Coyote helped himself to one of the bags of human blood that I had in an ice bucket on the dresser. He warmed the bag in the microwave by the vanity sink. After punching holes in the bag with his fangs, Coyote slurped the blood. He turned his cap backward, slouched on my bed, and watched TV while I shaved and did my morning business. Vampires aren't supposed to use the bathroom. True… on an all-blood diet. But if the tacos come in, they have to come out.
I combed my hair and applied Dermablend and sunblock-makeup to cover my undead pallor. I poured from the tiny coffeemaker into a tall glass. I warmed the other bag of blood and stirred it into the coffee. As I drank my breakfast, I told Coyote about yesterday's ambush with the dump truck. He barely seemed to listen. He kept his attention on a morning news program featuring a local cat show. A fat tabby stared at the camera.
"A splash of olive oil. A little oregano," Coyote said, licking his lips, "and you got some good fajitas."
I snatched the remote from the nightstand and clicked off the TV. "They tried to kill me," I repeated.
Coyote replied with an irritated look. "Vato, you say that like it's a surprise. You think Cragnow and his diablos sang the other agents to sleep?" He leaned forward and touched the power button on the TV. The fat tabby's hairy face returned.
Coyote squeezed the last drops of blood out of the bag and onto his tongue. He crinkled the empty bag like it was the wrapper from a candy bar. Coyote tossed the bag toward the trash can by the TV. The bag bounced off the wall and rolled to the floor by my feet.
"Goddamn it, Coyote." I picked the bag up and jammed it into a corner of my open Pullman. "Why don't you just write on the walls vampires were here'?"
I clicked the TV off again. "You said we've got some investigating to do. What's the plan?"
Turning his cap around, Coyote stood and then grasped my pistol from where it rested on the dresser. He tossed the gun, still in its holster, to me.
I snagged it with one hand. "You expect trouble?"
"No, pendejo." No, dumb ass. "I'm expecting a parade down South Central."
Stupid question on my part. Of course we should expect trouble. "Where are we going?"
"You tell me," he said. "It's your investigation."
"Yesterday, before I got hit by the truck, I was on my way to the La Brea Mercy Hospital in Glendale."
Coyote stared for a long moment. He wrinkled his nose, as if sniffing for something. I couldn't guess what he was thinking about. Probably to see what else he could mooch from me.
At last, Coyote responded. "Why that hospital?"
I told him about Dr. Mordecai Niphe and Freya Krieger, a.k.a. Roxy Bronze.
When I was done, Coyote bobbed his head in agreement. "Then that's the plan. First, pack your shit, ese."
"Why?"
"Because there's a new way to spell pendejo. F-E-L–I-X. Vato, how long will it be before Cragnow finds where you are? What are you waiting for, a second dump truck to climb over your back?"
"And go where?"
"Another hotel. Or with me."
"You have a home? What is it, a park bench?"
Coyote gave an indignant snort. "Felix, it's a palace." He shoved his hand down the front of his trousers and scratched.
I couldn't see myself rooming with him, even in a crypt. But Coyote was right. He had snuck in here and surprised me. I didn't think any other vampire could, but I'd be foolish to risk it. I filled out the express checkout card on the table and collected my belongings.
Coyote walked to the vanity sink and took all the little soaps and bottles of toiletries, which he stuffed into the pockets of his denim jacket. There was an extra roll of tissue under the sink and he took that, too.
We went down the stairs and out a side door instead of through the lobby.
"How are we getting about?" I asked. "I still don't have a car."
"We don't need no car, vato. Instead we got a magic carpet ride. Think of Santa's sleigh, only better."
A sleigh? Knowing Coyote, he probably meant a burro pulling a melon wagon.
I followed Coyote around the back of the hotel to an old Ford pickup. Blotches of gray putty and primer covered the faded green paint like a mange. Rust outlined the bottom of the truck and the fender wells. A good breeze seemed enough to rip the body right off the frame.
"This is a magic carpet ride?" I looked for the burro hitch.
"Vato, you can always walk."
I wrestled the passenger's door open. A tattered serape was fitted over the bench seat. I tipped the seat forward and crammed my bags into the space.
Coyote climbed into the driver's side and squeezed behind a steering wheel that seemed as large as a manhole cover.
Boards had been nailed-not screwed-to the floor panels to support my feet over a big rusted hole.
Coyote put the column shift lever into neutral. He reached under the instrument panel and pinched the dangling wires together.
"Ready," he said. "Blast off." He twisted the screwdriver stuck into the ignition lock. The engine groaned. Coyote pumped the gas pedal. "Come on, you puta." You whore.
The engine spurted and rattled but wouldn't start. After a moment of referring to the truck as every possible variation of whore or bitch, Coyote released the screwdriver and pulled his foot off the gas. He slumped forward and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.
I asked, "Do you want me to push?"
"Par favor."
I pushed the truck out of the parking spot. How much better was this jalopy than walking? Coyote aimed it away from the other cars. Grasping the edge of the tailgate, I gave the old Ford a hearty vampire shove. The truck zoomed forward, belched, and slowed when Coyote tried to start the engine, then lurched forward again. Success. With a wave of his hand he beckoned me to catch him. I sprinted, jumped onto the running board, and plopped inside.
Coyote turned the big steering wheel like he was at the helm of a tugboat. We chugged out of the parking lot, made it onto the Santa Monica Freeway heading east, then went north on Interstate 110 and Highway 2.
Surprisingly, the old Ford held together, and we rolled into Glendale. Map in hand, I told Coyote how to get to the La Brea Mercy Hospital.
We passed through a tunnel of stately trees lining the street in an older, upscale neighborhood. The hospital was at the next block. We circled for an empty parking spot and eventually found one that seemed as far from the building as the planet Pluto.
We got out and hiked to the hospital. An ambulance sat in front of the entrance to the emergency room. We stopped at a sign that had an arrow pointing right: PUBLIC ENTRANCE. And an arrow pointing to the left: MEDICAL STAFF AND EMPLOYEES.
I started to the left.
Coyote pivoted to the right. "Dame un momento." Give me a minute.
"Where you going?"
Coyote waved me off. "I'll catch up."
What kind of mischief was he going to cause? This is why I preferred to work alone.
The sidewalk turned the corner and led to an entrance on the north side of the building. I had come to see Dr. Mordecai Niphe and ask-no, interrogate-him about Roxy Bronze.
A couple of women in blue scrubs approached from the employee parking lot and climbed up the steps to the staff entrance. As they approached the door, they held ID badges up for a security guard to inspect. At this time of day the hospital would be busy. Sneaking in and prowling about was going to be tricky.
Coyote appeared around the corner behind me. He held a pair of dark sport coats and two plastic name tags.
"Welcome to La Brea Mercy Hospital, Dr. Dilip Gupta." He handed one of the sport coats and name tags to me. "They're waiting for us inside."