“Compensation?” Mavis said. “Well . . . of course. But these novels are merely inspired by the work of Mr. Chambeaux and Ms. Deyer.”
“And without that inspiration you wouldn’t have much of a book series.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
Sheyenne looked over at me with an appreciative smile. “I’m not suggesting a cut of the royalties, because your books could well generate additional business for us. . . . I was thinking of your own special skills. What if you were to perform a regular restorative spell on Dan? Once a month or so, just to freshen him up, keep him in good shape. And emergency fixes, as needed.”
I rolled my shoulders, bent my reattached arm. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
“Restorative spells are rather difficult, and they require a great deal of preparation. They take a lot out of us.” Mavis looked down at her sister, who snorted a lengthy sentence. “Oh, but if we need to do an emergency fix, I suppose that means something exciting must have happened.” She ran her eyes up and down my form. “We would like to keep Mr. Chambeaux fully functional.”
“If I stay fit and mobile, then I can keep working on new cases,” I pointed out.
“Or, as we call them, sequels,” Mavis mused. “Very well, it’s a deal. If you can find time for us, and our ghostwriter, in your schedule, then we’ll agree to perform regular restorative spells. Just to keep you limber and intact.”
“All right, but work comes first,” I said. “The cases don’t solve themselves.”
Alma snorted, and her sister jotted down notes. “Ooh, that’s a good line.”
CHAPTER 20
The Pattersons were a cute couple, a nice couple. They had been married for six years and were still very much in love; I could tell by the way they treated each other—not sappy public displays of affection you’d see from a gushing new couple, but with an obvious sense of partnership. They moved together, finished each other’s sentences, were very much on the same page.
As they came into the Chambeaux & Deyer offices after scheduling a first-available appointment (Sheyenne fit them in at the end of the day), I could see they were upset and nervous. My heart went out to them immediately—mixed couples never had an easy time of it.
Walter Patterson was a vampire, and his wife Judy was a werewolf, one of the full-time hairy-faced lycanthropes.
“I’m fed up with this crap!” Walter said. “It’s not right, and I’m sick of turning the other cheek.”
Judy leaned forward, nuzzling his pale cheek in an attempt to calm her husband. “We were told that Ms. Deyer might be able to help us. We don’t have a lot of money, but we thought the nature of our problem would interest you.”
Robin said, “Your message said something about discrimination?” She led them to the conference room, and I tagged along. The Pattersons seemed eager to tell their story to as many people as possible. I had other plans—but not until much later that night.
Robin, with her yellow legal pad, began to compile a case file. Walter Patterson had been a plumber before he was turned into a vampire, and Judy worked in an insurance office. She’d been putting in a few hours of overtime on the wrong full-moon night and had gotten scratched by a drunk werewolf staggering out of the Goblin Tavern (the bartender before Francine didn’t always know when to cut his customers off). The two met as unnaturals, fell in love, got married. The Pattersons were strictly middle class, but they worked hard, scrimped and saved, and chased after their own version of the American Dream.
“It took us four years to put together a down payment,” Walter said. “I even worked day shifts, without hazard pay. But we finally set enough aside, got ourselves a real estate agent, and decided to buy a home of our own.”
“A nice place with white siding, black shingles on the roof, a little yard,” Judy said. “Maybe a place for kids to play.” She sounded wistful.
“We love to throw Halloween parties,” Walter added. “We had it all planned out. At first, our real estate agent tried to interest us in crypts or haunted houses, but we wanted a normal home, someplace outside the Quarter. I don’t think Mr. Allan knows the suburban market very well.”
I had to give the troll real estate agent points for ambition, if nothing else. “Did he do something wrong? Do you need to file a complaint with the Real Estate Board?”
“Oh, no! Mr. Allan is very earnest, and he has our best interests at heart. It’s . . . it’s . . .” Judy burst into tears.
