Living Dead in Dallas

him. But this fellow, Arturo, had been well trained, and his eyes never even strayed toward the bedroom. He never looked directly at me, either. He was thinking about me, though, and I wished I’d put on a bra before I let him in.
    When he’d gone—and as Bill had instructed me, I added a tip to the room ticket I signed—I ate everything he’d brought: sausage and pancakes and a bowl of melon balls. Oh gosh, it tasted good. The syrup was real maple syrup, and the fruit was just ripe enough. The sausage was wonderful. I was glad Bill wasn’t around to watch and make me feel uncomfortable. He didn’t really like to see me eat, and he hated it if I ate garlic.
    I brushed my teeth and hair and got my makeup situated. It was time to prepare for my visit to the Fellowship Center. I sectioned my hair and pinned it up, and got the wig out of its box. It was short and brown and really undistinguished. I had thought Bill was nuts when he’d suggested I get a wig, and I still wondered why it had occurred to him I might need one, but I was glad to have it. I had a pair of glasses like Stan’s, serving the same camouflaging purpose, and I put them on. There was a little magnification in the bottom part, so I could legitimately claim they were reading glasses.
    What did fanatics wear to go to a fanatic gathering place? In my limited experience, fanatics were usually conservative in dress, either because they were too preoccupied with other concerns to think about it or because they saw something evil in dressing stylishly. If I’d been at home I’d have run to Wal-Mart and been right on the money, but I was here in the expensive, windowless Silent Shores. However, Bill had told me to call the front desk for anything I needed. So I did.
    “Front desk,” said a human who was trying to copy the smooth cool voice of an older vampire. “How may I help you?” I felt like telling him to give it up. Who wants an imitation when the real thing is under the roof?
    “This is Sookie Stackhouse in three-fourteen. I need a long denim skirt, size eight, and a pastel flowered blouse or knit top, same size.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said, after a longish pause. “When shall I have those for you?”
    “Soon.” Gee, this was a lot of fun. “As a matter of fact, the sooner the better.” I was getting into this. I loved being on someone else’s expense account.
    I watched the news while I waited. It was the typical news of any American city: traffic problems, zoning problems, homicide problems.
    “A woman found dead last night in a hotel Dumpsterhas been identified,” said a newscaster, his voice appropriately grave. He bent down the corners of his mouth to show serious concern. “The body of twenty-one-year-old Bethany Rogers was found behind the Silent Shore Hotel, famous for being Dallas’s first hotel catering to the undead. Rogers had been killed by a single gunshot wound to the head. Police described the murder as ‘execution-style.’ Detective Tawny Kelner told our reporter that police are following up several leads.” The screen image shifted from the artificially grim face to a genuinely grim one. The detective was in her forties, I thought, a very short woman with a long braid down her back. The camera shot swiveled to include the reporter, a small dark man with a sharply tailored suit. “Detective Kelner, is it true that Bethany Rogers worked at a vampire bar?”
    The detective’s frown grew even more formidable. “Yes, that’s true,” she said. “However, she was employed as a waitress, not an entertainer.” An entertainer? What did entertainers do at the Bat’s Wing? “She had only been working there a couple of months.”
    “Doesn’t the site used to dump her body indicate that there’s some kind of vampire involvement?” The reporter was more persistent than I would’ve been.
    “On the contrary, I believe the site was chosen to send a message to the vampires,” Kelner snapped, and then looked as if she regretted speaking. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
    “Of course, detective,” the reporter said, a little dazed. “So, Tom,” and he turned to face the camera, as if he could see through it back to the anchor in the station, “that’s a provocative issue.”
    Huh?
    The anchor realized the reporter wasn’t making any sense, too, and quickly moved to another topic.
    Poor Bethany was dead, and there wasn’t anyone Icould discuss that with. I pushed back tears; I hardly felt I