He looked up at me. “Shiny,” he said, still lisping. “I like shiny thingth.”
At his left elbow, in a large stone stand that might originally have been a birdbath, sat a crystal ball a foot in diameter, marked Not for Sale. The gremlin touched the surface of the crystal ball and peered into the transparent depths. “Shiny,” he said again. When he removed his finger, he found a smear on the globe’s surface, which he rubbed away before heaving a contented sigh.
“Let me tell you about my client, Mr. . . . uh?”
“Thnaathzhh.”
I had never heard such a name before. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thnaathzhh.”
The gremlin’s moist nostrils flared. “Not Thnaathzhh. Thnaathzhh!”
“Thnaathzhh,” I said again, precisely the same way he was pronouncing his name. In a huff, the gremlin tore a sheet from his receipt book and scribbled on it, Snazz.
“Oh, Snazz! That makes more sense.”
“Thnaathzhh,” the gremlin repeated, working his lips with such determination that spittle flew out. Luckily, the chicken wire blocked the trajectory, so the spittle did not make it to me and my jacket.
“Struggling with sibilants, I see? The sequence of so many esses does sometimes seem silly.”
The annoyed gremlin struggled to find a sentence that did not contain the letter S. He found a good one. “What do you want?”
“My client is a zombie named Jerry who works for the Hope and Salvation Mission. He pawned his heart and soul here, and he would like to purchase it back.”
“Already thold,” said Snazz.
“That’s what I hear.”
The gremlin continued to polish his silver. “Heavy demand on the combo packth, already thold theven thetth thith month.”
“Seven sets this month? I was hoping you could tell me who the customer was. I’d make it worth your while.” I lowered my voice. “I have some sparkly and shiny things I could pass your way.”
The gremlin’s eyes lit up. “Shiny . . .” He sounded very tempted.
He bent over to a credenza next to his stool, worked a combination lock to open the drawer, and pulled out a ledger book nearly as big as he was. He propped it on his lap, taking care to keep the contents out of my sight line. He flipped from page to page, humming, gurgling, until he found the correct entry. “Yeth, I know who bought it.”
I contemplated what sparkly or shiny objects I could use for trade. Snazz seemed like the sort of person who might even be delighted with strips of aluminum foil.
“Won’t tell you.” The gremlin slammed the ledger book shut. “Not worth it.”
“I haven’t even made an offer yet.”
“Thtill not worth it.”
Either the intractable gremlin had a well-defined sense of business ethics, or he was genuinely afraid to divulge the identity of the purchaser. Why would anyone want Jerry’s heart or soul in the first place? I tried a different tactic. “You said you’ve sold seven combo packs in the past month. All to the same customer?”
“None of your buthineth.”
“Actually, it is my business, Mr. Snazz. I’m a private detective, and this is a case.”
“Private meanth I don’t have to anther your quethtionth. Thith ith a pawnshop. Buy thomething, or go away.”
I could see that traditional negotiation would get me nowhere. If McGoo got a warrant, the pawnbroker would have to reveal the purchaser, but even though McGoo and I kept a running back-and-forth of favors, I didn’t have a legitimate legal reason to request a warrant—Jerry had pawned his heart and soul, and someone had purchased it. No crime committed.
Still, I needed information from that ledger book. Maybe, I realized, if heart-and-soul bundle packs were such a hot commodity, I could spot the avid collector if I kept an eye on Timeworn Treasures.
To be polite, I perused the objects on the shelves. On one of the high displays, I actually found a coffeepot to replace the one Sheyenne had broken when her brother Travis made his surprise visit. I didn’t even want to imagine the dire circumstances that would drive a person to pawn a used coffeepot for cash.
But when I offered to buy the coffeepot for the price marked on the tag, the pack-rat gremlin couldn’t bear to part with it. “Thank you anyway, Mr. Snazz.” I tipped my hat to him, then walked out the door.
