“That’s the guy. He’s also Patton Wilson’s candidate for the office of Supefather.”

“For what?”

“Sorry. That’s the name some of us use for whoever’s the head of the local supernaturals.”

“Like the late Victor Castle, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

He made a face. “Mister Calabrese has never paid much attention to the local power structure, such as it is. The Family makes its own rules.”

“I figured as much. But plenty of others do pay attention, which is why Wilson is bankrolling Kaspar. The guy’s a militant supe-premacist – humans are just walking blood bags, blah, blah, blah. If he becomes head of our supe community, he’s gonna cause just the kind of trouble that Wilson can take advantage of to spread his helter-skelter bullshit.”

“What do you expect us to do about it?”

I took in a deep breath and let it out. No turning back now. “I want you to kill him.”

My car was right where I’d left it – parked in the shadows but with a clear view of the Brass Shield’s front door – and so was my partner. As I slid behind the wheel, Karl turned off the radio. The volume was so low that I couldn’t even tell what he’d been listening to, although it was probably that Pittston station that plays golden oldies.

“Everything go OK?” I asked him.

“Sure, no sweat. I was waiting near that big fucking Caddie that Loquasto drives. When he came out of the bar, I handed him the envelope. He didn’t seem too surprised.”

“No, he was expecting you.”

“I thought for a second that he was gonna pull out his wallet and hand me a tip, but then I guess he remembered where he was. He just gave me a nod, got in his car, and drove off. He’s been gone two, three minutes.”

“Good – and thanks.”

“What kind of mileage you figure he gets in that thing?”

“If you have to ask about the mileage, then you probably can’t afford the car.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t want one of them battleships anyway, even if I had the scratch. Too hard to park it.”

“Lots of trunk room, though,” I said.

“I was hoping not to spend any more time inside the trunk of a car – anybody’s car.”

“Good plan.”

“So he went for it, huh?” Karl asked.

“Course he did. Otherwise I’d have called you and said sit tight with the envelope.”

I could have started the engine and driven off then, but I didn’t – maybe because I figured Karl wasn’t finished yet. I was right.

“We’re sailing on what your buddy Sherlock Holmes would call some dark fuckin’ waters, Stan,” he said finally.

“Damn right we are. But if you’ve got any better ideas, you should’ve told me about ’em before I went in there.”

Karl turned his head away slowly to stare out the window at the night. I wondered what he saw out there with his vampire sight that I was missing. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to make him happy.

“No, I didn’t have a better idea before,” he said, “and I still don’t. Sometimes, all the choices you have in life just fucking suck. You ever think that?”

“More times than I can count,” I said. “But I also try to remember something else.”

“What?”

“The choices may all suck, but that doesn’t mean some aren’t worse than others.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right.” Karl reached for the strap and buckled his safety belt. A trip through the windshield at high speed probably wouldn’t do him serious harm, but the law’s the law.

“So, what do we do now?” he asked.

I turned the ignition key, then put the Toyota into gear. It was time to report for work. “Now we wait.”

So we waited – for four days. I tried not to think about the fact that Loquasto was under no real pressure to fulfill his part of the bargain. He could just take our information and do nothing in return – what were we gonna do? Sue him?

I’d say that the suspense was unbearable, but Karl and I were too busy most of the time to think about it. All the cops on the Occult Crimes Unit had our hands full.

It didn’t help that we had the full moon during that time, which naturally resulted in increased lycanthropic activity. Werewolves aren’t more prone to criminal behavior than any other species – including humans – but those with violent tendencies seem to find encouragement each month in that round, glowing disc overhead. Of course, the Patriot Party was quick to point that out, as “proof” that supernaturals were inherently antisocial and needed to be controlled. They didn’t have the nerve just yet to use the word they really meant – eliminated – but I figured that was only a matter of time, especially if that bunch of nuts won the upcoming election.

A couple of ogres in a downtown bar got into a fight over a female of the species. No humans were hurt but the property damage was substantial. Ogres are hard to subdue, so one of the responding cops called in the Sacred Weapons and Tactics unit. But by the time SWAT got there, the female had left in disgust, and the two male ogres, realizing there wasn’t anything to fight about, were sitting at what was left of the bar, having a beer. I hear they went to County Jail quietly, although neither of them made bail.

There was an ugly situation involving a golem on Monday night. A member of Temple Beth Israel’s congregation got the idea that Rabbi Jacobson was messing around with his wife. That turned out to be bullshit, but it didn’t stop the guy from hiring a Kabbalistic wizard to get even in the traditional fashion. The golem had chased Rabbi Jacobson all over the inside of the temple and almost had him cornered when Karl and I showed up – SWAT was busy across town, where a bunch of Slide-addicted dwarves had tried to take down the all-night branch of Citizens Savings, but a teller had tripped the silent alarm before the little bastards had a chance to get clear.

The golem was at least eight feet tall, and single-minded in its purpose of pounding the rabbi into porridge. Nothing you can shoot a golem with makes a damn bit of difference, but I’d encountered one before and knew what to do. The thing is animated by a piece of paper in its mouth on which the wizard has written a shem – any one of the several Hebrew names for God. Remove the paper, you deactivate the golem. Of course, the thing is programmed to resist any attempts to grab the paper, and I’d have been crushed by its giant arms if I’d gotten close enough to try. Fortunately, my partner has vampire speed. Once I’d explained what needed to be done, Karl had the shem out if its mouth so fast, the golem didn’t even have time to react before it crumbled into the big pile of mud that had been its original form. Rabbi Jacobson thanked us warmly for the great mitzvah we’d done him, but Karl and I said we’d just been doing our jobs. When we left, he was looking through the phone book for carpet cleaners who were open late.

When we got back to our car, there was a number ten envelope stuck under one of the wiper blades. I opened it and saw that Louis Loquasto had come through for us after all.

The message had been printed by a computer. It didn’t waste words on social niceties, which was OK with me.

Resident of former Callaway home on Lake Scranton appears to be PW. Unable to determine with certainty, as grounds and house well-guarded, but this itself lends credibility. Other matters are well in hand, with positive results expected shortly.

It was signed – if that’s the right word – with a simple “L”.

“Huh,” Karl said when he’d read it. “I guess ‘other matters’ means those two guys he’s gonna hit, old man Delatasso and Dimitri what’s-his-name.”

“Kaspar.”

“Yeah, him.”

“Kaspar’s a vampire, Karl.”

“Yeah, you already told me. So?”

“So, I was wondering if you’ve got any kind of problem with him being taken off the board,” I said.