DUBUQUE, IOWA AT NIGHT IS one of four things: cool, depending on the breeze coming off the Mississippi; muggy in the summer (depending); mostly quiet (if you’re there after one a.m.); and for the most part white, except for tonight, when three black dudes, two black chicks, a Latina and an olive-complexioned Atlantidean rode through town. Dubuque’s West Side was baby boomer suburban paradise, and the Jetstreams rode slowly through the more affluent areas, windows down, guaranteed to attract private security attention. They parked outside the house of Lee Batch, a prominent Afro-American corporate legal defender and known supporter of the Thoom, for ten minutes. Vampires tended to hang out in the Japanese Garden at Dubuque’s Arboretum and Botanical Gardens; tonight, the Jetstreams parked, got out, walked right in, and sat down to catch the end of two vampires’ conversation about market share as it related to collateral growth. Smoove wanted to kill them, but Milo said no, and made the vampires finish their conversation, which was suddenly an exercise in nervous fumbling and repetitive half sentences told before a stony-faced and minimally blinking audience.
The vampires finished.
No one spoke.
Then Milo said, “That was fascinating.”
His words clattered ungainly off the rocks of the garden’s central waterfall.
Two sharp handclaps startled the upwardly mobile vampires. They regarded Smoove as though he were some mad Rasta loony man.
He maintained the stony look for them…then he smiled.
And the Jetstream party left.
First thing in the morning they went to Walmart.
Nobody actually looks at a Walmart greeter. If one ever bothered to look at those nondescript old men and women and vacant younger ones, and perhaps follow them off their shifts, one would see that as the little blue vests ambled through stores between stacks of sugared drinks, socks on sale, mega vitamins, and improperly-raised children, one would find that almost every one of them somehow eventually managed to find a quiet, private space among the marked up discounted prices and very very easily vanish. They’re zephyrs; they do not punch out or in for these breaks, and woe unto retailers if ever a one was docked. No one fucks with a zephyr’s off time. Don’t know where they go or what they do, and because zephyrs tend to be slightly crazy, it was wisest not to ask. Had anyone bothered actually to look one dead and long in the face, they’d come to a startling conclusion: zephyrs had the most beautiful eyes.
Yet their voices sounded like hell.
“HellowelcometoWalmart!” one barked before realizing the customers hadn’t actually gotten close enough yet to warrant it. He tried to cover his embarrassment by inducing a mild coughing fit. When they reached him he was anticipating the soft breeze of their passing, which to a zephyr was like cleavage to a djinn. This zephyr, though, had looked into the eyes of an angel once and now thought he recognized something in the eyes of the man looking down at him. It was a black man, and his eyes met the zephyr’s full on. They were warm eyes but left the impression they might bend steel for fun and challenge. The man said “Thank you,” and moved to walk away. The zephyr—who was never to touch the customers—grabbed light hold of Ramses’ sleeve.
“You see me?”
“Yes.”
The old one looked Milo’s way, at the others, and quickly added, “Jetstreams.”
“Yes.”
The zephyr smiled broadly. “Welcome to Walmart.” He released Ramses. “This might prove to be a good day.”
“We can hope.”
Several Agents of Change worked hardlines in housewares. The group hit that department first. Neon picked up a bauble along the way, mulling purchase.
“Put that down, you don’t know where it’s been,” said Milo.
“What’s the signal?” asked Yvonne.
“There is no signal,” said Milo.
“Sadness,” she said.
“Look for somebody who looks like they’d actually be helpful to you in the store,” said Milo.
That actually narrowed it down quite a bit.
A young lady arranging items on a shelf in a much more appealing way than the company’s predetermined floor plan called for was so intent on her task she didn’t notice them until they’d surrounded her. She looked up and the light in her eyes grew considerably brighter.
“Can we speak a moment?” asked Milo.
She glanced left and right, then headed deeper into housewares territory (vacuum cleaners, which always tended to be deserted). She whispered, “It’s starting to filter that you put on a show last night,” her voice carrying a hint of admonishment. Being an Agent of Change in Dubuque was a careful balancing act.
“We know to be seen when we want to. We need to know about iffy vampire activity,” said Milo.
“Anything unusual you’d be telling me about it. What’s going on? I break for lunch in a couple hours,” said the agent.
“Spread the word to gear up for a fight,” said Milo.
“Potentially,” Ramses corrected.
“When you say fight?” the young woman asked. She had the most perfectly round Afro puffs of anyone within the next two states, and a total of three good eyes, one unseen.
Smoove answered her. “Peace with your god and animal sex with your enemy.”
“He exaggerates,” said Ramses. “We think Thoom and vampires are doubling up on Buford.”
“Any unusual purchasing spikes?” asked Milo.
“Party supplies.” As she nodded her puffs bobbed. “Office party stuff. Look for Jim Beame.”
“Any more?” asked Ramses.
“There’s always more,” she said. Her name was Patty. She called herself Phantom of the Chakra.
~~~
Of course Jim Beame was a lanky fellow, but the grip of his shake indicated his strength. Ramses, after the group split up to cover more of the gargantuan store, had been the one to find him.
“Aluminum pans and cheap liquor,” said Jim. He covered that department. “Did a total reorder recently.”
“Low level folks celebrating,” said Ramses.
“That means high level folks are already pulling up their pants and leaving the dried-up orgy,” said Jim. “Patty tell you about the referendum to rezone sections of the city?”
“With privatized security, she said.”
“Overlays Thoom territory with vampire-ville. Not a lot but enough to be curious. Especially the northern suburbs.”
“Lee Batch support this referendum?”
Beame nodded. He left to help a wandering customer, then returned without missing a beat.
“Lee Batch hasn’t been photographed as often as he used to either,” said Jim.
“Bush-league Johnnie Cochrane,” said Ramses.
“Rich bush-league Johnnie Cochrane.”
“Looks like we’re gonna have to deal with some lawyers.”
“Looks that way.”
“Damn,” said Ramses.
“I’ll spread the word for heightened vigilance,” Beame said.
“Thanks. Any dealings with gods lately?”
“Just Muses.”
A night with a Muse was like being gripped by the downy hand of grace itself.
“Making peace with gods is going to filter around the store. They’ll say it comes from Milo.”
“Does it?”
“Not really.”
“I can ignore it?”
Jim Beame shivered with anticipation. He was getting a contact high off the man-with-a-mission vibes emanating from Ramses Jetstream’s chest hairs at this very moment.
Ramses made to move off.
“You plan on buying anything?” asked Jim, who could assist with an employee discount.
“Hell no.” Ramses Jetstream rounded an aisle of crap and was gone.