Blood Lite

by Kevin J. Anderson

  "I will be right alongside you, Harry," he replies. "True, but you are still a relative newcomer to the zombie trade, and what if you suddenly decide you don't like it? If I am to present a moldering corpse to the lady of your dreams, I at least should be sure I have the right lady. So what is she wearing?"

  "I don't know," says Dugan. "I am so enraptured by her face, I never notice."

  "Now I know for sure he's a zombie," says Benny. "All right," I say, trying to hide my annoyance. "What color is her hair?"

  "That's kind of difficult to say."

  "How hard can it be?" I persist. "It is blonde, brunette, or possibly red."

  "Well, it wriggles and hisses a lot, and it keeps changing colors under the lights," answers Dugan. "Sometimes it is red and sometimes it is green. I do not think it is ever blonde, but I could be wrong."

  "Are you saying she is a Medusa?" I ask. "No, I am not saying any such a thing," answers Dugan. "For one thing, her hair is friendly."

  "How can hair be friendly?" asks Gently Gently. "It chats with me, and it sings 'Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall' while she is drinking the vodka."

  "You talk to her hair?" says Benny disbelievingly.

  "No," answers Dugan.

  "Then you just made that up?" says Benny.

  "I made nothing up," says Dugan sharply. "Her hair chats with me, just like I say. But I do not talk to it, because I am shy and tongue-tied in her presence."

  "So she has extra eyes and teeth, and comes equipped with wings and a cold-blooded hairdo," I say. "I hope you will not take it askance, Dugan, but I think I am going to bring a little protection along."

  "A gun?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "I have a feeling that a hail of bullets would just annoy her," I say. "No, I will take Big-Hearted Milton."

  "I do not see him," says Dugan, looking around. "That is because you are not looking in his office," I say. "I will go and fetch him."

  And with that, I walk to the men's room and enter it, and there is Big-Hearted Milton, my personal mage, sitting in his usual spot on the tile floor, surrounded by five black candles, which have all burned down to nubs.

  "Hi, Harry," he says. "Be with you in a minute." He mutters a spell that has very little melody and even fewer vowels. As he says the last word of it, all five candles go out. "That'll show her," he says with a satisfied smile. "What will show who?"

  "Mitzi McSweeney," says Milton. "I take her to dinner last night, and just because I play a little itsy-bitsy spider on her thigh under the table she throws her soup in my face and walks out." He glowers furiously. "And I do not even like chicken gumbo."

  "What have you done to the poor girl?" I ask. "When she steps on the scale this morning, vain creature that she is, she will find out that she is ten pounds heavier than last night, and nothing will take the weight off except an apologetic phone call to me."

  I decide not to point out that Mitzi is bordering on anorexic anyway and an extra ten pounds will fill her out nicely. I especially decide not to mention that she can probably pack more of a wallop at 115 pounds than at 105.

  "Okay, Milton," I say, "if you are done with your just and terrible vengeance, I have need of your services."

  "I am the best there is at my trade," he says. "I put Morris the Mage in the shade. Spellsinger Sol cannot hold a candle to me. But I tell you up front, Harry, that even I cannot bring Flyaway home a winner at Saratoga tomorrow. I could put a saddle on you and you could spot him eight lengths and still beat him by daylight."

  "That is not the particular service I need," I say. "It seems that Dead End Dugan has fallen in love, and has given his lady friend the three large that he picked up for me from Longshot Lamont. It is my intention to retrieve it."

  "And you need my help taking your money back from a girl?" laughs Milton.

  "Anything is possible," I say.

  "Oh well, I have not been out of my office since I showed up to wash the soup off my face last night," he says. "A little fresh air will do me good. And getting your money back should be like taking candy from a baby."

  I resist the urge to ask him a baby what, and a moment later we emerge from the men's room into the bar, and pick up Dead End Dugan, Benny Fifth Street, and Gently Gently Dawkins, and we are about to walk out the door when Milton asks Dugan what the name of the lady we are about to visit might be.

  "Anna," he says.

  "And her last name is Conda, right?" says Milton, laughing at his own joke,

  "How did you know?" asks Dugan.

