Текст книги "Known Devil"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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Having Don Pietro Calabrese lying dead in the street wouldn’t send me into mourning. But he was at least a known quantity to local law enforcement, who’d worked out some grudging compromises with him over the years.

On the other hand, all we knew about the new bunch was that they were hungry for territory and vicious enough to go after it with the kind of public, in-your-face violence that Calabrese had abandoned years ago. Blood in the streets was bad for business.

That old adage about “better the devil you know than the one you don’t” is something cops understand very well, even if we don’t always like it.

Besides, if a cop was to save Calabrese’s ass tonight, the Vampfather might be grateful enough to tell that cop exactly what the hell was going on with this attempted takeover. That information could save more lives in the near future.

The thing about these Mafia guys, alive or undead, is that most of them still have some old-fashioned notions about honor. They believe in vengeance, alright, but they also recognize an obligation when they incur one.

All this heavy philosophy went through my mind in about fifteen seconds, and the conclusion I reached – about the benefits to law enforcement from me saving Calabrese – was the reason I was about to risk my career by disobeying Captain Fisk’s orders. My decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I hate just sitting back and watching scumbags tear up the streets of my town with gunfire. Absolutely.

I ejected my usual load of mixed silver and cold iron from the Beretta and replaced the clip with one that was silver from top to bottom. That gave me fifteen rounds, each one deadly to vampires – and then I thumbed an extra silver slug from the clip of mixed ammo I’d just removed. I jacked a round into the Beretta’s chamber, then removed the clip and added the cartridge I’d just scavenged. Sixteen. Sometimes one extra bullet can make all the difference in the world.

Usually, for a human to take on a bunch of vampires – in a gun battle or unarmed – means an express ticket to the morgue, since vamps are so much faster and stronger than the rest of us. But I’d taken on vamps before.

I could’ve called Karl for backup, of course – and he’d have come running. But it was bad enough that one of us was risking unemployment by defying the watch commander, without putting Karl’s job on the line as well. Besides, dawn was coming soon.

So it looked like I was doing it alone.

I figured if I was going to have any chance of survival against three vampire gangsters, I’d have to take a page out of Che Guevara’s book on guerrilla warfare, which I’d read in high school. It was a phase.

Che called it the “war of the flea”. You bite the dog and then take off before it can scratch. Do it right, and you live to bite another day.

I made my cautious way back to the scene of the gun battle. It looked like Calabrese was holding his own, since muzzle flashes were still coming erratically from behind his parked Connie.

The night-vision binoculars would help me, but only to a point. They would allow me to see exactly where the bad guys were, but I couldn’t look through the eyepieces and the sights of the Beretta at the same time. That meant I’d have to locate the fangsters with the night-vision device, but shoot at them without it. Kind of like a nearsighted guy viewing the bull’s-eye of a target with his glasses on, then taking them off before squeezing off a shot.

I scanned the street to see if the three vampires who’d been firing on the Connie were still in the same positions. They hadn’t moved.

The one closest to me was about eighty feet away, squatting behind a big Buick. Peering at the green-tinted image, I tried to fix in my mind where the vamp was, relative to the outline of the car. That was probably all I’d be able to see with my naked eye. Looked like he was about three feet from the rear bumper, and maybe a foot below the roof – except when he popped up long enough to fire a round at Calabrese. He did that while I was watching: stand up quick, take aim over the Buick’s roof and fire, then squat back down behind cover.

I turned off the night-vision device and put it down carefully on the concrete next to me. I took a minute to let my eyes adjust to the dark, then drew a bead on what I could see of the Buick, which wasn’t as much as I’d hoped. I tried to keep my hands steady, and waited.

Muzzle flash. I knew exactly where the vampire gunman was at this moment. More important, I was pretty sure that I knew where he was going to be three seconds from now. I sighted on the point where his gun barrel had briefly lit the night, then dropped my aim about three feet. I took in a breath, let half of it out, and fired – twice.

The moment I squeezed the trigger, I was violating not only Captain Fisk’s orders, but also established Department procedure. A cop isn’t supposed to shoot a suspect, even an armed one, without first doing the “Police officer! Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air!” routine.

