================================ Paper Chase by Nancy Kaminski (c) June 1999 (print), 2000 (web) ================================= Natalie slid open the heavy elevator door, entered the loft, and stopped dead. "Good lord," she said conversationally. "Did a mailman explode in here?" Nick was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by mail, stacks and stacks of the stuff-magazines, circulars, credit card offers, catalogs, you name it. If it could be sent via Canada Post, it was there. He looked up, a slightly desperate expression on his face. "Junk mail," he said succinctly. "You ain't kiddin', buster," Nat said. She scooped a stack of catalogs off a chair and sat down. "I get it, too, but nothing like this! What did you do, just randomly send out your address and ask to be inundated?" Nick tossed a circular promising "Hair Restored in Sixty Days or Your Money Back! Guaranteed!" into the trash bag on the floor next to his chair, sighed, and shook his head. "Absolutely not. I have no idea what's going on. I mean, I don't even have that many magazine subscriptions." He pointed to a modest stack of newly arrived magazines on one corner of the table. "This all happened in the last two weeks -- I've just been throwing the stuff on the table every day, avoiding the issue. Now look at it," he said, riffling a stack of credit card offers with stunningly low APRs. "And it's getting worse every day. The mail carrier left a note in my mailbox suggesting I open a post office box 'on account of the volume.' " He glowered at the mess on the table and said grimly, "Someone is going to pay." "What, you think someone is giving out your address?" Natalie asked skeptically. "Someone you arrested or something? That's pretty weird." Nick looked consideringly at the scorch mark on the elevator door, all that remained of his late, unlamented sire, Lucien Lacroix. There was something about this latest tribulation-call it aggravation by papercut -- that almost made him long for the good old days when the only thing he had to worry about was his master's relentless persecution. He sighed and said, "I'm completely baffled." Natalie giggled. "Nick, fictional English sleuths of the 1930s were baffled. Miss Marple was baffled. This is the Nineties -- you're puzzled, perplexed, stumped..." "Flummoxed?" "Nero Wolfe was flummoxed. You've got to get yourself into this end of the century, Nick." "Okay, I'm perplexed. Happy?" "Delirious. Tell you what, I'll help you sort it out," she offered, drawing a stack of colorful, oversized envelopes towards her lap. She was bursting with curiosity to see what kind of mail Nick received. All for the sake of her research, of course, she reminded herself. It was important to understand the whole vampire, not just the medical aspects. Nosiness had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nick was pathetically grateful. "But how do I turn it off?" he asked plaintively. "It used to be I'd get a few real letters a week -- you know, from a friend, handwritten on nice stationery, telling me about mutual acquaintances, discussing books, that sort of thing. Now all I get are things like this..." He held up a sweepstake entry in a large brown envelope that declared "You Might Already Be a Winner!" "...or bills." He pointed the sweepstakes envelope at a stack of bills decorating the seat of the chair next to him. "I used to look forward to the post," he said sadly, a wistful, distant look on his face. Natalie sighed. He was obviously caught up in another mental journey to a far-away place and time -- presumably one with really interesting mail. "You know, magazines and catalogs sell their mailing lists to other businesses. That's how you get on new mailing lists," she said helpfully. "You can tell them to take your name off their lists." Nick returned from his reverie and looked at the pile on the table. "It would take weeks to contact them all," he said. "Sometimes immortality can be a big plus, then," Natalie replied heartlessly. "It's not like you're going to run out of time, you know." He glared at her, then relented and grinned. "You have a point." He picked up an envelope. "Let's start sorting, then. Bills here," he said, indicating the chair. "Catalogs and magazines there." He pointed to the floor between them. "Junk..." He glared at the envelope in his hand and threw it in the trash bag. "...there, and real mail, if there is any, over here." He patted the table in front of him. The only sound for the next few minutes was the muted, papery thud of mail being thrown into various piles. Natalie made mental notes as she sorted. There was an astonishing assortment, with no unifying theme. She herself got all sorts of cat-oriented stuff, as well as circulars from pharmaceutical companies and medical equipment houses, but that was only to be expected, considering she subscribed to cat and medical journals. But Nick's junk mail was all over the map, from pleas for help for starving children in Asia to lawn care products to collectible figurines of big-eyed children. There were catalogs from museums, for health and beauty aids, novelty gifts, New Age knickknacks, model ships and airplanes, build-it-yourself furniture kits, hobby electronics, and several for "adult amusements" that made her blush. There were pet-care products, catalogs for dairy farmers (she barely stifled her laughter at that one) and... She made an appreciative noise. "What?" Nick asked, looking up. Natalie held up a glossy catalog whose cover featured a stunningly handsome man in a kilt holding up a sword in a fierce pose. "A Highlander catalog? Nick, I didn't know you were a fan." He said frostily, "I'm not. That show's absurd. Bad history, worse costuming, and the most ridiculous sword fights this side of a 1950s Viking movie." She said slyly, "So you do watch it." "No, I don't. Not on purpose, anyway. Sometimes there's just nothing else on," he said defensively. "Ha!" "Besides, ever since they killed off Tessa it hasn't been the same," he mumbled. "It's not like that guy can act, anyway." Natalie sighed. "Nick, we don't watch it for the great acting. We watch it for this." She pointed at the man in the kilt. "He is seriously gorgeous. So is the old guy -- and he plays a mean blues guitar, too." He snorted and