Slab City Blues: A Hymn to Gods Long Dead

By Anthony Ryan

The Slab. A vast orbiting slum where sweat falls in rain and the gene-spliced come in all shapes and sizes. Inspector Alex McLeod, recently suspended for excessive force and nurturing a growing addiction to bourbon, has been reduced to tending bar when an improbably beautiful vampire comes to him with a bizarre theory: there's a killer on the Slab, a killer with a liking for recreating ancient myth, in bloody and spectacular fashion. But who exactly is this vampire, and how does she know so much? And what kind of killer can walk through security systems without a trace, leaving deadly traps for those hunting him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Ryan
• Release date: Mar 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466115453

Anthony Ryan

Anthony Ryan was born in Scotland in 1970 but spent much of his adult life living and working in London. After a long career in the British Civil Service he took up writing full time after the success of his first novel Blood Song, Book One of the Raven's Shadow trilogy. He has a degree in history, and his interests include art, science and the unending quest for the perfect pint of real ale. For news and general wittering about stuff he likes, check out Anthony's blog at: http://anthonystuff.wordpress.com.

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Slab City Blues: A Hymn to Gods Long Dead

By Anthony Ryan

Copyright 2012 Anthony Ryan

Cover Image Design by Humblenations.com

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Chapter 1

The Vampire came to the bar just after the Yang Seven lights dimmed to a deeper blue to signify the onset of evening. She was tall with the standard night black hair and alabaster skin, but her clothes were unusual; no lace or leather, just practical grey-green combats, a loosely fitting unbranded t-shirt and a stay-clean jacket of pale blue. No tats either, another surprise, as was her smile. It had none of the cunning or predatory calculation they spent hours perfecting in the mirror - and yes, they do show up in mirrors, gene-splicing has its limits. There was an openness to it, extended canines not withstanding.

She took a seat at the bar, the tone of her greeting as bright as her smile. Hi!

I said, I don’t stock plasma or blood subs.

There was the smallest twitch in her smile. Water’s fine.

Sparkling or still?

Whatever’s cheapest.

I met her gaze as I poured the water, not liking what I saw: recognition. Please, not another killer-Demon groupie.

I noted a mark on the porcelain of her wrist. A faded pattern too heavily lasered to make out, but the size and location said a lot. Family sigil tattoo on the wrist - second generation vampire thing. She’s probably older than I am.

She sipped her water, eyes twinkling a little. She was happy to see me.

I don’t do autographs, I said. I’m not available for freelance employment and I’m on sabbatical from the Lorenzo City Police Department.

She put down her water glass. I know. I’m sorry to come here, but there wasn’t anyone else…

The jukebox roared to life, Long Tall Sally raising the heads of the few sober patrons. The regulars barely noticed. It was a genuine Wurlitzer, payment for an old debt, and tended to exercise a certain autonomy over when it chose to entertain my customers. One of my first management decisions when taking over the Heavenly Garden was to reverse the former owner’s strict no music policy. Something I was beginning to regret.

That’s very loud, the vampire said, wincing a little.

I went over and kicked the Wurlitzer to silence, picking up Blue Nancy’s empty glass for an unasked for refill on the way back. Lord’ll reward ye iffin I don’t, Inspector.

I held the glass to the Kentucky Red optic, it had become my best seller since Joe procured me a pallet-full from his friend at the docks.

As I said… the Vampire began.

"As I said, I’m on sabbatical. I handed Blue Nancy her drink as she shambled to the bar. It’s a polite way of saying they fired me but haven’t filed the paperwork." I ran a cloth over where Nancy had spilt just a little before returning to her usual place by the long out-of-order pinball machine.

I run a bar, I told the vampire. Demon days are over Cornelia or Althea or whatever your fucked in the head parents called you. Whatever it is, I can’t help you.

The smile hadn’t gone completely, but she wasn’t showing her teeth anymore. Thomas DeMarco, she said. Ten months ago. You were the lead investigator.

