rest of the complex was fenceless. Foot traffic could get in, but cars couldn’t. Seemed sort of half-assed. If you’re going to gate a place, then gate it.
And here, there was foot traffic aplenty. Teenagers lounged in groups of three or four. They did most of their lounging around an old Mustang fastback, which, when you looked at it sideways, seemed to be lounging as well. Grown men lounged in front of their apartments, or on their narrow, feeble-looking decks. Two kids on trikes lounged near the main entrance into the complex. An old woman watched me from a chair, a wooden cane in her hands. Come to think of it, she was lounging, too. Exactly half of all males within eyeshot, from the very youngest to the very oldest, were shirtless.
The apartment complex boasted a network of catwalks, wobbly-looking railings, and stone pebble stairs with chunks missing. This was, I was certain, an insurance company’s worst nightmare.
There was a general shift in attention and body language as I moved through the parking lot. The closest group of teens seemed too young to be trouble, but not too young to be crude. I heard “MILF” and “booty” and “dat ass” as I moved past them, and, for some reason, I was grinning all the way up the ramshackle stairway of doom.
Somehow, I made it up without plunging through a step, or careening off a broken rail. Up here it was a bit livelier. The smell of barbeque and beans and curry filled the air. Cigarette smoke, too. And weed. And meth. Kids riding on plastic toys, moms talking out front, laughter and TV. Someone shouted from the far side of the complex. Someone shouted back. Human beings are weird.
I counted down the apartment numbers, moving past a little Hispanic girl standing out in front of an open door, chocolate on her face, eyes round and distant. I smiled, she didn’t. At the door in question, I rapped loudly enough to be heard by just about all in the complex. There seemed, if I was correct, to be a general hum in the air, and it wasn’t because a vampire was among them. Something seemed to be going on. People were on edge, lively, talkative, connecting. Perhaps more so than usual here in the complex? I didn’t know.
The door opened and a cute woman in her thirties appeared in the shadow. Correction. Not very cute, once I saw past the shadows and into the haunted eyes, the scars, the acne, the paleness.
“Police?” she said.
“No.”
“Come in.”
Chapter Eighteen
She didn’t offer me a seat, which was fine. The place was filthy, the broken couch was stained, and the single chair pushed under the dining table looked questionable. Yeah, I was good.
“You’re here about Luke.”
“I am.”
“The cops were just here.”
Ah, I thought. That explained the nervous buzz in the complex. There were a lot of drug dealers, drug addicts, hookers and petty criminals breathing a sigh of relief.
She picked up a broken, stained, half-finished cigarette, lit it with a match that seemingly came out of nowhere, and inhaled on it. Waste not, want not. She said, “You look like a cop.”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Whatever. Why are you here?”
“My case might overlap your son’s case.”
“Stupid fucking kid.”
“Missing kid. Alone kid. Scared kid.”
“Whatever. He got himself into this shit, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to worry about him another second.”
“That’ll show him,” I said.
But she wasn’t really listening to me. She was sucking on the filthy cigarette that may or not have been found in a street gutter, and looking blankly into the far corner of her apartment. I wonder if she knew the sheer amount of spirit energy collecting in that very same corner. My guess, three or four spirits were vying for space. One was a new spirit, a young man wearing, big surprise, a wife beater. There was a bullet hole in one of his eyes, and a bigger hole in the back of his head where the bullet had exited. The other three were
And here, there was foot traffic aplenty. Teenagers lounged in groups of three or four. They did most of their lounging around an old Mustang fastback, which, when you looked at it sideways, seemed to be lounging as well. Grown men lounged in front of their apartments, or on their narrow, feeble-looking decks. Two kids on trikes lounged near the main entrance into the complex. An old woman watched me from a chair, a wooden cane in her hands. Come to think of it, she was lounging, too. Exactly half of all males within eyeshot, from the very youngest to the very oldest, were shirtless.
The apartment complex boasted a network of catwalks, wobbly-looking railings, and stone pebble stairs with chunks missing. This was, I was certain, an insurance company’s worst nightmare.
There was a general shift in attention and body language as I moved through the parking lot. The closest group of teens seemed too young to be trouble, but not too young to be crude. I heard “MILF” and “booty” and “dat ass” as I moved past them, and, for some reason, I was grinning all the way up the ramshackle stairway of doom.
Somehow, I made it up without plunging through a step, or careening off a broken rail. Up here it was a bit livelier. The smell of barbeque and beans and curry filled the air. Cigarette smoke, too. And weed. And meth. Kids riding on plastic toys, moms talking out front, laughter and TV. Someone shouted from the far side of the complex. Someone shouted back. Human beings are weird.
I counted down the apartment numbers, moving past a little Hispanic girl standing out in front of an open door, chocolate on her face, eyes round and distant. I smiled, she didn’t. At the door in question, I rapped loudly enough to be heard by just about all in the complex. There seemed, if I was correct, to be a general hum in the air, and it wasn’t because a vampire was among them. Something seemed to be going on. People were on edge, lively, talkative, connecting. Perhaps more so than usual here in the complex? I didn’t know.
The door opened and a cute woman in her thirties appeared in the shadow. Correction. Not very cute, once I saw past the shadows and into the haunted eyes, the scars, the acne, the paleness.
“Police?” she said.
“No.”
“Come in.”
Chapter Eighteen
She didn’t offer me a seat, which was fine. The place was filthy, the broken couch was stained, and the single chair pushed under the dining table looked questionable. Yeah, I was good.
“You’re here about Luke.”
“I am.”
“The cops were just here.”
Ah, I thought. That explained the nervous buzz in the complex. There were a lot of drug dealers, drug addicts, hookers and petty criminals breathing a sigh of relief.
She picked up a broken, stained, half-finished cigarette, lit it with a match that seemingly came out of nowhere, and inhaled on it. Waste not, want not. She said, “You look like a cop.”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Whatever. Why are you here?”
“My case might overlap your son’s case.”
“Stupid fucking kid.”
“Missing kid. Alone kid. Scared kid.”
“Whatever. He got himself into this shit, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to worry about him another second.”
“That’ll show him,” I said.
But she wasn’t really listening to me. She was sucking on the filthy cigarette that may or not have been found in a street gutter, and looking blankly into the far corner of her apartment. I wonder if she knew the sheer amount of spirit energy collecting in that very same corner. My guess, three or four spirits were vying for space. One was a new spirit, a young man wearing, big surprise, a wife beater. There was a bullet hole in one of his eyes, and a bigger hole in the back of his head where the bullet had exited. The other three were
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