Blood Lite II: Overbite (27 page)

“Take it or leave it, dude. You wouldn’t be anywhere without the info. Besides, I’m not the one who’s gonna be feeding on human flesh to live before long.”

Drew sent one email after another to Mr. Lawrence Adams, telling him that they needed to talk, and that it was urgent. Hell, he’d practically begged for an audience with him. He’d left his phone number in every email and waited by the phone. If this dude really bought, sold, and traded souls, surely he knew that would happen to him, Drew thought. Worse still, he probably didn’t give a rat’s pitoot.

Finally, the phone rang, and Drew scrambled to answer it.

“Hello?”

A cracked-sounding voice asked, “You Drew Wilson?”

“Yeah.”

“Lemme guess what this is about. Want your soul back, huh?”

“Gee, how could you guess?”

“They always think they’re smart as shit when they sell it, but they always come crawling back within days. Hell of a racket for me, though.”

“Okay, okay, dumbass decision and I’m paying for it like crazy. Would you just spare me the petty bullshit and sell me my soul back?”

“Can’t do that, boss.”

Drew made a fist then let his fingers uncurl. “Why the hell not?”

“Already sold it to someone else. Like I said, good market if you can break in, and souls sell fast . . . guess you know all about that, though.”

Drew fought the urge to say,
Listen, you son of a bitch, just get me my soul back or, so help me God, I’ll reach through that phone and pop you one!

“Mr. Adams, listen. I’m desperate. Isn’t there any chance you can help me get my soul back?”

Adams paused. “Always a chance there, boss. Money talks and bullshit walks, though. If you’ve got enough of the dough-ray-me, the dude I sold it to might be willing to hear you out. Remember, I said
might
.”

If he’d had a nickel to spare, Drew knew that he wouldn’t have sold his soul in the first place, but he hoped to God that he could bluff this guy.

“Okay,” Drew said, “tell me what to do.”

“Hookay, all right, normally I wouldn’t break customer confidentiality for anything but, hey, I’ve come to have a soft spot for losers like you. The dude who bought your soul was a guy named Daniel Remington.”

Adams gave him Remington’s email address but he refused to disclose his phone number. That was fine by Drew, as his shaky hand would hardly allow him to jot down the email address. Drew then hung up on Mr. Larry Adams without so much as a thank-you, a good-bye, or a kiss my ass.

Before he fired the email off to Remington, Drew decided to go for broke and be honest. His final draft made very clear the fact that he had no money to buy his soul back, but that he would gladly be his best friend, his bodyguard, or do the dirty work if he wanted someone killed if he would just have mercy. He clicked send and hoped to God that this Remington dude had a heart.

An hour later, an email from Daniel Remington appeared in his in-box and Drew nearly knocked his laptop over in his rush to open it. The seconds the email needed to load felt like an eternity. But instead of a regular email, he saw the Miami Dolphins logo load, inch by inch. Its little eye taunted him, as it did two Sundays every year.

Below it, he found a message that read: HAVE ANOTHER GREAT SEASON IN BUFFALO, SUCKER!!!!!!! DOLPHINS RULE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Close Shave

MIKE RESNICK AND LEZLI ROBYN

It’s two thirty in the morning, and The Close Shave is starting to fill up. Which figures. After all, how many places can you go for a trim and a shave in the middle of the night?

Basil is in the chair now. I knew him back before he changed, when he went to bed after the eleven o’clock news like normal people, when he howled at a pretty girl it was because all the guys did. But that was, oh, maybe five years ago—before that mangy-looking dog bit him.

Otis is reading the newspaper. I knew him back in the old days, too. I can remember when he’d pick up a paper to see if the Geldings had finally drafted a linebacker, or if Can’t Miss was running the next day, or if the Pharoahs’ cheerleaders had been arrested for indecent exposure again—important stuff like that. These days—well, these nights—all he reads are the obituaries.

Morton just comes to hang out. I mean, there isn’t a hair on his whole body, or any skin either, now that I think of it. He’s just bone as far as the eye can see. Looks kind of like a refugee from Halloween. He never bothers anyone—I think he’s just lonely—and to be honest the main reason I let him sit there is the hope that sooner or later he’ll buy a can of pop from the machine I keep in the corner and I’ll see where it goes once it passes through his . . . let me see,
lips
is the wrong word, and he hasn’t got any gums either. Through his teeth, I guess.

Harold comes by once a week, maybe a little more often, usually for a shave. While he’s here he always asks for a shampoo. I keep telling him that I don’t shampoo snakes, and although he claims they’re perfectly harmless, that they
like
soap and water, the one time I sat him in the chair and leaned him back and got ready to shampoo some of the slime off the snakes, one of them gave me a great big reptilian smile, and it had teeth—
sharp
teeth—and from that day to this I don’t give shampoos to male medusas (or female medusas either, though none has asked yet.)

“Take a little off the top, Sam,” says Basil.

“Right,” I say, brushing it out a bit to make it easier to cut.

“And the sides.”

“Got it,” I say.

