Death Carries an Umbrella

DEATH CARRIES AN UMBRELLA

  Sean Capelle

  Copyright 2010 Sean Capelle

  All rights reserved.

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  DEATH CARRIES AN UMBRELLA

  The term “financial agreement” was a misconception when it came to vampires. They were willing to negotiate with the humans how much money to lend, and the terms of the loan, but the negotiation was always one-sided. In the end, desperation would win out over logic, which is how the fangers stayed in business for so long.

  Rennstadt always thought “financial leverage” was more apt. He had seen first-hand the desperation of the fanger’s clients: the single mother trying to get out from under thousands of dollars of credit card debt, the divorced couple who wanted to just put the past behind them but couldn’t sell their house, and the small businessman who couldn’t make the monthly lease payments for his shop. Jenkins was one of those.

  Rennstadt held an umbrella over his master’s head as they stood in front of Phil’s Occult Books. Most of the other stores on the same dismal stretch of street had boards covering their windows. Those that didn’t looked like they should. Ever the optimist, Rennstadt thought. He had met Phil Jenkins once before, enough to know that he was a fool.

  A strand of garlic that ended in a crucifix adorned the store’s front door. Master Blomquist consulted the golden watch fob he retrieved from his vest. “This human is trying my patience,” he said in an even voice.

  Rennstadt had learned from his years of service with the fangers that they were always in a hurry, especially when missing their naptime to deal with humans. He ripped the strand free from the door. Master Blomquist entered the store, his lip curling at the after-scent of garlic, mixed with the smell of moldy books.

  A young man stepped from behind his cash register and crossed the store. His long, greasy hair was tucked behind his ear, and he wore a flannel shirt with holes in it. “What are you doing here?” Jenkins said. Rennstadt collapsed the umbrella and pointed its metal tip at Jenkins’ throat before he could reach striking distance of Master Blomquist.

  “Get out of my store!” Jenkins barked.

  Master Blomquist removed a book about ghosts from the shelf and leafed through its pages, never once looking at Jenkins. “If I remember correctly, Mr. Jenkins, I loaned you the money to keep this wretched establishment open.” He closed the book and dropped it. “So I do not think you can call it yours.”

  “I wish I had never borrowed that money!”

  “The feeling is mutual.” Master Blomquist toured the store, idly plucking books from the shelves and dropping them. Rennstadt held back Jenkins.

  “I don’t have the money now, if that’s why you’re here. So you can just piss off and leave me alone!”

  Master Blomquist grabbed a bookcase and shoved it to the floor. The cheap wooden frame groaned and spilled its books. Rennstadt only saw the anger flare on his master’s face for a second. The next moment he resumed his look of calm control. Jenkins cursed and tried to break free, but Rennstadt clocked him with the umbrella’s thick wooden handle. The bookseller lost his glasses and tumbled to the floor. Master Blomquist turned on his heel and left the store. Rennstadt followed behind with his umbrella.

  Jenkins wasn’t even back on his feet when Rennstadt returned after escorting Master Blomquist to the limousine across the street.

  “The master says you have one month to make due.”

  “I’m not paying,” Jenkins said, straightening his glasses.

  “I would expect you’d be intelligent enough to understand the concept of ‘borrowing,’ bright boy.”

  “Business has been terrible. I can’t even pay myself.”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you talked to the vampires.”

  “They’re the only ones who would lend me money.” Jenkins inspected the toppled bookcase. “I can see now it’s only to keep you in their pocket.”

  “You’re starting to catch on.” Rennstadt tossed the garlic crucifix strand at him. “I’d recommend you don’t try this again. Besides, you only got it half-right.” He turned to leave the store, when Jenkins spoke up.

  “I could be one of you guys—an Umbrella Man.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about us.”

  “I know the Umbrella Men were created back in the 1800s. They formed a pact with the vampires to become their loyal servants, and in return the vampires would not harm them.”

  “Very nice, bright boy, but just because you’ve read about us doesn’t mean you know what it’s like.”

  “Well, then why did you join them?”

  Images of Rennstadt’s wife lying on a hospital bed flooded his mind. He saw his hand clasped over hers as the doctor delivered the bad news, he saw her writhe in pain as she tangled in her bed sheet, and how she looked at him with those big blue eyes in a plea for death. To make matters worse, he financed her suffering with his servitude to the fangers. Instead of spending time by her side, he had to pay visits to deadbeats all day.

  “One month,” he spat. “Get your shit together.” He left the store.

  Master Blomquist lowered the limousine’s glass partition once Rennstadt sat in the driver’s seat. The vampire’s icy stare harrowed him.

  “I gave him one month, like you said.”

  “I have changed my mind. We will return in two weeks.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “The human has had plenty of time. Besides, there is no way he can afford any more accrued interest.” He paused, then added, “I require a drink.”

  Rennstadt removed a razor blade from the glove box. He pulled off the cardboard sleeve and found the scar running along his palm that had almost completely re-knit. Thinking about his wife helped distract him from the razor’s work. He squeezed his injured hand into a fist and let the blood ooze into a wine glass. Master Blomquist seized the glass and he slurped greedily.

  Rennstadt twirled the razor between his fingers. Borrowers like Jenkins always tried to beat the fangers at their own game. He was sure Jenkins had picked up some crazy notions from those books he peddled. Every now and then Rennstadt dreamed of hanging up his umbrella for good. But he questioned if his logic was any different than Jenkins’.

  Master Blonquist finished slurping his cup of blood. It killed Rennstadt that no matter how pompous the fangers acted—especially his master—they were still human. No, not human, he thought. Sub-human. But if he was an extension of the fangers, then what did that make him?