Beneath a Blood Red Moon

“And have them tell us all that I’m a senile old lady?” Allie protested.



“You’re not old at all,” Canady told her, laughing. “Don’t even say that—you’ll have the rest of us catching hives if we start thinking of you as old!”



Allie flashed him a grateful smile. “I just don’t know—”



“Allie, please!” Maggie insisted softly. “Please, let us bring you in. I’m not going to fire you, and I’m absolutely convinced that you’re not senile. But I am worried, and I do want to make sure that you’re well. And we put a drastic sum into our health care program each month, so let’s make them give us a little back, huh?”



“Well, dear,” Allie said, further distressed, “I don’t like leaving Gema here all alone—”



“Gema is fine!” Gema insisted firmly.



The young cop had come in and he was standing quietly at the back of the store.



“Let’s get Allie some health care, huh?” Canady asked. “Jack, we’ll drive.”



“All right,” Maggie said. “She looked back to Gema. You can call Angie or Cissy now. In fact, I need you to call Angie— she called me just as I was leaving, and she’s concerned. She’s—she’s planning on being with me tonight anyway, and I’ll have to come back for my car.”



“Hey! Allie is back and okay. I’m just peaches with the world,” Gema assured Maggie.



Maggie flashed her a beautiful smile. Gema smiled back, thinking how she loved her boss.



Within a few minutes, the cops, Maggie, and Allie had left for the hospital.



Giddy with relief, Gema went back to work.



Darkness fell at about eight p.m.



That, not midnight, was the witching hour, Bessie Giroue thought dryly.



Kook time.



She was a working girl. She was used to crazies. Most of the time, however, she got fairly straightforward stuff. She worked through a woman with a handsome bar and restaurant on Prince Street. The place was legit—on every tourist map of the parish. Mamie Johnson just supplied a few things on the side—to the people who knew to ask.



The Johns got a clean girl, regularly checked by a physician. In turn, Bessie got guys with real cash. No quick sex in a back alley for her. Well, sex was still as quick as she could make it, but she used grade-C



hotels and rooming houses. Spartan but clean, with no one paying too close attention to what was going on.



Mostly, guys wanted fairly straight sex. Or oral sex. Or both. She didn’t mind. She charged big time for going down on a guy, and she made ‘em all wash up good first. If taking strangers into her mouth had once been repulsive, she had long gotten over that. Sometimes she came across a real nervous married man who just wanted a single doubles fling with his wife or girlfriend. Those occasions she usually found amusing. The guys usually lost it just watching her come on to their women— she was good at it. If you could take a stranger into your mouth, it was no big deal doing a woman. Women tended to be cleaner than guys. It was just a job. Work. Paid so much better than filing in an office or waitressing.



Every once in a rare while, she hit a real kook. Some pathetic case who wanted her putting him in handcuffs, spanking his bottom, and calling him Big Daddy. And every once in a while, she got ahold of a John who wanted to spank her.



There were clubs in New Orleans that offered just about everything. Those into the stuff that really hurt usually knew where to go to get it.



So business was pretty much usual.



She was a working girl. She had a kid to support. A great kid; he was just four now. Her one venture into “true love.” True love had sucked. She’d done everything for him, and anything. Great at first. Then he’d used her, and left her. She’d learned a good lesson. Might as well get paid for all the things she’d already done. And another good thing had come out of it, though she’d almost starved until she’d gotten going in the trade. Her son. She adored her baby boy. And if she worked things right and saved her money, she could quit the business and move to Iowa or something before he got old enough to know how she was supporting him.



She was so tired that night. She nearly called Mamie, ready to beg off, saying she was ill. But if she called in, Mamie would remember when the big spenders were in town.



So she was taking the John. And as she hurried toward the hotel, she was shaking her head, looking at the sky. Queer sky tonight. It wasn’t quite dark—it would be any minute. The sky was blood red. The moon was already out. Great. The guy was going to be a kook.



She tried to cheer herself up by reminding herself that kooks often paid damned well.



When she reached the hotel, the sky was still red, but darkening. A jazz trumpet was blaring from somewhere nearby. The music in the neighborhood got louder and louder, the later it got. She wondered how anyone ever slept in the hotel.



She made her way through the lobby. The guy on duty at the desk didn’t even look up. Either he didn’t hear her, or he just didn’t give a damn.