“It’s the other people.” Anger grew in Walter’s voice again. “We picked out our dream house, a rancher at the end of a cul-de-sac. Good school district, not much traffic, even a bike path nearby. But the neighbors protested. They don’t want our kind there. Apparently, a mixed-race couple simply isn’t welcome in the suburbs.”
“Or any unnatural couple,” Robin said.
Walter’s hand clenched. His forearm muscles were well developed, no doubt from his years as a plumber. Tears ran down the fur on Judy Patterson’s face, and she wiped them furiously away with a clawed hand. “Don’t you think it’s hard enough for a vampire and a werewolf to overcome the difficulties? We feel like Romeo and Juliet sometimes.” She heaved a growling breath and shuddered.
Walter said, “We even went to see that play at the Shakespeare in the Dark performance a month ago. I didn’t know it had such a sad ending! Not much of a crowd pleaser.”
“He hasn’t even seen West Side Story,” Judy said in a quiet voice.
“Next time I see Shakespeare’s ghost, I’ll pass along your complaint,” I said.
“What exactly have your neighbors done to harass you?” Robin pressed, getting back to business.
“Protests, picket signs, intimidation. They made it very plain they intend to run us out of the neighborhood,” Walter said.
“If we ever close the mortgage,” Judy added. “Mr. Allan says he’s never seen anything like it in all his years as a real estate agent. Simple permits were denied. Our loan application was ‘lost’—repeatedly. Our first two mortgages were turned down, even though we have excellent credit and clearly qualify according to their guidelines.”
The vampire was working himself up and flashed his fangs as he raised his voice. “It’s housing discrimination, and I know that Senator Balfour is behind it. His people have latched onto our case, and they’re all brave and snooty now that it looks like he’ll push through his Unnatural Acts Act.”
Judy reached out a furred hand to touch her husband’s pallid, cadaverous one. She extended her black claws and traced them along the back of his clenched fist. “We’re just everyday people. We’re good citizens. We pay our taxes. We just want the same rights as everyone else.”
Robin’s dark eyes were flashing, and I could sense her anger rising as well. “This is appalling—and the case is clear. I am offended on your behalf. We’ll take care of this garbage. They’re not going to get away with it.”
Though she was black, Robin hadn’t been battered by such blatant discrimination. Her parents owned a nice house in the suburbs and lived a normal upper-middle-class life. Even so, she had always been passionate about civil rights and helping anyone less fortunate. When she went into the legal profession and saw the prejudice and unequal treatment that monsters faced after the Big Uneasy, she’d found her calling in life. I think her parents would have preferred her to have a career in patent law or become a wealthy corporate attorney, but there was no swaying Robin once she set her heart on something. I knew that full well.
“Does that mean you’ll take our case?” Judy Patterson asked.
“With pleasure,” Robin said. “I’ll need copies of your paperwork, your financial records, the forms you filed, the denials you received. There are federal laws against housing discrimination. We have a potential suit against the homeowners’ association and also against the lenders for violating the Equal Housing Protection Act. If everything is as you say, it’s a clear-cut case, and I’ll file several discrimination suits on your behalf by tomorrow morni
ng. I’ll stay up all night if I have to.”
CHAPTER 21
Even though the Goblin Tavern wasn’t the same under the new management, McGoo and I kept meeting there, at least for the time being. We were creatures of habit.
When I arrived, McGoo was waiting for me on his regular stool, already well on the way to finishing his first beer. He must have had a rough day, too—as usual. I glanced at my watch—only 7:10. He saw me, raised his mug. “I got a head start, Shamble.”
“I can see that, but I’ll catch up.” I worked my way onto the stool next to his, but something wasn’t right. I sniffed, realized that someone had cleaned the bar surface and stools with lemon wax. Francine never did that. When I raised my hand to call out for the usual, I stopped myself, remembering that our favorite bartender was no longer there. Instead, I saw a portly man in a tweed business suit, so cheery that his demeanor practically screamed, “My doctor upped the dosage of my antidepressants, and I’m fine now!” He came over, exuding friendliness.
