Gregor Vasilescu, Vampire + Private Detective

The South Street Diner was on the south side of South Street, nestled between Front and Second Streets. Easy enough to find. Unassuming on the outside. Just off Headhouse Square, which I'm told hosted a delightful farmer's market on Sunday mornings.

It was also close to home, as it turned out. Only a short walk from my office.

How in all-the-gin-joints-in-hell did Dmitri stumble into this part of town? South Street was a tourist spot, and a Tourist spot, but a dying one. Sure, the city staples were still in business. Bars like Tattooed Mom and Fat Tuesdays. But South was becoming a member of the undead itself. Every night another shop or bar was boarded up, leaving vacant vessels eager for their next temporary occupants. Ready to suck the life and finances out all those who tried to do business on the block.

Rumor had it some lots got bought up by a South Philly werewolf pack creeping north a few years back. And by rumor, I mean property records. I checked. The D'Onofrios expanded their territory.

Most established vampires like Dmitri kept to the posh clubs and pre(American Revolutionary)-war homes of Old City, staking their property claims right off the boat and not budging in the 300 years since. Lot of the master less, baby gutter punk vamps gravitated north of City Hall. Hip neighborhoods like Fishtown and Northern Liberties, now being hyper developed with trendily themed bars for the millennial and gen z crowds. So, if Dmitri were out recruiting for young vamps and fresh humans to turn, my guess would have been there, not in my punctured neck of the woods.

The vamp had always been a kook, but I never thought Dmitri would let himself go like that. Lovesick loon clearly hadn't been eating (I ignored the gnawing pang of thirst in my veins.) But the driver, or valet or familiar or whatever the kids called them these days, he was of more interest to me.

The retainer check had been signed in his name: Julian Nguyen. If I had to bet, I'd say he was just the latest in a string of pulses on Dmitri's bank account. Awful difficult to open one of those back in the day, when you were undead and undocumented. Speaking from experience. The world has changed, of course. There are Society Credit Unions that cater specifically to us creatures, but old habits undie hard.

A tacky neon purple Psychic Readings sign flicker in the window above the diner. Yeesh. Of course, there was a psychic above the diner. Fortune tellers were a dime a dozen on South.

I crossed the street, dodging traffic, flexing my injured hand as I reached for the door. The wound had closed. My bones shifted back into all the correct places while I slept. Angry, but clotted, cuts still adorned both sides of it. They would heal completely in a night or two. Sooner if I stopped off for a bite. Thanks a lot, Dmitri, old pal.

The air in the diner was warm and thick. A caffeine craving – one of many I could never kick – slugged me right in the jaw. I do love that smell. Not so much a fan of soured bacon fat and cleaning solutions and greasy griddles that wafted out from the kitchen. A whiff of incense and red wine, though, that was pleasant.

Only person ahead of me in line was a woman in a shaggy leopard print coat and, strangely, a raspberry cloche hat pulled low over her ears. The ends of her white-blonde hair poked out and curled around her chin. It looked worn and frayed and like it belonged to a woman who kept a flask of illegal gin in her stockings. Which was odd, since I hadn't seen a woman casually sporting that kind of look since at least '32.

"Ah, see? I told her new love was in her future," she said in a husky voice.

The boy behind the counter turned his back to her and the gal opened her wallet. Her shoulders slumped. She glanced up at the barista paying her no mind, quickly slipped a hand in and out of the tip jar, and slapped the wad of cash loudly down beside the register, calling: "Keep the change!"

Well that's something you certainly don't see every night. And trust me, the nights, and what human people do with them, really do all start to look the same after a few hundred years' worth of them.

I snickered. "Sneaky devil."

The woman turned sharply. And almost instantly stepped back to keep from smacking straight into me. She knew she'd been caught, puffing out her chest and parting her lips for some defensive reply. She looked up – eyes were so dark I couldn't tell her iris from pupil – and that angry snarl melted into a look that said, above all else, I'm tired.

A funny taste flooded my mouth.

Red wine and ash and fresh dirt.

The woman shivered.

She was pretty. She was very pretty. So pretty the dried-up veins in my neck ached at the sight of the quickening pulse in her jugular. A tinge of red flooded her round, olive cheeks as she looked me up and down. Swallowing once. Her throat quivered.

Stop that.

I wasn't here for this.

She wasn't even that appetizing. Her makeup was smudged. The blonde was fake—her thick eyebrows didn't match the color in the slightest. Was the mole under her left eye fake too? Probably. I mean, wow, did it work for her but it had to be as fake as the rest of this Marilyn thing she was going for. Except for maybe those hips.

"Our little secret," I said, nodding at the tip jar and avoiding her eyes. Could've told her off. Could've ratted on her for stealing. But, I don't know, guess I just got curious to know what she'd do next.

"If you say so," she mumbled, giving me a wide berth as she scooted to the opposite end of the counter to pick up her drink.

It took an immense effort not to watch her go. Which irked me. Not her going, but my urge to watch.