pointedly continued with his mail sorting. Natalie surreptitiously tucked the catalog under her chair. After all, Nick didn't want it -- no reason why she shouldn't take it home with her. More research on immortality, she told herself. The magazines were a fascinating assortment, as befitting Nick's far- flung interests. Archaeology journals, news magazines, art reviews, even the French edition of GQ. And then there was one she had never heard of. " 'Osiris?' Nick, what's this about?" There was a subtitle under the name -- "Night Life for Night Lovers." She started to flip through it. Nick hastily reached across the table and tried to take it out of her hands. "Oh, nothing. Just another one of those lifestyle magazines. It's not very interesting, really." She held on and managed to snatch it back out of his reach. "Hmmm, sounds interesting to me, being on the night shift and all." She turned away and opened it to the table of contents. "Let's see -- 'Sample New York's Diversity'... 'Solutions to the Homeless Problem in LA -- a Walk on the Wild Side'..." She looked at the pictures of strangely pale revelers carousing in a dark club accompanying the first article, then up at her suddenly silent companion. "Nick, is this what I think it is? The vampire version of Vanity Fair?" "Uh..." She flipped further. "It is! My god, Nick, the Community has a magazine?" Nick sighed resignedly. "That's what happens when someone brings across a yuppie publisher with big ideas and a wealthy sire with no sense whatsoever. It started last year. The subscription's automatic. Get brought over, you're on the mailing list." Natalie goggled at the thought of someone having a mailing list of every vampire in the world. "You're kidding, right? A free subscription with your 'membership?' Sort of like joining the motor club and getting that travel magazine?" Nick nodded. "Unfortunately, yes." He managed to retrieve the magazine from her reluctant hands, then stashed it safely out of her reach. She pursued the bizarre notion with scientific thoroughness. "Who maintains the list? Are you required to sign up your, uh, converts? Is there a time limit? Do you have to send in change-of-address cards when you move on?" Nick shot her a sharp glance. "Nat, there are some questions you don't need to ask." She looked at the sequestered magazine with longing. "Still, Nick, if you have any back issues you don't want..." "No! Absolutely not!" Natalie wondered if it was undignified to scrounge through Nick's dumpster during the next day or two. Research, she repeated. It's research. Finally the mound of mail was dealt with, reduced to a small pile of bills and exactly one "real" letter. "Unbelievable," Nick muttered, jiggling the stack of missives into a neat pile. He looked morosely at the unruly mess of catalogs on the floor. "I guess I know how I'll be spending the next couple of days -- calling these, these..." He paused, at a loss for a word that adequately described the catalog publishers without lapsing into profanity. "Jerks? Tree-slayers? Mass-marketing idiots?" Natalie suggested sweetly. "Not the words I was thinking of, but...something like that," Nick agreed. "Shall I save the next Highlander catalog for you?" Nat flushed. "Uh, sure. Thanks." ~~~~~~~ One week later... Captain Stonetree poked his head out of his office and bellowed, "Knight! Get in here!" Nick looked quizzically at his partner, Don Schanke. Schanke shrugged. "Don't look at me." Nick got up and went into the captain's office. "Yeah, Cap?" he asked. "Nick, what the hell is going on with you? Jennifer tells me you're getting all sorts of weird mail delivered here." He looked at a memo on his desk, apparently from Jennifer the mail clerk. "She says she's too embarrassed to sort some of it, let alone put it in your in box." Nick groaned. "Sorry, Cap, somehow I've been getting on all sorts of mailing lists. You should see what's being delivered at home -- and now it's coming here, too. I'm working on stopping it, really. I spend a couple hours a day writing letters or calling the companies to get taken off their lists." Stonetree sat back, the chair squeaking alarmingly. "Make sure it stops soon -- and in the meantime, pick up your mail in the mailroom yourself. And don't leave it out on your desk, either. I've seen some of that stuff, and if it isn't illegal, it should be." "Sorry, Cap," Nick repeated. "I'll take care of it." Stonetree humphed and waved him out of the office. "Make sure you do." When Nick got back to his desk, Schanke was leafing through one of the catalogs from Nick's in box and grinning. "Hey, Nick, I didn't know you were interested in macramé." Nick snatched the catalog from his hands and tore it in half with a satisfying rrrrrrrripp. He felt no compulsion to edit his feelings on the matter, since no ladies were in his immediate vicinity. "Wow," Schanke said admiringly after a respectful pause. "I never even thought someone could do that to themself." ~~~~~~~~~~ New York, one month later... "Maxwell!" "Yes, sir?" the young vampire said respectfully, materializing in the bedroom doorway. "Report." The figure lying in the spacious bed beckoned imperiously with an almost-healed hand. "He's stopped most of it, sir. He can be quite persuasive, it seems." "Indeed. I think another trip to the bookstore is indicated." "Certainly, sir. What sort of magazines should I buy this time?" "Hmmm," the figure considered for a moment. "I think -- yes, that will do. Let's make it professional wrestling and Star Trek this time, shall we? And when you return, I shall have some more things for you to mail." Maxwell stifled his laughter. "Professional wrestling and Star Trek. Yes, sir. I'll be back in an hour." Lucien Lacroix, whose death had been greatly exaggerated, dismissed the young man and picked up his gold-and-enamel Bucheron fountain pen. He drew the lap desk into a more comfortable position and started carefully filling out the small form that lay there. "Yes, send me my complimentary copy of Cooking Lite!" the form read. A slight smile teased the recently renewed full lips. "Nicholas B. Knight,' he wrote. '101 Gateway Lane, Toronto, Ontario..." It was small payback for being skewered and barbecued. But until he was fully recovered, it would have to do. Finis