Chapter Seven
At that moment, in a miraculous rescue, Robin called to remind me that we had an important meeting related to Fletcher’s case, an opportunity to get first-hand information on the violent blood bar incident I had witnessed earlier that day.
Though McGoo was clearly out of his depth, he offered to take Alvina down to precinct headquarters with him, where she could settle in for a while.
“A real police station!” Alvina said. “Can I arrest criminals? Can I help you interrogate them? Can I play with handcuffs? This doesn’t suck at all!”
McGoo forced a bright, awkward smile. “You can do anything you want, little girl.” No doubt, that’s what he thought absentee dads were supposed to say. He muttered quietly to me, “We’re going to have to figure this out, Shamble.”
Even though he was originally the one marked for child support, that didn’t prove anything; it just meant Rhonda could more easily pin it on her ex-husband. Eventually, we’d need to talk to Rhonda, too, and that was an experience neither of us looked forward to.
I said awkward goodbyes to McGoo and the vampire kid and left the bus station as the gargoyle family and the solitary skeleton stowed their luggage and boarded the coach. A mummy hurried out of the restroom, racing to get on board before the bus departed. He was in such a rush that he didn’t notice a long and embarrassing bandage trailing behind him like a strip of toilet paper.
I made my way to the UQ Medical Center, which catered to various sorts of unnaturals, particularly those that didn’t have supernatural healing skills. The vampire writer who had gone berserk after drinking his iced blood at the protest rally was being treated here. We wanted to find some answers.
I found Robin and Fletcher in the lobby. She had been sorting through papers in her briefcase, while her yellow legal pad and magical pencil dutifully took notes on the matter as they waited for me. Fletcher’s ghost was nervous, pacing back and forth like a young father in a maternity ward. He was so distracted he walked right through the furniture without noticing.
Robin looked up at me, while her pencil kept writing. “The patient’s being held in the security ward, Dan. I got special permission for us to speak with him about his reaction to the blood drink. No charges have been filed yet. Many of the protesters don’t want to admit they were there.” She frowned, and somehow that made her beautiful face look more determined. “Even the Suck Dynasty brothers won’t have anything to do with this, and they usually want publicity.”
I remembered how Ernie and his brothers/cousins had reacted when the vamp writer went on his rampage. “Of course not. They ran like a proverbial flock of feral chickens as soon as our guy threatened them.”
“We need to learn why he went nuts after drinking product from one of my blood bars,” Fletcher said with a groan. “What if our supply’s been contaminated? What if there’s a health scandal?”
“I thought they weren’t your blood bars anymore. Isn’t that the whole reason you hired us?” I said.
“Harry and I started that company from scratch, after you helped us resolve our differences. I still have pride of ownership, even if I don’t have legal ownership.”
“We’re working on that,” Robin said. “After the incident this afternoon, the Talbot & Knowles corporate headquarters vehemently denies all responsibility.”
“Harry Talbot was never like that before,” Fletcher said. “Now, he’s just so … so corporate.”
“Corporate people often are,” I said.
Robin was all business. “Maybe this incident doesn’t have anything to do with artisanal blood drinks. Let’s go talk with the victim. His name is Travis Spade, and he’s being tended by the hospital’s most renowned witch doctor.”
Robin went to the receptionist, a darling sparkly-winged fairy who sat in a tall booster seat behind the desk, who gave us the room number for Travis Spade. We rode the elevator up to the sixth floor, checked in at the desk, and were directed down the hall to where the patient was being confined, treated, and tested.
We found Travis Spade sprawled in his hospital coffin bed, hooked up to numerous medical machines and monitors. The vampire looked very different from the cocky aspiring author who had taunted protesters at the blood bar. He was gaunt and weak, particularly for a vampire. He seemed jittery as he lay back, unable to sleep. At least his eyes had reverted to normal from the blazing scarlet gaze, and his fangs were no longer tusks, but perfectly average pointy teeth.
The footboard and side walls of the hospital coffin bed were raised, and generic soil had been spread on the sheets to provide comfortable, homey confinement. The TV in the corner of the room was tuned to a channel that only showed reruns of daytime women’s talk shows.
When we entered, Travis twitched, as if to flee, but his wrist had been handcuffed to a rail on the side of the bed—a precaution in case he went berserk again. “Who are you? My lawyers?”
“I’m a lawyer,” Robin admitted. “And we’d like to ask you a few questions about your drinking habits.”
I stepped close to the coffin bed, wondering if Travis would remember me as the one who had tackled him. “I was there when the … incident happened. In fact, I helped to subdue you. You were very strong.”
“Sorry about that. I don’t understand what happened. I was just sitting under the awning, enjoying my second grande iced blood, and working on my screenplay, but those noisy protesters made it hard to concentrate on my dialogue.”
I thought of the buxom lady-of-the-night and her overabundance of cleavage. “Yes, they were a little distracting.”
“Do you remember which specific blood drink you had?” Fletcher asked. “I’m one of the cofounders of the Talbot & Knowles blood bars.”
