Angel of Vengeance Read Free Page A

impossible to resist as a Star Trek tractor beam, and tell him, “I’m not smoking.”
    A glazed cow-dumb stare comes over his ruddy face. “You’re not smoking,” he repeats.
    “That’s right. Now you’re going to give me an empty rocks glass to use as an ashtray.”
    He nods, says nothing, just does it.
    “Now you’re going to leave me alone until I call you.”
    “I’m going to leave you alone,” he murmurs.
    Being undead has a lot of drawbacks, but it’s got its advantages too. The hypnotic gaze is one of them.
    Grinning, I blow a cloud of secondhand smoke in the guy’s face as he goes to stand over by the cash register, which seems to serve the additional purpose of propping him up.
    Intermission. The lights come up. Patrons—fags and dykes and Persians alike—file out. I smoke, trying to ignore the butterflies that flop like dying fish in my stomach as I await Reesa’s company. I reassure myself that she’s probably not half as attractive up close. Can’t be. I only ever met one other dame who was. This was all just a trick of the distance, the makeup, the lights. Up close I’ll see the flaws; the chinks in her Venus di Milo complexion; the cracks running through her Mona Lisa smile.
    I check my watch and toss back my drink and signal for another, a double. Why the hell not? I can’t get drunk unless the alcohol has already been absorbed into a victim’s blood, and besides it gives me a prop; something to do with my hands. I mash my smoke out, light another.
    “How do you do it?”
    I swivel around to find her standing there in a red silk kimono embroidered with dragons. Immediately I realize I couldn’t have been more wrong about her looks. She’s the real deal; every bit as lovely up close as she appeared on stage. Lovelier. I feel a strange disappointment. A noticeable flaw would have been a welcome thing; would have put me back in control of myself.
    “What’s that?” I ask, glad at least that I don’t sound like a nervous schoolboy. It’s about eighty years too goddamn late for that.
    “Get away with smoking. I can’t believe no one’s said anything to you yet. Usually they’re real pricks about it. Won’t even let me do it in my own dressing room.”
    “Yeah, well, we came to an agreement. Would you like one?” I say, picking up the pack and shaking one out.
    Reesa hesitates a moment, but finally takes it, game if I am. Red manicured nails carry the butt up to a mouth like a Christmas bow. I’ve never felt jealous of a cigarette before. Guess there really is a first time for everything. She waits for me to light it. Her wish is my command.
    “I hope you’re Mick Angel,” she says, drawing in a lungful. “Otherwise I’m gonna feel real silly.”
    “That’s me,” I say. “Can I buy you a drink?”
    “I drink free here, but you can order me one.” There is a whisper of silk on vinyl as she slides onto the stool next to me. Now I’m jealous of the stool.
    “All right. Let me guess—you look like a martini kinda gal.”
    “Good guess. And I bet you’re having Scotch.”
    We smile. Kindred spirits.
    “Vodka?” I ask, hoping it’s not.
    She shakes her head, electric-red curls bouncing around that lovely face. “Gin. Three olives. Dirty.”
    “Dirty huh?”
    “The dirtier the better.”
    I call the bartender over and order her drink. He notices Reesa smoking and starts to put the kibosh on it, but I cut him short, telling him he’s got it all wrong again. This time a flicker of doubt crosses his face. That’s the problem with the hypnotic gaze. It’s a nice tool to have, but some people are more receptive to it than others. It usually correlates with intelligence. I wonder if I’ve already over-used it with this fella, and if the situation is about to become awkward, but then the troubled look in his eyes disappears and he goes to mix the drink.
    “So, you’ve been here before?” she asks.
    I nod. “But it’s been a while.”
    “Ever catch my show?”