As I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets, I found the delivery paperwork I had snagged from the golem sweatshop: the address of the warehouse where the souvenir doodads were to be shipped. Even though Bill the golem and his companions had been freed, and Irwyn Goodfellow had already put Robin to work drawing up the papers for his Adopt-a-Golem charity, I sensed there was more to the case. And I was disinclined to be thrilled with the Smile Syndicate’s expansion into the Quarter.
By now it was sunset, and since I was out anyway, I decided to snoop around the warehouse. The cases don’t solve themselves. A detective has to organize information, put the pieces together, and come up with viable answers.
But first I had to collect the pieces.
CHAPTER 13
It was a nice night for a stroll. A dank mist curled up from the sewers, a full moon rode high overhead, bats flitted about in charming mating dances. The Quarter’s business district was hopping with nightclubs, blood bars, garment shops, red-light massage parlors, and restaurants that catered to specific clientele. I was surprised at how many wide-eyed humans strolled along, taking in the sights, anxious but thrilled. Was this the new trend in date nights?
In one shop, a big sign in the window had a little smiley face drawn beneath it: OPENING SOON. The unlit neon sign said KREEPSAKES, FINE GIFTS AND SOUVENIRS. The sign maker had even managed to include a TM after the logo. Another annoying chain brought to you by the Smile Syndicate. I cringed to imagine what they would do with the Goblin Tavern once they “improved it for a wider audience.” Further evidence that the Big Uneasy wasn’t the only civilization-threatening apocalypse people should have been worried about.
Okay, the Unnatural Quarter had never been a nice place, but I didn’t see this as an improvement. What was next? Would the Greenlawn Cemetery or Little Transylvania search for a corporate sponsor like those castrated sports amphitheaters now called Hemorrhoid Cream Park or Disposable Douche Field? I shuddered at the thought.
Leaving the bustle and groan of downtown, I made my way to the warehouse where the golem-made souvenirs were stored, a blocky building with a loading dock. Bright security lights flooded the area, shoving away the comfortable gloom. The cracked parking lot sported a fringe of weeds that struggled up through the asphalt while avoiding the actual flower bed area around the building. Could be they used a landscaping-curse service that kept the weeds away. Dim after-hours lights shone through the barred windows; otherwise the warehouse seemed empty.
A long string of incomprehensible zombie graffiti marred the side of the blank wall. You could always tell zombie graffiti because the spray paint started out with complex symbols, then degenerated into gibberish. When the undead tagger lost track of his thoughts, the letters would peter out into drooping, halfhearted squiggles.
I peered inside the nearest window and could see stacked crates of souvenirs marked as T-Shirts, Knick-Knacks, Ashtrays, Place Mats, Novelty Snacks. One entire row held plastic-wrapped packages labeled Bobbleheads. McGoo thought the unnatural bobbleheads were hilarious, zombie and skeleton dolls whose heads popped completely off if you bumped them too hard.
Hearing a car, I turned away from the barred window to see a white pickup truck with an amber flashing light on top. An old human security guard climbed out, holding a big .38 in both hands, which he pointed straight at me, trying to aim for the head. His arms trembled. “What are you doing there? Go find some other alley to curl up in. You can’t sleep here.”
I was offended. “I’m not homeless. I’ve got a good job.”
“Then why is your jacket all patched up like that?”
I brushed at the black threads that repaired the bullet holes. “I’ve b
een told it adds character.”
His pistol kept wavering, and I supposed that if he fired enough bullets, he might actually hit me by sketching out a wide target circle. “Can’t you see the signs—No Trespassing?”
Actually, I hadn’t seen any signs. I looked around. “Where?”
The old security guard muttered a curse under his breath. “Damn, I meant to put those up.” Then he raised the gun again. “Still, there’s no trespassing. Were you vandalizing the place?”
“No, just window-shopping. I meant no harm.” I kept both hands up. Security guards had every reason to be jittery in the Unnatural Quarter; at least the Smile Syndicate didn’t require him to wear a red shirt as part of his uniform. I lowered my voice. “You sure you’re getting paid enough for this?”
The old man’s voice was a hoarse squawk. “A job’s a job—and I get hazard pay.”
“And health benefits?”
