Services Rendered: The Cases of Dan Shamble, Zombie

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Armed with the address, our curse-protective detail left the business office and moved our invasion elsewhere, hoping to get to the unsuspecting victim in time.

  Nolan Pratt was a broad-shouldered hunchback with shaggy hair, a paint-spattered baseball cap and paint-spattered overalls. He had been contracted to paint a two-story residence with a small but nice front yard, in which he had posted a small sign that said, “Painting Courtesy of Pratt House Painting & Bell Maintenance.”

  Instead of using a ladder, Nolan preferred to dangle from the roof on ropes, swinging about as if he were high up in a belfry somewhere. He hung suspended on the rope harness holding a bucket of paint in one hand and a wide brush in the other. He swung back and forth in pendular arcs, slathering strokes of paint across the house’s siding, covering areas in curves rather than straight lines. He missed quite a few spots.

  As the fleet of squad cars pulled up to the house with their lights flashing and sirens wailing, the hunchback spilled the bucket of paint down the siding, which actually provided better coverage than his brush had done. He dangled in panic, trapped in the rope harness. McGoo and I led the swarm of the protective detail in a mad dash to rescue the victim, although in his panic Nolan lost his footing and nearly hung himself.

  The UQPD came in heavily armed, some with revolvers, some with sniper rifles, others with batons or tear gas canisters. McGoo and I drew our respective pistols ready to shoot anything on sight. “We’re here to keep you safe,” I said.

  “House painting isn’t really that dangerous,” the hunchback replied.

  “Get down from there, sir,” McGoo said. “Now! For your own protection.”

  Terrified into cooperating, Nolan extricated himself from the harness and ropes, then sprang to the ground, bouncing on bent legs. “What’s all this about?”

  “You’re cursed,” I said. “Eldon Muff wants you to meet with a horrible death—and soon.”

  “We all wanted that hairy old fart to meet a horrible death.” The hunchback snorted. “All my other clients are satisfied. Just look at my rating with the Better Business Bureau.”

  “This is one of those rare cases where customer satisfaction doesn’t count,” I said. “Eldon died and left a curse, with you as a specific target. Two other victims have already suffered horrible deaths, a persistent paperboy and a shrub urinator.”

  The hunchback’s expression pinched into one of distaste. “I thought I smelled something in those shrubs.” I was surprised he could smell anything, since he reeked of turpentine and sweat.

  As I started to describe the curse, a whistling sound came from high above. We all looked up to see a glittering object plummeting straight toward us, straight toward the house, no doubt straight toward the hunchback painter.

  “Look out!” I yelled. “Everybody out of the way!”

  Even though it sounded ridiculous, McGoo had, in fact, mentioned the possibility of a meteor falling from the sky. Either forgetting or not understanding the concept of protecting someone, the protective detail bolted like cockroaches exposed to the light.

  I tackled the hunchback, knocking him into the middle of the lawn an instant before a tumbling blue-white object crashed into the freshly painted side of the house, exactly where Nolan Pratt had been dangling only moments before. The irregular hunk of blue ice broke in shards studded with smeared swatches of paper and frozen oblong brown lumps.

  The terrified hunchback picked himself up and stared in astonishment. Sheyenne’s ghost swooped close to make sure I was all right. I climbed back to my feet, brushed off my sport jacket, and adjusted my fedora. McGoo and the protective detail came running back, now that it was safe.

  Robin stepped up to the broken frozen debris, which had left a crater in the front yard. She looked at it analytically. “Is it a meteor? A comet?”

  “Something worse,” I said. I had heard about these hazards before but had never seen one with my own eyes. “It’s a frozen ball dumped from an airplane toilet reservoir, a block of ice from the sky. They usually don’t make it to the ground, but I guess this was a bigger lump than usual.”

  “I could’ve been killed!” Nolan cried.

  “And in a most unsanitary way,” I said.

  Sheyenne drifted close, wrapping her intangible arms around me. “That was close!”

  “Is it over now?” McGoo asked. “Did we break the curse?”

