Gregorio, More of an'Evening' Person

I awoke, as usual, gasping for breath. Honestly, it's more boring than it sounds. Pulled my head out from the under the pillow. Room was pitch black. The clock marked, as I already suspected, four minutes passed five. Sundown. Sigh. Same ole routine for centuries. Never being able to sleep in. Just another side effect being a vampire. Conked out at sunrise, back up at sunset.

Although, unusually, this evening I also woke to what must be a titan hammering my front door. Staccato. Insistent. Without a shred of mercy.

Dang it, hadn't I gotten enough surprise visitors lately? I groaned in my pillow.

Dressing quickly—in what may have been the same jeans and t-shirt from the night before, honestly not sure—I zipped down the stairs from my apartment to my ground level office to peek out from behind a drawn shade.

"Fangs."

Assaulting my door was an angry woman in a velour track suit.

I rose the shade on the front window.

"Lovely evening, Mrs. Cabroni. You're looking smart. Just hang in there, I'll unlock the door in jiff, and you can come right on in," I croaked, plastering on my spiffiest, and least sharp grin. "Just, ah, mind the glass. Guy who etched that's been dead a couple decades—yeah, right, alright, come on in—"

Mrs. Cabroni, all four feet and eleven inches of her, bulldozed her way in the moment twisted the deadbolt.

"Where. Did. My. Husband. Go!"

Oh nelly. You're a buffoon, old boy. Should've answered her call last night. Instead you had to get all distracted by a Margarita with a particularly briny rim of salt... and the way the flower petals tattooed to her shoulders danced when she shrugged, her silken robe slipping nearly down to her elbows... ahem.

I mean.

You lost track of time following a lead for Dmitri. He's the better paying client anyway. Er, if he doesn't kill me.

I bit back a combo punch of nausea and lightheartedness creeping in on me and ushered my only other current client inside.

"You were supposed to check in last night!" Mrs. Cabroni yelled in her thick, Philadelphian accent. "You know who else says they gonna check in at night and don't? My. Husband."

I swallowed. How was it that this very short, very round, thirty-year-old mother of twins wearing a tracksuit with bedazzled lettering on her behind was so intimidating? She shoved past me, snarling, revealing canine teeth sharp enough to make a vamp feel inadequate.

Before following her, I glanced around the sidewalk, checking for any signs of Dmitri lurking again. But, as always in the nighttime, the open-air market was closed and empty. The scents of spoiling produce from the sidewalk stalls lingered in the air. As did the odors from the spice shop and the butcher's my place was tucked between. No sign of any other creepy crawlies.

Inside my office, I clicked on some lights. Sitting in the dark on my leather sofa, I found Mrs. Cabroni nervously twirling the waves of her dark, waist length hair. She tapped her foot as insistently as she knocked.

"I apologize, again, for missing your call last night," I said, beginning a pot of coffee. "I was on another case and unable answer."

"I just want to know," Mrs. Cabroni sighed, voice finally breaking. Would it be impolite to sit behind my desk as the woman cried? Too informal? I opted for the opposite end of the sofa and slid her a box of tissues. "It's the not knowing, you know? Like, he says he's going to his Ma's every night. But see, like, he don't even like her! She ain't never approved of us. Christmas right before my babies were born, she went and had the nerve to call me 'that were-bitch that stole her son' from her. You freaking believe that? I mean, my Ma don't like him either, no secret, she always says you can't trust a man you got to turn yourself, but my family still gave him job!" She blew her nose and it sounded like a dog barking. "So like, he don't speak to her, to his Ma, for like, ages, but then all the sudden she gets sick, and now he's over there every night? I don't buy it. Nuh uh. And the stench on him."

I held back a sigh. I'd had this chat with Mrs. Cabroni before. "And I can help you. With the knowing. But the truth can sometimes be painful, and we think we have to know certain things even though we'd be better off—"

"Show me the damn video!"

