FSF, February 2008 Read online

  "Sure will. What a day, huh?"

  Ending the call, he frowned across at the witch queen. “Who the devil is Lazlo Font?"

  "Our new editor, hon,” she answered. “Much less of a martinet than dear Rudy and—"

  "Rudy was a nitwit, not a martinet."

  "And despite the fact that he was schooled in a very strict military school, Lazlo is an easygoing gent. We'll have plenty of extra time to finish up the book and ... telephone."

  His phone chimed. “Yeah?"

  "Polly again. Sorry to interrupt you while you're probably working on the book, but I forgot to tell you something."

  "Which is?"

  "We'll be cutting you the check today, mailing it out tomorrow, Paul."

  "What check?"

  "It's a special extra advance against your share of the royalties. Rudy apparently arranged that just before he was ... um ... stricken. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Well, goodbye again."

  Rising, he moved closer to Inza. “Some more of your witchcraft?"

  She spread her fat hands wide, making a very unsuccessful attempt to appear guileless. “It might be if I were a true witch, one with supernatural powers. But you've been calling me a self-styled—"

  "No, nope. That was what Rudy called you,” he told her. “Myself, I'm well on the way toward accepting your claims. And I really don't mind your using magic to get me more dough than I got from Greensea in the first place."

  "Well, thank you, dear."

  "The thing is, Inza, this other stuff—causing my creditors to drive motorcycles off bridges, inflicting Rudy Korkin with the plague or whatever it was—that's got to cease."

  When she sighed, her entire big body quivered and her bracelets jingled. “Very well. No more black magic or sorcery on your behalf,” she promised. “I do hope Lazlo isn't going to upset you."

  "Christ, what's wrong with him?"

  "Nothing, it's only that he's two hundred and twenty-six years old,” she replied. “Don't worry, though, it really doesn't show."

  "How did he get to be two hundred and twenty-six years old?” Sanson sat down again, slumping.

  "By not dying. Vampires are noted for that."

  He stood up. “Great, Inza, just fine. You replace an editor who's a nitwit with one who's a certified member of the undead."

  "Lazlo's going to be a lot easier to get along with."

  Sanson began to pace, as best he could in the cluttered living room. “You're still going to have to come up with some more pages of your memoirs."

  "Now that the pressure from dear Rudy is gone, I'm feeling inspired."

  He returned to his chair, nearly tripping over a ceramic salamander. “Fine, I'll come by Friday afternoon and we can—"

  "I've been thinking, hon, that we could work a lot more productively if you were on hand."

  "Meaning?"

  "On hand, on deck, aboard,” she explained. “What I mean is, live here in the mansion. There are plenty of spare bedrooms and, as you know, I had that gourmet kitchen installed with all the handsome cabinets and racks for—"

  "I'm a writer, not a chef,” he informed her. “I have a house. My computer is there, my files are there. My privacy is there, Inza. No, I don't want to be moving in here."

  "Very well, dear. I won't press you,” she said, grunting as she raised her bulk up from the chair. “You're sure there aren't any other little problems you'd like me to solve for you?"

  "No, please. No more black magic.” He rose and headed for the way out.

  "All right. I'll be expecting you Friday, around two.” She started lumbering toward him.

  "Around two, fine.” He departed before she could bestow a farewell hug.

  * * * *

  As the afternoon waned, the weather worsened. Driving down the winding road from Inza's hilltop mansion, Sanson encountered not only heavy rain but crackles of bluish lightning and closer and closer rumbling booms of thunder.

  The politely liberal FM station he usually listened to in the car seemed to be broadcasting nothing but static and he switched to the only jazz station in the area just in time to hear the nasal-voiced disc jockey announce that the next hour would be devoted to an uninterrupted playing of the best of the Tijuana Brass.

  He turned off the radio.

  The windshield wipers, which he'd been meaning to replace, were making that strange keening noise again while slapping away at the pelting rain.

  A huge flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the tree-lined stretch of road and he saw the young woman.

  She was standing at the side of the lane, slim in a white raincoat and green scarf and holding a small yellow polka dot umbrella over her head.

  He slowed, stopped alongside her and lowered his window halfway. “Trouble?” he called out into the rain.