I could just imagine the response of one of those vampire gangsters out there if I’d tried that crap on him, and I’m still too young to die. So when it’s a choice between following procedure and staying alive, I’ll go with common sense and take my chances with the bureaucrats later. As my old partner, Paul DiNapoli, used to say, “Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.”

After getting off those two shots, I didn’t stick around to evaluate my marksmanship. The flea had taken a small chunk out of the dog – or so I hoped – and he’d better change position before he got scratched but good.

I grabbed the binoculars and scuttled back about twenty feet, dropping down behind somebody’s silver Nissan. I raised up just enough to see over the top of the trunk, trying to expose as little of myself as possible, and saw one of the remaining bad guys do something stupid. I guess not everybody in the new vampire gang was a battle-hardened veteran of the streets.

The sky was brightening a little with false dawn. That and my darkness-adjusted eyes gave me a pretty good view of what this idiot was doing. He actually stood up, gun in both hands, searching the area where my two shots had come from. I wasn’t there anymore – I’m sure his vampire night vision told him that. But he must’ve known that I wasn’t far away. The barrel of his pistol kept moving back and forth as he sought somebody to shoot at.

He might’ve found me, too – if Calabrese hadn’t fired from across the street and put a bullet through the dumb bastard’s head.

Two down. What was the third vampire going to do now? If he was smart, he’d jump into his car and get the hell out of here.

Turned out he wasn’t quite that bright. But he was smart enough to get behind me.

The guy must’ve hit the vampire afterburners and sprinted clear around the block in order to go from a few hundred feet in front of me to about twenty feet behind me. Probably took him all of six, maybe seven seconds – after all, it was a pretty big block. But I figured all that out later.

It was when I heard that crisp, metallic noise coming from behind me – the distinctive double click of the hammer going back on a pistol – that I knew I was about to die. There’s nothing else in the world that sounds quite like that, and I guess for a lot of guys it’s the second-last sound they ever hear.

It had to be the third vampire behind me. Another cop would have announced himself, if only so that I wouldn’t do a Wild Bill Hickok and blow him away before I was sure of my target.

I decided that I was going to try to stand up and turn. The odds against my accomplishing either of those things made the Tri-State Powerball seem like a good investment. But I wanted to die standing upright if I could, instead of squatting there like some Cub Scout trying to take a dump in the woods.

I was barely halfway out of the crouch when I heard the sound of the shot that killed me.

It didn’t, of course – but I was pretty confused for a moment. I even had the crazy thought this was some kind of “Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” moment. In that final instant, everything slows down so much that you can fantasize a whole different chain of events – before reality catches up with you and breaks your neck.

Then I figured out that it just wasn’t my night to die, and I decided to just stand up, turn around, and work out what the hell had happened.

I’d had most of it figured right. There was a body on the ground a couple of car lengths behind me. I recognized him as one of the vampires I’d seen through the binoculars earlier, and the only way he could’ve gotten behind me like that was by sprinting around the block with vampire speed. The one thing I’d had wrong was which one of us was about to die.

Life can feel pretty damn good, especially when you were sure you were about to lose it. But once I got my mind working again, I wanted to know who had just killed the vampire gangster. Because there was nobody else around. Nobody.

He could’ve been nailed by a sniper from one of the windows, but who would do that? And why? It couldn’t have been Calabrese, that much was certain. He was too far–

Calabrese. Shit.

I scuttled down the length of parked cars ahead of me, being careful to keep below the line of sight from across the street. It would be pretty ironic to get myself killed by the Vampfather after everything I’d just gone through to keep the bastard alive.

When I was directly across from the Lincoln, I stopped, took in a big breath, and yelled, “Calabrese!”

Nothing. Not a sound. I hoped they hadn’t managed to nail him after all.

“Calabrese!” I yelled again. “It’s Markowski. Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski. Do you recognize my voice?”

Far too many seconds passed – maybe three – before somebody from across the street came back with, “Maybe I do. What do you want?”

“The three vampires who were shooting at you are dead. You got one, and I nailed the other two.” I hadn’t killed the third vampire, but this was no time for complicated explanations.

“Say that’s true,” the voice from behind the Connie yelled. “What do you want – flowers?”

Snide bastard. “Conversation. The face-to-face kind.”

No response.

“Calabrese, I’m gonna stand up now. Then I’m gonna cross the street toward you, my hands empty and in the air. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t shoot me, especially since I just saved your life!”