  “We need to have the curses studied by an expert,” Robin said, “but from my preliminary analysis in the legal library, those handwritten curses are inexpensive, one-time-only curses.”

  “Eldon Muff was very frugal,” McGoo agreed.

  The hunchback adjusted his paint-spattered baseball cap and looked at the ruined side of the house, not to mention the crater and the blue toilet ice in the front yard. “The customer isn’t going to be happy about that, but they signed a specific waiver absolving me of responsibility for meteor strikes.”

  Robin’s brow furrowed. “They might have legal grounds to contest it, sir. A frozen ball of ice and turds from an airplane isn’t technically a meteor.” When the hunchback looked distraught, she reassured him, “If it comes to that, I’ll take the case as your defense attorney.”

  I felt relieved to see the house painter safe and sound, frazzled but unsoiled by the fecal comet. “We couldn’t save Bobby and Reginald from their horrible deaths, but least we saved Mr. Pratt. And those were the only three curses.” I decided never to open the MacDonald paperbacks again.

  Then I froze, remembering that the blind mummy had bought dozens more at the estate sale, and I had no doubt that each one of those books held a similar curse.

  Leaving the UQPD army to clean up the unfortunate residence and lock down the crime scene, McGoo and I commandeered one of the squad cars and raced off to Ro-Tar’s house. Robin and Sheyenne joined us, while the rest of the protective detail remained on call, eager for overtime should we need them.

  We recognized the mummy’s quaint, well-maintained abode by the large Rotarian sign in the front yard. Racing from the parked squad car, we pounded on the front door, urgently yelled the mummy’s name, and soon we heard the shuffle-slide of his wrapped footsteps as he came to answer the knock.

  When he opened the door, Ro-Tar had fresh bandages wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. He also wore a stylish paisley smoking jacket, and I was very afraid of what might happen if a burning cigarette touched his flammable bandages. On the bright side, the gauze over his mouth would have filtered the smoke, thereby reducing the carcinogenic hazard.

  I blurted out, “We’re here about all those collectible paperbacks you bought at the estate sale. They’re cursed!”

  “We have to confiscate them,” McGoo said. “They’re already responsible for two deaths and one ruined house painting job.”

  The blind mummy recognized my voice. “The books are collector’s editions, Mr. Chambeaux, and they’re not for sale. They are extremely valuable.”

  “But you don’t understand,” Sheyenne said. “People are going to die.”

  The mummy sniffed through empty nasal sockets. “They are murder mysteries, after all.”

  He politely led us inside his home, which was like a museum. The furniture was distinctly art deco. Framed prints and old movie posters hung on the walls, and shelves and curio cabinets covered the rest of the space. Every inch was crammed with collectibles, eccentric memorabilia from old radio programs, promotional items from long-cancelled TV shows, framed original comic panels. His best items, including the set of classic paperbacks, were stored in magnificent cherrywood bookshelves fronted with locked glass cabinet doors, as if he feared the books might take wing and escape.

  “I just displayed all those fine John D. MacDonald paperbacks. Here’s the entire collection.” Ro-Tar stood in front of the glass-enclosed book case, though he couldn’t see the contents. “They are absolutely pristine.”

  “But you can’t read them,” Robin said. “You have no eyes.”

  “I h
ave eye sockets. And I can appreciate fine rare books.”

  I looked at all the spines lined up inside the case, nearly fifty of them. Each paperback had been lovingly sealed in a separate protective plastic bag, then arranged in order behind the transparent cabinet doors.

  “We think that each one of those books contains a terrible curse,” McGoo said. “If you open them, people will die horrible deaths.”

  “Open them?” Ro-Tar said, recoiling in a different sort of horror. “I wouldn’t even touch them! They’re protected and preserved, sealed away on display.”

  “But if you ever read them, you will activate the curse,” Robin said.

  “Read them!” the mummy scoffed. “They’re collector’s books! They’re not meant to be read, merely to be owned, merely to be coveted.” He was growing vehement. “And I will not let you have them. They’re perfectly safe with me.”

  “But if someone—” I began.

