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I've followed you around the world. If it hadn't been for a passingrespect for Dora, I would have killed you long before now."The bartender had reappeared. This brought the most ecstaticsmile to my companion's lips. He looked right at the kid.
"Yes, my dear boy, let me see, the very last drink unless I'm verybadly mistaken, make it bourbon. I grew up in the South. What doyou have? No, I'll tell you what, son, just make it SouthernComfort." His laugh was private and convivial and soft.
The bartender moved on, and Roger turned his furious eyes onme. "You have to listen to me, whatever the Hell you are, vampire,demon, devil, I don't care, you cannot hurt my daughter.""I don't intend to hurt her. I would never hurt her. Go on to hell,you'll feel better. Good night.""You smug son of a bitch. How many years do you think I had?"Droplets of sweat were breaking out on his face. His hair was movinga little in the natural draft through the room.
"I couldn't give less of a damn!" I said. "You were a meal worthwaiting for.""You've got quite a swagger, don't you?" he said acidly. "Butyou're nothing as shallow as you pretend to be.""Oh, you don't think so? Try me. You may find me 'as soundingbrass or a tinkling cymbal.' "That gave him pause.
It gave me pause too. Where did those words come from? Whydid they roll off my tongue like that? I was not likely to use that sortof imagery!
He was absorbing all this, my preoccupation, my obvious self-doubt. How did it manifest itself, I wonder? Did I sag or fade slightlyas some mortals do, or did I merely look confused?
The bartender gave him the drink. Very tentatively now, he wastrying to put his fingers around it and lift it. He managed and got it tohis lips and took a taste. He was amazed, and thankful, and suddenlyso full of fear that he almost disintegrated. The illusion was almostcompletely dispersed.
But he held firm. This was so obviously the person I had justkilled, hacked to pieces and buried all over Manhattan, that I feltphysically sick staring at him. I realized only one thing was saving mefrom panic. He was talking to me. What had David said once, whenhe was alive, about talking to me? That he wouldn't kill a vampirebecause the vampire could talk to him? And this damned ghost wastalking to me.
"I have to talk to you about Dora," he said.
"I told you I will never hurt her, or anyone like her," I said.
"Look, what are you doing here with me! When you appeared, youdidn't even know that I knew about Dora! You wanted to tell meabout Dora?""Depth, I've been murdered by a being with depth, howfortunate, someone who actually keenly appreciated my death, no?" Hedrank more of the sweet-smelling Southern Comfort. "This wasJanis Joplin's drink, you know," he said, referring to the dead singerwhom I, too, had loved. "Look, listen to me out of curiosity, I don'tgive a damn. But listen. Let me talk to you about Dora and about me.
I want you to know. I want you to really know who I was, not whatyou might think. I want you to look out for Dora. And then there'ssomething back at the flat, something I want you.. .,""Veronica's veil in the frame?""No! That's trash. I mean, it's four centuries old, of course, butit's a common version of Veronica's veil, if you have enough money.
You did look around my place, didn't you?""Why did you want to give that veil to Dora?" I asked.
This sobered him appropriately. "You heard us talking?""Countless times."He was conjecturing, weighing things. He looked entirelyreasonable, his dark Asian face evincing nothing but sincerity and greatcare.
"Did you say 'look out for Dora'?" I asked. "Is that what youasked me to do? Look out for her? Now that's another propositionand why the hell do you want to tell me the story of your life! You'rerunning through your personal afterdeath judgment with the wrongguy! I don't care how you got the way you were. The things at theflat, why would a ghost care about such things?"This was not wholly honest on my part. I was being far tooflippant and we both knew it. Of course he cared about his treasures. Butit was Dora that had made him rise from the dead.
His hair was a deeper black now, and the coat had taken on moretexture. I could see the weave of the silk and the cashmere in it. Icould see his fingernails, professionally manicured, very neat andbuffed. Same hands I threw in the garbage! I don't think all thesedetails had been visible moments ago.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered.
He laughed. "You're more afraid than I am.""Where are you?""What are you talking about?" he asked. "I'm sitting next to you.
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