Another few seconds of silence gave way to, “OK, but be quick about it! I don’t got a lot of time!”

That was for damn sure. Not only was the sky getting brighter by the second, but I could finally hear sirens in the distance. Sounded like SWAT was on the way, but too fucking late to do any good.

I stood up, sidled between two parked cars, and walked slowly across the street, hands in the air. I won’t say that my gut didn’t tighten some as I walked slowly toward an armed criminal who had probably killed more people in his time than I’ve had meals. It was in Calabrese’s best interest not to shoot me, and I was pretty sure he knew it, too. But still, my gut was tight as I crossed that street, and it stayed that way until I saw Calabrese stand up slowly and put his gun away.

He’d been fifty-two when the cancer had driven him to choose the world of the bloodsucking undead, and now he’d look that age forever – or until somebody put a silver bullet in his brain or a wooden stake through his heart. He had salt-and-pepper hair, wide-set brown eyes, and a thin mustache in the middle of a face that was no harder than your average concrete wall.

When I was within twenty feet or so, he said, “What?”

That was the Mafia version of a cordial greeting.

“I wanna talk. Not now – tonight. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.”

“Talk about what?” He wasn’t stupid – dumb guys didn’t get to be where he was – but I guess suspicion was second nature to him.

“You know what,” I said. “Everything that’s been going on, and what you’re planning to do about it.”

“And I should tell you all that shit, because…”

“Because I just saved your ass, that’s why.”

“Yeah? And you’d have been in such a big hurry to save my ass, like you put it, if I didn’t have information you wanted?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’re alive, aren’t you? Or, at least, still among the undead. And if I hadn’t come along, you probably wouldn’t be.”

He stared at me with eyes that had probably looked dead even before he became a vampire. After a second or two he said, “Yeah, OK. Maybe.”

He glanced toward the horizon and immediately turned away, since the first rays of sunlight were just becoming visible.

“Look,” he said, “I gotta get the fuck outta here – now.”

“I know,” I said. Like a lot of vampires with money, Calabrese had a car with ultra-dark tinted windows, including the windshield. He could probably drive the Connie even in broad daylight – for a while, anyway.

“Tonight,” I said. “Name a place and a time. If you’re not gonna be there, have somebody waiting who’ll take me to where you are.”

He seemed to like that idea. “Alright – Ricardo’s, around 10.”

“Fine with me,” I said. Ricardo’s was one of the best Italian restaurants in town. I hadn’t known that the Vampfather owned it, but I can’t say I was surprised. And he must have owned it – no way was he going to meet me someplace he didn’t control.

Calabrese hurried over to the other side of the Connie, stepping over the body of his driver in the process. He yanked open the door and said, over his shoulder, “See ya.” Then he surprised me a little by adding, “And thanks.”

Then he slid behind the wheel, slammed the door, and started the engine. I stepped back a few paces to give him room, but even so he only missed me by a few feet as the Connie pulled away from the curb, tires screeching, and took off down the street.

The sirens were very close now. I looked around, counting the corpses. The vampire gang had gunned down Calabrese’s driver, who lay at my feet. Calabrese himself could take credit, if that’s the word, for another of the stiffs. A third guy was mine, and the last one came courtesy of – who? My guardian angel? In grade school, the nuns used to tell us that everybody had a guardian angel, but none of them ever mentioned that mine might be packing heat.

The black SWAT van was up the street and heading my way fast, siren screaming and lights flashing like a meth junkie’s nightmare. I stepped into the middle of the street and started waving my arm back and forth to flag them down. It was almost time to start the long process of explaining what had happened here. Some of it would even be the truth.

I had the feeling that I wasn’t going to get home for quite a while. I was right, too.

The story that I concocted was pretty good, if I say so, myself. At least, it was good enough to convince Dooley, the SWAT team commander, along with Captain Fisk, my boss Lieutenant McGuire, and a couple of clowns from Internal Affairs.

In my version of events, I’d followed Captain Fisk’s orders to the letter – or tried to. I’d gone back to the gun battle with the intention of observing and reporting, nothing more. But then one of the vampires had spotted me, despite my best efforts to be discreet. He’d loosed off some shots in my direction, and I’d had no choice but to defend myself by returning fire.

