The Squeeze

Laughter boomed and bounced off the walls of the speakeasy, and Atticus felt abnormally at ease as he laughed with them. “Well, fellas,” he said once the laugher died down, “If it weren’t for Benji, here, I’d be at home right now.” He looked over at his friend who gave a sheepish smile before raising a cigarette to his lips. “But I’m glad I came. I needed a night like tonight.”

“Anytime, brother,” said Enoch. He was a large man with dark hair and a New York accent so thick it made Atticus’s Georgian skin crawl. The Squeeze was Enoch’s creation, a vulgar club full of gambling and drinking and women hidden beneath a lovely little jazz club that Atticus would have enjoyed much better on any other night. He did have to admit, though, there was something thrilling about this little secret.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” Enoch asked as he poured himself another shot of some awful smelling liquor. “I never knew a southerner who didn’t drink whiskey or ‘shine.”

“I’m sure, my friend.” Atticus smiled. “I’m not much of a drinker these days.”

“No wonder you and Benji get along so well,” said Desmond, Enoch’s business partner. He was a small-framed man, Enoch’s opposite, with a thick red beard and a taste for strong whiskey. Atticus wondered if his Irish descent aided his luck as he watched him shuffle the cards. Desmond had won nearly every round of poker that night. Atticus didn’t worry about finances and never bet too far out of his comfort zone, but he believed Desmond could rob them all blind if they let him. “Fucker’s been here more times than I can count and never once has he had even a shot. Just sits there puffing on a cigarette all night.” Benji chuckled, putting out his cigarette as if on cue. “What are ya, religious nuts or something?”

Atticus and Benji shared a look, the ghost of a smile. “Or something,” Atticus replied. “I just get my highs from elsewhere, I suppose.”

“Well, whatever suits your fancy,” Enoch said as Desmond dealt the cards. “You don’t have to buy anything to come here. We just like the company.” A raise of his glass. “We’re all friends here.”

They started the next game, and Atticus had a shit hand, as usual. His luck was never the best. Benji was always the lucky one of the two. So lucky, in fact, that he had to believe Benji was letting Desmond win, though the annoyance on Benji’s face said otherwise. They’d been friends for a long time, and anytime something good happened to Atticus it was because it had happened to Benji first. He wasn’t sure what it was, if the man had a built-in magnet for good things, but Atticus was always thankful for Benji’s discoveries. The Squeeze being one example.

It was nice, despite the smell of smoke and alcohol that set his nose and throat on fire. The bar stretched the whole length of the place, tables scattered about with men playing cards, scantily clad dancers sitting on their laps. There was a stage in the back of the club, and though no show was happening tonight, Benji had told Atticus of Burlesque shows put on by some of the dancers. There were back rooms, too, for men looking to buy temporary love.

In the high of prohibition, this place was the perfect headquarters for all things illegal. Atticus wondered what went into running something like this, the kind of loopholes and clandestine meetings someone would have to go through. He wondered how in the hell these two drunks managed to do it.

Desmond won the game with a straight flush, sending the men into a flurry of disbelieving laughter. “That’s it,” Enoch declared, his chair whining against the floor as he staggered to his feet. “You’ve taken enough from me tonight, you damn cheater.” He said it with a smile even as he stuck his middle finger out at the Irishman. “If I’m gonna waste away my money, it’s gonna be on one of these lovely ladies, not on your ugly mug.”

Desmond laughed smugly as Enoch walked away. “He’s always such a sore loser,” he joked as he stacked up all the cards. “I probably should let him win,” he drawled in mock sympathy, “but where’s the fun in that?” He stood and stretched, his eyes wandering the room, locking in on a woman dressed in a slinky red dress. “It’s not my fault he blows all his money on booze and hookers. I should be able to blow his money too.” He laughed to himself then looked down at Atticus and Benji. “Y’all enjoy yourselves, I’ll be back in a bit.”

Atticus watched as Desmond strolled across the bar to the young dancer. Watched as he took her by the elbow, planted a kiss on her shoulder, and led her into one of the rooms behind the stage.

“Well,” Benji said. “What do you think?”

Atticus sighed, considering. It was a nice place. “It could be nicer,” he offered.

“That it could.” Benji lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “It could be exactly what we’re looking for.” Across the room, Enoch was stumbling over his feet, laughing as the woman he was with attempted to hold him up as they walked toward the back. “These idiots will lose it eventually. Get caught, blow all their money, lose all their business by acting afool.”

“Won’t it raise suspicions if it’s suddenly under new ownership?” Atticus always worried about things like this. He knew Benji’s ideas were always good, his plans foolproof. It always just seemed too easy.

“Trust me, Atty, I’ve been coming here for weeks.” He laughed as he took a drag. “Their business keeps dying out. They’re going under. No one will be surprised. If anything, they’ll be relieved for new updates.” Atticus’s continued concerns must have been written on his face, because Benji continued. “Listen, they’re not good people. We’d be doing the world a favor as much as ourselves. And look at how much they’ve drank,” he said, pointing to a nearly empty bottle that had been full when they got here. “Won’t it be nice to get drunk for once?”

