Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales by J. R. Rain Page A

Eye a shiner.”
    “I did. Gladly.”
    “He’s going to have to save face.”
    “He will,” I said.
    “He’ll be coming for you, too.”
    “I would be disappointed if he didn’t.”
    “You look terrified,” said Sanchez.
    I drank more beer, watched Nick and Ishi both literally miss the dart board. They might have been the world’s best looters, but they sucked at bar games. I yawned and said to Sanchez, “What was the question again?”
    “Wasn’t a question, and never mind. So, what about the girl?”
    “I know a lady,” I said. “Runs a shelter for abused women. She’ll help her start over somewhere.”
    “She’ll probably just go back to him or someone like him.”
    “Probably,” I said.
    “But you’re hopeful she’ll turn her life around,” said Sanchez.
    “With infinite disappointment,” I said, “comes infinite hope.”
    Sanchez looked at me. “Martin Luther King?”
    “Duh,” I said.
    “So where is she now?”
    “With Sam, for now.”
    “Samantha Moon?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I like her.”
    “So do I.”
    “But she scares me.”
    “Me too,” I said.
    “She’ll be safe with Sam,” said Sanchez.
    I nodded. And while the singers paraded across the karaoke stage, and while Nick and Ishi and Monty still sucked at darts, and while Jack and Roan killed it at the pool table, and while Max finally pocketed the waitress’ phone number, and while Numi and Spinoza stared off into the far distance, Sanchez and I sat quietly, contemplating hope, disappointment, and another beer.



r. Spinoza?”
    “If ever there was.”
    “Ah, you must be a Robert B. Parker fan?”
    Years ago, I might have bantered with a complete stranger on the phone. Bantering was one of the first of many things to go. Instead, I said, “How can I help you?”
    The man on the other end cleared his throat. Apparently, he’d been expecting a quip worthy of the master himself. No quips for you. “Yes, right… I am interested in securing your services.”
    I waited, saying nothing. While I kept saying nothing, I looked at the framed photo on my desk, a photo I look at a hundred times a day.
    “Are you there, Mr. Spinoza?”
    “I am.”
    “Did you say something about a boy?”
    “I did not.”
    “Right, never mind then.” He cleared his throat. “Although I’m not a rich man, I will pay you twice your going rate if you can meet me tonight.”
    “Meet you where?”
    There was a pause. “Do you enjoy trains, Mr. Spinoza?”
    Something stirred in my gut. I’d learned to trust that something. I took in some air. “I have no opinions on trains, one way or the other.”
    “Good. Now, do you have an opinion on vampires?”

    “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Mr. Spinoza,” said the vampire on the train.
    We were in the lower-level cafe coach, at a table near the register. The cafe wasn’t as exciting as it sounded. It featured a couple of display cases and a bored cashier working an ancient register.
    I nodded and studied the man sitting across from me. Did one call a vampire a man? Or were they
things
? Entities? Monsters? I wasn’t sure, although I had come across my fair share of them.
    The
person
before me certainly didn’t look like a monster. He looked sort of bookworm-y. Nerdy. Someone who could have passed for a friend on
Big Bang Theory
. Roundish glasses. Tweed jacket. Slacks and loafers. No socks. He was, quite frankly, the last person I would’ve ever pegged for a creature of the night.
    I checked the time on my watch. 7:28 p.m. Well after sunset.
    “You haven’t said a word yet, Mr. Spinoza.”
    “It’s been rumored,” I said, “that I don’t talk much.”
    The vampire across from me threw back his head. His laughter was short but explosive. A deep, rich laughter, better suited to a man twice his size. “We all have our idiosyncrasies, Mr. Spinoza. Nothing wrong with being the quiet type—or the shy type. Or both.”
    “Who said anything about being shy?”
    “You