“Welcome, welcome to the new Goblin Tavern! I hope your day is a sunny one.” He had a ready handshake, whether I wanted one or not. I just wanted a beer. “My name is Stu—I’m the new manager here. Still reviewing applications for a new bartender.”
Five seats down the bar, three gaunt and decaying zombies sat hunched with their elbows on the bar, their heads sunk down into their chests. One of them said in a gurgling voice, “Are you a human, Stu?” When the new manager happily nodded, the zombie continued, “Mmm, I like human stew.” The bartender kept the smile fixed on his face, so as not to offend the customers.
“Could I get a beer, please?” I said.
“Certainly, sir.” Stu stood at the tap and rattled off the selections, which had increased, mostly light and foreign beers. Francine had never asked what type of beer I liked. I picked one. Stu delivered the mug and said, “If there’s any way I can make your visit more enjoyable, please let me know.”
I held the beer in my stiff hands and felt a sadness come over me. “You could hire Francine back. That would be a good start.”
I meant it as a quick snide comment, but McGoo piped up. “For once, I agree one hundred percent with Shamble.” Several of the other monster patrons also called out their support for my suggestion.
Stu was flustered, and I think we hurt his feelings; he was trying so hard. “I’ll, uh, forward your feedback, but that decision was made by Smile Syndicate management, high above my pay grade. Until we get a genuine monster replacement, you’ll just have to satisfy yourselves with me.”
Down the bar, the decrepit zombies raked sharp fingernails along the wooden surface and gnashed their jaws together. “We’ll take what’s offered,” one said. Stu scuttled over to the cash register and kept himself busy as far from the zombies as possible.
McGoo glanced at them, leaned closer to me. “What do you call a zombie with no brains?” He didn’t wait for me to guess. “Hungry!”
Remembering my promise to him the previous night, I laughed politely.
He and I talked about our days, traded ideas and information about various cases. “I bumped into Maximilian Grubb yesterday,” I told McGoo. “Did you know he’s managing a storage unit complex now?”
McGoo finished his beer and ordered another one. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was selling encyclopedias door-to-door.”
“Encyclopedias? Nobody uses physical encyclopedias anymore.”
He shrugged. “Maximus Max doesn’t seem to be ahead of the curve.”
I heard a chorus of cheers and catcalls from the other side of the room, where a group of vampires was playing darts. Ilgar, the previous owner of the Goblin Tavern, once had two pool tables there, but after an unfortunate accident involving a broken wooden cue stick and a vampire’s chest, he had removed the pool tables out of consideration for his customers. Now the vampires were throwing darts with great enthusiasm, if little accuracy, at a new board onto which they had pasted a photo of Senator Rupert Balfour’s dour face. Some of the darts struck in the general vicinity of the bull’s-eye, while others fell far short, several feet below the senator’s head. Since that would have been the approximate location of his crotch, the vampires considered it a score nevertheless.
I realized I hadn’t been listening to what McGoo was saying, then realized that he wasn’t interested in the conversation either. Both of us kept looking around the tavern, saw how it had been cleaned and redecorated, but not improved in any way. The real cobwebs had been cleared, to be replaced by kitschy strings and plastic spiders—as if real unnaturals, or anyone with eyes and a brain for that matter, couldn’t tell the difference. Framed photos of Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, Lon Chaney (both Senior and Junior), and the great Tor Johnson had been mounted on the walls next to Peter Cushing as Van Helsing (someone had already drawn a mustache on his face) and Christopher Lee as Dracula, in addition to the Toxic Avenger (as himself). People were supposed to believe that the autographs were real.
As the night wore on, the clientele increased, mostly unnaturals coming into the Tavern out of habit, as well as a group of wide-eyed tourists. I finished two beers, but didn’t taste either one. McGoo ordered a third, not because my conversation was so scintillating, but because he didn’t have any incentive to move. He was off duty and had to go home, which was neither convenient nor appealing since he lived outside the Quarter.
Even though he spent most of his day here, McGoo kept a small apartment where “normal people” lived, and clung to it as a matter of pride, although he wasted a lot of time commuting. I’d once asked him, “Why don’t you just find an apartment here?”
