Strange City Page 2

  A knock on the opaque glass panel startled him. He jabbed at the button in the armrest, dropping the screen ten or twelve inches.

  "The usual route?" asked Domingo.

  "Yes, yes," Delfonso answered impatiently. "Up through North Beach." Then he closed the screen again.

  luan turned north on Kearney, moving up through the dark and nearly deserted Financial District.

  Unlike most of the vampires in the city, Delfonso, by dint of his long-time residence here, had been granted extended hunting privileges, allowing him to seek prey outside his usual Mission District bound­aries. Others complained, but because he was so discreet, and because of his dwindling need for food, Vannevar had so far refused to revoke the privilege. Only Chinatown was off-limits to him, and even that not officially. But Delfonso stayed clear of the area, regardless. The mysterious and grotesque thing that dwelled in an underground warren somewhere beneath that crowded and evil-smelling quarter of town was jealous of its territory. Although Delfonso feared little in San Francisco, he had learned to honor the wishes of that thing known only as "Grandfather."

  They crept north along Kearney, skirting the south­ern border of Chinatown, heading toward Broadway and the old Italian section beyond. This was the first inhabited part of the city, back when it was known as Yerba Buena, and not San Francisco. The street they were on, now blocks from the waterfront, was once nearly the edge of the cove that once stood here. Since filled in with rubbish, abandoned ships, and goods whose prices on the market had fallen below reasonable level, it now supported some of the largest skyscrapers on the West Coast, including the strangely pyramidal Transamerica building.

  A few blocks further brought them to Pacific Avenue: the old Barbary Coast, once roamed by the worst sorts of thieves, murderers, and prostitutes. It had provided Delfonso with some of the most degraded sinners he'd ever attempted to save, but was now given over to antique shops, graphic design firms, and light industries.

  Crossing Broadway and Columbus the air was sud­denly filled with light and sound. Traffic was heavy and the sidewalks crowded with people: singles, career-types, yuppies dressed in expensive leather coats haunting cafes and bistros, drinking cappucci­nos, chattering brightly, desperately trying to score.

  They swung back toward Grant, then north again, past the crowds in front of the Saloon, Grant-Green, and other music clubs along this strip. Although prospects seemed numerous, Delfonso saw nothing to catch his eye. He ordered luan to keep driving.

  They swung west, moving slowly along Fisherman's Wharf, even at this hour still flush with tourists. He saw a few possibilities, but nothing that urged him to stop the car and "invite" one in. Some of them, on some other night, might have tempted him—but not tonight. Tonight, he had decided, he would need a real sinner, someone truly deserving of the fate he had in store for them. A fallen and disgraced soul that Delfonso might raise to momentary glory before doing them in.

  He dropped the screen a few inches. "luan!" he ordered sharply. "Take us to the Tenderloin."

  A few minutes later found the black limousine prowling that part of San Francisco long known as the Tenderloin. Searching carefully, they worked their way back and forth across the face of Lower Nob Hill, tracing the one-way streets back and forth. First Post, then Geary, Eddy, and Ellis, working their way downhill, deeper and deeper into the seediest part of the city. The type of woman Delfonso looked for—a prostitute—was plentiful, as were drug pushers, addicts, thieves, and others. But to take a working prostitute right off the streets might lead to trouble. He would have to make a deal with the local pimp, the vampire in charge of run­ning the Tenderloin, an Irishman named Sullivan.

  They finally located Sullivan down on O'Farrell Street, near the gaudy and tasteless Mitchell Brothers Adult Theater. The vampire leaned against the wall of the building, partially lit by the glow of the neon sign. His pale skin stood out in the darkness, exaggerated by his Levi's, dark shirt, and pea-jacket, and the knit watch cap he habitually wore.

  Sullivan spotted the limo as it pulled near, and stood up straight, watching its approach.

  Juan parked the Continental at the curb, and Sullivan, unbidden, approached, glancing up and down the street as he drew near. Delfonso powered down the rear window, and the screen separating him from Juan and Domingo, as well.

  "What do you want?" said Sullivan, charmlessly, leaning through the rear window. Once a sailor out of Massachusetts, his thirty-year-old face was rough and lined. Badly trimmed red hair stuck out from under his cap, and his beard, also red, was short and stubbly.