“And the chin.”

“That’s a shave,” I say. “It’ll be an extra five-spot.”

“I thought we were friends, Sam,” he says in a hurt tone.

“I am your friend all day long,” I respond. “But when I open up The Close Shave at ten o’clock at night, I am your barber for the next eight hours, and never the twain shall meet.”

“Okay, trim the mustache and beard,” says Basil with a shrug. “And maybe the neck and the forearms and the backs of the hands.”

I just stare at him.

“All right, just a trim and a shave.”

I lay out my equipment, because Basil’s hair isn’t like most people’s (which figures; it’s been a long time since anyone mistook Basil for a people) when suddenly he lets out a howl that damned near shatters my front window.

“Come on, Basil,” I say. “How can I have cut you? I haven’t even started working on you yet.”

This is followed by another, more plaintive howl.

“Basil, what the hell is it?”

He points through the window to Hepzibah McCoy’s second-floor apartment across the street.

“She’s getting undressed and she forgot to pull her shade down again!” says Basil, emitting a third howl.

“You’re a werewolf,” I say. “Can’t you just wolf whistle?”

“Oh, the litters I could have with her!” says Basil.

“Maybe she doesn’t like the hairy type,” offers Morton, who is all bone and as unhairy as a billiard ball (and less colorful as well.) Otis keeps telling him that he should wear pants, but I cannot imagine why, and neither can Morton. Besides, I figure his waistline comes in at a quick three inches. Do you know how hard it is to find a belt that size?

“You guys are so normal,” says Harold in bored tones. “A girl with gazongas like that, if she’s still on the loose and living alone, maybe she wants something a little unusual.”

Three high-pitched voices say “Absolutely!” “For sure!” and “You betcha!” and I look around to see who is talking, but I don’t spot anyone.

“Who said that?” I demand.

“Me and my two pals,” says one of the purple snakes that is growing out of Harold’s head. “Wanna make something of it?”

“Harold,” I say, “your hair is talking to me.”

“It talks to me all the time, mate,” he says with a shrug as his mild Australian accent comes through. Then he adds, “Except when I comb it. Then it just screams bloody murder.”

Well, his hair starts arguing amongst itself about which of them Hepzibah McCoy would most love to run her fingers through, and I pick up my scissors and go to work on Basil, and everything is going along nicely when suddenly he turns his head.

“She has gone into the bathroom for her shower!” he announces to the room at large. And a second later he makes another announcement, which is
“Ouch!”

“I am sorry, Basil,” I say, “but I am not
very
sorry, because you are an adult and you know better than to make sudden movements when someone is working your mane over with a scissors. I will get a styptic pencil, or a bandage, or some concrete mortar, and you will be good as new in just a minute.”

Otis has been sniffing the air, and now he is staring hypnotically at the drop of blood on Basil’s neck, and his pupils are dilated and his hands start shaking and suddenly there is a little bit of drool on his chin.

“Blood!”
he whispers.

“Control yourself Otis,” I say sharply.

“Blood!”
he repeats.

“You don’t know who he’s eaten lately, or what diseases they might have been carrying,” I say. “Just lean back and relax.”

“Blood!”
he hisses, standing up abruptly.

“Otis,” I say, “this is as boring and one-sided a conversation as I have had in quite some time. Now you sit there and behave yourself or I’m going to get really annoyed with you—and don’t you dare turn into a bat! Do you know how hard it is to shave you when you’re hanging upside down from the ceiling?”

Otis starts pouting, feigns disinterest, and again buries his nose in the late edition’s obituary column. I return to taming Basil’s mane, but then the bell on my door rings and so I turn, expecting to greet another of my regulars. Instead, the unexpected walks in: a human.

“Hello,” I say. “Welcome to The Close Shave.”

“Good evening,” he says.

Morton fidgets, creaking slightly, while Basil growls softly under his breath.

“Do you need a trim?” I ask, not knowing what else to say—it has been years since a human required my services, especially at this time of night.

“No,” he says. “I am looking for a medusa.”

Harold looks up in surprise, his hair slithering around in excitement.

Then the man says the unthinkable—at least to me. “I want to die,” he states. “I heard that I could find you here. I require your assistance.”

“Why?” asks Morton gently.

“Death is overrated,” intones Otis morbidly. “Do you know how much harder it is to keep these teeth from decaying since I became undead?” he continues, displaying his fangs to Morton, who is still looking (can I say looking? What with him having no eyes and all) at the man in the doorway.

“Be quiet, Otis,” I say. I turn to the newcomer. “Why do you want to die?”

“Because life is not worth living,” he answers in a voice top heavy with self-pity.

Otis licks his lips somewhat seductively. “Well, if
that’s
the way you feel about it . . .”

“Otis,” I say, “how many times have I told you: you don’t bite the customers.”

“But he
wants
me to,” says Otis, almost keeping the whine out of his voice.

“No,” says the man. “I’ve tried that, and it didn’t work. Apparently vampires can’t drink my blood.”

“I view that as a personal challenge,” replies Otis.

