The Grim & The Dead

by Amanda M. Lee

  There was no going back.

  We had a lighter workload, but not by much. That meant Aisling and I both had full days, something neither of us was used to. Most days we had five or six souls, a solid six hours in the field before paperwork took over our lives for the final two hours of our shift. Now we each had a minimum of ten souls, and I just knew I’d be exhausted by the time my brothers and father returned.

  That’s why I was kicking myself for taking the time to talk with Walter “Shuckster” Levin. The “Shuckster” nickname was real. I double-checked the file, figuring there must have been a typo. It turns out the nickname was well-earned.

  “My father gave it to me,” Walter explained as his soul floated close to the table where he’d died. He ended up face down in a plate of tacos, although he didn’t seem bothered by the position of his body. I was fascinated.

  “Your father gave you the name Shuckster?” I wrinkled my nose. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he wanted to make sure I had a place in the business, and nicknames make people memorable.”

  I tilted my head as I studied the body. “Were you eating refried beans?”

  “Of course. You can’t have Mexican night without refried beans.”

  “Yeah, but ... ,” I checked my watch. “It’s ten. Why were you eating refried beans at ten in the morning?”

  “Because there’s nothing better than tacos for breakfast.”

  I could think of ten other things better than tacos for breakfast and all of them would’ve smelled much better than the scent now permeating the house. “Ugh, dude, you should’ve had a bagel.”

  Walter, his face blasé, made a derogatory hand gesture that basically highlighted what he expected me to do to myself. “I wanted the refried beans. I’m not sorry I ordered them. If you have to go, this is the way to go.”

  He had a point. “Mexican is my favorite, too.”

  “Which place?”

  “Armando’s in Mexicantown.”

  “It’s the best.” Walter beamed as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “You know what I like about Armando’s? They don’t go overboard on the lettuce when they’re putting stuff together. Lettuce is basically the most useless vegetable — and that’s saying something in a world that has radishes. Radishes taste like fiery dirt death on your tongue — but lettuce is way worse. Completely useless.”

  I was officially amused by the conversation. “I’ve never given it a lot of thought.”

  “You should. Lettuce is useless.”

  “I’ll have to tell that to my brother’s girlfriend,” I mused, smirking at the memory of the time Maya insisted we all head out to a healthy restaurant and she ordered her tacos wrapped in a lettuce leaf. I thought my father and Aisling would blow their stacks they were so offended on behalf of the tacos. “She wraps everything in lettuce. She’s not a vegan or anything, but she cuts down on carbs by wrapping everything in lettuce instead of the usual.”

  “She should be shot,” Walter deadpanned.

  “I don’t know that I would go that far.”

  “Oh, I would.” His tone never shifted, although his eyes warmed as he barreled forward. “Seriously, I know a guy who can rub her out just like this.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis, but because he was a spirit without physical form it made no sound. “Oh, that’s a bummer.” His features twisted. “I like snapping my fingers. I used to do it to this chick who worked at the casino, and she would race over and give me a drink. Just like clockwork.”

  “You snapped your fingers at a cocktail waitress?” I wasn’t exactly wired into the feminist agenda, but I had to believe that was a huge no-no. “Why didn’t she smack you around? If someone did that to my sister he would have broken fingers.”

  “Your sister sounds like a real trip.”

  “She’s a pain in the butt.” I scowled at the memory of her face over breakfast when she saw her soul list. The way she whined — loudly — would be ingrained in my brain for most of the day. “She wouldn’t put up with people snapping their fingers at her. I don’t think I would put up with that on her behalf either.”

  “Oh, geez.” Walter made an exaggerated face. He was in his mid-sixties, a huge beer belly offsetting narrow shoulders and a round face. His hair was almost non-existent on top of his head, although a few wisps remained on either side. Thankfully he didn’t try to comb the remnants over his bald dome, because it would’ve only made matters worse. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who has been neutered by today’s version of what a woman is supposed to be.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Um ... .”

  “You are, aren’t you?” Walter made a tsking sound as he shook his head. “Oh, son, you’re missing out on the best things in life. Women are meant to be ogled, not heard. If someone taught you differently, well, he did you a disservice.”

  I didn’t think my father would feel the same way. “I have a sister.”

  “So?”

  “So, we were raised to believe that she could do everything we could do.”

  “What ninny taught you to believe that?”

  “My mother.” At mention of my mother, my stomach twisted. She was back from the dead, which was something of a miracle, but she was hardly returning to a welcoming clan. In fact, Aisling was so belligerent where my mother was concerned I kind of wanted to smack her around. Of course, I often wanted to smack Aisling around.

  “Well, of course your mother said that.” Walter acted as if I’d said the most ludicrous thing in the world. “It’s a mother’s job to pretend that girls are equal to boys. If you had brothers instead of a sister, she wouldn’t have been going on and on about stupid stuff like that.”

  “I have brothers, too. I have three brothers, in fact. Aisling is the only girl.”

  “Oh, so she was outnumbered.” Walter appeared to be giving it real thought as he tapped his chin, a mannerism clearly carried over from life. “Your mother had no choice but to feed you that load of malarkey. If she didn’t, your sister would’ve been turned into the house slave. Your mother was trying to protect her from that.”