  She came hurrying over to his car. “Nothing serious. If it wasn't for this darn storm, I could walk home."

  "Car break down?” He asked, although there was no sign of an automobile.

  Nodding, she pointed toward the woodlands beyond the narrow road. “Yes, it's parked up in the cemetery,” she answered. “Won't start."

  "The Old New Beckford Burying Ground?"

  She smiled. “Sounds strange, I know,” she said. “But I'm an artist and I was sitting in my car sketching some of the old eighteenth-century gravestones and crypts."

  "Well, get in,” he invited. “I'll drive you home."

  She walked around the front of his car, folded up the umbrella and settled into the passenger seat. “I don't suppose you'd want to take a look at my car?"

  "That's about all I'm capable of doing, looking,” he admitted. “Repairs are beyond me."

  She smiled again. “I'll call my garage when I get home,” she said. “My name's Sara Bardsley."

  "Paul Sanson."

  "Oh, the writer?"

  As he commenced driving again, he glanced over at her. “You've actually heard of me?"

  "Sure, I have eclectic tastes,” Sara answered. “I read the children's book you did and—"

  "I wrote that six years ago, when I was married and in a better mood,” he said. “I do mostly nonfiction now."

  "That's a shame."

  "True, but what I write now helps me handle alimony and household expenses better. Where do you live?"

  "I didn't think I'd want to live on a street with a spooky name,” the young woman said. “But when I saw this cottage on Gallows Hill Road, I really loved it. So I bought it."

  "Bought it?"

  "With my inheritance,” she explained. “I was working in commercial art for a few years and then when my Aunt Theresa left me some money, I decided to do what I wanted to do. That was painting. Trite maybe, but gratifying. At least for the five months I've been at it."

  "I could use an inheritance about now.” He spotted Gallows Hill Road on the right and guided the car onto it.

  "My number is 303. For some reason 303 comes after 305. Just around the next bend,” said Sara. “What are you working on now, Paul?"

  "Nothing much, a sort of ghostwriting job.” He located a silvery mailbox with the numbers 303 neatly painted on its side and turned on to a rain-drenched driveway.

  The cottage was small, built to resemble something from an England of two or three centuries earlier. Tudor-style with a simulated thatch roof, small stained glass windows, and considerable ivy.

  "Good thing,” remarked Sara as he parked near the red front door, “you aren't here on a sunny day. You'd probably find the place too cozy."

  "Looks pretty cozy even in a thunderstorm."

  "Since you've been so helpful, can I offer you a cup of coffee?"

  "Sure, fine."

  The young woman ran to the door, unlocked it.

  The parlor was uncluttered and had beamed ceilings and sturdy old furniture.

  "Hold on a minute,” she said as she left the room. “I'll call the garage and make some coffee."

  Wandering around the warm, cozy room, Sanson noticed several fram
ed watercolors on the off-white walls. All depicted ruined tombstones, decaying crypts, or bleak autumnal landscapes.

  From the kitchen she called, “Decaf?"

  "Sure."

  When she returned a few moments later with the two coffee cups and a small plate of scones on a tray, he realized that without her coat and scarf, Sara was a very pretty young woman. Slim, about twenty-five and with auburn-colored hair. She was extremely pale.

  "You feeling okay?” he asked as he took a cup of coffee from the tray she'd placed on an end table.

  "Certainly. Why?” She sat on the arm of the sofa.

  He touched at his own cheek. “You seem pale."

  "You'll have to get used to that.” She stirred two spoons of real sugar into her cup. “I'm just naturally pale. And sometimes wan."

  He said, “In order to get used to that, I'd have to see you again."

  "Obviously,” she said.

  * * * *

  Friday was yet another day that started off wet and gray. But despite the gloomy weather and the fact that he'd be spending the afternoon with the witch queen, Sanson was in a splendid mood as he shaved.

  "I'm feeling chipper,” he decided while studying himself in the mildly warped medicine cabinet mirror. “Although most people don't use that word anymore."