"One extra hot—oh, can I help you?" the barista—Mason, judging by his nametag—said, cardboard cup in hand.

I rubbed my eyes. For a moment, the image of that odd woman burned under my eyelids. Right. What was I here for again?

Missing barista.

Or rather, likely ghosted barista. I was already rehearsing how to break the news to Dmitri.

Sorry my liege, my pal. Found the girl and, now, don't want to say I told you so, but she just doesn't want to see you anymore so if you could leave the poor thing alone, thanks, and that'll be fifteen hundred for your troubles.

"Evening," I said, soft as a cat's purr, and leaned lazily against the serving counter. "Iced mocha please."

Sliding the cardboard cup down the end of the counter and wiping his hands on his apron, Mason replied: "Four fifty."

He took my cash and I stuffed a generous tip into his jar. Beyond myself, this boy, and that woman I could feel staring at me from the milk bar, there was a small collection of patrons (human, I'd say) minding their own business throughout the diner. I didn't peep another barista behind the counter, but I did peep a couple servers roaming the dining room and there were obviously a few cooks tucked in the rear kitchen.

The place was notably clean. At least to the casual observer. Behind the counter, the coffee pots and espresso machines and blenders, were dotted in a variety of brownish smudges. Mess sink overflowed. Little trash bin on the pickup counter was stuffed to the gills with straw wrappers and napkins.

"Say," I said, "you work here long?"

Mason spilled chocolate syrup along the countertop and groaned. He was sweating. Pulse jumpy. Stressed.

I glanced around the diner. The woman in the leopard print coat was hurrying through a side door near the main entrance, one that appeared to lead deeper in the building, her head down. Her legs—no.

"This your usual shift?"

"Yep."

"Right, sorry. Didn't recognize you. Lily usually works nights, doesn't she?"

She must, if she's caught a demented cock of a vampire's eye.

Scooping ice into the cup, the barista's whole body seemed to sag. "Listen, man, if you're like a secret shopper, my manager already gave us this talk. Everybody knows we can't just give out personal info."

Hm. So a Lily does work here, if he's got personal information of hers to potentially dish out.

"Actually, I'm a private investigator," I pulled a card out from my wallet and flung it on the counter. "Lily, the gal whose shift you've been covering. She's got some friends who haven't heard from her in a while. They're getting awfully worried. Just want to know where she's scampered off to, make sure she ain't in any trouble, yeah? I'm wondering if she's maybe switched to day shifts? Or quit entirely?"

"Yeah, I don't talk to cops."

"Wha—no. I'm not—I'm a private investigator," I cleared my tightening throat. "The card, you know, the card explains it."

"So you're a cop for hire?"

"No, I—" Patted my wallet—shoot. I'd already used a chunk of my usual stock of bribe money to cover the sneaky devil's stolen tips. And then some. I couldn't blow the whole petty cash fund on one barista, first night of the investigation. Phoebe would stake me when it came to review the monthly budget.

Here goes plan B negative, then.

Bit my lip and let the boy finish building my drink in silence. I had patience. As an immortal member of the damned, I better have patience. But when the barista turned to present my drink, I oh so soft and intentionally clasped my hand around his, trapping him between me and the cup. The boy shivered and, reflexively, looked up, catching my gaze just right.

His eyes glazed. Tension coiled in his shoulders and arms slackened minutely.

"Thank you," I purred, concentrating on holding Mason's stare without blinking. "You're very good at this aren't you?" he nodded. "You must work very hard." Nod. "Yes, of course you do. It shows. You must be so tense, from all this work. I bet it feels nice to just, once and awhile," I pulled the sweating cup finally free from the barista's loosening grip, "let go for a bit. Go on. Check out for a few. I can look after the diner—"

I must've blinked. Or perhaps it was the sudden gurgling of the percolator behind him. Hell, could've been a hair tickling the back of his neck. But in an instant, the spell broke. Boy shook his head, brows furrowing in obvious confusion. "Yeah, dude, I, uh, obviously can't do that. Uh, I think maybe you should leave."

Yeah, see, there he goes. Snapping right out of it. It's the blinks! Gets 'em every time. I'm not the handiest vamp at enthralling, alright? Not in recent years, at least. The line between melting some poor mortal's brain versus letting them snap out of it too quickly was a very thin one, indeed. Listen, hunting is an old-world concept. These nights you can just legally hire a meal for a night at a club, or, if your insurance was good, get one covered from a local clinic. What I'm saying was with such easy access to quality meals, one may lose their touch at the old-fashioned methods. Happens to us all.

Plan D for Desperation then.

Obviously uncomfortable, Mason ripped his hand out from under mine and I let my palm open. The cup of ice and espresso and chocolate syrup splattered onto the floor behind the counter.

"Oh, shucks, that was clumsy," I said. "Mind whipping up another? Then I'll be out of your hair."

"Yeah, um, sure." He sighed, and then, as he grabbed a towel, added, "pig," under his breath.

