He began to play and sing, but no one joined him. Undiscouraged, he tried to feed us the lines quickly before he played them. I mouthed a little, and the drunk at the bar followed us both by four muddled lines. If the old duck at the piano played another song, I was going to go to the bathroom, but he didn’t. Instead, he thanked us all again and said, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting for, the man who can scare you and tickle you to death at the same time, our own Doctor Vampire, Simon Derrida.”
He played “Hall of the Mountain King” to applause from the drunk, and the last Dark Knight walked out on the platform, complete with the costume he had worn at the meeting. He couldn’t cover his New York accent, though he tried and came up with an awful combination of Bela Lugosi and the Bronx.
“Good evening,” he said. “It’s good to see some fresh blood in the club. I’m going to give you some stories in a new vein. My friends, do you know what is worse than a werewolf who had to get rabies shots? A vampire who has to get braces.” The drunk burped.
“And,” Derrida went on with a flourishing of his cape (he looked more like a dry pear than a vampire), “do you know why the vampire walked around in his pajamas? He didn’t have a batrobe. Quick, what has one wheel and gets twenty miles to the gallon of plasma? A vampire on a unicycle. Or tell me what the first building is that Dracula visits when he goes to New York? The Vampire State Building.”
No one was laughing. Nobody but the drunk and me were really listening. I had a fixed smile, and Derrida started to play to me, which forced me to pay attention and fake a laugh. He didn’t seem to recognize me from the Dark Knights meeting. My hope was that his act was short or that he would be discouraged by the lack of response, but he just plowed on even when he asked, “What do vampires hate to have for dinner?” and the drunk answered, “T-bone stakes.” Derrida simply ignored him and delivered the line again.
“Why don’t you like Count Dracula?” Derrida asked an imaginary character at his side. Then he moved over, raised his voice and answered, “Because he’s a pain in the neck.”
I squirmed through, “Why did the man think Dracula had a cold? Because the vampire told him he kept a coffin,” and “What do you get if you cross a vampire with a brontosaurus? A monster that sleeps in the biggest coffin you ever saw.” Then I had a simulated coughing fit that sent me to the men’s room, which was small, dirty, and without toilet paper, but at least I didn’t have to bear the pain of being Simon Derrida’s sole emotional support. The burden was too much.
I stayed in the toilet till I heard about three people clapping, which could mean only that Derrida was done. I hurried out and ducked behind the curtain. “Just a second,” he said and stepped out for more applause. The drunk and the hustler applauded and Derrida came “backstage,” which was just big enough to hold us.
“Great show,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Derrida smiled, “It did go pretty well, didn’t it? Not a bad audience for a weekday.”
We went back to my table, completely ignored, while the old guy at the piano played “Always.”
“I’ll have a double scotch,” Derrida shouted to the bartender.
“Another beer for me,” I added. “I know you from somewhere,” Derrida said, looking at me.
“Dark Knights,” I said. “I was there with Lugosi.”
“Inspiring man,” Derrida said solemnly. “Gave me lots of ideas for new material just looking at him. I’m getting my imitation down perfect. What do you think?”
“Uncanny,” I said.
“So,” he said, sitting back and throwing his cape over the chair, “you found me out. It was bound to happen. Hell, you expect that kind of thing in show business. Heartaches, disaster. You gotta learn to live with it. I got enough material out of them, anyway.”
“You mean,” I said as the bartender plopped the drinks on the table and stood waiting for his pay, “that you don’t believe in the Dark Knights?”
“Use ‘em for material, that’s all. Too bad you happened to come in tonight. I could have gotten a little more out of them.”
That made everyone in the Dark Knights except Sam Billings a fraud. A fang overbite and no true friends.
“I didn’t just happen in here,” I said. “I was looking for you.” I told him my tale.
“You think I was putting the bite on Lugosi?” he said. “Get that joke?”
“I got it,” I said, gulping my beer. “I considered it, but I think you’re off my list.”
“Why?” he said. “Say, I can be scary too, not just funny if I want to be, buddy.”
“I can see that,” I said, “but you’re a trooper. A professional. You wouldn’t stiff another professional.”
That worked.
“Right,” he said seriously, finishing his drink. “Say, I wish I could help you but I’ve got nothing going. Why don’t you stay around for the second show? I have new material for part of it.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow. By the way, I don’t plan to turn you in to Billings. I think he needs you more than you need him.”
“I don’t get you, pal,” Derrida said.
“Skip it,” I said and headed for the door.
The drunk waved. The bartender read a book. The red-head talked, and the old guy at the piano tinkled. I walked out the door and headed for my car.
The sound of screeching rubber came from the parking lot of the rival tavern across the street. I paid no attention and kept on walking till I realized that the car had crossed the street and was coming down the sidewalk right behind me. I faked a move to the wall and took a dive toward the street, feeling the pull in my knee. The car swerved and passed me, and a bullet chunked a piece of street near my face. There were two figures in the Ford. I couldn’t see the driver, but the guy in the passenger seat was my attacker from the library.
I waited to see whether they were going to make another try, and sure enough I heard the car turning down the street and saw its lights. Fear was gone. I was hit with anger. Someone was trying to kill me, and they were going to keep at it till it worked unless I did something about it. Now seemed a good time to do something. I rolled into the shadow next to the car I had dived over and wormed my way to my Buick while the Ford eased forward, looking for me. I crawled to the sidewalk side, opened the door as little as I could, slid in, and started the engine as soon as the Ford pulled past. I got into the street with a tear of rubber and put on my bright lights. I could see the two figures ahead of me and they realized now I was behind them. It was a time for madness, and I sped forward, ramming into the rear of the Ford, sending it jerking ahead and snapping the heads of the two guys in the front seat.
The hell with my Buick. It was a discardable weapon now, and I meant to use it. The driver of the Ford decided to wait for a better day and stepped on the gas, but I had no intention of giving him a better day. The night was mine and I meant to have it.
I chased them through Burbank and into the hills. Not a cop showed up to stop us, and that was fine with me. We went through Griffith Park and far beyond. We ran red lights and missed pedestrians. The only thing that was going to stop me was a bullet or an empty gas tank.
Then I lost them. I cursed the car, my brother, my stupidity, and fate. I didn’t even know where we were. I knew it was a poorly lighted street with small apartments. I drove slowly down the street, watching and listening. Nothing. Then I heard a car backfire or a shot and went around the block, where I spotted the Ford under a street lamp. Its doors were open. No one was in sight.
I drove next to the car and got out. Instead of going to the Ford, I went to the trunk and got out my tire iron. The Ford was empty, but in the light from the lamp I could see blood, a lot of blood on the seat, particularly the passenger side. There was a dark trail leading from the Ford. I began to follow it, tire iron in hand. The moon was full above, and I began to regain my sense of self-preservation and fear, but I followed the trail of blood to an apartment house door. Then it hit me. I thought I was having one of those feelings where you think you’ve been someplace you’ve never been, but I’d been here. I’d been here in the daytime and talked to a janitor named Rouse.