Atticus’s mouth watered at the thought. It had been a long time since the taste of whiskey had coated his tongue. He wondered how blood would taste with that much liquor in it. Would he even taste the blood at all, or just the smooth burn of liquid gold? The thought was overwhelming, the desire to feel that dizzying ache of drunkenness, a feeling he hadn’t felt since before Benji changed him decades ago. He’d heard rumors that creatures like them could feel the effects of whatever was in their meal’s blood, and how he hoped it was true. With all the horrors and loneliness and suffering that came with this life, the desire to fade away into oblivion only grew. He’d been so jealous of the men at their table, downing a whole bottle, losing their sanity slowly as the night rolled on. He’d been so angry that the smell of it felt so rancid when in mortality, it had been one of his favorite scents.

“We drink them, and everyone in here,” Benji whispered, leaning closer. “And we make this place ours. A constant flow of food, a cover, a life. It’s what we’ve been looking for, Atty. It’s what we’ve always wanted.”

Atticus did want it. He was tired of hiding, tired of hunting. Benji was right. It would be so easy, like a snap of the fingers.

He watched as Desmond stumbled back onto the floor, Enoch not far behind. He liked them, for the most part. They were friendly, funny, a good time. He was upset that Benji hadn’t brought him here sooner but supposed it was for the best. Atticus had always been the sentimental type. Benji was far more ruthless.

“Alright,” he said. “When do we do this?”

“Whenever you’re ready, my friend.” Benji flashed a wicked smile, fangs shining in the low light. That feral look, that wildness in him, was contagious.

Atticus smiled back, a small nod of confirmation.

In an instant, Benji was at the door, sinking his teeth into the bouncer and blocking the only exit. The laughter and chatter in the room froze to a halt, gasps of surprise and fear spreading instead. “Sorry for the interruption,” Benji drawled, “but I think the night has come to an end.”

It was a slaughter. It was a daze. The two of them drank through every guest and dancer within minutes, the sweet taste of drunkenness filling Atticus’s mouth, overpowering the aura of terror in the air. In each body, a different liquor or cocktail flavored their blood, and Atticus made a game of guessing which drink he would taste in the next. The gingery burn of a Moscow mule. The dry bitterness of a martini. The sweetness of an aged Moscato. The oaky warmth of Kentucky bourbon, his personal favorite.

They left Enoch and Desmond for last. They sat amongst the bodies, shaking and pale, knocked flat on their asses in fear and disbelief. Desmond’s chest heaved with the shallow breaths of panic, his eyes darting across the bar, scanning over every crumpled body that had just minutes ago been completely living. Enoch’s eyes stayed on the vampires, like if he looked hard enough, he could better understand exactly what happened, how these men had become such monstrous creatures.

Benji forced them into chairs, the sweet lull of compulsion coating his voice as he asked for the deed to the building. Atticus watched their eyes glaze over, watched the fear dissipate into blind obedience. He’d always been in awe of that, how quickly Benji had learned that skill. Sometimes it scared even him. Not tonight though. The only thing on Atticus’s mind was the bliss of mindlessness. Being sober for so long was exhausting.

Benji made Enoch sign over every paper or document stating the place was in the name of Benjamin Baker and Atticus Hall. Atticus was sure there was more to the process than that, but his thirst and want to get this whole thing over with overpowered his critical thought. The whole process was over before he could even realize. He just watched the lights glint off the bottles on the shelf, admiring the starlike beauty of it.

“Don’t worry,” Benji said, finally. “We’ll take good care of it for ya, won’t we, Atty?”

Atticus hummed, still looking at the shelves and the lights. This place really was nice. “We’ll make it better than ever.”

“Damn right we will.” Benji smiled mockingly. “It is a shame you won’t live to see it.” Benji stood and said, “Desmond here is all mine.” He chuckled, leaning in until his mouth was right against the Irishman’s ear. “I’m not a fan of losing. Especially not to card-counting fuckers like you.”

“Fine by me.” Atticus snapped back into the moment, ready to feast again. He walked over to the big man, his eyes still glossy from the effects of compulsion. His mouth watered, his throat burned, his fangs ached to sink into the human decanter. He stepped closer, rolling his neck. “That accent was really grating on my nerves.”

They drank and drank. Atticus was thankful for the numbness that came with Benji’s talent. Neither one of the men even screamed. He could drink in peace, savor each passing flavor of moonshine and whiskey and beer. Lots of alcohol stained this man’s blood. Atticus could have thanked him for it in some other circumstance. He hadn’t even finished when the world got hazy, the adrenaline in Enoch's blood making the alcohol even stronger in his system. He relished in it, this glimpse of humanity he’d missed much more than he'd realized.

He lifted his head once that last, wonderful drop slid down his throat. His head spun, his legs wobbled, and he thought for a moment that he would faint. Such a nostalgic feeling it was. He laid down on his back amongst the carnage they had rendered and stared up at the ceiling, the colors and lights of The Squeeze blending together dizzyingly. So beautiful, this secret hideaway. Home, he thought. A home, after so long without one. Atticus smiled and sank into the sweet silent drunken abyss.