They say that bad news travel fast. You may also have heard the expression “the dead travel fast”. So you can just imagine how fast bad tidings travel among the dead, the undead, and the formerly dead. The news of Victor Castle’s murder had gone through the local supe community like a prairie fire.

I realized that as soon as Karl and I opened the front door of Renfield’s. For one thing, the place was packed – pretty unusual, even for Saturday night. But when catastrophe strikes, the members of any community will tend to draw together – whether to mourn, to commiserate with each other, or just to gossip about what had happened and share details that are mostly rumor, fantasy, or speculation.

And if the size of crowd didn’t tell me that news of Castle’s death had already spread, what happened when Karl and I came in would have made it crystal clear. We hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps into the room when the level of conversation went from what I’d call “medium-loud” to what anybody would have to describe as “silent as a fucking tomb”.

That wasn’t normal. Sure, they knew Karl and I were cops, but we’d been coming into Renfield’s together for more than a year without any problems, not to mention all the times before that when I’d drop by with my old partner, Paul DiNapoli. And these days, Karl was even what you might call a member of the supe club.

Our footsteps sounded loud in the silence as we made our way to the bar. I don’t know if the customers were expecting us to make some kind of announcement, or start arresting people, or even shoot up the place. But once it became clear that none of that was going to happen, the level of tension slowly eased. By the time we reached the bar, the buzz of conversation had started again. Over the next few minutes, it gradually returned to its former level.

Tending bar was a thirtyish brown-eyed blonde with a pug nose and a perky manner. I was a little surprised to see her on a Saturday, since she usually works weeknights.

“Hi, Sam,” I said. “Where’s Elvira?”

The regular weekend bartender has a persona based on that campy sexpot who hosts a TV show in LA devoted to bad horror movies. The cleavage alone probably gets our local version a lot of tips.

“She took some vacation time and went back to Minneapolis – I guess her mom’s pretty sick,” Samantha said. “What can I get for you, Stan?”

“Club soda for me and a…” I glanced toward Karl.

“Type O, lightly warmed,” he said.

I was a little disappointed when she didn’t just twitch that cute nose of hers and cause the drinks to appear by magic. But I knew that Samantha wasn’t a real witch – she just played one on the job. And magic doesn’t work like that, anyway.

As she moved off down the bar, I said to Karl, “I’m a little surprised you didn’t order that ‘shaken, not stirred’.”

He gave me a half-smile. “I save that for when I want a Bloody Mary.”

As you might imagine, the Bloody Marys in Renfield’s are made with real blood.

I slowly turned in my stool and scanned the room, looking for my favorite informant. I could’ve used the big mirror over the bar to check the place out, but that’s not always reliable. On any given night, some of Renfield’s patrons won’t necessarily reflect in mirrors.

When I heard Sam’s voice behind me say, “Here you go, fellas,” I turned back around and reached for my wallet, since Karl had paid the last time.

Dropping a ten on the bar, I asked Sam, “Barney Ghougle been in tonight?”

“Not so far, Stan. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him all week.”

That was too bad. Most ghouls love gossip the way pigs enjoy mud, and Barney Ghougle was usually hip-deep in it. If anybody had any scuttlebutt about what had been going on in town lately, it would be him. Then I noticed a sometime informant of mine sitting in a corner. Robin was alone but probably wouldn’t be for long.

Looking at that corner table, all you’d see was a tall brunette in a tight blue dress who sat there sipping a drink and oozing sex appeal. If that’s what you saw, you’d be partially right. She was a beautiful woman – but only some of the time.

Robin was a succubus – which meant that, like all of her kind, she was also an incubus. A succubus/incubus can take on either a female or male aspect at will, each one extremely attractive and highly desirable. Whether you were male or female, gay, straight, or bi, Robin could be exactly what you wanted – for the right price, of course. She was believed to be the most successful prostitute in town, if not the whole Wyoming Valley. A few more good years, and she’d probably be able to buy the Wyoming Valley.

Every cop who’s been on the job longer than ten minutes knows that prostitution goes on. But in Scranton, like a lot of towns, we mostly leave the working girls alone. As long as they’re discreet and don’t cross over into something like robbery, blackmail, or drug dealing, they can ply their trade without being harassed by the law. There’s enough real crime – involving humans and supes alike – to keep the police busy without us becoming guardians of public morality as well.

Due to the size and variety of her clientele, Robin came across a lot of information – some of which was even true. I caught her eye and made a slight gesture with my chin in the direction of the restrooms. Then I said to Karl, “I’ll be back in a couple minutes. See if you can find anybody who’s feeling talkative.” Then I slid off my stool and headed toward the men’s room around the corner.

Two minutes later, I was standing at one of the urinals when Robin came in. There was nobody else in the place – I’d checked the stalls, just to be sure – but even if another guy came in, he wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual, since Robin now looked like a man.

Hell, Robin was a man – a dark-haired, good-looking guy with nothing remotely feminine about his features. Even the clothing was different – the male version of Robin was wearing designer jeans, a chambray shirt and a sport coat that probably cost what I make in a month. I’d never understood how the physical transformation could be accompanied by a change in outfit, but I guess magic is magic. If you can shift from one gender to the other in a matter of seconds, changing your wardrobe is a pretty small trick by comparison.

I was standing at one of the urinals, pretending to take a leak, when Robin walked up to one a little to my right and unzipped his pants. I assume that what he pulled out was a porn star-size schlong, to be consistent with the rest of his studly persona, but I didn’t check. As Guy Rule Number Four clearly states: “You never look at another man’s dick in a public restroom.” I hear there are some towns where that rule has exceptions, but Scranton isn’t one of them.

Robin must’ve known Rule Number Four as well. He kept his eyes looking straight ahead as he said, quietly, “What’s on your mind, Sergeant?”

“Lot of bad shit going down lately,” I said. I kept my voice down, as well. No sense broadcasting this conversation to anyone on the other side of the door.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the smile that briefly creased the handsome face. “‘Bad shit going down.’ How Seventies. I didn’t think anybody said stuff like that anymore.”

“Yeah, well, some of us do.”

“Perhaps if you could be a little more specific….”

“Alright,” I said. “We’ve got a gang war going on, with Scranton as the prize. The Delatasso Family from Philly wants in, which means they have to move Calabrese out.”

“I understand that it’s not Delatasso Senior who’s behind the hostile takeover attempt – it’s his son, Ronnie.”

“Yeah, I’d heard that, too.”

Robin finished his business at the urinal and went over to the sink. “The smart money says that Calabrese is going down,” he said.

“Yeah? How come?”