  The cause for his good mood was the fact that he had a dinner date tonight with Sara Bardsley. When he'd suggested they eat at his favorite steak house, The Meat Department, over in South Norwalk, she explained that she was a vegetarian. So they were going to dine at a new place called Viva Las Veggies in Westport.

  "I can eat nothing but vegetables once a week,” he said as he finished shaving and slapped on an aftershave that smelled like a pine forest on a windy day. “Twice or three times probably if it's with her."

  The wall phone in his modest kitchen sounded. He hurried to answer. Now that Inza Warburton had used sorcery to improve his financial status, he knew that early morning calls probably wouldn't be from creditors.

  "Hello."

  "Perhaps you can help me, sir,” said a breathy female voice. “I'm just awfully eager to locate that loathsome scoundrel named Paul Sanson. He is once more terribly, terribly late with his alimony payment."

  Sanson sighed. “Three days isn't even terribly late, Mindy, let alone terribly, terribly,” he told his former spouse. “A tiny bit overdue is the correct legal term. How are things out there in Santa Monica?"

  "Lousy,” answered Mindy Boon. “It's been raining torrentially for days on end."

  "Build an ark."

  "If you're through your smartass phase, Paul,” she said, “let's talk about the money you owe me. What, precisely, does three days late mean?"

  "It means I mailed your blasted check to you three days after the deadline. The outrageous sum is winging its way to you even as we speak. I swear, as God is my witness."

  "Which god would that be, an Egyptian jackal god?” inquired Mindy. “Or maybe a snake god from a primitive cannibal tribe?"

  "It'll be there today or tomorrow."

  "We'll see,” she said. “So, tell me, what do you think of my show?"

  "Which feeble sitcom are you alluding to?” he asked the actress.

  "Geez, you're even worse now than you were during our dumb marriage,” she complained. “I happen to be starring in Lethal Injection: Texas, the highly successful spinoff of Lethal Injection. Last week we were third in the ratings, just below I Married a Fat Girl and just above So You Want To Have Elective Surgery."

  "Congratulations,” he said. “But, Mindy, while our divorce settlement obliges me to send you immense amounts of alimony, it doesn't say anything about my having to suffer through whatever piece of tripe you and that halfwit TV writer you're shacked up with are currently foisting on—"

  "I am not living with anybody,” she insisted. “And I wish that you'd...."

  "That I'd what?"

  "Hush. The house is starting to make some very funny noises."

  "Okay, I'll sign off and let you listen."

  "Oh, my God!” cried Mindy. “It's a mudslide! The whole entire house is starting to slide downhill toward the frigging Pacific Ocean. I'll have to call you back."

  Paul took a deep breath and called Inza.

  "Yes, Paul dear?” she answered.

  "I thought we agreed on no more witchcraft and black magic,” he told her. “Don't work any more tricks on anyone associated with me. Assassinating my dippy former wife by causing—"

  "What happened to her house is entirely due to natural causes. You build on the side of a hill in LA and then it rains a lot and—woosh!—Down you go."

  "So what am I now? An accessory to murder?"

  "The lady ain't dead,” the witch assured him. “She has, as a result of her bumpy descent to the sea, suffered a concussion. When she comes to, she will have no memory of the fact that you owe her money. In fact, her memory will tell her that you paid her one large settlement and don't owe her diddly."

  "Her lawyer will remember the alimony."

  "Now, talk about coincidences. Her shyster is going to trip—on the Walk of the Stars, as a matter of fact, right on top of Marilyn Monroe's star—and suffer a substantial conk on the noggin. He, too, will have a slight shifting of memories,” Inza told him. “Ouch. I'm monitoring this on one of my crystal balls and he just took his nosedive. Painful to watch."

  "All right, Inza,” he said. “I'll accept your interference this time, but don't do me any more favors. Okay?"

  "As you wish,” promised the witch queen. “What say you come over early and have lunch before we get to work on the memoirs? I'll be fixing shark tartare and—"

  "Thanks, but I have a lunch date,” he lied.

  "Actually, you don't have a lunch date, Paul. But far be it from me to force myself on anyone. I'm content to bide my time."

  "Fine."

  "Yellow roses."

  "What?"

  "That little cutie pie you plan to see tonight,” she said. “Yellow roses are her favorite. Since you intend to buy her a bouquet, make it yellow roses."

