The Undead Kama Sutra by Mario Acevedo
Authors: Mario Acevedo
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Science-Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Horror, Private Investigators, Hard-Boiled, Vampires, Hispanic Americans, Gomez; Felix (Fictitious character), Nymphomania
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pulled her grin into a pearly smile. “I’ll put you on my calendar.”
Chapter
16
H ow to go after Goodman? I could either circle like a shark, moving closer until I knew enough about him to strike. Or I could go straight after him, like a cruise missile.
Why waste time then? Why not go after him directly?
Because, as a vampire, despite my superpowers, I only had to make one mistake. What if Goodman was bait? Who or what protected him? If humans caught me and discovered I was a vampire, the best I could expect was a quick execution by the Araneum. To protect the secrets of the undead, they’d strike to destroy any evidence of a supernatural creature. Felix Gomez would be a pile of ash scattered to the winds.
I’d investigate Goodman by hiding in plain sight. First, I had Deputy Johnson’s money, a hundred and fifty grand in hundred-dollar bills, that wasn’t doing me much good as coldcash. I went to Key West, got my car, and cruised up the Intercoastal Highway to Miami to visit a dozen check-cashing stores and buy money orders. As long as each cash transaction was under ten thousand dollars, I should stay off the government’s radar. I mailed the money orders with deposit slips from my checkbook to my credit union in Denver. Despite an afternoon of stopping in one seedy strip mall after another, I still had a third of the money left. Laundering drug money was tedious work. I converted a bunch of the hundreds into twenties, which were easier to spend.
I made reservations at the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort, where Goodman worked. Fortunately, I had stashed most of Johnson’s money into my bank account. A few days in even the cheapest suite—the hotel had nothing for the budget-minded—would’ve maxed out my credit card. I transferred funds to cover the difference.
I drove straight from Florida through Georgia to South Carolina and arrived at Hilton Head in mid-afternoon. The drive on Highway 278 snaked around the island developments: shopping centers, restaurants, houses, golf courses, and lots of condos. I navigated a traffic circle and pulled up to a guardhouse done in pink stucco.
The guard wore the uniform of a private security firm and he carried a pistol. I told him I had reservations at the hotel. He gave me a onetime in-and-out pass that I had to exchange for a guest pass from the hotel.
The two-lane street curved under a tunnel of live oaks draped with Spanish moss. A bike path ran parallel to thestreet. I drove past more condos, some tennis courts, and plenty of fairways. Hilton Head seemed like one giant golf course where people happened to live. I had to stop twice to let golf carts cross the street. Groundskeepers in teal overalls tended the flower beds and shrubs along the shoulders.
The street looped past a second guardhouse, this one vacant, and turned into a roundabout in front of the hotel entrance. Dozens of tall palms lined the street and sidewalks. Considering its exclusive clientele, the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort looked understated. I expected a gargantuan edifice of Las Vegas proportions that screamed: Look at me.
The main hotel building was only four stories tall, the rows of dark windows flanking a simple portico. Yet the architecture remained thoughtfully constructed. Its pink marble façade curved toward me, as if leaning forward for an expensive hug.
A sign pointed to guest parking on the north side of the building. I entered a parking garage, left my Cadillac on the second level, and dragged my roll-along bags inside.
Once in the hotel, the pretense of austerity stopped. The enormous atrium could’ve been used as a hangar for the space shuttle. The sun’s rays filtered through skylights high above. Terraced gardens with café tables faced the central corridor with its artificial lagoon and schools of koi. Ubiquitous black spheres housing security cameras peeked from the foliage and the corners. Nautical trim and prints of sailing ships decorated the walls and
Chapter
16
H ow to go after Goodman? I could either circle like a shark, moving closer until I knew enough about him to strike. Or I could go straight after him, like a cruise missile.
Why waste time then? Why not go after him directly?
Because, as a vampire, despite my superpowers, I only had to make one mistake. What if Goodman was bait? Who or what protected him? If humans caught me and discovered I was a vampire, the best I could expect was a quick execution by the Araneum. To protect the secrets of the undead, they’d strike to destroy any evidence of a supernatural creature. Felix Gomez would be a pile of ash scattered to the winds.
I’d investigate Goodman by hiding in plain sight. First, I had Deputy Johnson’s money, a hundred and fifty grand in hundred-dollar bills, that wasn’t doing me much good as coldcash. I went to Key West, got my car, and cruised up the Intercoastal Highway to Miami to visit a dozen check-cashing stores and buy money orders. As long as each cash transaction was under ten thousand dollars, I should stay off the government’s radar. I mailed the money orders with deposit slips from my checkbook to my credit union in Denver. Despite an afternoon of stopping in one seedy strip mall after another, I still had a third of the money left. Laundering drug money was tedious work. I converted a bunch of the hundreds into twenties, which were easier to spend.
I made reservations at the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort, where Goodman worked. Fortunately, I had stashed most of Johnson’s money into my bank account. A few days in even the cheapest suite—the hotel had nothing for the budget-minded—would’ve maxed out my credit card. I transferred funds to cover the difference.
I drove straight from Florida through Georgia to South Carolina and arrived at Hilton Head in mid-afternoon. The drive on Highway 278 snaked around the island developments: shopping centers, restaurants, houses, golf courses, and lots of condos. I navigated a traffic circle and pulled up to a guardhouse done in pink stucco.
The guard wore the uniform of a private security firm and he carried a pistol. I told him I had reservations at the hotel. He gave me a onetime in-and-out pass that I had to exchange for a guest pass from the hotel.
The two-lane street curved under a tunnel of live oaks draped with Spanish moss. A bike path ran parallel to thestreet. I drove past more condos, some tennis courts, and plenty of fairways. Hilton Head seemed like one giant golf course where people happened to live. I had to stop twice to let golf carts cross the street. Groundskeepers in teal overalls tended the flower beds and shrubs along the shoulders.
The street looped past a second guardhouse, this one vacant, and turned into a roundabout in front of the hotel entrance. Dozens of tall palms lined the street and sidewalks. Considering its exclusive clientele, the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort looked understated. I expected a gargantuan edifice of Las Vegas proportions that screamed: Look at me.
The main hotel building was only four stories tall, the rows of dark windows flanking a simple portico. Yet the architecture remained thoughtfully constructed. Its pink marble façade curved toward me, as if leaning forward for an expensive hug.
A sign pointed to guest parking on the north side of the building. I entered a parking garage, left my Cadillac on the second level, and dragged my roll-along bags inside.
Once in the hotel, the pretense of austerity stopped. The enormous atrium could’ve been used as a hangar for the space shuttle. The sun’s rays filtered through skylights high above. Terraced gardens with café tables faced the central corridor with its artificial lagoon and schools of koi. Ubiquitous black spheres housing security cameras peeked from the foliage and the corners. Nautical trim and prints of sailing ships decorated the walls and
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