  Domingo turned sharply around in his seat. "Hey, gringo! Have some respect, you know? My man here is no street punk, eh?"

  Sullivan shot Domingo a glance that might have killed, but Domingo didn't bat an eye.

  There was no love lost between these two; Delfonso moved to interrupt.

  "Now, now, there's no need of all this. After all, Domingo, we are in Mr. Sullivan's territory and we should behave as proper guests."

  Domingo never took his eyes off Sullivan, but he said no more.

  "Mr. Sullivan?" Delfonso said.

  Sullivan looked back toward Delfonso, ignoring Domingo still boring holes into him with mean, slit-ted eyes.

  "We would like to make a purchase tonight."

  This had happened before. Sullivan knew what the old vampire wanted.

  "How much you lookin' to spend?"

  "About a thousand dollars, I would think."

  "That's not very much. I don't even know if I got anything that cheap," said Sullivan.

  "I don't require quality," Delfonso explained, smiling. In fact, the lower the quality, the better."

  Sullivan hesitated—looked up and down the street again.

  "No. Not for a grand," he finally said. "You're asking me to take a perfectly good whore off the street— permanently. Even the worst of the junkies can turn in that much in three or four days."

  "How about twelve-fifty?" offered Delfonso.

  "Make it fifteen," countered Sullivan.

  "Fourteen hundred?" asked the Spaniard.

  "Deal." Sullivan stuck out his hand.

  "Pay the man, Domingo," said Delfonso.

  "Now," he asked, "who is it we are looking for?"

  Domingo fished out a handful of wrinkled bills, counted out the proper amount, and stuffed it in Sullivan's hands. "he Irishman, fanning the bills, made a quick count then shoved them in the front pocket of his jeans.

  "Her name is Christy," Sullivan said. "Or Christine. I

  et. Anyway, bleached blonde hair, kinda frizzed.

  Seal skinny. You can spot her for a junkie a block

  away. She should be working down around Turk or

  ien Gate somewhere. Just prowl around down

  there. You won't miss her."

  "Thank you, my good man," smiled Delfonso. "A pleasure doing business with you, I'm sure."

  Sullivan grunted something affirmative and stood back up. Juan waited for a break in traffic then pulled smoothly away, leaving the tall, lean Irishman stand­ing on the sidewalk.

  Down on Turk they were in the darkest and lowest part of the Tenderloin. Sandwiched between housing projects and the ornate, expansive Civic Center Plaza, the area was roamed by the worst elements of the city—veritable predators and prey. Pondering this, Delfonso found he did not like the comparison with himself and his busi­ness here. But his was a different mission than that of some others. Tonight he would save a soul, perhaps.

  They spotted Christine on the corner of Turk and Polk—as Sullivan had said, from nearly a block away. Thin to the point of emaciation, she watched warily as the lone, black limousine rolled toward her down the street. When it stopped in front of her and the rear door opened, she sauntered over, doing the best she could to wiggle what little hips she had left.

  "What can I do for you, mister," she piped, trying to sound casual, seductive.

  "Step in," said Delfonso, his eyes glowing a bright red from the darkne
ss within.

  Without a word the hapless woman stepped into the limo. Now under the power of the vampire, her will was no longer her own.

  At the last moment Delfonso decided they would go for a drive rather than go straight back home to the fate awaiting Christine in the secret underground chamber. "Take us through the park, luan," he asked. "I feel like a moonlight drive."

  Indeed, the moon had risen throughout the evening, up over the Bay to stand at almost zenith in the sky above. Nearly full, its cold, pale light shone down on the city, glowing off the fog rolling in from the Pacific.

  luan's route through Golden Gate Park carried them past the glass-paneled Conservatory and the California Academy of Sciences building built in I9I6. Nearby stood the old Music Pavilion, one of the few remnants of San Francisco's Mid-Winter Exposition of I894. Delfonso had spent many a lovely evening at that fair, more often than not in the company of a lovely young lady or two. In those day he had made the perfect escort: sophisticated, charming, elegant, European, and completely honorable. Never once in all those years, Delfonso thought with a smile, did anyone ever accuse him of attempting liberties with a lady. No, the sort of liberties that Delfonso took were with ladies of an entirely different caste; and they were the sort of liberties that few of his Nob Hill friends would ever guess.

