"Who's the damned?"

"We are," he replied.

I followed Coyote toward the entrance of the Majestic Lanes. "We're eating at a bowling alley?"

"I am," he replied. "Don't know about you. But we're here not just for refin. I want you to meet Rebecca Dwelling."

Katz said Rebecca worked at a secret place where humans intermingled with vampires, no doubt a chalice parlor. Talking to Rebecca could clear away some of the smoke in this investigation, as she might know what happened to Katz.

I examined the broken neon and cracked plastic on the facade. "Good disguise. This is the last place I'd think to look for a chalice parlor."

"?Vato, estas loco?" Dude, are you crazy? Coyote chuckled. "This ain't no ordinary parlor."

We stepped into the shadow of the front awning. Coyote gripped the door handle when he stopped abruptly. "Smell that?"

I caught only warm asphalt, gasoline, and dirty bowling shoes. "What is it?"

"Un lobo."

A wolf in Los Angeles meant that a transformed vampire was close by. Vampires didn't transform into wolves unless they expected getting, or making, serious trouble.

I closed my eyes and sniffed again. There it was, that faint musky odor.

I checked left and right. If a wolf came for trouble, I'd give it to him. "Why would a vampire risk running through L.A. as a wolf? And in the daytime?"

"Maybe he wasn't running through the city," Coyote answered. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, "Maybe he turned into a wolf to sit and listen."

It was as a wolf that a vampire's senses were at their most keen. Transforming into a wolf was common practice when stalking special prey.

Who was his prey?

Me? If so, he was in for a surprise.

Coyote? I looked at my scruffy and wily partner. Good luck catching him.

Then who?

Rebecca.

"Where's the wolf?" I asked.

"Don't know. The scent is cold."

"Let's go find Rebecca." Grasping Coyote's arm, I hustled him through the entrance and toward the rumbling of bowling balls and the crashing of pins.

Most of the lanes were occupied. I peeked over my sunglasses. Everyone had a red aura. If this was a chalice parlor, where were the vampires?

Coyote led me across the carpeted aisle on the upper level, looking down on the lanes. He turned the corner and approached a gray metal door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

He opened the door and we entered a dark corridor sloping to the left, parallel to the lanes and filled with the racket of machinery, bowling balls, and pins.

Coyote removed his sunglasses and so did I. A red bulb illuminated the corridor. An oily, mechanical odor from the pin machines grew more intense the farther we walked down the incline.

At the back of the hall, Coyote stopped before a metal cabinet. Dents and graffiti covered the front. Coyote opened the double doors of the cabinet and ducked inside. The back of the cabinet swung away. Coyote stepped down, as if descending stairs.

I followed him, taking care to shut the cabinet doors behind me.

We were on a metal landing. Stairs led to another door beneath the Majestic Lanes. The door had a placard for a Cold War Civil Defense shelter. We climbed down. The muted crashing of the bowling machinery rumbled through the concrete wall. Coyote knocked on the door.

A view port at face level opened. A pair of shiny vampire eyes peeked out. I expected Coyote to say, "Jose sent me."

But he said nothing and the door swung open. Our orange auras must have been our pass in.

Jazz music flooded out, a raunchy blare of saxophones against the energetic accompaniment of a keyboard, guitar, and drums. The aroma of fresh human blood sent my nostrils tingling and my mouth watering. No trace of a wolf.

A vampire bouncer waved us through. He was huge and his muscles were overinflated; most likely he was a steroid juicer before he was converted to the undead.

Laughter and playful snarls swirled around us. Orange and red auras filled the room. The psychic glows flashed gaiety and lust. The ambience was a combination Juarez cantina and Chicago speakeasy. A sign on the wall read: NO UNDEAD CONVERSIONS ON THE PREMISES. NO SEX ON THE TABLES. NO DANCING ON THE CEILING.

Below that, someone had scrawled with a black marker: AND TIP, YOU CHEAP BASTARDS.

Vampires crowded the bar to my right. A naked female chalice lay facedown across the top. Blood seeped from puncture wounds lacing her shoulders, buttocks, and the back of her thighs. The vampires around her sipped cocktails and chatted, stopping occasionally to lap and nibble on the chalice, as if she were a plate of hors d'oeuvres.

More vampires sat at the tables lining a terraced auditorium, which faced a stage. I guessed that the place, with its low black ceiling, could hold a hundred patrons.

Six musicians-humans-played on stage, three women sax players, the rest men. They wore either scarves or leather collars to cover bite marks and advertise their status as chalices. Sequined jackets sparkled under the colored spotlights. The women swayed on bare legs in tempo to the music. Their costumes were just the jackets, plus black bikini briefs and shoes. The women looked delectable, but the men, in loafers and with hairy bellies sagging over their briefs-well, that was a taste others preferred.

Coyote pointed to the woman at the far right of the combo, the short one with a gymnast's body, stocky and muscular. "That's Rebecca."

She had a round, pretty face that placed her anywhere from sixteen to the midtwenties. Her cheeks puffed and her ponytail wobbled as she wailed on the sax.

"Why not get us drinks and nachos," Coyote said, "while we wait for Rebecca to finish this set."

I stopped a passing chalice waitress. She was dressed-or to be more precise-barely dressed with costume beads looped over her naked shoulders and perky breasts. Metallic glitter freckled her face and torso. A studded red leather collar encircled her delicate neck. She wore tap pants, mule pumps tied with ribbons around her ankles and calves, and a silly pillbox hat resting at a slant over her brown hair.

We ordered the day's special-a fanged martini: the house vodka, vermouth, and type O-positive.

The waitress smiled and turned about. The bottom curves of her firm butt winked from under her tiny pants.

Coyote motioned toward an empty table that offered a clear view to the stage. "Over there, where we can keep an eye on Rebecca."

The band started a fast and raucous rockabilly tune. Vampires whooped and crowded the floor. They shuffled and kicked and flung their chalice dance partners. Some of the vampires leapt and clung to the ceiling, dancing upside down, their feet knocking pieces of acoustical tile to the floor. Now I understood the rule about no dancing on the ceiling.

This was the concert for the damned? Lucky us.

What about this joint? Every other chalice parlor I'd been to before had the languid mood of an opium den. This place had a happy hour, dancing-a cold breeze tickled the back of my neck-and air-conditioning. How could so many vampires and chalices congregate without the local human populace finding out?

Our waitress arrived with drinks and the plate of nachos, which was drizzled with melted cheese, diced jalapenos, and-from the aroma-goat's blood. She had twenties and hundreds heaped on her tray.

Who raked in all this money? I could smell the graft. Certainly this parlor-make that saloon-pointed to the vampire-human collusion I'd been sent here to investigate.

Coyote flipped through a jukebox-type device on the table. Instead of songs, each tab on the device listed a chalice on the menu with a photo and description.