One of the other attackers had been dispatched by whoever had taken cover behind the big car across the street – a Cadillac, I thought it was, or maybe an Oldsmobile. No, I hadn’t been able to get a look at the license number or the shooter, who had taken off while I was trying to avoid being shot by the third vampire. That individual had been shot by person or persons unknown. Then the sun came up, SWAT arrived, and order was restored to the universe.

I got pretty good at answering the questions that always followed my little tale – maybe because I got so much practice in the six hours that followed.

How did the vampire you shot manage to spot you, since you were observing from cover?

Hard to say, for sure. But in order to see what was going on – as I’d been ordered to do – I had to expose myself, at least a little. And don’t forget that vampires have damn good night vision. They also hear pretty well, too – maybe he caught the sound from the night-vision binoculars when I turned the device on.

Why is it you can’t tell us anything about the driver of the car, who left just before SWAT arrived?

He was using the car for cover, don’t forget. And I wasn’t at a good angle to see him when he popped for a second or two in order to get a shot off at his attackers. And by the time he left the shelter of the car’s body to get behind the wheel, I was too busy trying to get a fix on the third attacker before he got a fix on me.

So, you killed one of the vampires in self-defense, and you saw the mysterious shooter behind the big car drop another one of them. That leaves two dead vampires unaccounted for.

One of them was down before I got there. He was laying on the street, near the big car. My guess is he was killed in the ambush set up by the three other shooters – an ambush that was also supposed to get the guy who was firing from behind the car when I got there.

OK, that’s one. What about the other vampire?

I have no idea. I know who didn’t kill him – me or the shooter behind the car. Beyond that, I’ve got no clue.

He was shot in the back. Are you sure you didn’t have anything to do with that?

Take my weapon. Fire a test bullet from it, and compare that to the slug you dug out of the vampire. I’m pretty sure they won’t match. I also resent the implication that I’m a back shooter.

The vampire you admit that you killed – you say he shot at you first. Where did the slugs go that he fired at you?

Beats me – they whistled past my head and headed off down the street. They could be anywhere up to two blocks away, I guess – unless they lodged in some car that the owner already drove away.

And that’s how it went, over and over, for six goddamn hours.

“So, why’d you lie?” Christine asked me.

“The answer to that depends on which particular lie you’re talking about.”

We sat at the kitchen table, each of us having our own version of breakfast. I’d had all of three hours of restless sleep, and had to go to work soon. Fuck it – that’s why God gave us coffee.

“I mean, I get the story about you shooting that fangster because he opened up on you first,” she said. “If you told them that you’d just up and shot the guy, you’d get fired.”

“At least,” I said.

“But how come you didn’t tell them that what’s-his-name, the Mafia guy–”

“Calabrese.”

“Yeah, him. Why didn’t you just explain that there was an ambush set up, and Calabrese was the target? They killed his driver, he shot back, and then you came along and intervened – in self-defense, of course. Then, once the gunfight was over, he drove off before you could stop him.”

“That last part’s not what happened,” I said. “I already told you that I deliberately let him go.”

“That’s right, sorry. I’m starting to get what you said really happened confused with the cover story. But why didn’t you tell them about Calabrese?”

“Because they’d arrest him, that’s why.”

“How come?” she asked. “He was the victim, right? The other guys attacked him.”

“That hasn’t been established in a court of law. He killed a guy – and it isn’t self-defense until the DA, or a judge and jury, say that it is. The guys in Organized Crime would love the chance to bust a guy like Calabrese, even if the charges didn’t stick in the long run. They’d do it just for the nuisance value.”

Christine picked up her mug and took another swig of her breakfast blood. “OK, so they arrest him – that’s his problem, not yours.”

“But if that happens, I lose my leverage,” I said. “Right now, he thinks he owes me for saving his life, which he does – sort of. I think I can use that gratitude and get him to open up about this gang war. But if I save his life and then get him arrested, Calabrese would probably figure those two things cancel each other out. I’d never get a word out of him.”

“What do you figure he knows?”

“If he knows anything at all about what’s going on, that’s more than I do. And, besides, if I don’t rat him out to my fellow officers, that gives me even more leverage.”

She looked at me, frowning. “How come?”

“Because I can always go back and change my story. And if I tell the truth and give them Calabrese’s name, he will get arrested.”