He bent over to slop up my mess. I—and to be clear, I ain't proud of this. But it was hooked right to the side of the register. A clipboard. Slapped to the front was a printed schedule for the upcoming week. Few rumpled sheets of paper underneath probably detailing last week's schedule as well. And if the boy wasn't observant enough to catch the woman in leopard print pinching his tips, then, well, easy pickings.

With the inhuman reflexes I do have to admit come in handy on occasion, I tore the top two sheets off the board and quickly stuffed them into my pocket.

This time, when Mason finished the drink, he didn't even try to hand it to me directly. Just slid the cold beverage across to the usual pick-up spot at far end of the counter, glaring stakes at me.

"Thanks," I said, moving away from the register. "Hey, can I snag a table? Feeling a bit peckish."

He rolled his eyes and threw a plastic menu at a vacant two top booth under the nearest window.

"Thanks. Have a great night."

As I slid into the booth, I noticed he wrote my name on the cup as private pig.

This week's schedule was chaotic. To say the least. What started as a neatly typed spreadsheet full of employee names plugged into a calendar of timeslots had been transformed into a block of abstract blackout poetry. One name had been crossed out of the weekday 4:00pm to midnight shift every night this week. Mason—along with his apparent coworkers—must not be pleased to have had their names scribbled over the blacked out one nearly a dozen times.

On Monday, the words no call, no show had been penciled beside the mystery name.

Tuesday, someone had jotted: No answer. This still her number? Followed by a phone number. 215, Philadelphia area code. Though that don't mean much. No doodles seem to have replied, in either the negative or affirmative. The asker probably got the response they were after some other way.

The pen drove into the clipboard with such force on Wednesday it ripped the page, obliterating the name entirely.

Finally landing on today, a sloppy, barely decipherable note along declaring 'You know I can't work this Thursday - Maddy' was followed by a different set of handwriting proclaiming 'Sorry Mason, you're flying solo on nights.'

If my calculations were correct, Mason was well over forty hours this week. Poor guy.

I flipped the sheet to the previous week.

Lily Perez.

I'll be damned. And I probably already was. She was right there. Monday through Thursday, 4:00pm to midnight. Just as Dmitri said she'd be. Her name appeared to be the scribbled-out truant. Had to be her. The rip from the disgruntled pen on Wednesday had lined up perfectly to tear through her name on this sheet too. No other Lily on the schedule either, far as I could see.

I pulled a pen and notebook from my pockets and copied her full name and the questionable number.

Fished my phone out again, after a glance around the diner to make sure Mason hadn't yet discovered my thievery. He was busy pouring fresh beans into the espresso machine. The other servers were too preoccupied with their other tables to spot me yet.

Alright then, Lily Perez, let's see if this really is your phone number. I blocked my mine using *67 and gave her a ring.

Straight to voicemail. It was the automated, default robotic voice simply announcing I had reached the precise number I had dialed—gee, thanks—and leave a message.

Hung up.

Next, I pulled up the sock pocket account I kept on some trendy, photo sharing social media platform. Humans go looney tunes for these apps. I don't get it, but got to admit it makes my job a heck of a lot easier on occasion. I don't maintain an 'online presence.' Never quite took off the same way with the creature community, what, with us being a secret society and all that. (If someone you've just met says they're not online, that's a red flag they're creature, in my personal opinion). But I do keep a few dummy accounts under a variety of aliases active for situations like these.

I searched her phone number in the app.

Presto.

Within a single refresh, the algorithm in power had a new account suggestion for me to follow: pinklilyxo

Three hundred and twenty-seven followers and the account was private. Just my luck. All I had to work with now was her profile photo. Could only zoom in so much without wrecking the image quality, but it appeared to be shooting downward at a young woman with dark hair and pink sweater, sat on the inside sill of a large window. She was turned away from the camera, as if she were gazing wistfully out onto the street below. I suspected one arm was raised above her head to capture this self-portrait.

It was night. A sign was visible through the window, down on the street below. Black letters against a bright white backdrop: The Fairpark Hotel.

Bingo.

I knew where that hotel was. Bit northwest of here, in Center City. Intersection of 13th and Spruce Streets. Photo was clearly taken from an apartment in one of the buildings at that intersection. Her own apartment, most likely.

My spine tingled. Felt a fang poking at my bottom lip. The thrill of the hunt. I took a long sip from my straw, velvety latte blanketing my tongue, and relished in the temporary salve on my nerves.

Releasing my cup, my thumb came away black. A smudged line had been imprinted on it. Huh.

A spun the cup. On the side opposite my private pig moniker another word had been scrawled: Psychic. My pesky thumb smeared the shape beside it. Had it been an exclamation? A question mark, perhaps?

Okay. Odd. Why had Mason left me this? Was this supposed to be another insult? Or was the policy regarding giving away personal information so strictly enforced he resorted to sneaking me a code?

It hit me like a runaway SEPTA bus then. Of course. That wasn't punctuation I'd smudged. It was an arrow, pointing toward the window upstairs.

Psychic Readings.