A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (best reads .TXT) 📗

could be called in—of course, once he recovered, cops might not be necessary.

      Joe, as he had announced on the phone, was going to try to arrange a meeting with Valentine Kaiser. The purpose of the meeting was mainly to stall for time, though he hadn’t wanted to say that on the phone.

* * *

      Joe had left Uncle Matthew’s condo around half-past twelve, and his escape from Valentine’s apartment had brought him out on the pavement a little after one. The days were short this time of year; he meant to do his best to set up the meeting he wanted this afternoon, but it might well have to be postponed until tomorrow. He wasn’t going to risk being caught out after sunset.

      The other condominium, the one he had in mind to stay in, was owned by the wealthy Southerlands. Andrew Southerland, father of John and Kate, sometimes used the place when for business reasons he had to stay in town overnight; or when some visiting VIP needed to be housed for a day or two. Joe, who now spent most of his ordinary working hours as a private contractor in the security field, did a lot of business with his father-in-law’s corporation, and he always had a key to the condo too.

      In a little while Joe had worked his way east to Michigan Avenue. Shortly after that he was standing on the plaza in front of the gigantic structure housing Uncle Matthew’s dwelling. His plan was to hang around here in plain sight, being overtly conspicuous, until he got the enemy’s attention. There was a sizable gang of them. One of them at least, he hoped, would be keeping an eye on things out here, and would observe his behavior, read it as a signal that he wanted to open communications, and come out to talk. Of course, especially after what had happened this morning, the Valentine vampires and their breathing friends might have other ideas, like killing Joe on sight. But now that the bloodshed had started, no course of action could be described as safe.

      Maybe his plan wasn’t much good, maybe it was a mistake, but it was the best he could come up with. Joe stood around on the plaza, fighting the wind, watching shoppers, office workers, wanderers come and go. North Michigan was definitely an upscale neighborhood. There were no police cars in sight, but that meant nothing. The cops, on being summoned to the big building, would doubtless pull into its indoor parking garage.

      Today the weather kept threatening to turn sunny, but as a veteran Chicagoan Joe had no faith that it was really going to come out that way. With a cop’s acquired patience, he put in a couple of hours standing around on the street, watching and feeling the precious hours of daylight slide away. He broke his vigil once for a grilled cheese sandwich and hot coffee, in a coffee shop whose large front window allowed him to keep an eye on the plaza where he had been standing. Twice, at intervals, he stepped into a plaza phone booth to call Angie and John. They were glad to hear from him, as might be expected. Each time he talked with the frightened young people, he could hear them hesitating, sometimes in midsentence, as if there was something they wanted to tell him, but couldn’t, keeping in mind the warning he had given them earlier. Joe in turn let them know openly what he was doing now and why—except of course that his main goal was stalling for time. If the enemy overheard that he wanted a conference, so much the better.

      Whether the information was passed along through a phone tap or not, Joe’s plan eventually succeeded. Shortly after three o’clock Valentine Kaiser’s representative showed up to talk to Joe and see what was going on.

      The emissary appeared in the shape of a breathing woman. Joe identified her while she was still fighting the wind halfway across the plaza, walking toward him through one of the temporary wooden pedestrian tunnels. Not a vampire. She was wearing the same army surplus field jacket she’d had on when he’d clubbed her down and stuffed her in a closet up in Valentine’s high-altitude apartment.

      She came walking right up to him; this time she had shoes on. Nothing coy in her approach. “You bastard. You’re Joe Keogh who used to be a cop?” Her voice sounded rusty, as if perhaps she had a sore throat, or maybe just didn’t use it all that often.

      That’s right.” He watched her warily, planning what he would do if she suddenly produced a weapon. “Glad to see you’re still alive. What’s your name?”

      No answer for that one. She was looking at him with what seemed curiosity, perhaps studying the miracle man who’d walked away from a vampire who’d wanted to keep him prisoner, and had somehow made the vampire vanish too. Her long dark hair kept blowing into her eyes. “Val Kaiser sent me. He wants to know what the fuck you’re hanging around out here for.”

      Even now it still bothered Joe, on some level, when women used that kind of language. Not that he would react visibly. “I figured he’d get curious and send someone. You can tell Val Kaiser I’m here because I want to talk to him.”

      “You want to talk about what?”

      “Several things. I think there’s plenty of material Tell him that if I knew what he wanted from the old man, or out of the old man’s apartment, what he really had to have, maybe we could work something out. Whatever it is Kaiser wants, he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere the way things are going now.”

      “You’ll have to talk to him yourself.”

      “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Joe looked at his wristwatch. “Within an hour from now, or else early tomorrow morning. The Art Institute—you know where that is?—right inside the Michigan entrance, by the main stairway. I’m heading there now, but