  "Do you see, dear," Delfonso asked, pointing out the window as they passed. "I once listened to night­time concerts at that Pavilion, enraptured by the music, with the beautiful Emma Flood on my arm. Yes, those were wonderful evenings. And here . . . here stood the Tower of Electricity with its thousand lights and bright beacon on the top. Electricity was a new and marvelous invention in those days, you know."

  Christine did not respond. She sat silent, stupe­fied, in her seat.

  "I'm sorry, my dear," he apologized. "I chatter on when you're not really in the mood for talk. I apologize."

  He studied the woman's face, silhouetted by moonlight. Although her skin was coarse and pocked from drug abuse, her features were finely made, and delicate. She had blue eyes much like Emma Flood's, although a bit cloudy. Her forearms were covered with needle scars.

  "Perhaps some fresh ocean air will restore your spirits," he said, cheerfully. "]uan?" He dropped the screen a couple inches. "To Ocean Beach please. The lady wishes a drive along the water."

  Christine, sitting motionless, said nothing.

  The limo wound its way through the park, past ornamental lakes, cultivated gardens, and stands of exotic flora: Australian tree ferns, rhododendron, eucalyptus. At the end of the park they swung out onto the Great Highway and began coasting south, along the broad, gray expanse of Ocean Beach. The wind, as usual, blew in from the sea, the fog bank ris­ing from the waters to drift over the western portions of the city, shrouding it in damp, gray cloud. The breakers rolled up to shore, the surf pounding the beach. Behind them, the Cliff House stood brightly lit atop the bluff overlooking Seal Rock.

  "I have a fondness for the salt air," Delfonso told Christine. "It reminds me of times long ago."

  Christine again said nothing.

  For a time they road in silence, Delfonso gazing out the window wistfully, Christine silent. Delfonso ordered ]uan up Twin Peaks Boulevard, running along the city's three central mountains. From this vantage point the city's distant spires and towers sparkled as though dressed in thousands of jewels: a veritable Oz on the water.

  "A city of light and life," Delfonso observed. "So much life."

  "You know," he said, turning toward the still-silent Christine. "Years ago they dug up all the cemeteries in the city. They moved all the dead out of town in order to make more room for the living. All my old friends, kicked out like so many vagrants. What do you think of that?"

  Christine didn't respond.

  "They live in Colma, now—south of the city." The small town of Colma, in the center of the peninsula, is home to San Francisco's dead. Thousands of acres are covered by numerous ceme­teries—Russian, Chinese, Catholic, Jewish, and oth­ers. The few living residents of Colma community are employed caring for these cemeteries. It was to Colma the limousine now headed. Delfonso had decided to pay his old friends a visit.

  Parked at the entrance to Wood Glen Cemetery, Delfonso told Domingo and Juan to wait with the car while he and Christine wandered out into the well-groomed graveyard on foot. The moon was now past overhead, sinking slowly toward the ocean hidden beyond the ridge of the Santa Cruz Mountains run­ning along the coast. Over these mountains the ocean fog crept slowly inland—ghostly, ragged fingers pour­ing slowly down the slopes.

  "Look," he said, gesturing with his arm at the acres of tombstones glistening white under the bright moonlight. "Here lie the fairest of the city's fair, the greatest of its great!"

  Pulling the unresisting Christine along by the arm they walked along the rows of endless graves, Delfonso reading names aloud, telling her their sto­ries, their triumphs, and defeats.

  "Here's a Crocker grave," he said. "You remember Charles Crocker, don't you? One of the Big Four rail­road tycoons? He built the huge mansion on Nob Hill near the Hopkinses and Stanfords '

  Christine showed no sign of recognition.

  "Certainly you can't forget the famous Crocker spite fence?" he asked.

  Crocker had tried to buy the entire block but one stubborn homeowner refused to sell the modest home he'd built on the corner of the lot. Crocker went ahead and built his mansion anyway, then, in an attempt to force the poor man to move, constructed a thirty-foot-high fence of concrete surrounding the shabby little home, virtually shutting out all the man's windows save those facing the street.