“Funeral benefits, too.” He waved the gun. “Now, move along.”
I moved slowly. This guy had an itchy trigger finger, though he didn’t appear to have good aim. “I won’t cause you any grief. I’m a private investigator. Is this warehouse owned by the Smile Syndicate?”
“Says so right on the door, and that’s who signs my paychecks.”
“That’s all I wanted to verify.”
He scrutinized the business card I offered him, then his shoulders slumped in relief. “Sorry to be so jumpy.”
“No harm in caution.”
Before I left, I offered to help the old guard, whose name was Phil, tack up the No Trespassing signs in prominent places around the warehouse.
The next morning, after picking up notes on other inquiries to make during normal human business hours, I left the Quarter and found the glass-and-steel headquarters of the Smile Syndicate. Since these people were buying my town from the sewers on up, I wanted to know more about them.
The Smile HQ receptionist, Angela Drake according to her nameplate, gave me a look of contempt as I presented myself and asked to see Missy Goodfellow.
“Do you have an appointment?” Angela said.
“Do I need an appointment? Consider me a goodwill ambassador from the Unnatural Quarter, since the Smile Syndicate is expanding into so many local businesses.”
Again, Angela was not impressed. “Goodwill ambassadors don’t usually come from the low-rent mortician’s district.”
“We are talking about the Unnatural Quarter,” I pointed out, then added, feeling a little defensive, “and this is a damned good embalming job.”
Angela was dour, with gray circles under her big brown eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, and it seemed as if she wore anorexia as a badge of honor. I saw tattoos on her neck clumsily covered with thick makeup; her earlobes and nostrils showed the dimples of half-healed piercings. Her nails were painted a bright pink, and her hair was a determinedly average mouse brown, cut short (apparently with hedge trimmers).
I identified the type: Angela had probably been a sour-tempered second-wave Goth with black nails, black hair, and a shitty attitude—not as any kind of personal statement, but because her friends did it. After the Big Uneasy and the mainstreaming of the Unnatural Quarter, however, Goth trappings had become perfectly normal, so she gave up the affectations, hid the remnants in the workplace, and waited for some other popular trend that she could copy.
Or maybe I was imagining it all.
I tried a different tactic. “We’re working with Missy Goodfellow’s brother, Irwyn, on another matter. I met him the other night at a MLDW Society charity banquet, when he received the Humanitarian of the Year award.”
From behind me, a snippy voice said, “Knowing Goody-Two-Shoes doesn’t gain you any clout with me.”
Missy Goodfellow was tall and slender, dressed in a pristine white pantsuit. Her hair had been dyed a bright yellow, the goldenrod color of a smiley-face sticker. She was pretty in a cold-bitch way, and her expression had the effect of tightening sphincters all around.
She continued, “The Smile Syndicate is a for-profit business run by professionals, not some Easter Bunny operation trying to raise the ghost of Mother Teresa.”
I’d never heard the Easter Bunny and Mother Teresa invoked in the same sentence before.
I manufactured a smile. “I found your brother to be a pleasant and dedicated man. Doesn’t his good work bring respect to your family?”
“Irwyn is the laughingstock of our family, and our father is probably rolling over in his grave,” Missy said, then muttered, “Good thing we added the extra seals and locks to the crypt. We’ve cut Irwyn off completely from Syndicate day-to-day operations. He can waste his share of the money however he likes, so long as he has no connection with the company.” She regarded me with a haughty frown. “I would ask how I could help you, but helping is not on the agenda today, Mr. . . . ?”
“Dan Chambeaux,” Angela answered for me.
I extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Goodfellow.”
“The pleasure is all yours.” She made no move to take my hand.
I soldiered on. “Recently I helped liberate a hundred illegal golems who were manufacturing souvenirs for the Smile Syndicate. I wondered if you had any comment on that?”
Her expression remained stony beneath her bright yellow mop of hair. “The Smile Syndicate is about to open a line of gift shops, and we obtain product from numerous vendors. That inventory comes from private contractors, and we have no idea where or how the items are made.” Missy rattled off the explanation so rapidly and cleanly that she must have rehearsed it in front of a mirror.
