized her up once again, up close. No trembling in the wind at all, and she didn’t appear to be strung out on anything. Her nipples weren’t even erect. And it was just as cold next to her as it was everywhere else.
“Do I look like I have any money?” I took another swig of the vodka, now almost gone.
“Who said anything about money?” she asked coyly. “I’m just looking for a good time.”
I smiled. “Sure you are. What’s your name?”
“Brenda,” she grinned, her lips tight over her teeth.
“Brenda. You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s okay. I’m not on a crusade or anything.” I held up my open palms. “No wooden stakes. See?” (It should be noted that wooden stakes don’t work, so don’t try it. You’ll just piss off the vampire.)
“Go away,” she ordered, spinning on a spiked heel and pretending I wasn’t there.
“You must be a young one,” I pressed.
“You’re crazy,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I should call a cop.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “That’ll be fun.”
A car slowed for her. She gave the driver a little show, leaning over and shaking her fairly impressive pale breasts. He decided after some consideration to shop elsewhere.
“When was it, twenty years ago?” I asked. “Couldn’t have been much more than that.”
She turned and looked at me long and hard. Not threatening, just curious. “Twenty-seven,” she admitted.
“Thought so.”
“You’re not one, are you?”
“Nope.”
She circled me. I think she was trying to be intimidating, and if I found vampires frightening, she might have succeeded. But the truth is the percentage of vampires that are also evil killers is about the same as the percentage of normal people who are also evil killers. Brenda didn’t look like a killer; she looked like a mall rat.
“You smell like vomit,” she said, her nose crinkling.
“It’s the coat. It’s a loaner.”
“How did you know I was a vamp?”
“Maybe you noticed how everyone else is dressed in layers? The Guns ‘N Roses concert shirt doesn’t help either.”
“I like it,” she insisted.
“It’s very fetching. But the band broke up a long time ago. You haven’t learned how to keep up with the times is my point. But you’re young. That always takes a while.”
Brenda stopped circling and met me face to face. “And how would you know?”
“I know a lot of vampires. And I’m older than I look.” I extended my hand. “I’m Apollo,” I said, giving her the name she was most likely to have heard.
“No way!” she exclaimed. “The one-who-walks-by-day?” She grabbed my hand and squeezed, just a bit too hard.
“Oww,” I said.
“Sorry. My strength, it’s…”
“I know. It’s something to get used to, isn’t it?”
I’m something of a legend within the vampire community, if you hadn’t already guessed. I’m most often described as another vampire but without a sun weakness. I gave up trying to correct the misapprehension about three centuries ago. The name Apollo—Greek god of the sun—was given to me by a vampire named Magnus in the eleventh century. It certainly wasn’t because of my stellar physique.
“Wow, I can
“This is a treat for me too, really,” I said. “Look, I have to pick up something from the train station, but I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”
“Anything!”
“Great. Because I need a place to crash.”
“O-okay. It’s not much…” She was already reassessing her opinion of me. That was fast. One of the drawbacks of being a legendary figure is that inevitably the legend outstrips reality. She probably thought I had magical powers and could leap tall buildings in a single bound.
“Brenda, I guarantee I’ve seen worse. I only need a place to stay for a night or two, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Sure, but… it’s just that I haven’t eaten yet…”
“Right. Tell you what, if you can’t snag a quick bite while I’m gone, you can nibble on me. We’ll call it my rent for the night.”
She brightened, provided that’s possible for the undead.
“You’d let me do that?”
“Sure. Just don’t go nuts or anything.”
“It’s a deal!”
“Great. I’ll be right back.”
