The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [41]
“Maybe,” he said. His eyes narrowed, suspicion gleamed forth. “What do you want in return?”
“This part is off the record, Irving, for now.”
“It figures.” He frowned at me. “Go on.”
“I need all the information you have on Harold Gaynor.”
“Name doesn’t ring any bells,” he said. “Should it?” His eyes had gone from cheerful to steady. His concentration was nearly perfect when he smelled a story.
“Not necessarily,” I said. Cautious. “Can you get the information for me?”
“In exchange for the zombie story?”
“I’ll take you to all the businesses that use zombies. You can bring a photographer and snap pictures of corpses.”
His eyes lit up. “A series of articles with lots of semigruesome pictures. You center stage in a suit. Beauty and the Beast. My editor would probably go for it.”
“I thought he might, but I don’t know about the center stage stuff.”
“Hey, your boss will love it. Publicity means more business.”
“And sells more papers,” I said.
“Sure,” Irving said. He looked at me for maybe a minute. The room was almost silent. Most had gone home. Irving’s little pool of light was one of just a few. He’d been waiting on me. So much for the press never sleeps. The quiet breath of the air conditioner filled the early evening stillness.
“I’ll see if Harold Gaynor’s in the computer,” Irving said at last.
I smiled at him. “Remembered the name after me mentioning it just once, pretty good.”
“I am, after all, a trained reporter,” he said. He swiveled his chair back to his computer keyboard with exaggerated movements. He pulled imaginary gloves on and adjusted the long tails of a tux.
“Oh, get on with it.” I smiled a little wider.
“Do not rush the maestro.” He typed a few words and the screen came to life. “He’s on file,” Irving said. “A big file. It’d take forever to print it all up.” He swiveled the chair back to look at me. It was a bad sign.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll get the file together, complete with pictures if we have any. I’ll deliver it to your sweet hands.”
“What’s the catch?”
He put his fingers to his chest. “Moi, no catch. The goodness of my heart.”
“All right, bring it by my apartment.”
“Why don’t we meet at Dead Dave’s, instead?” he said.
“Dead Dave’s is down in the vampire district. What are you doing hanging around out there?”
His sweet cherubic face was watching me very steadily. “Rumor has it that there’s a new Master Vampire of the City. I want the story.”
I just shook my head. “So you’re hanging around Dead Dave’s to get information?”
“Exactly.”
“The vamps won’t talk to you. You look human.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he said. “The vamps do talk to you, Anita. Do you know who the new Master is? Can I meet him, or her? Can I do an interview?”
“Jesus, Irving, don’t you have enough troubles without messing with the king vampire?”
“It’s a him then,” he said.
“It’s a figure of speech,” I said.
“You know something. I know you do.”
“What I know is that you don’t want to come to the attention of a master vampire. They’re mean, Irving.”
“The vampires are trying to mainstream themselves. They want positive attention. An interview about what he wants to do with the vampire community. His vision of the future. It would be very up-and-coming. No corpse jokes. No sensationalism. Straight journalism.”
“Yeah, right. On page one a tasteful little headline: THE MASTER VAMPIRE OF ST. LOUIS SPEAKS OUT.”
“Yeah, it’ll be great.”
“You’ve been sniffing newsprint again, Irving.”
“I’ll give you everything we have on Gaynor. Pictures.”
“How do you know you have pictures?” I said.
He stared up at me, his round, pleasant face cheerfully blank.
“You recognized the name, you little son of . . .”
“Tsk, tsk, Anita. Help me get an interview with the Master of the City. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“I’ll give you a series of articles about zombies. Full-color pictures of rotting corpses, Irving. It’ll sell papers.”
“No interview with the Master?” he said.
“If you’re lucky, no,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Can I have the file on Gaynor?”
He nodded. “I’ll get it together.” He looked up at me.