Kitty Box

Lorne entered the Kitty Box, coming in from a cool October night. He took in the room. It was one of the many smaller venues that tourists, visualizing big, glitzy casino-hotels, would not think of as being part of Las Vegas; nevertheless, a lot of them wandered into these places sooner or later. Some of these joints were arcades or frowzy restaurants. Others were like this dive—a gentleman's club that was dark enough to obscure its smallness as well as it's crying need for some paint and repairs. The only thing that all these joints had in common was a row or two of slot machines.

The Kitty Box also had a nude dancer on a little stage behind and slightly above the bar. It was the only well-lit spot in the room. The dancer swung round and round on a metal pole, undulating to a Madonna hit.

The lanky man with long, dark brown hair who was tending bar ignored the throbbing canned music and hummed Annie Lenox's "Sweet Dreams" to himself while he toweled down the counter. Lorne hardly had to read him to know that the bartender was a vampire—actually a bit of a hungry one. Not that there was any immediate call for alarm on the part of the few patrons at the far end of the bar and in the booths. The barkeep was nursing a drink that looked like a Bloody Mary, but Lorne knew better—and there was probably more where that came from stored beneath the bar.

Before sliding onto a stool right in front of the bartender, Lorne buttoned the top button of the camel hair overcoat that covered his otherwise under-clad body. Aside from the coat and his under shorts, all Lorne had on were a pair of running shoes and some ill-fitting, calf-length dress socks that he had found in the car parked in the space reserved for the coroner. Keys in a pocket of the overcoat had fit the ignition lock perfectly.

"Good evening," Lorne said, trying his best to seem friendly.

"What'll it be?" asked the bartender.

"Scotch and soda, and don't go near the ice."

The vampire served him and said matter-of-factly, "We don't see many of your kind in here."

"My kind?"

"Demons, I mean—no offense intended."

"None taken," said Lorne, offering what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. He glanced up at the nude dancer. The bartender was watching her, too, as he sipped his drink. Lorne noticed that the vampire's blood-drink did feature a wedge of lemon. "I thought a dancer named Justine worked here," Lorne said casually.

The vampire savored the blood on his tongue before he answered: "What you see is what you get."

"Maybe she comes in on the next shift," Lorne persisted. "When does that start?"

"When I leave," said the vampire.

Lorne's patience was beginning to wear thin. Someone had tried to kill him, and now the police were looking for a green demon wearing nada but the coroner's overcoat—a description of Lorne to a tee. "Hey, I'm not asking for the moon here," he said. "Just wondering when Justine comes in."

"Well, let's see. Unless the police academy has drastically changed its policy of only accepting humans, you're not a cop; so why should I tell you anything?"

"It might be in your interest to know that the woman I'm looking for has killed a few of your kind," said Lorne.

"What kind is that, now?"

Lorne leaned forward so that only the two of them could hear. "Vampires."

The bartender smiled slowly and said, "I'll try keeping that in mind—in case I ever meet someone by the name of Justine." He eyed Lorne. "You're no friend of Justine's, are you?"

"If I were," said Lorne, "why would I have warned you?"

The bartender smiled more warmly. "So, you don't like vampires, but you like this Justine less," he mused.

"Something like that," said Lorne, "although, actually, one of my best friends is a vampire. Ah—I didn't mean that to come out so patronizing."

"No offense taken. My name's Andreas." They shook hands as Lorne introduced himself. "How did you know Justine works here?" Andreas asked.

"You just told me," said Lorne. "I've been to several dives in the Frontier Street area 'cause that's all Justine told me when I saw her last night at Caesars. You see, I came to Vegas to check out the lounge scene. I once had my own club in Los Angeles."

"Once had?"

"A long story. Let's just say that one of Justine's associates had something to do with its demise. I don't really have a beef with her about that, but she and her associate did do some pretty nasty things to that friend of mine who's a vampire. So it was a little tense when we ran into each other at Caesars."

"So how come you're looking for her? You want to kill her?"

"Not before I find out how and why she tried to kill me."

"When did this happen?"

"Last night. After I left her in the lounge. I went up to my room, went to bed, and the next thing I know I'm on a slab in the morgue with this pudgy guy in a white coat about to cut my chest open."

"Geez," Andreas said. "Wait a minute, You don't remember her trying to kill you? You must be a sound sleeper."

"Not so much, really."

"Well, look, I'm not defending Justine. I might even have a taste of her myself one of these nights, but how do you know she tried to kill you? You admit you have other enemies."

"Yeah, but none in Las…," Lorne's face froze before the last word escaped his lips.