“They can’t drink mine either,” pipes in Morton, always wanting to fit in.

Basil, no longer growling, speaks up. “Morton, you don’t
have
any blood.”

“We’re getting off topic,” Harold states suddenly. “The crux of the matter is, I’m a pacifist.” He shrugs. “I won’t kill anyone—with or without their permission.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” I complain, thinking of all those times I’d refused the money to wash his slimy hair for fear of hungry little teeth.

“I like to see you squirm,” he says, grinning as his hair slithers around him like a halo.

Well, the man has stayed quiet throughout this entire little exchange, but now he clears his throat. “You misunderstood me. I don’t expect
you
to kill me. I just want your permission to let one of your snake companions bite me.” He sighs heavily. “Maybe
that
will work.”

“Pick me!” “No, choose me!” “What about me?” is the chorus that instantly responds to his request as little snake heads jump up and down in childish enthusiasm.

“Oh, in that case, be my guest,” says Harold with another shrug. “I’m not responsible for their moral choices. I’m from Australia, so my snakes are amongst the most poisonous in the world, however—” he raises a hand, immediately stilling the writhing snakes—“I suggest you ask Cecil. He’s got the biggest fangs.”

The other snakes sigh and sink back down to float around Harold’s head in dejection as the man walks over and raises his wrist to Cecil. A dainty little head reaches out and sinks its teeth into the man—

—and a few seconds later the head pulls back, its slimy body wracked by sobs.

“He hurt me!” squeals Cecil. “He broke my fangs!”

“Is there such a thing as a dentist for snakes?” asks Otis, looking up from his newspaper to watch Harold trying to console his hair.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the man sink into one of my barber chairs, despair written all over his face. “I can’t even die properly,” he laments.

“Why do you want to die at all?” asks Basil.

“I’m tired,” says the man.

“That seems a little severe,” says Basil. “Whenever I’m tired I take a nap.”

“I have been tired for two thousand years,” says the man.

Everybody allows that two thousand years is a long time to be tired, and even fifteen hundred is no picnic if push comes to shove.

“Have you got a name?” I ask.

He kind of half smiles and half snorts. “I’ve had one hundred thirty-four of them.”

“I knew a Juan Domingo Pedro Jesus Riccardo Jose Felipe Sanchez,” I say. “He could grow a beard while he was signing his name. But I never met anyone with one hundred thirty-four names.”

“I haven’t had them all at once,” he explains. “I meant that I’ve had one hundred thirty-four over the centuries.”

“Who
are
you?” I ask.

“I’m the guy who should have kept his mouth shut on Golgotha,” he says.

“Golgotha?” asks Morton. “Isn’t that out by Des Moines?”

“No,” says Basil. “I think it’s on the California coast, just south of San Jose.”

Cecil slithers down to the vicinity of Harold’s ear. “You want to tell them, or should I?”

“Golgotha is where Jesus was crucified,” says Harold. He stares at the man. “Only one person who was there should still be around. Gentlemen, say hello to the Wandering Jew.”

“Really?” asks Morton.

The man nods his head.

“No wonder you’re tired,” continues Morton. “That’s a
lot
of wandering.” He stares at the man. “So do we call you Wandering or Jew?”

“I change my name to fit in with my surroundings,” he answers. “This is twenty-first-century New York. Call me Goldberg.”

“Okay, Goldberg,” says Basil, starting to look a shade more human as the moon goes behind a cloud. “So you want to kill yourself. Tell us about it.”

“It’s not as easy as you would think,” says Goldberg, frowning.

“Telling us?”

“Killing myself.”

“Sure it is,” says Basil. “A silver bullet to the heart will do it every time.”

Goldberg shakes his head. “Not mine. It’s been tried.”

“Don’t listen to him,” interjects Otis. “What does a dumb animal know, meaning no offense. If you want to die, get someone to drive a wooden stake through your heart.”

Goldberg looks even more unhappy. “It doesn’t work.”

“All right, then,” says Otis. “Go out to the beach in a thong at high noon.”

“I don’t burn,” says Goldberg miserably. “Or react to poison.” He looks at Cecil. “Or get sick. Or get cut. No matter how creative I get, I just can’t die.”

“How creative
do
you get?” asks Morton.

“King Arthur tried to stab me with Excalibur once,” begins Goldberg. “He couldn’t pierce my skin. Robespierre sentenced me to the guillotine; the blade broke on my neck. Tamerlaine spurred his favorite horse and tried to run me down; the horse bounced off and was never the same again.” Goldberg shakes his head sadly. “So I figure if one man can’t bring me eternal peace, maybe a bunch can. I show up, ready to be sliced to ribbons, at Rosebud River—and Custer makes his last stand at the Little Big Horn fifteen miles upstream that same afternoon. I intercept a message that the D-Day invasion is set for Pas-de-Calais, and I’m there with the Nazi army ready to be blown sky-high—and it turns out that the message was
supposed
to be intercepted, and the invasion takes place at Normandy.” He signed deeply. “It’s been like that for centuries.”