  Creepy Conrad's Curiosity Shop is easy to find. You just see where all the terrified women and children are running away from, and follow the screaming to its source. On the day we go there, Conrad is having a sale on shrunken heads, but these differ from every other shrunken head I have ever seen in that they are still alive and are attached to nonshrunken bodies. They spend most of their time eating, because their mouths are so small and their bodies are so big.

  Because he is on the outskirts of an Italian neighborhood, Conrad also sells a lot of full-size wooden crosses, with or without hammers and nails. His vinyl record section—he has not yet made the jump to CDs—sells mood music, providing that your mood is either morbid or panic-stricken. He is also having a special on surplus dialysis machines, and three pale, lean gentlemen, each wearing a velvet cape, are examining them.

  The rest of the merchandise is really esoteric, especially the part that is still alive, but we have not come to enjoy a pleasant afternoon browsing through Conrad's stock. We have come for Anna Conda and my three thousand dollars, but as I look around there is no morsel of femininity to be seen, nor is there anyone who matches Anna's description.

  Finally Creepy Conrad emerges from a back room. He is missing one eye, and his left cheekbone protrudes through the skin, and those few teeth he still possesses are filed and discolored, and the nails on his hands are about an inch long and curve like those of a leopard, but aside from that he looks every bit as normal as Dead End Dugan, which is perhaps not really an apt comparison as Dugan still possesses his hair.

  "Well, curse my soul if it isn't Harry the Book and his retainers," says Conrad. "What may I do for you fine gentlemen today? Could I perhaps interest the illustrious Mr. Dugan in a coffin?"

  "You couldn't interest me no matter where you were," says Dugan. "We have come to see the delectable Anna Conda."

  "Well, there is an Anna Conda on the premises," answers Conrad. "But a delectable one? Possibly you want Madame Bonne Ami's House of Exotic Comforts for the Recently Departed. They might have one."

  "Watch your step, sir," says Dugan, drawing himself up to his full height. "You are speaking of the woman I love."

  "Now, why would the woman you love be working for Madame Bonne Ami?" muses Conrad.

  "Keep a civil tongue in your head," says Dugan ominously.

  "I already have one," says Conrad, sticking his tongue out at us. "It belonged to a little old lady who only used it in church on Sundays."

  "Where is she?" demands Dugan.

  "The little old lady?" says Conrad. "She is long gone."

  "Where is Anna Conda?" says Dugan.

  "I heard you mention my name," says a voice that sounds kind of like a wirehaired terrier being combed against the grain, and a moment later Anna Conda steps out from one of the back rooms.

  She is everything Dugan says she is, but Dugan does not say the half of it. He never mentions the cold reptilian eyes, the pointed ears, the reticulated greenish skin, or the four-inch dewclaws on each of her ankles. She offers us the kind of smile healthy cats offer to three-legged mice, and I can see that her tongue is black and forked.

  "Hello, Mr. Dugan," she says, and her voice does not improve with proximity. "How nice to see you again."

  "You are even more beautiful than before," replies Dugan, and Benny shoots me a look that says, My God, what does she look like earlier in the day?

  "Who are your friends?" asks Anna.

  "This is Harry the Bo
ok, my sometimes employer," says Dugan before I can whisper to him to make up a name, "and these are Benny Fifth Street, Gently Gently Dawkins, and Big-Hearted Milton."

  "And what are you gentlemen here for?" she asks.

  "It is Harry's fault," Dugan blurts out, so I figure I had better explain the situation.

  "It would appear that Dugan, with the best will in the world, gives you a little keepsake that is not his to give," I say.

  "I am just as happy to accept it from you, Harry," she says with a smile that makes me want to turn and race for the door and not stop running until I have reached Des Moines or Des Plaines or some other distant municipality beginning with "Des."

  "I will handle this, Harry," says Milton, stepping forward. "Miss Conda, charming and beautiful as you are, I am afraid I must insist that you return the three large to Harry, though you can keep a couple of Ben Franklins for your trouble."

