The Book of Death (Bourbon Kid 4)

hair?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Gaius sighed. ‘I should have
fucking known.’
    Jessica reached a hand into her
cleavage and pulled out a cell phone that had been concealed within it. She
pressed a few buttons, then approached her father’s desk and handed it to him.
‘Just press dial,’ she said.
    Gaius snatched the phone from
her hand and pressed the dial button. The phone rang twice before it was
answered.
    ‘Hello,’ said a voice on the
other end of the line.
    ‘Well, hello there. This is
Rameses Gaius. Is there something you want to tell me?’
    There was an uneasy silence on
the other end of the phone for a few seconds. Eventually the other person
answered. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
    Gaius couldn’t contain his rage
any longer. ‘YOU’RE ALL OVER THE FUCKING NEWS, YOU IDIOT!’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Yes, oh . You promised me
no more kids. Not while I’m planning world domination. You’ve disobeyed me for
the last time!’
    ‘I’m sorry. I thought I was
being discreet.’
    ‘You’re about as discreet as a
fart in a library.’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Gaius,
exasperation evident in his voice. ‘I’m having the day from hell already. The
Book of Death has gone missing, the Bourbon Kid is on the loose somewhere, and
then on top of that, you’re all over the news for killing kids!’
    ‘The Book of Death has gone
missing?’
    ‘Yes. Not that it’s really any
of your concern.’
    The voice on the other end of
the line took on a less apologetic tone. ‘I know who has The Book of Death,’ it
said. ‘I can get it back for you.’
    ‘Seriously?’
    ‘Yeah. But if I get it for you,
can I carry on killing kids?’
    ‘Sure. Who has the book?’
    ‘Just a local idiot. He’s only a
stone’s throw away from me at this very moment. Getting it back will be a piece
of cake.’

 
    Twenty-Five

 
    Rick’s day had been a tiring
one. With Flake signing up to join the police force, he’d had to close the Ole
Au Lait for most of the day, and in trying to find a replacement for her he’d
barely had five minutes to himself. According to some stupid local bylaw there
was nothing he could do about Flake joining the police force in an emergency
either.
    When he’d finished all of his extra
chores, he locked the front door of the Ole Au Lait behind him and stepped out
into the snowy streets once more.
    The dark clouds that had been
looming over the city for the last twenty-four hours showed no signs of
clearing. He hadn’t minded the heavy rain and occasional thunder from the night
before. But the non-stop downfall of snow over the course of the day was a real
pain in the ass. There sure was some strange shit going on in town. Lots of
kids were complaining about a hit and run driver mowing down the snowmen they
had built around the streets. There had also been numerous elderly people taken
to hospital after slipping and falling over on the icy sidewalks.
    As night fell the streets were
deserted, which was hardly surprising. It was late, it was dark and above all
it was fucking dangerous to be out. In spite of the rumour that a shitload of
vampires had been slaughtered on Halloween, Rick still worried that there might
be a few lurking around. Thinking about it made him pull the collar on his raincoat
up to cover his neck.
    His apartment was only a block
away from the Ole au Lait, and normally he wouldn’t fear a vampire attack. Any
of his customers leaving late in the evening could well expect to become food
for the immortals, but being the café’s owner, Rick was generally left alone.
If any vampire killed him then his café would close down. In the same way that
none of the undead ever touched Sanchez, Rick knew he was safe because they
needed the blood of his customers. No Ole Au Lait, no late night coffee
drinkers. No Tapioca, slightly less drunken assholes.
    As he turned the corner at the
end of the block he almost slipped on a manhole cover that was hidden beneath
some black ice. Fortunately no one was around to see him stumble slightly
except the drunken tramp dressed as Santa Claus who was lying in a shop doorway
on the other side of the road. The tramp looked fast asleep. His white beard
had turned a horrible grey colour and the front of his red outfit was stained
with rainfall, sleet, specks of snow and no doubt some booze that he would have
spilled from a bottle he had resting on his lap in a brown paper bag.
    ‘Poor old bastard,’ Rick
muttered to himself. It had to be