“And you’re not at least surprised to hear it?” I asked. “Not sympathetic to the plight of downtrodden golems?”
She found a speck of lint on her white blazer, plucked it off, and held it between two fingers. She extended her hand toward Angela, who scrambled from behind the desk, relieved her boss of the offending lint, and deposited it in a trash can beside her desk.
Missy turned back to me. “Would you rather we bought our souvenir items from child-labor organizations in Third World countries?”
“Are those the only two options?” I asked.
“Mr. Chambeaux, the Smile Syndicate sees great commercial potential in the Unnatural Quarter. We have followed all appropriate laws and ordinances, and we hope to be good neighbors as well as equal-opportunity employers to our monster friends. Angela, please give Mr. Chambeaux a coupon for a free appetizer at the Goblin Tavern, valid once we reopen it as a family-friendly establishment.”
As Angela rummaged in the top drawer of her desk, I said, “Thanks, but no thanks. The place just won’t be the same. You’re already letting our favorite human bartender go.”
“Marketing feels that a monster bartender will better fit the needs of the customers,” Missy said. I doubted she knew that Ilgar the original goblin owner had already tried that with a succession of unnaturals, but Francine was the only bartender who had lasted more than a week.
But I’d had enough fun for today. I had accomplished my intent: I’d met Missy Goodfellow, sized her up, seen the place. I doubted the company would make any sloppy legal mistakes, but sooner or later I was sure one of my cases would point back to them.
As I left Smile HQ, Angela called after me in a chilly voice, “I hope your day is a sunny one.”
CHAPTER 14
Sheyenne’s brother graced us with another visit. My excitement was immeasurable because devices had not yet been invented to detect such minute amounts.
Travis had found lodgings, or at least found somebody to let him use a shower; he was freshly washed, his hair still wet and slicked back, his cheeks smooth from a close shave. Even I could smell the liberal amount of cologne he had applied. Robin, who did not have a deadened sense of smell like mine, wrinkled her nose, but tried to be pleasant.
Travis had brought doughnuts as a gesture of goodwill, but Sheyenne wasn’t impressed. “I’d rather you paid back the money you stole from me. What am I going to d
o with doughnuts? I’m a ghost.”
He turned to Robin and me, grinning. “I thought maybe your office mates would enjoy them.”
“I can’t taste much anymore,” I said.
“Too much fat and processed sugar,” Robin said.
Travis took a jelly doughnut for himself and enjoyed the treat, making a powdery mess everywhere.
Sheyenne busied herself brewing a fresh pot of coffee, using a new urn that Robin had picked up from a normal thrift store, since my negotiations with the gremlin pawnbroker had been unsuccessful.
“Remember when we used to go out for Halloween, sis?” Travis was good at that charming-and-disarming thing, but Sheyenne had obviously had a lifetime of seeing it all before. “How about when you were in eighth grade, the last year we went trick-or-treating together? I dressed up as a hobo, rubbed coffee grounds all over my face, took some old clothes, and you . . . you were an Arabian princess, right?”
“That year I was a witch,” she said. The coffee started brewing. Her voice was wistful. “Pointy hat and all, and a magic wand with a star on the end.” She caught herself and her voice grew hard again. “We were just kids, of course. So innocent. In fact, the whole world was innocent.” As if against her better judgment, Sheyenne gave a wan smile and offered a memory of her own. “Remember when you were about to get beaten up in the fifth grade?”
Travis frowned. “I was always getting beaten up in fifth grade.”
“Not when I was around. I took care of it, and I took care of you. I remember two bullies said you had stolen someone’s lunch money, and they threatened to beat it out of you, said they would shake you upside down until the money fell out of your underwear.”
“Yeah,” Travis said, “then you came in like hell on wheels and saved my ass.”
“I was so mad at them for accusing my brother of stealing!” Now she stopped, and a contemplative expression crossed her face. “Did you take that kid’s lunch money?”
Unnatural Acts Page 8