  "It was given to me in all earnestness, and I am not inclined to give it back," she says, and I notice that blue vapor is starting to pour out of her nose, which means that either she is losing her temper or perhaps her spleen has spontaneously combusted, and I will give heavy odds on the former.

  "Then I am afraid I shall have to resort to stringent means of recovering it," says Milton.

  "You do that," says Anna.

  "Very well," says Milton. "Do not say that you weren't warned."

  And with that, Milton begins chanting something in a forgotten language, and making gestures in the air, and otherwise conjuring up all of the black arts at his command, and finally he ends it with a cry of "presto!"—and suddenly there are only four of us facing Anna Conda, and Big-Hearted Milton is nowhere to be seen.

  "Where did he go?" asks Gently Gently.

  "Beats me," I say.

  "Get me the hell out of here!" says Milton's voice.

  I look around, but there is no sign of him.

  "Get you out of where?" I ask.

  "This damned dimension that she hurls me into," says Milton's voice. "And hurry! It is cold and there is something very big sniffing at me and drooling on my face."

  "I do not know how to magic you back," I say. "After all, you are the mage."

  "Reach out and grab my hand, of course," says Milton.

  "Reach where}" I say.

  "Out!" yells Milton.

  I reach my hand out, and sure enough a pudgy invisible hand takes hold of it. I give it a pull, and suddenly there is a pop! and then Milton is standing next to me, looking both relieved and annoyed.

  He stares at Anna Conda with a combination of fear and awe. "Who does your protection?" he asks. "Whoever it is, he's goodl"

  "I need no protector," answers Anna.

  "I can believe it," says Benny fervently.

  "Enough of this chitchat," I say. "I still want my money."

  Dugan walks over and stands next to Anna. "Enough!" he says. "I will not stand idly by and let you pester the love of my life."

  "Actually, she is more the love of your death," Gently Gently points out.

  "Whatever she is," I say, "I am not inclined to supply her with a dowry one hour after collecting it from Long-shot Lamont." I turn to her. "I hope you and Dugan will be very happy, and can find a hotel that caters to both of whatever you are, and I will even pop for a flimsy nightgown if you are going to tie the knot, but I still want my three large."

  "And if I do not agree to part with it, will you put a hit out on Dead End Dugan?" she asks with a cold reptilian smile, and I have to admit that the idea of putting out a hit on a dead man can best be called counterproductive.

  "Milton," I say, "have you got any other tricks up your sleeve?"

  "He has nothing up his sleeve except his arm," says Anna. "And if he tries anything, he will make me lose my temper. You will not be happy if I should lose my temper. The last time I lose it they blame what happens on Hurricane Katrina, and the time before that they invent Hurricane Andrew."

  "Did you do Chernobyl, too?" asks Benny curiously. "No," she says. "That was my kid sister."

  "I am sure I will love her, too," says Dugan. No sooner do the words leave his mouth than Anna gets all red in the face and lets out a shriek. All the windows break, my fillings fall out of my teeth, a bus half a block away veers and plows into a fire hydrant, and every dog with a mile begins howling.

  "I am sorry," says Anna a moment later. "I have a jealous and passionate nature."

  "To say nothing of 'cataclysmic' and 'catastrophic' and a lot of other words that begin with 'cat,'" I agree.

  "I see your friend is sprawled out on the floor," she says, indicating Gently Gently. "I hope I did not do him irreparable damage."

  "If he can survive eighty-seven million calories," I say as Benny and I heave him to his feet, "he can survive a jealous scream."

  "Where am I?" mumbles Gently Gently. "Are we at war? What day is it? Wait! I have it! Flyaway won and the world came to an end!"

  "You'll be all right," I say. "Just stand there and try not to think."

  "That should be very easy for him," says Benny. "Not thinking is one of the things Gently Gently does best."

  Anna Conda turns to Dugan. "I am sorry I have upset your friends so much. I cherish our relationship, and to prove it I will return Harry the Book's money."

  "While those are words I have been longing to hear," answers Dugan, "the part about cherishing our relationship, not the part about Harry's money, I am mildly surprised as our total time spent in each other's company has been only ten minutes, give or take."