DeMarco. I didn’t need to dig through too many memories, it had been a bad one… and unsolved.

You a relative? I asked, thinking it unlikely.

No, just… an interested party. She reached into her jacket, coming out with a cheap smart and placing it on the bar. I noticed her nails weren’t overly long, no black enamel varnish either. All I ask is that you look at this. She eased herself off the bar stool. Contact details included if you want to talk some more.

She gave me a final look, oddly warm in its appraisal given what a prick I was being, tapped her unvarnished nails on the bar and left.

The Wurlitzer blazed into life again as I contemplated the smart. Fucking hell! I realised I was reaching for the Sig in my belt with every intention of blowing the glass-chrome monster to pieces. Except the Sig wasn’t there, Sherry Mordecai had taken it after handing over my notice of suspension. I contented myself with wrenching the Wurlitzer’s power lead from the wall then picked up the smart with every intention of tossing it in the garbage.

Kindly girl, Blue Nancy was saying, mostly to herself, gazing at the door. Kindly girl calls to the warrior, smile like summer, his heart like flint.

I told you before, Nance, I said, without any real conviction. Any more haiku and you’re barred.

My thumb pressed the smart’s command menu, calling up the contacts file: Dr Janet Vaughan, PhD, Emeritus Professor of Classical Studies, Lorenzo City University (Yang Faculty).

Janet? I said. What kind of vamp is called Janet?

***

I pushed out the regulars a few minutes before closing time, told Marco to go home, he could clean up in the morning. I went upstairs in company with a bottle of Red and the vamp’s smart, checked my own for messages - one from Joe, three from Sherry - and settled onto the futon making the thousandth firm resolution to buy a couch tomorrow.

Dr Janet’s files were neatly arranged in a web-matrix familiar to anyone who’d ever seen a crimint report; lines interlinking subject nodes with time stamps. Thomas DeMarco was highlighted in red. I opened the file finding a brief bio and a crime report of sorts, all open source stuff missing the more lurid details, but I had a vivid memory of those already.

Thomas DeMarco, aged sixty-two, father of three daughters, self-styled King of Curry as owner and CEO of the Pipin’ Hot lamb curry franchise, third largest home delivery and restaurant chain this side of the Axis. A rich fellow by Yang-side standards, when he went missing it was naturally assumed he’d been kidnapped for ransom, a tradition of the small but vibrant Mexican criminal sub-culture in our fair city. Except no ransom demand was forthcoming. Six days and no calls, no notes, no body parts in the post. Which is not to say Mr DeMarco’s case was a dismemberment free zone. A worker in one of his slaughterhouses on Yang Thirty found an unlogged barrel of rendered animal fat in a quiet corner of the yard, inside was Thomas DeMarco, all six pieces of him, bobbing in the grease like an underdone stew.

The family was rich and demanded the best from Chief Arnaud. He gave them me and Sherry, and we found nothing. Granted I’ll confess my mental state was nothing to boast about at the time, Consuela’s death was only three months gone and my apartment was beginning to resemble the cage of a gorilla with a serious fast-food problem. But I would like it on the record that I did my detectively best for poor dis-constituted Mr DeMarco.

He’d last been seen paying a visit to a handsome young man in a nicer corner of Yang Thirty-Two. DeMarco had an active sex life and, not one to discriminate, maintained an expensive stable of young men and women scattered throughout the Yang levels. Mrs DeMarco was clearly an understanding wife, evidenced by the fact that many of these specialist employees were invited to the funeral and eager to help with enquiries. The young man who had last enjoyed DeMarco’s company was a square-jawed youth of muscular proportions whose evident grief didn’t prevent him slipping me his smart ID when Sherry’s back was turned. DeMarco’s visit had been routine, if apparently vigorous, the King of Curry spent a lot on rejuve treatments, and he left in company with two bodyguards at nearly midnight. The bodyguards