recovery, "Quit ribbing me. If you’re a sleepwalker, I’ll show you the way home.”
She thought I was gosh-awful stupid. "I’m a sleepwalker. I live here, and you were sitting on my front door. Me, I am Catalina Maria Perez y Villamediana.” She added, somewhat sadly, “I am a vampire.”
"Oh, yeah?” With this apt retort, I caught her hand. It was somewhat chilly, as what girl’s wouldn’t be, running around that way. "Let’s talk this over.”
"You’re awfully sweet. Most people run and scream when they see me. Back in 1827, a poor fellow just ran and ran until he dropped dead. Heavens, can I help if I’m a vampire?”
“Listen, honey,” I told her, "don’t call yourself a vampire. I know you’re gorgeous, and that’s a nice gown, but there are better words.”
"It’s a shroud,” she cut in, sighing. "I do wish I had some nice clothes.”
That last was reassuring. Absolutely normal after all. Pretty much like Mr. Hill’s wife, only better looking. I skipped that quip, and went on, "Baby, they quit calling them vampires about the time you were born. It’s bum stuff, being so out of date.”
"But”—she made a gesture, Spanish as her comb and hair—"I am one. I come out of my grave. Usually at midnight. And—oh, I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll hate me.”
"Yeah, I know. You roam around drinking people’s blood, and you have to be home before sunrise, and you can’t cross running water.”
“Oh.” She smiled and wrapped both arms around me. "My dear, you do understand!”
When a dame like Catalina plants a blistering kiss smack on my mouth, without even wondering whether I have a car and/or a bottle, it is cause for triumph. Of course, she was a bit dotty on this business of living in a grave, and that makes a law student introspective. On the other hand, she was born in 1793, which certainly was an ample margin.
Finally Catalina broke away and patted her hair. "I’m awfully sorry, but I simply must eat.”
They all get to that, sooner or later. I had three dimes and a couple of pennies in my jeans. "How about a hamburger, at the Greek’s?”
She shook her head. "I tol’ you, querido, I must drink blood.”
"Oh, all right.” I took her hand and helped her from the tombstone. “Let’s both have a droppie. I’ll string along with you.”
Clouds had begun to gather, and the moon darkened. I could just see a graceful ripple of white as I followed her to the road. Then she took a shortcut, and it kept me breathless, going over fields and through groves. Catalina had a trick of handling barbed wire. I didn’t, so my shoulder and the seat of my pants were a lot the worse for that jaunt.
A dog bayed. His chain rattled. "Butch,” I thought, "if anyone sees me with this doll, I’ll be moving in with you.” But Catalina was heading for the bungalow across the road. I fell back a bit. If this was where she lived, and her old man heard her go in, and saw me, there’d be some embarrassment. Palo Verde is a narrow-minded town.
She made another Houdini at the back door. Slick! Got in without a click or squeak. In a minute, a curtain moved. Catalina leaned out over the sill. I expected her to beckon, and I was ready to back down. Tombstones were one thing, and boudoirs were something else.
But she didn’t ask me in. Quite the contrary. Her gesture meant, "Stand fast, buddy. I’ll be back soon.”
Going to get dressed, huh? Oh, all right.
Someone inside was tossing, restlessly. I heard a kid make a funny little sound like