  “I can assure you, they will never be read, Mr. Chambeaux,” Ro-Tar replied. “They’ll never be touched. I’ll allow no fingerprints on the covers. The spines will never be cracked.”

  “Then we don’t have to worry about the curse being triggered,” I said, but I remained curious. “If you don’t ever intend to read them, why are you so fascinated with the books?”

  “Because I have them,” Ro-Tar said so vehemently that he coughed dust out of his mouth bandages. “And for a collector, that’s the most important thing.”

  McGoo remained indignant. “Those items are extremely dangerous. We have to take them back to the police station, store them safely in the evidence room.”

  I had seen the chaos of the UQPD evidence room. More than once, spell-contaminated items had gone missing, sacred amulets had been misfiled, immortality elixirs spilled in birth certificate files. In contrast, I looked around at the mummy’s absolutely pristine and well-maintained collection, the plastic seals on the cursed books, the locked cabinet.

  “On second thought, McGoo, these cursed books might be in better hands if they just stay locked up here.”

  “They will never be in any hands at all,” Ro-Tar said. “No one will ever touch them!”

  “Exactly what I mean,” I said. “We’ll know where they are, but the deadly curses will remain sealed. Forever.”

  “Nothing is forever,” Ro-Tar said philosophically, as if it were something he had once heard from a Rotarian luncheon speaker. “But I’ve been around for thousands of years, and I know how to take care of valuable old things.”

  Though she remained concerned, Robin came to the same conclusion I had. After considering all the paperwork required to file and maintain each one of these cursed books, signing them into evidence, and then keeping them completely secure, without mishap, McGoo agreed with my assessment. “Sounds like the best curse prevention we can manage.”

  Pleased to have visitors, now that we could breathe a sigh of relief about the looming curses, Ro-Tar took the time to show us around his fascinating collection. I became more and more convinced this was a more stable and protected place than the UQPD evidence room. Maybe I could convince McGoo to transfer a few other dangerous artifacts …

  When we were ready to go, I said to Sheyenne, “Maybe we’d better avoid estate sales from now on.”

  “Never again,” my ghost girlfriend agreed. “But you don’t want me to return all those veils and lingerie, do you?”

  “Not just yet,” I said. I was looking forward to seeing her model them for me. “They may be collector’s items.”

  I

  I

  I hate to see a werewolf cry. The tears and the sniffles make the facial fur all matted and clumpy, and the despairing whimper sounds like a little lap dog trying to growl.

  “New client, Beaux,” Sheyenne whispered, hovering at my office door, “and she’s a nervous wreck.” My ghost girlfriend is a curvaceous blond with sparkling blue eyes and a glowing ectoplasmic presence. She lowered her voice. “You’d better come out in person, and quick.”

  I sat behind my cluttered desk piled with folders of unsolved cases as well as unpaid bills from clients. As a zombie private detective, I sometimes have dead afternoons, and other times I can’t keep up with the action. I rose on my stiff joints and followed Sheyenne out into the receiving area of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations.

  A frumpy, middle-aged werewolf woman stood there in a floral print housedress, sobbing. She’d already been through four wadded facial tissues from the box on the desk, but her long black claws had shredded the paper, even as she sniffled and blew her dark nose.

  “There, there, ma’am.” I used my best You can trust me, I’m a detective voice. “We’ll help you with your problem, whatever it is. I’m back from the dead and back on the case.” It was my catchphrase, and often it impressed the unnatural clients who came in. Ever since the Big Uneasy, the celestial event that returned all the monsters and magic to the normal world, I had offered my services to clients, both human and inhuman.

  The werewolf woman snorted, sobbed, and blew her nose again. She dropped the sodden, tattered tissues on Sheyenne’s desk. “My name is Myra Blankenship. My son Aldo is missing! Please help me find him, Mr. Shamble.”

  I don’t know why I bother correcting the pronunciation anymore, but it’s automatic. “The name is Chambeaux, Ms. Blankenship. Tell me what happened.”

