Doubull Indemnity

6

Greg, Drinks... Wine

Wine tasted dull. Flat. Earthy, but in a dank, musty sort of way. Instead of maturing in that cellar, the fine vintage I'd been promised was more akin to a mealy corpse that'd been rotting in a damp tomb. Isla'd probably say I was being dramatic, but I could barely stomach the tiny sips I took. And normally I favored reds. When I drank. Wine.

Though I suppose my aversion wasn't the Bordeaux's fault. My traitorous fanging tongue judged every sip against3 the rich, full, wine-like taste of Isla's blood. To trick my thirst into drinking anything less was now, apparently, such a heinous crime my punishment was instant nausea.

It was becoming a problem.

But one had to keep up appearances while lurking at the bar of Del Frisco's steakhouse. Even nabbing a seat here without a reservation took quite a bit of, ah, convincing for the hostess. With cash. Didn't enthrall her, get your mind out the gutter.

So I bided my time swallowing swill alongside my own gutter thoughts of Isla. Swell.

This restaurant was one of the swankiest, high-end, priciest joints in the city. Only a block over from City Hall, in the busy business district of Center City. Formerly a bank, whole place was made of gleaming marble. Floor to ceiling Greek imitation pillars propped up the three-story high ceiling. In addition to the expansive main floor dining room, several mezzanine sections held tables or nooks for private parties. You could even dine in the old bank vault, no joke. Nothing said romance like a candle lit dinner for two locked in an airtight basement, I guess.

I shuddered at the thought.

Though it was squarely under human management, I sniffed out a few of my fellow creatures in the room. Pack of werewolves dined as a family on the mezzanine (their steaks served rare, no doubt). A witch couple were seated in a far corner of the main floor dining room. Fairly certain I spotted the tips of elven ears on a woman as a host guided her party to their table downstairs. If any of them noticed the vampire loitering at the bar, they didn't acknowledge me, as was customary. Living, or unliving, in secret was second nature to us all. But we're always there.

Lurking. Hiding. Hunting.

Miss Mulversmitt's reservation was a late one (seemingly keeping with more creature friendly hours), but I arrived forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. Managed to situate myself at one of the few bar seats with a decent view of the host stand. Dagny'd provided me with a photo of her aunt, of course, but I knew next to squat of her alleged paramour. Reservation, at least, was under Miss Mulversmitt's name.

Wiping a pinch of spilled wine off the pages of my notebook, I reviewed the case notes I'd gotten off Dagny for the four hundred and twelfth time.

Woman was mighty convinced her dear aunt was getting swindled. Gullible, handsome old lady sitting pretty on a stack of wealth was certainly an easy target. According to her niece, Miss Mulversmitt had never met her mystery romancer before tonight, but she sure as Shirley had been sending him dough. Hundreds to even thousands in cash. On the regular. Dagny confessed her auntie had flaunted this information at the annual family Christmas shindig in Tampa. That's what aroused suspicions in the younger Mulversmitt. Auntie Charlene was apparently quite pleased about being some boy's sugar benefactor, as she phrased it.

The boy, it seemed, had some grand scheme for a big yet unnamable business. One he needed an investor for. An investor who'd be so gosh darn lucky to get in on the ground floor of this mystifying capital venture.

Yeah, smelled like unicorn farts to me too.

Least the wine was better than that.

A receipt been left in a shot glass in front of me, case I decided to close out without ordering another round. I took it—the acidity of the wine hit me in the back of throat at the same moment its price tag sucker punched my wallet. I choked. Yeeesh.