Services Rendered

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Rocky the golem loomed over me. “That’ll be five bucks.”

  “Each,” said Ned.

  I carefully handed the jiggly eye to Geck’s loving care, while I dug in my wallet. By now, most of the crowd had run screaming and the loose ingredients had dispersed.

  The Kitchen Litch had run away, plagued by vengeful beetles, and the only one remaining on the stand was burly Leatherneck, who calmly ate his chili straight from the ladle. “Last chef standing. I guess that means I win.”

  McGoo handcuffed the thoroughly étoufféed Cajun chef, who was still trapped inside his cauldron, although out of courtesy he turned the heat down to a slow simmer. The Ragin’ Cajun Mage struggled to lift a gooped finger to his lips, tasted it, “After all that, it still could use salt.”

  I called Sheyenne back at the office and asked her to look up the best eyeball replacers in the Quarter. I suggested that Gunther the imp might be able to give a recommendation.

  Out in the wreckage in front of the grandstand, I saw Albert and two of his waitresses running around with shovels and five-gallon buckets, scooping up the dropped samples of Texas chainsaw chili and fricasseed beetles. I could guess what might be on tomorrow’s special board for the Ghoul’s Diner.

  Leaving McGoo to take care of the arrested chef, I led Geck back toward my offices. I recalled that I had promised to take Sheyenne out for a dinner date, but I realized I didn’t have much appetite.

  Maybe we would go dancing instead.

  At a glance, I could tell that the little conscience demon who came into our offices was the “bad” one—scarlet body shaped like a miniature devil, horns on his forehead, pointed tail, even down to the diminutive pitchfork. Since he was only about as big as my hand, he looked kind of cute (though I wouldn’t have told him so, since that was sure to evoke a tantrum).

  Sheyenne, my ghost girlfriend and office manager, had cooed and called him “oh, how darling!” which only annoyed the little guy further as he asked to engage the services of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations. He was hyperactive, easily provoked … and right now the conscience demon was desperate.

  Which was why he’d come to see us in the first place.

  “If they can’t find a body, there’s no crime, right? They can’t arrest me or charge me with murder?” The little demon’s arrow-pointed tail thrashed back and forth. He wobbled his pointed pitchfork as he pranced on the tabletop in the conference room.

  “Careful,” I said, “you’re going to poke somebody’s eye out with that thing.”

  Across the table sat Robin Deyer, my lovely and talented business partner, the best lawyer to appear since the Big Uneasy returned all of the monsters to the world. Robin looked up from her yellow legal pad. The spell-attached pencil scribbled notes all by itself as fast as she could think of things to record. “But there’s a crime if you’ve just confessed to it, Mr. … ?”

  “Conscience Demon,” he said. “CD for short.”

  “I’m pretty good at digging up bodies,” I said. “I’m a zombie of many talents.”

  The little demon swiveled around on the table. “I’m not interested in you as a zombie, Mr. Shamble, but as a detective.”

  “It’s Chambeaux,” I said out of habit, though the imp wasn’t interested.

  “Most importantly,” he continued, “I’m here because I need a lawyer. A defense attorney. Can you save my bacon, Ms. Deyer?” He lowered his voice to a sultry, tempting tone. “I really like bacon. You should eat more of it. Don’t worry about your cholesterol or your arteries. It tastes so good.” Then he shook his head, snapping his attention back to his own urgency. “If there’s no body, they can’t pin it on me, right? No one will even investigate the crime, right? Why would they bother? No one will miss him. No one could stand him!”

  “Just because you can’t stand somebody doesn’t mean you can murder them,” I pointed out.

  Robin added, “Dan’s right. There’s a lot of legal precedent.”

  The conscience demon grumbled. “He was impossible to live with. Such a goody-two-shoes! Always getting in the way and thinking too much. So, I took that ridiculous halo above his head and strangled him with it. Sometimes you have to do what feels right without thinking about it too much. And, boy, did that feel right!”

  “So … you killed your counterpart demon?” I asked. “The angelic one?”

  Robin tapped a finger on her yellow legal pad while the pencil continued taking notes. “Don’t answer that, Mr. CD, because it’s best if we don’t know the answer.”

  “But you’re my lawyer,” the little devil said. “You have to defend me! You have to protect me. You’re supposed to presume I’m innocent. Besides, don’t we have confidentiality? If I can’t be honest with my own defense attorney, who can I be honest with?” He scratched his backside with one of the tines of his pitchfork. “And I don’t usually make it a practice to be honest.”

  “I’m not supposed to presume you’re innocent,” Robin explained. “Once I accept you as a client, then I’m supposed to defend you to the best of my ability. And even once we do have lawyer-client confidentiality, attorneys generally don’t ask outright if the client committed a crime.”

  “But the ends justify the means,” CD said.

  “That’s another common misunderstanding of the law.”

  Sheyenne’s ethereal form drifted in, bringing refreshments, green tea for Robin, sour old coffee for me, and a miniscule cup of water for the imp. His cup was so small I had to look twice before I realized it was the rinsed-out cap from a tube of toothpaste.

  “Who defines good and evil?” CD asked. “That’s my job, isn’t it? Maybe I can be an expert witness in my own trial, right?”