  My lawyer partner, Robin Deyer, emerged from her own office on the other side of the conference room. She’s a fiery African-American attorney who wants justice for all unnaturals. She held a yellow legal pad and a pencil, both of which were spell-bonded, so they took notes all by themselves. “I heard growling.” She paused, spotting the distraught werewolf. “How can we help you, ma’am?” Robin has a huge heart and a stubborn spirit. Without even hearing Myra’s story, she immediately added, “We’ll put the full resources of Chambeaux and Deyer on the case.”

  “It’s gang related,” said Myra. She rummaged in her small clutch purse and withdrew a photo of her son.

  Aldo was a string bean, nerdy-looking werewolf kid about fourteen years old. He had a bad furry haircut, horn-rimmed glasses, and a red plaid shirt that was obviously a hand-me-down. His smile showed braces on his fangs.

  “Aldo was a good boy, but he fell in with a bad crowd. He wanted to join a gang, so he could feel tough.” She sniffled and sobbed, then rubbed her paws across her facial fur, which only served to smear the snot and tears around. Her mascara ran down among the brown strands of fur. “I told him to get good grades in school, but I don’t know where I went wrong. He had no business hanging out with hoodlum genies. We’re not even from the same mythologies!”

  Sheyenne drifted forward to hand Myra a glass of water from the tap in our little kitchenette.

  Myra continued as her explanation swiftly built into a howl. “It’s … it’s been difficult at home. Aldo’s father and I are getting a—” Her voice hitched. “A divorce. And it hit the poor boy hard. He’s just acting out, but I’m sure he’s in deep trouble. Now he’s gone! Arrooooooo!”

  Sheyenne brought forth a clipboard with our new client form while Robin stood listening as her pencil took detailed notes on the legal pad.

  I said, “Once we have all the background, ma’am, I’ll start looking for your Aldo right away. I assure you, this is my most important case.” It was my only active case, but I like to make the client feel good.

  I listened intently as Myra Blankenship rattled off details about her son and his presumed predicament, but like many werewolf parents—or parents of any species—she knew little about her son’s after-school activities.

  When she had told me everything, I donned my sport jacket with the stitched-up bullet holes and settled my fedora in place, tilting it forward to hide the bullet hole in my forehead. “That’s enough for me to start with, ma’am. Don’t you worry. I’ll find your son.” I squared my shoulders and tucked my .38 in my side pocket. “Hoodlum genies don’t bother me one bit.”

  II

&nb
sp; The Unnatural Quarter is a colorful, bustling, and interesting place that looks like any other large downtown, but with a difference: much of the population consists of monsters of various kinds. But monsters still have jobs, still go shopping, still hail cabs, still get into fights, and still have personal problems like everybody else.

  I passed a blood bar where two classic-looking Bela Lugosi-style vampires sat under a black awning, chatting away and sipping at red, frothy blood plasmaccinos. A sandwich board in front of the door read, “Special Today, double shots of B-positive.” Someone had scrawled a smiley face beneath it.

  A black-furred werewolf tightened the strings on his apron and worked outside of his little shop, setting out packages of steaks in the butcher’s display case. A tattered, half-unraveled mummy sat in a rickety canvas chair in front of a newspaper stand. Some of the newspapers were printed on papyrus in hieroglyphics, while other papers were more traditional next to a colorful display of magazines. One of the more prominent periodicals was People, and next to it was a similar magazine called Monsters. An alligator man in a business suit and tie stood at the magazine rack, thumbing through that week’s copy of Monsters.

  I love this place.

  Everybody knows the magical explanation for the Big Uneasy, when all the legendary creatures returned to the world about ten years ago: a rare planetary alignment, a full moon, spilled virgin’s blood, a cursed spell book, human clumsiness … you know, the usual. All the vampires, werewolves, ghosts, zombies, mummies, and demons caused quite an uproar for a while, but, when you get down to it, monsters just want to live a normal life like anyone else.

  I strolled along the sidewalk, smelling the smells (not all of them terrible), seeing the sights, watching the people. As a detective, I absorb details, never knowing what might become useful. Today I kept my eyes open for clues about the missing werewolf kid. I needed to start somewhere.