  "Crocker never was one to take 'No' for an answer," Delfonso chuckled.

  "And here's Barnard's tomb," Delfonso cried, half-dragging the girl toward a white-marble mausoleum set atop a slight rise. "One of the city's shining exam­ples of civic responsibility—at least until he got caught in bed with a wife other than his own," Delfonso chuckled. "Shot dead by a jealous husband, but nothing that would keep San Francisco from throwing him one of the best funeral parades ever."

  And so it went on, Delfonso half-escorting, half-pulling the bewildered woman through the moonlit cemetery, pointing out names familiar to him, some he'd even forgotten until now.

  A tombstone made him pause. He read the name aloud: "Flood. The Bonanza King."

  lames Flood and his three partners—McKay, Fair, and O'Brien—had early on cornered the Nevada silver mines and cashed in big on the Comstock Lode. His mansion, of Italianate design and built of brown-stone, still stands on the corner of California and Mason Streets, the only millionaire's edifice to survive the fire of I906.

  Gazing on the name carved in marble, Delfonso was again reminded of those grand and wonderful days living in the Palace Hotel: the potted palms, the uniformed help, the grand restaurant in the court.

  He looked at the girl next to him staring without comprehension at the tombstone. No longer did he see the emaciated prostitute he had picked up on the streets. He saw instead Emma Flood, the silver baron's beautiful, young niece from Sacramento. Young, vivacious, Emma had been a favorite of Delfonso's, and he one of hers.

  A sudden thought struck him.

  "Mademoiselle?" he asked coyly. "Would you honor me with the next dance?" He made a slight bow in Christine's direction.

  Not bothering to wait for an answer, the vampire lifted Christine's arms and, humming Strauss, began waltzing the woman across the cemetery, their forms spinning lightly under the cold and silky moonlight.

  Faster and faster they whirled, Delfonso's voice lifted in song, ringing across the deserted cemetery. As they danced, the tombs and grave stones melted away, becoming the white-linen-draped tables of the Palace Ballroom during the Friday night Cotillion. Crowds watched from the sidelines as Delfonso and the lovely Emma Flood tripped lightly across the floor. Other dancers gave way, retiring to the sidelines to watch, relinquishing the entire dance floor to the lovely couple. Emma laughed gaily, giddy from the
dance, and Delfonso caught the envious looks cast at him by the younger men attending the ball. Let them envy us, he thought. Smiling widely he spun the light-footed Emma through a series of fast spins that left the gaping crowd speechless. They then applauded while Delfonso and Emma beamed back at them, radiant in the moment.

  At the end of the song, to the sounds of more applause, Delfonso politely bowed to the young woman.

  "Perhaps you should return to your beau," he said. "I think we have made him a bit jealous. Perhaps you should put his fears to rest..."

  Emma said nothing—only smiled then turned and walked away, back to the young men waiting impa­tiently on the sidelines.

  Delfonso sat down on the nearest chair, resting, looking over the faces of the crowd. He could see them all clearly: the friends, the rivals, even a few that had eventually fallen to Delfonso's Hunger. They were all here.

  The sound of a woman's scream shook him awake. The crowds of people melted away into nothing, the tables and chairs became tombstones once again. A second scream—suddenly choked off—brought him to his feet. Alert, he realized he'd been lost in a daydream.

  Up the rise, a short distance off, stood the limou­sine. Two dark figures—Juan and Domingo—huddled nearby. Shocked, Delfonso could see them sharing the corpse of Christine in feast.

  "Stop!" he shouted, sprinting back to the limo. "God! Don't do that!"

  But it was too late.Xhristine was dead, already a good portion of her blood drained away, luan had jumped up at the sound of Delfonso's voice, but Domingo remained where he was, crouched over the corpse.

  "We thought you gave her to us," the Mexican said. "You sent her over to us."

  Regaining his composure, Delfonso realized Domingo was right.

  "Yes, yes, of course," he corrected himself. "By all means ..."

  The two immediately fell back upon the corpse.

  Delfonso chose not to watch, instead waiting patiently in the backseat of the car for the two to fin­ish their meal. A few minutes later luan and Domingo got back in.

  "Where to, sir?" luan asked.