She’d scared the hell out of him, damned rich bitch. He’d’ve liked to have given her a piece of his mind. Probably some damn tripper, that was why the screams were so bloodcurdling.

New York was one giant drugstore. Everybody was young, everybody had money, and every damn thing was definitely for sale. Ecstasy, crystal meth, crack, coke, hash, grass, horse, even old-fashioned shit like his beloved opium. God knew, you could probably buy laudanum somewhere. You could get ten percent absinthe, for sure, hecho en Mexico. He liked getting drunk on absinthe. There was a poet in him, and the wormwood brought him out. Last time he’d done a bottle of good absinthe, it had been on the terrace at Las Brisas in Acapulco, one of the most beautiful places in the world to do serious drinking. The mountains, the city lights below, the sun setting over the Pacific—the view was unequalled. He’d gone back to his room afterward and written a thirty-page epic poem about the death of Nebuchadnezzar. Next morning, he’d had to go on the Internet to find out who the hell Nebuchanezzar was. Some ancient king.

A couple came toward him, dressed all in black. The girl’s long, loose dress suggested possible gothic overtones. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a club called Shadowcat. Is there a place called Shadowcat around here?” The couple stopped. The girl was a heartbreaker, round face, merry brown eyes, and one of those smiles that says I know what you want. She had a cute rack, too, a couple of sweet little apples. She said, “The things you’re staring at are called breasts,” and the two of them walked off laughing.

Was he losing his touch, or what? Then he saw a bookstore. Maybe they had some kind of SoHo guide that was more up-to-date than his copy of New York by Night.

He loved to read, and he hadn’t been in an English language bookstore this big in years. Hundreds of titles, everything very colorful and appealing, all sorts of stuff. A dozen SoHo guidebooks, all brand-new. He opened one, SoHo Unbound. Under the heading, “Deep Dark Deadly,” was a list of spots with appropriately strange names—The Marrow Room, Bottomley Topps, Dragged to Death.

He sure as hell felt dragged to death, but he decided to try The Marrow Room instead, because it had a more vampirish sort of a ring to it. Actually, none of them sounded much like they had anything to do with gothic play-acting. But one could always hope.