Never Cross a Vampire by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

didn’t decide,” I said, following him to the door. “It just happened.”
    Wong walked at my side through the restaurant and out the front door.
    â€œIf I can be of further assistance,” he said, “please feel free to return.”
    I thanked him and turned. The parking lot was not quite as full as it had been, and there was no one in sight when I reached my car door. The sky suddenly went dark or a shadow went over the sun. At least that was my impression. I looked up to see which it was. What I saw should have moved me into action, but it didn’t. It simply froze me on the spot. On top of my Buick stood a caped figure in black. It leaped at me, swinging some object in its hand. My body finally reacted, dropped flat, and rolled away, taking only part of the blow from the object on my retreating head. The dark figure turned to try again, and I covered my face and head with my arm as I rolled away on the gravel parking lot.
    â€œNosferatu,” came Wilson Wong’s familiar voice, and the black-caped figure turned to face him. The guy in the cape swung his shiny club at the Chinese professor, who dropped to the ground and threw a well-timed kick at the back of the leg of our daylight vampire. The guy lost his balance and his club, righted himself before he hit the gravel, and ran out into the street with billowing cape.
    â€œAre you all right Mr. Peters?” Wong said, sitting up, his suit a mess.
    â€œI think so,” I replied, joining him and touching my bleeding scalp. “Was that judo?”
    â€œNo,” said Wong, helping me up. “I was on the wrestling team at USC. A simple leg drop. But the years have eluded me. I was lucky. We’d best get you to a doctor.”
    I touched my head, trying to assess the degree of damage from years of experience. Koko the Clown was perched on my shoulder, ready to take me into the inkwell if I passed out, but I silently told him he’d have to wait, that we’d play some other time.
    â€œI think I’ll be all right,” I said. “I just need some water and a bandage and a place to clean up a little.”
    Wong led me back through the restaurant, past now-curious customers, and helped me clean up. The waiter gave us a hand and found some cloth for a bandage. A shot of something alcoholic offered by one of them sent a bolt through me, threatened nausea, and then gave me the power to move.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    â€œWhoever that was, he lacked true style,” Wong said.
    â€œBut he was effective,” I added.
    â€œYes,” said Wong. “It appears as if Mr. Lugosi is in some danger.”
    I made it back to my car without further problems, fished my .38 and holster out, and clutched them to my bosom. A sudden chill ran through me, and I turned quickly, thinking someone was breathing down my back from the rear seat. It was empty. I locked the doors and eased into the street, looking for dark Fords and darker strangers.
    I made it back to the theater by 4:30. Nate was eating Jujubees and David was wiping tears from his eyes.
    â€œHi, kids, how was the show?”
    â€œGreat,” said Nate, scrambling into the back seat.
    â€œI got scared,” said Dave, moving next to me, “and Nate the Great wouldn’t take me out.”
    Nate reached over to hit his brother on the head.
    â€œCut it out,” I said. “If you guys want to do this again with me, cut it out. Okay?”
    â€œOkay,” they agreed.
    Dave wiped tears from his red face and looked at my bandaged head with curiosity.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” he said.
    â€œNazis,” I said. “I had to kill them.”
    â€œHow many?” Dave said, with his mouth open.
    â€œThirty-one,” I said.
    â€œHe’s kidding you, dope,” Nate said from the back seat, popping a handful of candy in his mouth and turning to watch a fire engine through the rear window.
    I got them back home at five and