“But if you did that – went to the other cops and said, ‘Look, fellas, I’m real sorry, but I lied about that gunfight. Here’s what really happened,’ you’d be in serious shit with the Department. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m betting that Calabrese won’t take the chance.”

She swirled the remaining liquid in her mug and studied the little whirlpool that resulted. “This cop stuff gets pretty complicated sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing that a master detective like your old man can’t handle.”

“I hope you’re right, Daddy. I really do.”

Even though dead tired, I came in to work half an hour early. I wanted to talk to Karl and McGuire – separately – before things got busy.

Karl’s usually early, too – and tonight was no exception.

As quickly as I could without leaving anything out, I told him what had happened since he’d seen me last. When I was done, he sat there rubbing his chin.

“You took a big chance,” he said. “Not telling them that Calabrese was involved, I mean. That could come back to bite you on the ass big-time.”

“It’s worth the risk, if it’ll move us forward on this case. Shit, all we’ve got right now is a big, fat pile of nothing.”

“It’s just a case, Stan,” he said. “How many do we handle a year – two hundred? Three hundred? It’s not worth risking your job over.”

“It’s not just any case, dammit! This new bunch that’s trying to move in on Calabrese has started a fucking war. Who knows when it’s gonna end, or how?”

“What the fuck does it matter, really – they’re all fangsters.”

I just looked at him.

“Far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we oughta just let ’em kill each other. If I could, I’d FedEx each side a case of silver slugs, just to help move things along.”

I wondered how Karl would feel if it were human criminals fighting it out in the streets. Sometimes I think he tries a little too hard to prove that he’s more cop than vampire. But I have the good sense to keep that thought to myself.

What I said instead was, “See if you still feel that way when a stray shot from one of those silver bullets kills a five year-old kid.”

Karl broke eye contact with me then, but he didn’t say anything.

“And it’s not like it doesn’t matter which side wins,” I said. “This new bunch – whether they’re from Philly or East Buttfuck, New Jersey – they don’t give a damn about what happens to Scranton. Far as they’re concerned, it’s ‘Fuck the city, fuck the cops, and fuck the citizens.’”

Karl gave me half a smile. “Maybe ‘fuck the cops’ especially.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Sure, Calabrese is a scumbag, but he’s invested in the welfare of this town. His business interests, both legit and criminal, are here. He’s got family all over town, too.”

“Is that ‘family’ with a small ‘f’ or a capital one?” he asked me.

“Both,” I said. “He was born here, you know, which means he’s got relatives everyplace – not to mention what the guidos call ‘brothers in blood’. Can you see him doing this kind of cowboy bullshit?”

“He is doing it,” Karl said mildly.

“Only in self-defense.”

The smile I got from Karl this time was full-bore, fangs and all. “Sounds like you’re his biggest fan.”

“No fucking way,” I said. “I just know the difference between a mean dog and a mad one.”

“Nice turn of phrase,” he said. “You come up with that one yourself?”

“I probably heard it on TV someplace.” After a couple of seconds, I asked him, “So, are you coming with me to Ricardo’s tonight or what?”

“Shit, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Then I went back to McGuire’s office. He had a sour expression on his face, as if his ulcer was acting up again and the Tagamet wasn’t helping. Not a good sign.

“Boss,” I said, “I got involved in some shit last night on the way home. I thought you oughta know about it.”

“Have a seat,” he said. “I already heard a couple of things about that today, through the rumor mill. I was waiting for you to come on shift so I could get all the details.”

I shifted in the hard wooden chair, even though I’d just sat down. “Maybe I should tell you what I told Captain Fisk, Internal Affairs, and everybody else.”

The lines in his face deepened, and I had a feeling it wasn’t the ulcer bothering him. He nodded slowly and said, “OK, we’ll start with that.”

So I ran through the mixture of truth, half-truth, and lies that I’d gotten so good at telling over the last twelve hours.

When I was done, McGuire stared at me for a couple of seconds. Then he said, “You look like shit. Want some coffee?”

Even if I wasn’t dead tired, I wouldn’t have turned down a cup of the boss’s java. He makes it from these Jamaican Blue Mountain beans that he grinds at home, and a cup of it is enough to restore your faith in a benevolent God.