"What?"

"The lounge act! Of course, how could I forget?"

"What lounge act?"

Lorne recounted the events of the previous night:

The lounge act had been a comic named Orlando Oswald, a graying, bearded, man with a paunch, who absent-mindedly picked lint from his dark sport coat as he paced on the stage before his audience. Justine and Lorne had just noticed each other as they sat at adjacent tables.

"So you wound up in Vegas, too," said Justine.

"With a little help from your friends," replied Lorne.

"Look, sorry about that. That wasn't my idea."

"But you didn't stop them." he said. "Look, we're in a new town. Maybe we can start over."

"That would be cool with me," she said.

"Good," said Lorne.

"You just got here?" she asked.

"Just booked a room in this hotel. You?"

"I work in a dive on Frontier Street."

"Is my act interrupting you two love birds?" asked Oswald.

"Not at all," said Lorne. "Please continue."

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," said Oswald, glaring particularly at Lorne, "the department of motor vehicles wants to jerk my license. They say I can't drive because I periodically lose control of my right arm." Oswald's right hand dropped his microphone. He picked it up with his left. "OK, but I can still drive with my other arm." He dropped the microphone again, then picked it up with both hands. "They claim these spasms are so painful that I might lose control." He paused. "Only the excruciating ones do that."

Bah-dah-dumb, thought Lorne. Only a few drunks were laughing, and Lorne was not sure they were listening to the alleged jokes.

"I know what you're thinking," Oswald continued unperturbed. "'Oswald, you need a reality check'. I say, what good is a reality check if you can't put it in the bank?"

One drunk did seem to be listening. "How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" He called.

"That's an old one," said Oswald. "The answer is 'practice'."

"Well'at's what you need, pal," said the grinning drunk. "And lots of it."

"Practice makes perfect—how many times have I heard that before?" chuckled Oswald. "You're as helpful as a newborn mosquito during a malaria epidemic."

The comic did not seem at all flustered, Lorne noted, even if his retorts seemed lame. Lorne turned to see how the drunk would respond. To his surprise, the drunk was not responding in any conventional sense of the term. His arms were out to his sides quivering rapidly. his back was arched as if he were about to take off. He was, in fact, hopping onto the seat of his chair and thence onto the table which teetered dangerously yet surprisingly did not fall over. From deep within the man's body, a high pitched hum began to build until it became a disturbingly familiar buzz. To Lorne it was immediately reminiscent of a Pylean dragonfly (not the same-nor as benign—as a dragonfly in this dimension), but it was also like the sound of a mosquito, only much louder as if Oswald's heckler were becoming a very big mosquito. Not for the first time, Lorne and Justine glanced at each other in shared puzzlement. The audience laughed nervously.

Lorne looked at Oswald, wondering whether he was responsible for this transformation. The mask of concentration directed toward the heckler combined with the mirthless smile on Oswald's face told Lorne that he was. Was Oswald a hypnotist?, Lorne wondered. He turned again toward the mosquito-man only to see that no man was left. Every eye in the room now seemed to be looking around for the missing heckler, but he was not to be seen. Lorne heard the faint buzzing of an insect go past him and as the Doppler Effect diminished the sound, he caught sight of a tiny creature spiraling toward the stage.

Oswald slapped his palms together in front of him. "Sic semper hecklerus," he said.

It dawned on Lorne then that Oswald was a master magician. What puzzled Lorne was why Oswald persisted in trying to make it as a comic instead of a magician. Why use magic as an adjunct to his comedy routines rather than the other way around? It must have been vanity that compelled him to keep going for the laughs and, failing that, to punish his detractors with vicious tricks. And who would dare assert that they had seen him turn a man into a bug and then kill him? So it was that Oswald continued making jokes that only those who had not seen what he had done—or who had no sense of humor to begin with—could laugh at.

As for Oswald's routine, Lorne had begun to deconstruct it already. He knew how this type of second-rate comic operated. His A material—most of which was stolen from George Burns, Steve Martin and other superior talents—had done its trick. Having hit his stride with an audience primed with alcohol, he brought out his B material because, at this point, he knew they were giddy enough to laugh at anything.

"You're a fabulous audience," Oswald said. "I love you, and not only I love you, but the hotel loves you—as long as you keep spending money." It was not that funny, but they laughed nervously anyway. "Money," Oswald said. Then he sang an old pop tune—softly, without pushing it too hard, because he could not really sing, "Money, money, money—mo-ney…." He repeated the refrain three times. Suddenly a powerful impression struck Lorne. As usual, it came like a stray television signal interrupting the main signal of his everyday awareness—but it was loud and clear. Lorne could read Oswald's intent, which was to rob the casino using magicks.