Travis Spade’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re going to trick me into signing a release and promise not to sue? What if I was poisoned?”
“Let me clarify. We don’t represent the blood bars,” Robin said. “Mr. Knowles is a client of ours on an entirely different matter, but we are concerned about the cause of your misfortune.”
“It was misfortune for a lot of people,” I said. “But it did break up the protest.”
“All I had was a light, arterial, cold-pressed iced blood drink,” he said. “With a dollop of soy milk.”
“Do you remember which blood type?” Fletcher asked.
“O negative I think, though it’s a little bitter to my tastes. They had run out of the B negative and didn’t want to brew more at that time of day.”
Fletcher looked at us and explained, “During slow hours, we only keep the best-selling items fresh and available.”
Travis rattled his handcuff again and looked disappointed. “The witch doctor took blood samples to have her Igors run a thorough chemical analysis. We’ll know more when we get the results. It might just have been low blood-sugar levels. Sometimes that makes me a little edgy.”
“And did you add sugar to the blood? Real sugar?” I asked. “Or did you use an artificial sweetener?”
Travis mumbled, embarrassed, “Artificial sweetener.”
“That might be the key,” Robin said. “Those chemicals are dangerous. Something triggered that extreme reaction.”
“At least it was only temporary,” Travis said. “I’m fine now.”
I tried a different approach. “You had a laptop. What were you working on?”
He brightened, obviously more interested in talking about his creative work. “My screenplay is a profound drama about the human condition and the inhuman condition, and the differences between the two. I’ve been on both sides of the issue, so I feel I have something to say. I’m sure it’ll win awards and be critically acclaimed.”
I nodded solemnly, knowing that awards and critical acclaim are often the kiss of death for sales. Sitting up in his coffin bed, he grew more enthusiastic. “In the first scene, we open with a full moon and a howling wolf, which, according to tropes, would make the audience assume the film is a romantic comedy. But then the camera shifts and—”
Fortunately, this all-too-detailed description was interrupted when the witch doctor entered the room. She had tangled black hair, a pointed black hat, and a full black dress over which she had pulled a white physician’s smock. Her long, hooked nose displayed a prominent wart, as did her protruding chin. Her nametag read ZONDA NEFARIOUS, WD.
I’d had many dealings with witches in the Quarter, particularly Mavis and Alma Wannovich, the sisters who published the “Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I.” fictionalized cases. In exchange, the Wannovichs performed a monthly maintenance spell to keep me intact and freshen me up. Once, they had even invited me to a meeting of the Pointy Hat society for all the witches in the Quarter.
Zonda Nefarious, however, was not the ladies club sort of witch. She was an actual doctor, and a well-respected one. “Ah, Mr. Spade, are these your next-of-kin? We’ve run the blood tests. Tsk-tsk.” She looked down at her clipboard, then glanced at the three of us. “Would you like your guests to leave the room? It’s private medical information.”
“No, I want to find out what it is,” he said. “I want them all to find out so they can clear my name. It wasn’t my fault. I’m not responsible for my actions.”
“Again, I’m not your attorney,” Robin said.
“But you’re an attorney,” said Travis, “and that’s the best I have right now.”
Fletcher’s ghost drifted closer to the doctor to try to peek at her clipboard. “Was it something in the blood? Bad blood means bad publicity.”
Zonda pressed the clipboard against her ample breasts to protect the patient’s privacy. “Bad blood means a lot of things, and we have indeed found some irregularities. Do you use any recreational drugs, Mr. Spade?”
“No!” he said indignantly. “My vampire metabolism burns it up too fast. I usually just drink Monster Chow vampire shakes. Some of the new flavors are really good, especially the raspberry, but I do go to the Talbot & Knowles blood bar every afternoon. It’s part of my process.”
Zonda Nefarious scribbled something else on her clipboard.
“And he used artificial sweetener,” I said.
“Artificial sweetener? Tsk-tsk.” The witch doctor gave her patient a scolding look. “You need to tell me these things! They could be relevant.”
“What results did the analysis yield?” Robin held her yellow legal pad, and the pencil poised itself to write.
“We did find chemical irregularities, something strange in Mr. Spade’s blood that triggered his reaction. Some kind of super stimulant that burned off quickly.”
“But where did it come from?” Fletcher sounded desperate. “Was it the Talbot & Knowles specialty blood drink?”
“I can’t tell. The blood barista had already cleaned and sterilized Mr. Spade’s glass before the police could take it as evidence.”
“Our blood baristas are very well trained in efficiency and customer service,” said Fletcher.
“None of the other blood samples in the store showed any irregularities, so the source may have been something else altogether. We’ll keep you here for observation, Mr. Spade,” the witch doctor said. “My Igors want to run another set of tests in the lab.”
Robin handed over her card. “We’re also privately investigating this matter. We’d like to be kept in the loop.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” said Zonda. “This could be a public health matter.”
From his hospital coffin bed, Travis said, “It’s already delayed the completion of my script, so it does affect everyone, culturally speaking.”