Free Angel of Vengeance by Trevor O. Munson

in her glass. “Well, I guess if you feel that strongly about it then a kiss goodbye is out of the question.”
    I nod. “Completely.”
    She raises her face to kiss me anyway, her lips opening like flower petals in bloom.
    “I’ll mess your hair and makeup all up,” I warn, our mouths almost touching now.
    “It wouldn’t be much worth doing if you didn’t.”
    I grab hold of those curls and we kiss like an electric shock. Her mouth tastes of Scotch and smoke, which could be unpleasant but isn’t. I haven’t let myself get this close to a woman in ages because of my penchant for picking the wrong ones. Call it a knack. I am overwhelmed by fear and desire. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt either. Since I’ve felt much of anything. The numbness that comes with being undead isn’t just physical, it’s emotional too. Anger is the one exception. There always seems to be plenty of that on hand. Maybe it’s what makes us vampires capable of the things we’re made to do. I don’t know. What I do know is that right now with her I feel more alive than I have in longer than I care to consider.
    “There, now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asks when we part.
    I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just shake my head. I want more. Lots more, if you want to know the truth.
    “Well, I’d ask you to stay, but I have a show to do in a half hour.”
    “And I have a girl to find.” I locate my hat in plain sight on a low shelf and mash it on.
    “How about if we get together later when we can take our time with things? I’m off tomorrow night.”
    I open my mouth to say forget it, but what comes out sounds a whole lot more like “Sure”.
    She grins playfully. “Your place or mine?”
    “Better make it yours. I don’t have a bed.”
    “You don’t? Then where do you sleep?”
    “In a freezer,” I deadpan. She laughs. She thinks I’m joking. I let her keep thinking it. “Where’s your place at?”
    Reesa moves toward the dressing blind at the back of the room, unknotting the red silk belt that holds the matching kimono in check as she goes. She stops beside it, turns back to me. Red silk puddles like blood at her feet. I try to keep my eyes polite, but sometimes they get fresh all on their own. This is one of those times.
    Clad only in a smile brimming with mischief, she shrugs. “You’re a detective. Find me.”
    I need a pay phone. I aim the Benz for Canter’s Deli. As I roll south down a car-barnacled Hollywood surface street an unchanging pair of headlights in the Benz’s rearview makes me think I’m being tailed again. I take a couple of turns out of my way just to be sure. Whoever is following me doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing. The tail is too obvious and amateurish even for cops. So then who? The possibilities are practically endless. I haven’t exactly been racking up acquaintances who would fall into the ‘new friend’ category just lately.
    I take a right, then a quick left into a narrow alleyway that curls behind a set of overpriced condos. I pull in behind a brown dumpster and cut the lights. I don’t have to wait long before my tail—a familiar-looking ’77 Ford pick-up as it turns out—pulls in after me.
    When I see he’s committed, I throw the Roadster into reverse and punch it, hoping I can get close enough to at least get a look at the driver. The white-wall tires smoke and squeal as the powerful engine drags me back the way I just came. Seeing me bearing down on him like the hammer of God, my tail panics, turns rabbit. A lot closer to the mouth of the alley than me, the pick-up manages to back out into the street before I’m even halfway there. Through the passenger-side window, I just catch a glimpse of a white male face and over-styled blond pompadour behind the wheel before the Ford lays rubber and peels away into the night.
    Canter’s.
    I park in the side lot, step over the bum that lies like a speed bump on the sidewalk out front, and shoulder my way