Chapter 13: Under Observation
The third vampire to make The Silver Dollar a regular spot was named Thomas.
He arrived on a Tuesday, two weeks after opening night, with the particular stillness of someone who'd seen enough violence to stop fearing it. Former military—I could tell from his posture, the way his eyes swept the room before committing to entry. Turned sometime in the eighties, if his fashion sense was any indication.
"Heard you run a professional operation," he said, taking a stool at the bar's quiet end.
"I try."
"Also heard you don't ask questions."
"Questions cost extra."
Thomas's face remained neutral, but something behind his eyes relaxed. He ordered TruBlood—the bottled synthetic that tasted like copper and disappointment—and watched the room with the patient attention of a hunter at rest.
That was the pattern now. Word spread through Louisiana's vampire underground: Monroe had a neutral ground. Not Fangtasia's tourist spectacle, not some elder's private court. Just a bar where you could feed, meet, and disappear without political complications.
Two weeks of steady operation had transformed the business. Vampire attendance averaged eight per night, up from three on opening. Human traffic held strong—George's regulars returned, supplemented by highway travelers drawn by the renovated signage. Revenue exceeded operating costs by a comfortable margin.
The system registered the progress with quiet efficiency. Dominion climbing as territory influence expanded. Wealth stabilizing as income met expenses. The metrics of empire building, quantified and tracked.
Don't get comfortable. Growth attracts attention.
Elena confirmed my concerns on a Thursday night.
"Someone's asking about you."
We stood in the security office, monitors showing the bar floor below. Thomas had claimed his usual corner. Two other regulars occupied private rooms with their donors. George tended bar with the careful movements of a man conserving strength.
"Describe them."
"Tall. Pale. Old enough to look it." Elena's expression was flat, professional. "Been visiting bars across the parish for the past three nights. Lucky's, that dive on Highway 34, the new place in West Monroe. Asking about 'the operation in Monroe.' Your operation."
"Hostile questions?"
"Assessment questions. Who owns it, how long it's been running, what kind of clientele. Not threatening—cataloguing."
Eric's people. Finally taking notice.
I'd expected this. A new vampire business in his territory, paying tribute but operating independently—of course the Sheriff would want eyes on it. The only question was whether this was routine surveillance or prelude to intervention.
"Anyone matching that description in the main room tonight?"
"Not yet. My source says he was heading toward Shreveport last she saw him."
"Keep watching. If he comes here, treat him like any other guest. Professional, courteous, nothing to hide."
Elena's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're not concerned?"
"I'm always concerned. But we're doing everything right—registered, tribute-paying, no violations. If Eric wanted us gone, he'd have sent someone with teeth, not clipboards."
The surveillance continued for another week. Elena's network—a patchwork of informants she'd cultivated over a decade of Monroe nights—tracked the observer's movements. He visited every vampire-adjacent establishment in the parish, compiling what could only be a comprehensive territorial assessment.
Thorough. Efficient. Exactly what I'd do in his position.
I responded with calculated escalation.
The tribute payment went out early—a week ahead of schedule, with an additional thousand dollars and a handwritten note expressing appreciation for Sheriff Northman's protection of Area 5 commerce. The message was clear: I understood the hierarchy, respected the authority, and intended to remain compliant.
The observer's visits stopped two days later.
"He's gone," Elena reported. "Headed back to Shreveport, according to my source. Didn't seem concerned about anything he found."
"Because there's nothing to be concerned about. We're exactly what we appear to be—a profitable business operating within established parameters."
"And if we weren't?"
"Then we'd be having a different conversation."
George's chair sat empty that night.
He'd tried to work—insisted on it, actually, dragging himself from the upstairs apartment with the stubborn dignity of a man who'd been tending bar longer than I'd been alive. But by ten o'clock, the gray pallor of his skin had deepened, his hands trembling too badly to pour drinks without spilling.
"Just tired," he'd said when I suggested he rest. "Happens sometimes."
It was happening more often.
I'd watched him decline over the past two weeks—the weight loss, the increasing fatigue, the careful way he moved to minimize pain. The cancer was accelerating, eating through whatever time the doctors had promised.
Two months, maybe three. That's what he said.
The timeline felt optimistic now.
I found Janet behind the bar, handling the drink orders George usually managed. She was competent—experienced enough to keep up, professional enough not to ask questions about her boss's condition.
"He's getting worse," she said, not looking up from the glass she was filling.
"I know."
"What happens when he can't come down at all?"
"The bar keeps running. You get a raise. Life continues."
Janet finally met my eyes. Her expression was complicated—grief mixed with pragmatism, the particular blend of emotions that came from watching someone die slowly.
"He talks about you. Says you're the best thing that happened to this place since Mary passed." She set the glass on the counter. "I don't know what you are, but I know you're not normal. Just... be good to him. He deserves that."
She knows. Or suspects enough that knowing doesn't matter.
"I will."
The domino players in the corner launched into another argument about college football. The vampires in the private rooms conducted their feeding in discrete silence. The Silver Dollar hummed with the quiet energy of a successful business.
And George's chair sat empty, waiting for someone who might not return to it.
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