“No nice places.”
“My flat upstairs from our office is nice.”
“No, it’s not. When’s the last time you actually saw your place?”
“Well, the flat itself is nice—I’m just a bad housekeeper.”
“No, the bad housekeeping just hides the fact that the place is a dump. Besides, you moved into the Quarter and look what happened to you.”
“My address didn’t have anything to do with some creep shooting me in the back of the head.”
“Everything’s a factor.”
He had a long ride home, and I didn’t want to stay in the Tavern any longer, thanks to some unofficial, and more than slightly illegal, business of my own that I had to take care of.
He and I swung off our stools at the same time. “Better get going.” McGoo glanced at his watch. “Nine o’clock, and I’ve got a delightful evening ahead of me at home, doing nothing in particular. What about you, Shamble?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said; McGoo didn’t need to know that I planned to break into Timeworn Treasures. We both sighed.
“I hate to say this, Shamble, but we might need to find another watering hole. The Tavern just doesn’t have the right ambience anymore.”
As we went to the door, Stu the bartender waved and called out a cheery “Thanks, come again—and I hope your day is a sunny one!”
We hit the street, and McGoo and I went our separate ways.
CHAPTER 22
A good private eye needs to develop a variety of informants from all walks of life. He also requires a keen mind to compile thousands of diverse details, and a well-honed sense of intuition to put the pieces together and find the answers to mysteries.
It also helps to have skill with a lock pick.
The alley in front of Timeworn Treasures was dark and gloomy, per city ordinance. Legislation for the comfort of unnatural citizens mandated the removal of bright street lights in certain zoned alleys and side streets. Some impatient unnaturals had taken it upon themselves to smash the offending lights before city workers could get around to removing them.
A faint mist burbled up from the sewers, which made me think that the subterranean dwellers were having a barbecue down there. The Quarter’s real night life would get hopping in a few hours, but right now the pawnshop was dark and closed. Snazz had no set business hours; app
arently, he worked among his treasured items whenever he liked, which made sneaking inside rather difficult. I was pleased to see the Closed sign hanging in the door next to a flat plastic clock: “Will Return At . . .” with the hands set to 12:00, although there was no indication whether that meant midnight or noon.
Ducking along the shadows—which was perfectly normal behavior around here, so I attracted no undue attention—I huddled against the locked door, removed my tool kit, and attempted to dissect the lock. I fumbled one of the picks and dropped it to the ground. No one noticed the noise. I retrieved the tool and went back to work.
Before being shot in the head, I was quite nimble, but zombies have trouble with dexterity. (You don’t see many zombie trapeze artists, for instance.) Still, I knew what I was doing, and all I required was patience; after so much practice during my regular life, I had muscle memory—the occasional rigor mortis notwithstanding.
I eased the door open, careful not to jangle the customer bell. I expected the hinges to squeak, as is the time-honored tradition, but they were brass hinges, and the gremlin pawnbroker, with his fixation for all things shiny, had polished and oiled them. The door glided open, and I slipped inside with only the slightest tinkle of the bell overhead.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom. This would be a quick in-and-out. I needed to get to the front of the store, work open the combination-locked drawer that held the ledger, find the information I needed, then slip back out with no gremlins the wiser. What could be simpler? A zombie’s heart and soul were at stake.
Moving through the pawnshop, I was surrounded by the sinister curiosities Snazz had collected over the years. It was indeed a treasure trove, if you like that sort of junk. The price on the slightly used monkey’s paw had been marked down yet again; maybe the gremlin wanted to get rid of it after all (no surprise, given the poor industry safety record of such items). I crept toward the front counter and its chicken-wire barrier.
A tingling sensation went up my back, and my uncooperative skin crawled. I sensed someone watching me, but when I turned around, I saw that it was only a jar of preserved eyeballs floating around and directing their gazes at me. Nothing to worry about. Since they couldn’t tattle on me, I let them look all they wanted.
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