  "That is about seven minutes longer than most of my relationships last," says Anna. "I will be back with the money in a moment."

  She goes into one of the back rooms, and Benny walks over to Dugan.

  "I would be very careful with this girl," he says confidentially. "For example, when she suggests you go out for a bite, I will give plenty of eight-to-five that she is not talking about patronizing a restaurant."

  Anna comes out and hands me a bag containing the three thousand dollars. "It is all there," she says. "You can count it, if you wish."

  "That is not necessary," I tell her. "Dugan would never cheat me, and if you would I prefer not to know about it, because then I will not have to do anything about it."

  She gives me another of those smiles that are more frightening that a Gorgon's grimace. "You are wise beyond your years, Harry the Book."

  "And you are formidable beyond yours, Anna Conda," I say, bowing low, but not so low that I can't jump back if she changes her mind and reaches for the money, or maybe my neck.

  As we are leaving, Benny whispers to me: "I know love is blind, but until this minute I do not realize he is on life support."

  And that is the story of Dead End Dugan's very special girl. I suppose their relationship was doomed from the start. I know that opposites attract, but there is nothing in the rule book about anyone quite as opposite as Dugan and Anna. They decide to go away for a weekend in the mountains. Dugan never mentions exactly what happens, except that he makes a mistake by remarking that the tour bus driver is very pretty, but I am told that when the next edition of Rand McNally comes out Pikes Peak will now be Pikes Valley.

  "I have learned a valuable lesson, Harry," Dugan tells me when it is all over. "From now on, I will stick to my own kind."

  And so he does. The next afternoon I am sitting in the third booth at Joey Chicago's, reading the Form, and the smell of rotting flesh is twice as strong as ever. I look up and there is Dugan and his new girlfriend, sidling up to the bar.

  "What can I get you and this beautiful young lady?" asks Joey Chicago, managing to string together three mis-statements in just three words.

  "What will it be, my dear?" says Dugan.

  "It's been so many decades since I've drunk anything at all, I can't remember," says his companion. "Why don't we let the bartender decide?"

  "I've got just the thing," says Joey Chicago, pulling out a pair of tall glasses and little paper umbrellas.

 
"And what is that?" asks Dugan.

  "A pair of Zombies," says Joey Chicago.

  Love Seat Solitaire

  D. L. Snell

  "Dude," Jess said, pushing up his glasses, "the kitchen table's floating again."

  Sam looked up from the Street Fighter round he and Dave were playing on the love seat, Ken versus Chun-Li. "Fuck."

  "Suuuure," Dave said, using the distraction to beat Ken into a corner with Chun-Li's unbeatable lightning kick. "Let me guess: the ghost is playing poker. And 'gullible' isn't in the dictionary."

  "Casper doesn't play poker," Sam said. "He plays solitaire."

  "And fifty-two card pickup," Jess added.

  "Fucking ghost."

  "And I'm sure he does card tricks, too," Dave said. He won the round with Chun-Li and looked up. "So why'd the old man kill himself anyway?"

  Sam threw down his controller. "He didn't. He drowned in the crapper."

  "How the hell did he—?"

  "Haven't you ever been drunk?"

  Dave held up his soda can. "I only drink Coke," he said, smiling. He took a swig.

  Sam stood up from the love seat and let Jess sit down to play.

  "Scoot over, newbie," Jess told Dave. "You're in my ass-kicking zone." Dave moved to the other cushion, over far enough so his hairy leg wouldn't brush Jess's—they were both wearing shorts—but Jess sat down and rubbed their thighs together, making silly sounds like one of the Three Stooges.

  "Stop it!" Dave said, smashing himself against the arm of the love seat. "I feel like a fag on this thing."

  Sam picked up his pizza plate and beer mug from the milk-crate end table. "Well, it was free and I was poor," he said. "And you are a fag."

  "Where are you going?" Dave asked.

  "To take care of the ghost."

  "Want me to come with you?"

  "Why?"

  "To protect you. And to see this spook you've been talking so much about."

  "Be my guest."

  Dave furrowed his brow as if considering it, but finally shook his head. "Nah. I'll take your word for it."