Ordinarily, Lorne would have gotten the entire picture of how Oswald meant to do it, but just as suddenly as Lorne had received its image, the telepathic signal from Oswald shut down. Worse, Lorne realized that it was shut down because the comic knew someone was reading him. Oswald scanned the room and met Lorne's eyes with a powerful gaze. The comic seemed to make a mental note before returning to his routine.

Afflicted by a case of the willies, Lorne quickly excused himself, having forgotten about the unfinished business he had with Justine. After waking up in autopsy, though, he believed that Justine had had unfinished business with him—or perhaps she simply did not want Lorne telling Angel or Wesley—or other of her myriad enemies back in L.A. —just where she could be found. But now Lorne was not so sure about this theory of the crime.

"Orlando Oswald?" Andreas was saying. The awe in the vampire's voice betrayed respect and perhaps even a tinge of fear. Lorne felt queasy. Not many creatures can inspire fear—even a little fear—in a vampire. More powerful vampires could. Slayers certainly could. Certain demons and….

"He's a sorcerer," said Andreas.

"That figures," sighed Lorne, "and a powerful one no doubt."

"Let's just say that, fortunately for him, he's a better sorcerer than he is a comic."

"Well, yeah."

"And it's funny that I never thought of this before," said Andreas, "but I remember seeing those signs on top of the taxis advertising his act at the Karnak when the Karnak was robbed, then he was at the Reve when that place was hit. Damnedest thing, because most casino robberies never get started. Those that do, the robbers are caught before they can get to the door. Security here is virtually foolproof unless…"

"Unless you have some tricks up your sleeve—and I'll bet Oswald has some doozies."

"So you're wasting your time looking for Justine," Andreas said. Just then, a new customer took a seat at the opposite end of the bar. "Don't go anywhere," Andreas told Lorne before looking after the customer. Lorne stared at his drink.

"Looking for me?" a familiar voice asked. Lorne swung around to face Justine. She was not dressed to the nines as she had been last night. Now she wore a sweatshirt and jeans. She carried a black and lilac gym bag on a strap over her shoulder.

"I was, but not anymore." He turned back to face his glass.

"You took off like a bat out of hell last night," said Justine. "You know, for a guy who wants to make it in this town, you almost missed an opportunity. You still might miss it if you don't go back to Caesars and find Orlando Oswald." Lorne turned back to her with what must have been a surprised look. "That's right, green boy. I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you this, but that comic must have noticed you—and not just because you walked out on his act. He came over to the table afterward and was pumping me about the unusual guy with the green skin and shiny silver suit. He wanted to know who you were and where you came from and whether you had an act. And by the way, nice coat, but didn't they have one your size?"

"What else did Oswald say, exactly?"

He said… and what's with those pools of black fabric clinging around your ankles? I thought you dressed loud but stylishly. Now you look like…."

"What did he say, Justine?"

"Let me see if I can get the exact phrase he used. He said, 'He has a real quality about him'. At first I thought he was really trying to hit on me, but I think he's genuinely interested in you. Watch your step, though. Not that it's any of my business where your—or his—proclivities lie, but he could be gay. Maybe just likes those little horns in your forehead."

"Did you tell him my name and that I was staying in the hotel?"

"Yes, but when I saw him again later, as I was leaving Caesars, he told me you had checked out of the hotel. Now, what's the matter with you?"

"Justine, I'm sorry I misjudged you," Lorne said as he stood up and drained his glass. He then planted a kiss on Justine's lips before she could react. She recovered and shoved him, but Lorne was already walking away.

"Hey!" she said. "You may not be vulnerable to a stake through the heart, but I'll bet you're not that hard to kill."

"Don't count on it, baby," said Lorne as he went out the door.

Outside, Lorne started toward the car he had "borrowed" from the coroner, but he saw from a block away that it was surrounded by police. Uttering the proverbial barnyard epithet, Lorne ducked into an alley. He stopped after a few feet and looked back to see whether anyone had followed him from the street.

"Lorne," said a male voice.

"Ahh!" Lorne turned again to meet the piercing eyes of Andreas. The vampire calmly stood a foot in front of him. It was as if he had reached the alley before Lorne.

"How did you get…," Lorne began. "Never mind. Don't sneak up on people like that—unless, of course, you intend to bite them!"

"So, are we taking my car or yours?" asked Andreas.

Lorne grabbed Andreas by the lapels. "You've got a car?"