  “Yeah, we actually have a household staff.” I had no idea why I was telling my charge this. My father was adamant that we suck and run when absorbing souls. He was barely out of town, and I was breaking the cardinal rule of reaping. “Aisling doesn’t have to be anybody’s slave. Besides that, my mother was hardly the only one telling her she could be whatever she wanted to be. My father told her that, too. He refused to let us treat her differently simply because she was a girl.”

  “Well, your father sounds like a ninny, too.” Walter was matter-of-fact as he stared at his body. “Can’t you do something about this?”

  I was back to being confused. “About what?”

  “This.” He waved at his body, frustration evident. “I don’t want my obituary to read that I died face down in a plate of food. That’s undignified. I’m not sorry about how I went, but I would rather others didn’t know.”

  I could understand the sentiment. “Sorry. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Not one little thing?”

  “No. I’m not allowed to touch your body.” I wrinkled my nose when the dirty double entendre registered. “Wait ... that came out wrong.”

  “I heard it, too. Just move on, pretend you didn’t say it.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I still don’t want to be discovered this way.” Walter was firm. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “From who? You’re dead. No one is going to be talking to you.”

  “Please, you’re obviously here as some sort of ferryman,” Walter countered. “That means I’m moving on to another place. I’m sure there will be people to talk to there.”

  “Actually, that’s a fair point.”

  “I’m going to Heaven, right?” Walter’s eyes sparkled at the notion. “I made sure to go to confession every week so my soul would be righteous when my time came. I’m looking
forward to going to that big casino in the sky.”

  “You have a thing about casinos. I don’t know that gambling is allowed in Heaven.”

  “Of course gambling is allowed in Heaven,” he scoffed. “It’s not Heaven without Texas Hold ’Em.”

  “Well ... .” I left the statement hanging as I navigated my iPad. “Huh. Well, you’re right. You’re definitely going to Heaven.”

  “See! I told you!” Walter jabbed a finger in my direction. “It’s because I went to confession. Don’t get me wrong – all the things I’ve done throughout the years could’ve put me in another place – but I recognized that early and embraced Catholicism. I’m so glad that I did.”

  “What things are you talking about?” I asked, switching off the iPad. “You seem a bit of a blowhard, but I’m betting you’re not much of a rule breaker.”

  “That’s where you would be wrong.”

  “Oh, really?” I cocked a challenging eyebrow. “Lay it on me. I’m dying to hear it.”

  “No way.” Walter vehemently shook his head. “I’m not giving you a reason to change my final resting place.”

  “I have no control over that. Like you said, I’m the ferryman. I don’t make the decisions. I simply do the heavy lifting. The decisions are left to … well, someone else.” I honestly had no idea who made the ultimate decision, so I opted not to dwell on it.

  “Really?” Walter, back to being intrigued, looked as if his mind was working a mile a minute. “So, no matter what I say you can’t do anything about my final resting place?”

  Suspicion niggled at the back of my brain, but I nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Good to know.” A slow and sly smile spread across Walter’s face. “I totally lied in confession, by the way. I wasn’t sorry. I simply pretended to be sorry. But I was diligent about doing the penance the priest doled out. Worked like a charm.”

  “Uh-huh.” I still wasn’t convinced that Walter had anything to be truly penitent about. Sure, he was a blowhard who had some rather antiquated ideas about women, but that didn’t mean he was a bad guy. In Aisling’s book he would probably be the devil, but he seemed pretty harmless. “I’m glad you’re getting the ending you wanted.”

  “Me, too.” Walter seemed legitimately relieved as he mimed swiping a forearm across his brow. “I thought all the gambling and snitching would get me into trouble, especially when I told Martin where to find that guy who stole from the big boss. That leg-breaking thing was awful, but I had no choice but to sit through it. Otherwise they would’ve done it to me.”

  “Right.” I was getting bored with the conversation. “You had no choice but to watch the leg-breaking. I ... wait a second.” My brain finally caught up to the conversation. “You watched some guy break another guy’s legs?”

  Walter bobbed his head. “Oh, yeah. Happens all the time in my business.”

  “And what business is that?”

  “I’m a bookmaker.”

  I waited a beat. “A bookie?”

  “I don’t particularly care for that term,” Walter drawled. “It’s derogatory.”

  “You snap your fingers to get women to do your bidding,” I reminded him. “I don’t think you get to use the word ‘derogatory’ with a straight face.”

  “Oh, geez.” Walter rolled his eyes, as if asking the heavens what he did to deserve his lot in life. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those.”

  “One of those what?”

  “Those people.” He wiggled his fingers, as if that was supposed to explain something. “I don’t have time for those people.”

  “What people?”

  “You know ... woo-hoo people.”

  I had no idea where he was going. “I’m going to need more information.”

  Walter mimed rubbing his eyes as if he was crying. “You know, woo-hoo.”

  “Oh, good grief.” My irritation bubbled up as I shook my head. “I think you mean boo-hoo. Boo-hoo is what you do when you cry. Woo-hoo is what you do when you throw a party.”

