don’t have the fare I need?’
‘No, ma’am, we don’t.’
She slipped off her stool and stood up. Relief poured out of Mom like sweat.
R.D., the trucker, reached out for the viper’s slender, bare arm, for a reason I doubt he could explain. He was a big man, not slow on the draw. However, when his fingers got to where the girl had been when his brain sparked the impulse to touch, she was somewhere else.
‘Touchy,’ commented R.D.
‘No offence,’ she said.
‘I’ve got the fare you need,’ said the trucker, standing up. He scratched his throat through beard.
‘I’m not that thirsty.’
‘A man might take that unkindly.’
‘If you know such a man, give him my condolences.’
‘R.D.,’ said Mom. ‘Take this outside. I don’t want my place busted up.’
‘I’m leaving,’ said R.D., dropping dollars by his coffee cup and cleaned plate. ‘I’ll be honoured to see you in the parking lot, Missy Touchy.’
‘My name is Geneviève,’ she said, ‘accent grave on the third e.’
R.D. put on his cowboy hat. The viper darted close to him and lightning-touched his forehead. The effect was something like the Vulcan nerve pinch. The light in his eyes went out. She deftly sat him down at a table, like a floppy rag doll. A yellow toy duck squirted out of the top pocket of his denim jacket and thumped against a plastic ketchup tomato in an unheard of mating ritual.
‘I am sorry,’ she said to the room. ‘I have been driving for a long time and could not face having to cripple this man. I hope you will explain this to him when he wakes up. He’ll ache for a few days, but an icepack will help.’
Mom nodded. Pop had his hands out of sight, presumably on a shotgun or a baseball bat.
‘For whatever offence my kind has given you in the past, you have my apologies. One thing, though: your sign — the word “viper”. I hear it more and more as I travel west, and it strikes me as insulting. “No Vampire Fare on Offer” will convey your message, without provoking less gentle vipers than myself.’
She looked mock-sternly at the couple, with a hint of fang. Pop pulled his hold-out pacifier and I tensed, expecting fireworks. He raised a gaudy Day of the Dead crucifix on a lamp-flex, a glowing-eyed Christ crowned by thorny lightbulbs.
‘Hello, Jesus,’ said Geneviève, then added, to Pop, ‘Sorry, sir, but I’m not that kind of girl.’
She did the fast-flit thing again and was at the door.
‘Aren’t you going to take your trophy?’ I asked.
She turned, seeing me for the first time, and lowered her glasses. Green-red eyes like neons. I could see why she kept on the lens caps. Otherwise, she’d pick up a train of mesmerised conquests.
I held up the toy and squeezed. It gave a quack.
‘Rubber Duck,’ said Mom, with reverence. ‘That’s his CB handle.’
‘He’ll need new initials,’ I said.
I flew the duck across the room and Geneviève took it out of the air, an angel in the outfield. She made it quack, experimentally. When she laughed, she looked the way Racquel ought to have looked. Not just innocent, but solemn and funny at the same time.
R.D. began moaning in his sleep.
‘May I walk you to your car?’ I asked.
She thought a moment, sizing me up as a potential geriatric Duckman, and made a snap decision in my favour, the most encouragement I’d had since Kennedy was in the White House.
I made it across the diner to her without collapsing.
* * *
I had never had a conversation with a vampire before. She told me straight off she was over 550 years old. She had lived in the human world for hundreds of years before Dracula changed the rules. From her face, I’d have believed her if she said she was born under the shadow of Sputnik and that her ambition was to become one of Roger Vadim’s ex-wives.
We stood on Main Street, where her fire-engine-red Plymouth Fury was parked by my Chrysler. The few stores and homes in sight were shuttered up tight, as if an air raid was
‘No, ma’am, we don’t.’
She slipped off her stool and stood up. Relief poured out of Mom like sweat.
R.D., the trucker, reached out for the viper’s slender, bare arm, for a reason I doubt he could explain. He was a big man, not slow on the draw. However, when his fingers got to where the girl had been when his brain sparked the impulse to touch, she was somewhere else.
‘Touchy,’ commented R.D.
‘No offence,’ she said.
‘I’ve got the fare you need,’ said the trucker, standing up. He scratched his throat through beard.
‘I’m not that thirsty.’
‘A man might take that unkindly.’
‘If you know such a man, give him my condolences.’
‘R.D.,’ said Mom. ‘Take this outside. I don’t want my place busted up.’
‘I’m leaving,’ said R.D., dropping dollars by his coffee cup and cleaned plate. ‘I’ll be honoured to see you in the parking lot, Missy Touchy.’
‘My name is Geneviève,’ she said, ‘accent grave on the third e.’
R.D. put on his cowboy hat. The viper darted close to him and lightning-touched his forehead. The effect was something like the Vulcan nerve pinch. The light in his eyes went out. She deftly sat him down at a table, like a floppy rag doll. A yellow toy duck squirted out of the top pocket of his denim jacket and thumped against a plastic ketchup tomato in an unheard of mating ritual.
‘I am sorry,’ she said to the room. ‘I have been driving for a long time and could not face having to cripple this man. I hope you will explain this to him when he wakes up. He’ll ache for a few days, but an icepack will help.’
Mom nodded. Pop had his hands out of sight, presumably on a shotgun or a baseball bat.
‘For whatever offence my kind has given you in the past, you have my apologies. One thing, though: your sign — the word “viper”. I hear it more and more as I travel west, and it strikes me as insulting. “No Vampire Fare on Offer” will convey your message, without provoking less gentle vipers than myself.’
She looked mock-sternly at the couple, with a hint of fang. Pop pulled his hold-out pacifier and I tensed, expecting fireworks. He raised a gaudy Day of the Dead crucifix on a lamp-flex, a glowing-eyed Christ crowned by thorny lightbulbs.
‘Hello, Jesus,’ said Geneviève, then added, to Pop, ‘Sorry, sir, but I’m not that kind of girl.’
She did the fast-flit thing again and was at the door.
‘Aren’t you going to take your trophy?’ I asked.
She turned, seeing me for the first time, and lowered her glasses. Green-red eyes like neons. I could see why she kept on the lens caps. Otherwise, she’d pick up a train of mesmerised conquests.
I held up the toy and squeezed. It gave a quack.
‘Rubber Duck,’ said Mom, with reverence. ‘That’s his CB handle.’
‘He’ll need new initials,’ I said.
I flew the duck across the room and Geneviève took it out of the air, an angel in the outfield. She made it quack, experimentally. When she laughed, she looked the way Racquel ought to have looked. Not just innocent, but solemn and funny at the same time.
R.D. began moaning in his sleep.
‘May I walk you to your car?’ I asked.
She thought a moment, sizing me up as a potential geriatric Duckman, and made a snap decision in my favour, the most encouragement I’d had since Kennedy was in the White House.
I made it across the diner to her without collapsing.
* * *
I had never had a conversation with a vampire before. She told me straight off she was over 550 years old. She had lived in the human world for hundreds of years before Dracula changed the rules. From her face, I’d have believed her if she said she was born under the shadow of Sputnik and that her ambition was to become one of Roger Vadim’s ex-wives.
We stood on Main Street, where her fire-engine-red Plymouth Fury was parked by my Chrysler. The few stores and homes in sight were shuttered up tight, as if an air raid was
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