Death Swatch by Death Swatch

Author:Death, Swatch [Death, Swatch]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-05-30T07:44:57+00:00

AVA CLUNG POSSESSIVELY TO THE ARM OF HER goateed man as she made introductions. “This is Eduardo, cher.”

Carmela smiled politely. “Hello, Eduardo, I'm Carmela.”

Inclining her head slightly, Ava said, “He says there's a VIP room. The Red Room.”

Carmela was suddenly interested. “Can he get us in?”

Ava snuggled closer to Eduardo. “Can you get us in?”

“No problem,” he told her, looking happier by the minute at being in the company of such an attractive woman. “I'm a card-carrying member. Lifetime.”

“Lifetime,” said Ava. “That could be a long time for a vampire.” She giggled. The enormous Bloody Mary was starting to get to her.

“It's just a hobby,” Eduardo told them. “Like building models or collecting stamps.”

“Not quite,” murmured Carmela.

Thanks to Eduardo's membership card, the black leather padded door with the brass studs eased open for them, admitting them into the Red Room.

Set into an alcove at the far end of the room was a giant stone Buddha. Red vigil lights flickered at its bare feet. Deep, red leather circular booths lined one wall, and a long, ornate bar ran along the other wall. The music pulsed, low and seductive. Definitely a more refined vibe and ambience than the front part of Club Taboo.

“Cool,” said Ava. “Now, this is more my style.”

As Ava and Eduardo drifted off, Carmela's eye roved about the room. She studied the people drinking and whispering together in the booths, decided they all looked like your garden-variety New Orleans types. That left the bar, where a dozen people perched on cushy barstools. Seven men, five women.

Carmela studied the men. Only one really stood out to her. A bearded, bearish looking man in a vampire costume that seemed to fit a little too snugly.

He seemed more animated, more effusive, more . . . Russian?

Now the big question was, should she just walk up to him and start talking?

Well, why not? she decided as she tossed her cape back over her shoulders.

Carmela moved slowly down the row of barstools, aware that she looked good in her costume. Cute, youngish, hopefully sexy.

Okay, she told herself, trying to ratchet up her courage, if you've got it flaunt it. It wasn't her typical mantra, but this wasn't your typical club.

Trying to recall a few words of Russian she'd heard over the years, Carmela eased up to the man at the end of the bar.

“Privet!” Hello!

He spun toward her, a smile lighting his broad, lined face. “You speak Russian?”

She shook her head. “Net.” No.

He looked askance at her. “Sounds like you do.”

“Sorry, but I just ran out of words,” Carmela told him.

“You have a name?” he asked her, curious. He was no older than mid-forties but looked like he'd logged some serious miles.

“Carmela.”

He touched a large hand to his chest. “Vasiliy. Sit down, have a drink. Vodka,” he grunted to the bartender. “Two.”

“I think I might know a friend of yours,” said Carmela, easing onto the stool next to him.

Vasiliy squinted at her. “Yeah?”

“Miguez.”

Vasiliy shook a cigarette from a battered pack and stuck it in his mouth.

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