"Don't forget the real reason you're here, raza…"

I hadn't been called raza in a while. Short for La Raza-the race-meaning us mestizos.

"… to find out what this has to do with vampires and humans."

Whatever had been going on in L.A. was serious enough to alarm even the Araneum. They expected me to infiltrate the suspected vampire-human collusion and bring the offending bloodsuckers to undead justice. Trouble was, I hadn't done much so far except practice push-starting Coyote's wreck of a pickup.

Discussing the investigation with Coyote should have helped. Instead, reviewing the details of the case and coming up with zip made me feel like one big dumb ass.

Coyote grasped my shoulder. "You okay, Felix?"

I brushed his hand off. My aura should've told him how pissed I was. Plus I hadn't eaten anything since morning, so I was cranky with hunger.

Working in the daytime, no matter how much we vampires tried to adjust to the cycle, left us with perpetual jetlag. After a few days of having the sun leach psychic energy from our bodies, we needed a nice blood meal and a good nap in a coffin to refresh us and smooth the kinks out of our attitudes.

"Relax, ese," Coyote said. "We'll go to my place, get something to eat, and take a snooze." He circled a finger next to his temple. "Mientras"-meanwhile-"you get those gears turning in your head and see what we have to do next."

I had plenty of gears to turn; problem was, I couldn't get any two of them to mesh.

One traffic light from the freeway on-ramp, a red Ferrari rumbled beside us. The young man at the wheel looked up at Coyote's truck and sneered. He gestured to someone beside him, and a woman's face appeared in the driver's window, laughing no doubt at the heap Coyote and I were in.

Bad timing on the part of these two yuppies. I was pissed at the world and hungry. Might as well get these two birds with one stone, or rather one stare.

I turned my face to them and flashed my fangs.

The two yuppies in the Ferrari responded with slack-jawed, blank-faced stares. In their red auras they looked as if they had been dipped in sweet-and-sour sauce.

"Coyote," I said, "time for dinner."

He smiled with anticipation.

"Just me. You've already snacked. Follow me and wait until I'm done." As I was about to get out, I clutched Coyote's thin, sinewy arm. "And for God's sake, if this truck stalls, I'm not pushing it again. I'll make you carry me piggyback to your house."

"Vato, I got a bad hip and-"

"Try me." I let go of his arm and got out of the truck.

I told the driver of the Ferrari to unlock his door. I swung the door up and pushed him over the center console to jam him on top of his stylish female companion.

I settled into the driver's seat, snapped the door closed, and reflected on how low the rumbling Ferrari sat against the road. I examined the controls and instruments. Detecting a whiff of cocaine, I searched about and found a vial of the white powder in the console.

Naughty yuppies.

Grasping the steering wheel, I released the clutch and eased the gas pedal. The rear tires spun out, and the car swerved through the intersection. Regaining control, I veered into an alley, scraping the bottom of the Ferrari, and halted next to a brick wall and a Dumpster.

Since the guy was on top, I fanged him first. He was bulky and firm-obviously a muscle head-and his blood luxuriously tasty. Male blood had the full-bodied richness of testosterone. I detected notes of gin, dry vermouth, anabolic steroids, and cocaine.

To get to the woman, I had to reach over them and fumble for the release catch to fold the passenger's seat down. I wrestled with their bodies, as if rearranging sacks of potatoes. When I finally had her on top of the pile, I stretched her neck back and feasted like an undead king. Little Miss Nordstrom also enjoyed the nose candy.

I relaxed against the driver's seat and burped. The traces of booze and dope gave me a nice buzz, and suddenly the world and my problems appeared much more tolerable.

I had lapped plenty of saliva into the fang punctures to accelerate the healing, so by morning, when these two yuppie coke heads came to, there would be nothing but faint yellow bruises on their necks. To give them something else to think about, I got the vial of cocaine and dusted their rumpled forms with the white powder. If finding themselves disheveled and tangled like this wasn't enough to get them both into a 12-step, then they were beyond my magnanimous help.

Coyote's truck rattled beside the curb outside the alley. I got in and slouched on the bench seat.

Coyote narrowed his eyes. "?Somos amigos, no?" We are friends, no? "You should've shared."

"You can share this." I gave him the bird and motioned to get going.

The old Ford sputtered onto the freeway. The jostling of the truck and the dreamy haze from dinner made me sleepy. I remembered the woman's trim body under mine. I could've had my way with her. The longing for the heat of female skin turned my thoughts away from the yuppie woman and toward Veronica.

Her ripe body was more delectable by comparison. An affair with Veronica could seriously complicate my investigation.

A worthwhile risk.

We arrived at a confusion of concrete and asphalt where the Santa Monica, Golden State, Santa Ana, and Pomona Freeways tangled together. We exited and clattered down Whittier Boulevard through a neighborhood marked with signs in Spanish. Young people clustered under streetlamps or in the doorways of the tienditas-small, corner markets. Spray-can graffiti murals declared the area as Atzlan.

"Where are we?" I asked. "East L.A.?"

"Technically we're in Boyle Heights."

A homeless man pushed a shopping cart heaped with his junk possessions.

"More upscale, vato."

We turned on Euclid and after a few blocks headed onto a short street that dipped into a wash. Coyote halted at the top of the incline.

He pointed. At the bottom on the right, past the other ramshackle houses, was a sagging chain-link fence along the cracked sidewalk. Behind the fence and next to a ravine was a small home cobbled together from discarded materials.

"Your palace?"

"Simon, ese. The queen of England once asked to stay, but I had to turn her away. We're not zoned for royalty."

Coyote shut the engine.

"Why are we stopping up here?" I asked.

Coyote pointed down the hill. "You wanna push again?" He meant letting the truck coast to start.

"What if it stalls out and we're stuck at the bottom?"

"Then we push uphill, pendejo."

We dismounted. The one streetlamp was broken but no matter, with my vampire vision I had no problem seeing through the darkness. Shoes dangled from the power lines.

I grabbed my bags and followed Coyote over the sidewalk and through an opening in the fence. The yard was dirt, rock, trash, and weeds. Piles of dog crap here and there. Frayed corrugated fiberglass sheets were tacked against the wall of his house. Roof joists jutted unevenly from under the eaves. We could've been in any Third World slum.

A large dog's skull rested on a metal stake like a warning.

"What's that about?" I asked.

"Some culo up the street was hassling me about parking in front of his house. One day he sicced his rottweiler after me." Coyote patted his belly. "I ate the best tamales for a month."

A dim yellow light shone through a curtained window by what I guessed was the front door. I smelled frijoles simmering in boar's blood. A short roof extended over the door and a slab of concrete to make a small porch. Coyote stepped up to the porch and peeled back a sheet of fiberglass siding. He reached through and opened the door from the inside. The door swung open, and the dim light washed over Coyote. The aroma of blood and frijoles got stronger.