"Of course, right, yep. Well, uh, I haven't had to time to process this footage yet, but..." I scrambled for my phone on my desk, and a fresh text popped up. It was Phoebe. Something about an appointment today. I swiped it away. "Now this may be a bit dark, can't exactly stay covert with a spotlight, but here your husband is leaving the Fitness Works on Reed Street, near Seventh."

"I know where his gym is."

"Just wait," I heard Mrs. Cabroni's nails pierce leather and grimaced. "He walks from Seventh Street all the way up to Grays Ferry. That's eighteen blocks. Two miles. After the gym. The route isn't direct enough for a bus. But why not call a car?"

"That's—"

"Because he didn't want a charge for the car recorded!" I knew it was rude to interrupt a lady, but this was the exciting bit, the grand reveal, the ah ha, I've got you, moment. "Nifty thing about technology these days. We can't go anywhere without being tracked. Ah, here it is. I know, I know, it's dark, but I caught the address and any moment now—yep, there she is!"

As a svelte woman opened the door and Mr. Cabroni wrapped his arms around her on the tiny screen, I watched his wife's face. Uh... If I wasn't mistaken, her nose seemed to stretch a fraction more in the snout direction as she frowned. Well I expected her to be upset. Suspecting your spouse of an affair was one thing, you could still cling to the hope of it not being true, just your imagination, paranoia, nerves, but confirming it was crushing.

"That's his Ma."

"Well, he says he's going to his mother's."

"Nah. That's his Ma's house. You showing me a video of him hugging his Ma?"

Judging from the way Mr. Cabroni and the unknown woman embraced, yeah, I seriously doubted that was the way he hugged his mother.

"Are you sure that's where his mother lives?"

"2522 Carpenter Street. You trying to say that ain't his Ma's house?" Mrs. Cabroni stood, her fingernails tearing from the leather. "Maybe if your video wasn't so dark you'd be able to see it better."

It was probably unwise to mention that I, as a vampire, had eyes more than capable of distinguishing the difference in the way a man hugs his mother compared to his lover at that distance.

I squinted at my phone. Er, well, it was dark. And was that woman limping onto the porch?

"You expect me to pay for this?" Mrs. Cabroni howled. "My poor husband was visiting his sick Ma and you sit here trying to tell me he's a cheat?"

Ah. The denial stage. This was also to be expected. I cleared my throat, and gingerly took Mrs. Cabroni's hand as I stood.

"The truth can be painful. That's just a part of life we have to wrestle with at some point. You did come to me already suspecting— all the saints in hell, woman!"

She squeezed my hand. Bones cracked. I really needed to start picking fewer volatile clients.

"You twisted my arm! For a buck! Stop it. Stop following my husband to his own Ma's home! You're a scumbag!"

She released me and stormed out. I wouldn't follow her. No siree. Couldn't. If I did... if I did I would... no, I needed to stay focused. Very, very focused. Intently focused. Focused on not pouncing after the small were-woman and ripping her throat out to sate both gnawing hunger and aggravation. Fangs. Every vein in my body pulsed. Closed my eyes and bit my lip, hard, listening to the sounds of Mrs. Cabroni fumbling with the door, my body tense. Work was scarce, old boy. Remember that. Good—, eh, okay-ish clients were difficult to come by. Eating okay-ish clients made them difficult to keep.

Besides, ain't werewolves supposed to taste like wet dog anyway?

"Move!" Mrs. Cabroni growled from the threshold, sounding like she pushed someone aside.

My door slammed. Silence. Finally. Some sweet silence. I needed a shower. And a coffee. And blood. And to finally rinse the scent of cigarettes and incense and mulled wine and fresh dirt from my—

"Do you always let angry customers greet new clients?" a husky voice called out.

No. I couldn't be that unlucky.

I opened my eyes. There she stood, Madame Margarita, smirking down at me like the moon on a cold night.

"That's bad for business," she cooed.