As I was taking my first sip, McGuire said, “So, that’s the version you gave to Captain Fisk and everybody else. Now – what really happened?”

I drank some more coffee before answering him. “It might be better,” I said, “if you could honestly tell a review board that you never knew the answer to that question.”

He sat back, using a thumb and forefinger to massage the bridge of his nose. McGuire keeps a fancy-looking Howard Miller table clock on his desk. Even though it’s electronic, the thing still makes a soft ticking sound – you can hear it on those rare occasions when the place is quiet. I counted twenty-two of those ticks before he said, “Fuck it, I’ve lied to review boards before – and, no, you don’t get to ask me about that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, even though I was curious as hell.

“I can’t do my job, part of which involves keeping my detectives out of trouble, without knowing what’s going on,” he said. “So, off the record, then – what happened last night?”

“OK,” I said. “I was driving home from work when I heard the sound of shots from a few streets over…”

I told him all of it, right up to the arrival of the SWAT team on the scene. He asked questions along the way, and I answered them truthfully. I might withhold information from McGuire occasionally, but I won’t lie to him – he deserves better than that. He might be a tough boss, but he’s saved my ass more than once when he could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble by hanging me out to dry.

When I’d finished, McGuire said, “Is that what you were talking to your partner about so intently when you first came in?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Karl thinks I’m being stupid for withholding information from the brass.”

McGuire shook his head. “Stupid, no. Crazy – maybe.”

“Nice to see a diversity of opinion,” I said.

“Is there anybody out there who’s likely to get in front of a grand jury someday and testify that what you told the captain is a crock of shit?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Calabrese couldn’t do it without incriminating himself, and all the other potential witnesses died at the scene.”

“I can think of one who didn’t,” he said. “Your so-called guardian angel.”

“Oh, yeah – him.”

McGuire looked through the glass into the squad room, which was starting to get livelier as other detectives showed up for the start of the night shift. “Have you considered the possibility that it could be Karl? I seem to recall he’s watched your back in the past, without letting you know he was doing it.”

“There’s no way he could’ve been aware I was in trouble from that far away,” I said. “Besides, he would’ve told me by now if it was him.”

“If you say so, OK. I agree with you that it probably wasn’t some other cop – he’d have stuck around to get the kudos for saving a fellow officer’s life.”

“And that’s the same reason I don’t think it was one of Calabrese’s guys. He’d want the boss to know that he helped get him out of a tight corner.”

McGuire spread his hands. “So, who does that leave? Who’s gonna show up in the middle of a gunfight, pop some scumbag who’s about to pop you, then disappear without so much as a word?

“Yeah, who was that masked man?” I said. “He never gave me a chance to thank him.”

“You didn’t hear anybody calling out a hearty ‘Heigh-ho, Silver!’ did you?” McGuire almost grew a smile for a second, but then changed his mind.

“The only silver I remember was the slug that went into that vamp’s back,” I said.

“Well, if you ever find out who it was, be sure to let me know. In the meantime…”

“In the meantime,” I said, “I have a dinner date.”

It was a little after 10pm when Karl and I got to Ricardo’s Ristorante, which is on the lower end of Moosic Street. Despite being a Polack, I love Italian food, and Ricardo’s serves the second-best veal scaloppine in town – right after the place owned by my old buddy, Large Luigi.

The restaurant’s in a two-story building made of red brick. The terrace outside the front door is open in warmer weather, for those who like sharing their food with the local bugs. I prefer to eat inside, where the only insects I’m likely to encounter have two legs.

The front is wide enough to have room for three identical canopies made out of maroon fabric running across the front. Each one had a fancy-looking black “R” in a circle, and under that it read, simply, “Ricardo’s.”

The place was said to have the best wine cellar in the Wyoming Valley – not that Calabrese would care. He never drinks the stuff.

Two guys were hanging around the entrance, wearing dark suits that were almost cut well enough to conceal the gun bulges under their arms. As Karl and I approached, they took a couple of steps toward us.

“You gentlemen have reservations?” one of them asked, flashing a little fang in the process.

I already had my badge folder ready in my hand – I’d figured that guys like these might react badly if I were to reach under my jacket suddenly. I held it up and said, “Yeah – right here.”

“Me, too,” Karl said, displaying both his badge and fangs.