As Mamie had instructed, she opened the door to room number 13. It was dark inside. As she reached for the light, she heard a husky voice.



“Leave it,”



“Hey, it’s really dark,” she protested.



“There’s light from the window.”



“Sugar, you don’t need to be shy. I’m here to make your fantasy, and it don’t matter to me if you’re beautiful or not,” she purred. She was startled to realize that she wanted to see this guy. He had a great voice.



He moved slightly. She saw his silhouette in front of the window. He was tall, lean, seemed to have all the right body parts. “Move on in. Where I can see you,” he told her.



She did so, setting her handbag down on the floor. She was a medium tall brunette with a good, firm body. Nice breasts, tight butt. Worth what she charged, she had determined.



Now he was in the shadows again. She felt the red light from the strange sky and a dozen glaring neon lights blazing in on her. “Well ... let me see more of you.”



“Sure, sugar, sure,” she said huskily. She liked his look, and she liked his tone. He might not be so bad.



There was even something about him that seemed erotically, dangerously, sexy. Hmm. She hadn’t felt like this about a John in a long time.



No, never.



She was wearing a blouse with ties in the front, a short skirt, garter, bra, stockings, and four-inch heels.



She untied the blouse slowly, imagining that she probably looked pretty damned good in the weird light.



Business, she reminded herself. She always got it over with first.



“Sugar, let’s just get the paperwork out of the way, huh? A straight shot is one hundred. Double it if you want a little tongue. And if there’s anything else ...”



“Baby, I assure you, I’m a straight shooter,” he told her.



She shimmied out of the blouse. Then the skirt. Then she tossed off the shoes. Hell. She wasn’t bad at all at this part. She should have been a stripper with Johns on the side.



“That’s fine, honey ... just fine.”



She leaned forward, freeing her stockings from her garters, doing so in a way that pressed her breasts high, together. One and then the other. She shed the stockings. Straightened.



She nearly gasped out loud. He was behind her. Close behind her. Up against her, his fingers feathering over her, her thighs, belly, breasts, throat. For a moment, she closed her eyes. It was almost like making love. God, she had sex every day, but she could barely remember making love.



Then he moved, suddenly, violently. Her panties were ripped away. Hot kisses seared her back. His hands were savage. All over her. He was within her, without.



They were down upon the floor. She was writhing, jack-knifing, desperate for more of him.



Ridiculous. She was the whore. The professional, she told herself. She was panting like a schoolgirl, soaking wet, reaching pinnacle after pinnacle. She was hot, dripping, and his kisses continued along her neck and spine, delicious, just a little hurtful as he nipped against her flesh, bathed it again with kisses ...



Harder. Liquid heat streamed down her back. She moaned, feeling delicious.



Then a curious, recognizable scent came to her nostrils. She felt sticky.



Then she realized what it was ...



Blood, her own blood, pouring from her while he lapped it up. He was licking it from her flesh, as he’d lick an ice-cream cone.



She froze, not alarmed at first, she still felt so euphoric, there was no pain ...



But there was so much blood. She tried to scream.



She had no voice, no strength, and he was laughing huskily.



She saw him open his mouth. Saw the glitter of white.



Then his eerie kiss touched her again, and for just a split second, she was aware that blood bubbled from her throat and that ... and that he was thirstily drinking it ...



Then, mercifully, she knew no more.



CHAPTER 6



Sean was both pleased and curious to see the way Maggie worried about Allie Bouchet. Even after the doctors had examined Allie and proclaimed her quite all right, Maggie continued to fuss over her, insisting that she stay overnight in the hospital for observation. One of the young physicians on duty, a Dr. Garcia, seemed to think that Allie’s blackout might have been due to too much sun, and he agreed with Maggie that a night in the hospital might be a good thing, just to keep Allie under observation. If she was really concerned with her memory loss, however, it might be a good thing if she made an appointment with a specialist.



Maggie smoothed back Allie’s hair, gently took her chin, and surveyed her face from every angle, still appearing worried. But at last, she seemed satisfied that the older woman was going to be all right. She allowed Sean and Jack to lead her from the hospital. And, seated next to Sean in his unmarked police car, she apologized for bothering him.



“I suppose that’s why the police want a ‘missing person’ to prove to be really missing before becoming involved in stacks of paperwork. I am sorry, Sean, Jack. I suppose you two had much better things to do than spend your afternoon on a woman with a touch of sunstroke!”