One of the police officers was directing me away from the restaurant when I saw a short fat man pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers. He was holding a spiral-ring notebook and a digital camera. I turned around and started walking in the opposite direction. The fat man caught up with me, huffing and puffing and tugging on my sleeve.
“Geez, Felix, that hurts.”
He put his hands on his knees and took long, shuddering breaths, like he had run a mile instead of only a few feet.
“I don’t have anything to say to you, Parsons.”
“Come on, man. Nobody has anything on this yet. You gotta give me something.”
Horace Parsons was a reporter for Hollywood North, a tabloid sheet that covered celebrity gossip in Toronto. We used each other for information from time to time. I needed him, but I couldn’t act like I did. It was part of the dance.
“What’s in it for me?” I asked.
“I’ll hook you up with Sandra Bullock.”
“You don’t know Sandra Bullock.”
“No, but I had dinner with her assistant last night.”
“What did you do, tell her you were a producer? Give her the spiel about how she could be a star herself instead of working for one?”
“Hey, whatever works, baby.”
“You get greasier every time I see you, you know that?”
“From one dick to another, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“So what do you want to know?” I asked him, feigning impatience.
“Who was it in there that went vamp on everyone?”
“His name was Jimmy Logan. And he didn’t ‘go vamp.’ He was a vampire. Near as I can figure, anyway.”
Parsons gave me a look like I was pulling his leg. “Jimmy Logan? A vampire?”
“You know who he is?”
“He’s one of the up-and-comings. They say that about every young actor, of course, but with this kid they actually meant it. They said he was going to be the next Brad Pitt. Or maybe even the next Bobby De Niro.”
“He’s not going to be the next anything now. What was he doing in town?”
Parsons didn’t seem to hear me. “Jimmy Logan,” he muttered. “I can’t believe it. People are going to go apeshit.”
“What was he doing in Toronto?” I asked again. “Filming something obviously, but what?”
“It was a horror movie. A horror-comedy, actually. It Sucks.”
“What?”
“That’s the name of the movie – It Sucks.”
“The critics will love that.”
Parsons put the camera in his pocket and took out a pen. “How do you know he was a vampire?”
“I was having lunch and he was sitting at the next table. He attacked my waiter.” I realized then that I never did pay for my meal.”
“Yeah, but how did you know he was a vampire?”
“I saw his eyes, his teeth. And he threw me across the room with a swat of his hand.”
Parsons began writing furiously. “Talk about life imitating art.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jimmy Logan was playing a vampire in It Sucks. I’ve heard of method acting, but...” He trailed off, shaking his head as he continued taking notes.
I suddenly didn’t feel well. I started to lean backward; fortunately there was a building there to prop me up. “He was playing a vampire?”
“Yeah,” Parsons said. “You think he went to the Black Lands to get himself ready for the part?”
I shook my head absently.
“How’d he die?”
“I... I staked him.”
“You killed Jimmy Logan?” Parsons said incredulously. He took a step back and looked at me in a new light. “That’s great!”
I closed my eyes. I could hear the mad scratching of Parsons’ pen, the querulous gabble of the crowd gathered in front of Gel, and, beneath it all, the steady pounding of my own heart. It all seemed very loud, closing in around me like smoke. I stumbled away from Parsons, and when he called my name, I started to run.