LUDIC LOG

"Where's Dracula? Has anybody heard from Dracula today?"

Of course nobody's heard from Dracula today. He's probably out whoring it up like he does every Friday. Meanwhile the rest of us sit here in a Universal backlot and take care of the business than keeps that lousy swinger in capes and condoms. It's days like this I wonder why I'm still in the business. Some kid from artist management gave me his card the other morning, wanted to know if I'd be interested in being the frontman for something called a 'nautical theme restaurant'. All on the legit, and crazy money. I turned him down, of course; I told him I couldn't even imagine myself out of the life. But I kept his card in my pocket.

"Adam, what's going on with the protection racket in the Hills? The numbers are down."

I try not to sound accusing; he knows I would never suspect him of skimming, but some of the guys, they jump to conclusions. The last time I asked him what was happening with the loansharking operations, Wolfman rode his ass for weeks, calling him Frank (he hates being called Frank) and telling him that he was just like all the other Jews. But, you know, cruel to be kind. The numbers are down.

"It's those new kids," he grumbles, and we all know what he's talking about. The goddamn kids have been taking over this town. Foreigners, mostly Dutch guys -- Voorhees and Kreuger. Plus that big freak Myers, who knows where he's from. Wears a mask, just like the rest of them, and he's got no goddamn respect for us guys who made this town. But business is business.

"Adam, you gotta take care of those kids. Teach them a lesson. You know they won't listen to reason." I come down pretty hard on him. I know the last time he went toe-to-toe with one of those kids he came back with one of his bolts hanging off. But goddamnit, that's his job.

"Easy for you to say," he growls. "You've gone soft sitting there in an office. You forgot what it's like out on the streets."

That stings me, and I have to formulate a quick response before I look bad in front of the guys. The hell of it is, he's right. I have gotten soft. I retired back in '72, because it seemed like every two-bit punk with a speargun wanted a piece of me. It turned out that I had a real knack for the business side of things, not like this bullnecked motherfucker. Still, I had to save face.

"Oh, yeah? Why don't you go ask the teens of Party Beach who's soft? Why don't you go tell Rusty and Bill and the rest of the security guards down at the water tower than I can't hack it anymore, Adam? I come from the Black Lagoon," I say, knowing that he's vulnerable on the Little Lord Fauntleroy stuff, "not some goddamn private school in Vienna. Now you get out there and show those hockey-masked cocksuckers who's in charge out in the Hills."

He backs down quick. I knew he would. Poor predictable Adam. I kick over to the next item before anyone starts chattering. "Amenhotep," I ask, "what's going on in the drug trade?" No response. I try to draw him out with some praise. "Your books are airtight and you're really bringing in some new money. Good job. What's your secret?"

"Huuuuuuhhhhr," he hisses. He's a tough one to read, Amenhotep. Always tightlipped. I've known the guy for seventy years and I don't think I've ever heard him say anything besides 'huuuuuuhhhhr' and 'aaaaaaauuuughgh' that whole time. Still, you can't argue with results. A real gentleman, too; he's the only one besides me wearing a jacket, and he always smells of eucalyptus or whatever that is. I don't wanna tell you what most of these guys smell like. Wolfman smells like a wet dog and he's the best of them.

"Okay. Let's move on to new business. How's the recruiting going? Ever since Griffin left," Griffin being the Invisible Man, who was our mouthpiece until he got busted by some punk cop using a radar gun, "we've been one short. And Adam, don't bring up that Gojira kid again. I don't trust them Chinks."

Before I can get any feedback, in strolls Dracula. Eight o'clock at night and he looks like he hasn't gone to bed yet since the day before. Smelling like cheap perfume. At least he doesn't have that greasy fuck Renfield with him this time. "Drac," I say, real cool like. "So glad you could join us."

"I say, fellows," he starts, all breezy. That's bad news. "I'm in a spot of bother. You know that old adage about never being caught in bed with a dead girl or a live boy? Well, I'm sorry to say that I rather fancy both, and made the error of using my real name in the hotel register. Is Griffin about, or..."

I sigh. I can feel that kid's business card in my pocket.