  "Inza, my private life is separate from my business life,” he said, annoyed. “Don't go poking into any more—"

  "Hey, hon, I wouldn't dream of interfering,” said the witch. “Not yet, anyway."

  "I'll be over at two.” He ended the call.

  * * * *

  Unexpectedly, there were several cars parked in the driveway of Inza Warburton's slightly ramshackle mansion. Sanson parked his car behind a gray Mercedes. Nearer the house he passed a lemon yellow VW bug and a dusty Saab. Leaning against a yellowing hedge was a ten-speed bicycle.

  The massive oaken front door hung half open. As he stepped into the hallway, a plump young woman holding a can of diet soda smiled at him. “Are you joining the coven?"

  "Not immediately, no.” He made his way farther into the house.

  In the cluttered living room a bearded man was looking critically at the plate of sandwiches perched on a claw-footed table. “Pretty spartan fare for a cocktail party,” he remarked to the gaunt woman beside him.

  Inza emerged from the shadow at the foot of the staircase leading up to the second floor of the mansion. “I have a big surprise for you, hon.” Before he could dodge, the immense woman grabbed him, hugged him enthusiastically, and kissed him warmly on the cheek.

  Pulling free, he inquired, “Aren't we going to be working on your book?"

  She took hold of his arm. “I'm throwing an impromptu party for Lazlo,” she explained as she urged him upwards. “I invited the members of my coven over to meet the old boy. But I'd like to introduce you to him first."

  "Isn't he still in Europe?” he asked, following her up into the shadows above.

  "Would I be throwing a party for him if he were?” She was guiding him along the upstairs corridor. “Now, that door on your left is to the spare bedroom you'll be occupying once you move in. Care to take a quick look around before—"

  "I'm not moving in,” h
e reminded her. “Let's just meet this Font guy."

  "As you will. This is his room over on the right.” She reached out to open a dark wooden door. “Lazlo, are you decent?"

  On the aged Persian carpet, resting directly in front of the canopy bed, was a very handsome ebony coffin rich with silver trim.

  Sanson halted just across the threshold. “How'd you get that here? Doesn't customs have to—"

  "Teleportation, dear.” Inza made a sweeping motion with her left hand while producing a whooshing sound. “Lazlo's even better at that than I am."

  "He teleported his coffin all the way from Europe?"

  "The coffin with me in it, my boy.” The lid of the coffin swung open with a faint creak, and a broad-shouldered man sat up in it. “Myself plus a generous smattering of my native Hungarian soil. Pleased to be working with you at Greensea, Paul. I really think you and Inza here have got a terrific book in the works. It's going to be on the New York Times list if I'm any judge.” Hopping free of the coffin, the wide, tall man held out his hand.

  "I thought,” said Sanson, shaking hands, very gingerly, with his new editor, “that vampires slept by day."

  Both Font and Inza laughed and the witch queen said, “An old wives’ tale, hon."

  "I do nap in my coffin,” admitted the vampire editor. “I spent quite a few years in Spain in the 1890s and picked up the siesta habit."

  "Lazlo, I have a dozen people downstairs who are very eager to meet you."

  "We'll talk about this potential blockbuster of yours after I meet everybody in the coven, Paul.” Brushing some Hungarian dust from his dark trousers, he went striding toward the doorway.

  "Now, isn't he a much nicer editor than that ninny Rudy Korkin?” asked the witch queen, nudging Sanson affectionately.

  "Oh, yes, definitely,” he replied. “And he sure doesn't look his age."

  * * * *

  In spite of the uneasiness he felt about having an undead editor, Sanson grew increasingly happy in the week following the witch queen's welcoming party. His upbeat mood was due entirely to Sara Bardsley.

  As Inza had predicted, the young artist's favorite flowers were yellow roses. The dinner at Viva Las Veggies went very well and he found that he actually enjoyed his meatless meal. That night, she kissed him when he brought her back to her faux rustic cottage. And that Saturday, after they'd gone to the New Beckford multiplex to see the Puppetoon version of Philip K. Dick's Eye in the Sky, he spent the night with her.