  “I think I know the difference.”

  “And I think you talk big and don’t mean half of what you say,” I challenged. “As for being a boo-hoo person, I’ve never really thought of myself that way. I don’t care that you’re a bookie — at least, I don’t think that I care — but I’ve never met one. I was merely curious.”

  “You’re like ... thirty, right?” Walter looked me up and down.

  I nodded. “So?”

  “So, how can you be thirty and not have met a bookmaker? My father introduced me to my first bookmaker when I was twelve, although I wasn’t allowed to bet until I was fourteen. There are standards, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “I knew that first time I won on a horse race that I wanted to be in this line of work.”

  “You dreamed about being a bookie when you were a kid?” That didn’t sound feasible. “I wanted to be a cowboy ... or a dragon slayer ... and after watching Orange is the New Black, I wanted to be a prison guard. That’s when I was an adult, though.”

  “Yeah. Who knew lesbianism was so hot, huh?” Walter’s smile was back. “I know you don’t believe me about always wanting to be a bookmaker, but it’s true.” He inclined his head toward a desk on the other side of the room. “Look in the top drawer.”

  I paused for a moment to consider whether that was a good idea. Aisling was notorious for talking to her charges and often getting into trouble because of it. I didn’t want to be that person. But I was also somewhat interested in Walter and his colorful past. “Okay, but once I look I have to absorb your soul.”

  “I’m fine with that.” Walter didn’t appear bothered by his death. In fact, he was almost cheerful. He clearly had big plans for his time in Heaven. “Just look in the top drawer.”

  I was careful to use the sleeve of my shirt to cover my fingers so as not to leave behind prints. I’d been arrested a time or two during my misspent youth — and at least five times as an adult for bar brawls — so my prints were on record. The odds of the police dusting Walter’s house for prints were slim, but he was a bookie. There was always a chance that his death might be deemed suspicious, so I couldn’t take any chances.

  “What am I looking for?” I asked when I peered inside.

  “There’s a case.” Walter appeared over my left shoulder. “It looks like a jewelry case. It’s black. Right there.” He extended his finger and pointed.

  I retrieved the case and held it up. “This? Why do you want this? You can’t take it with you.”

  “I know that. It’s just ... the bookmaker my father introduced me to when I was fourteen gave me that the first day I was allowed to bet at the track. It was for luck ... and it definitely turned out to be lucky.”

  “Okay.” I remained where I was, the case resting in my hand. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Open it.”

  I did as instructed because I didn’t see the harm. Inside, nestled on a satin pillow, was a coin. It looked to have the head of a serpentine woman on it, and was very clearly made of gold. “What is this?”

  “It’s a good luck charm,” Walter explained. “All bookmakers have one. It’s not just skill that makes you good at this job. It’s luck, too.”

  “Naturally. What do you want me to do with the coin? You can’t take it with you.”

  “I want you to take it.”

  I was flabbergasted. “I can’t take your coin.” I flipped shut the case and moved to hand it back. I realized too late he couldn’t take it and had to catch it before it hit the floor. “This is yours.”

  “You just said I couldn’t take it with me,” Walter reminded me. “That means I need to pass it on to someone else. I never had children of my own. I didn’t care to take away from my job, and I’m not sorry about that.”

  “What about a nephew or something?”

  “None of those either.” Walter smiled indulgently. “I want you to have it. I like you. You’re taking me to the other side, making
sure I have my happy afterlife. I think that deserves a reward.”

  “I’m doing my job,” I countered. “I don’t need to be rewarded for doing my job.”

  “Well, I think otherwise.” Walter’s smile was so wide it almost split his face. “It’s a good luck charm. It will help you achieve whatever you’re looking for in life ... as soon as you decide what that is.”

  “I already have a job,” I said. “If I become a bookie — er, bookmaker — my father will have a meltdown.”

  “The coin can give you more than one form of luck.”

  I still wasn’t convinced. I was, however, running out of time. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I am. I want you to have it. If I don’t give it freely, the luck dies.”

  “Okay, well ... thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I think you’re going to love the luck it brings.”

  I wasn’t much of a believer in luck, but it couldn’t hurt.

  3

  Three

  I was exhausted when I got home.

  I expected an empty house and had grand plans to order a pizza, watch the game on the big-screen television in the entertainment room and go to bed early.

  Instead, I was greeted by raucous noise blaring from every corner of the house. It sounded like chick music.

  “What the ... ?”

  The butler, a staid gentleman who refused to be called by his first name, met me in the foyer. “Miss Aisling is here,” he intoned in a grave voice.

  Of course. “Why?” I stripped out of my coat, making sure to grab my scepter before handing it to the expectant man. “Why didn’t she just drop her souls and run?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  The look on his face told me he wasn’t exactly thrilled with Aisling’s arrival. I didn’t blame him. My sister was an acquired taste on the best of days, and Gregory Tolliver — Mr. Tolliver for anyone who wanted to live — didn’t like upheaval in his organized world. My sister was all about the upheaval.