  I could tell Robin was getting exasperated. She was in her late twenties with smooth, coffee-colored skin and intense brown eyes. She’d been raised upper middle class, gotten her law degree, and decided to seek justice for the unnaturals because the downtrodden ghosts, mummies, and golems in the Unnatural Quarter needed her help much more than any fat-cat corporate executive did. While it’s not a glamourous job, Robin found it satisfying. As far as I could tell she never regretted her late hours or her sometimes frustrating clients.

  Before Robin could continue to explain the subtleties of the law, we heard a loud thump against the outer wall of the office. Sheyenne’s luminous form brightened as she spun in the air. “It’s coming from out in the hallway.”

  “Maybe someone’s knocking on our door,” I said. If it turned out to be another new client, this was shaping up to be a good month.

  The thump came again. “Definitely not the door,” Robin said.

  Sheyenne flitted out of the conference room, and I followed her, proud of my smooth muscle movement. I’m a well-preserved zombie. I exercise regularly to keep the rigor mortis at bay, I make regular trips to the embalming parlor for a touch-up, and I take care of my physical appearance. Other than being a little gray-skinned and, of course, dead, I’m a good-looking guy. And a decent detective.

  We heard the muffled thud one more time, and Sheyenne flitted straight through the door without opening it, which is an advantage of being incorporeal. I opened the door just as I heard shouts coming from one of the other offices here on the building’s second floor.

  “You clumsy oaf! You’re scaring away the customers.”

  As a P.I., my mind is like a steel trap, and my powers of observation are instantaneous. I immediately noticed several things: First, the small mustachioed and florid-faced man who called himself the Angry Hatter stood in the doorway of his shop down the hall. His hair was curly and unkempt, as if he tried on hats all day long. The Angry Hatter was the proprietor of a new boutique haberdashery, though despite his infuriated shouts I couldn’t see any customers that were in danger of being scared away.

  Second, I saw a large man wearing a black turtleneck and a dark sports jacket careening down the hall. He was disoriented, losing his balance and repeatedly thumping into the wall.

  T
hird, I noticed the man had no head, which under normal circumstances should have been the primary thing to notice, but here in the Unnatural Quarter there’s really no such thing as normal.

  Sheyenne drifted down the hall, trying to intercept the headless guy. He didn’t seem to know where he was going, but in his hand he held a scrawled and nearly illegible note, waving the paper in front of him. “I’ve lost my head. Have you seen it?”

  Sheyenne drifted close. “Here, sir. Let me help you down the hall. I’ll take you into our offices.”

  Judging from the note, I assumed the poor decapitation victim was looking for us. I lurched forward to intercept him. Always trying to stay friendly with my neighbors in the building, I gave a reassuring wave to the florid-faced Angry Hatter. “We’ll take it from here. Sorry for the disturbance.”

  The haberdasher had tried to drum up business with memorable radio ads that played too often. In his loud, exuberant voice he railed, “I’m not just a mad hatter, I’m angry! And that lets me give you the best prices!”

  Judging from the lack of customers, the ad wasn’t very effective.

  As a ghost, Sheyenne can’t touch any living thing, so she couldn’t help guide the headless guy. I took his arm and led him stumbling down the hall to our offices. Robin and the little conscience demon were both there, curious.

  I led the new client to Sheyenne’s desk, trying to pump him for more information. He held up his piece of paper, giving us the basics of the case, but it wasn’t enough for me to start investigating. “You’ll have to tell us a little more about yourself, sir,” I said.

  Sheyenne yanked out the printer tray and removed a sheet of white paper, then placed a pen in the man’s hand. “First off, can you tell us your name? Write it out for us?”

  Robin watched, curious and concerned. The devilish imp hopped on her shoulder to get a better view, but she quickly brushed him off. CD sat on the corner of Sheyenne’s desk instead.

  He fumbled with the pen and scrawled across the paper. He misjudged the edge so that the latter part of his letters ran off onto the desk. “HEADLESS GUY.”

  “Headless Guy?” I asked. “That’s your name?”

  The big man shook his shoulders, and I realized that he was trying to nod but without a head. “That’s a very appropriate name,” Sheyenne said.

  Guy tried to write more, but his letters were ill-formed and crossed over his other words, then ran off the paper. He scribbled so fast we couldn’t read any of it, but he seemed full of things to say.

  “I have an idea,” I said. “Can you type?”

  When Headless Guy’s shoulder bobbed again, apparently another nod, I set him down in Sheyenne’s office chair and placed his hands on her keyboard. He immediately began to type, frantic to explain himself. Good thing he didn’t need to hunt and peck. If you’re a man without a head, it’s imperative you learn to be a touch typist.

  Unfortunately, only a mishmash of garbled letters appeared on the screen, until I realized that his fingers were offset. So I adjusted his hands, made sure his fingers were in home position, then Headless Guy began to type again.

  “I’ve lost my head. It’s gone! I’ve been looking everywhere. Can you help me find it?”

  The little imp sprang from the corner of the desk and landed on Headless Guy’s shoulder. “How can you look for anything when you don’t have a head?”

  Guy shrugged, making CD bounce up and down.

  Sounding compassionate, Sheyenne said, “At least he found his way here to us, and we can help him.”

  “I always appreciate resourceful clients,” I said. He must have heard of my skills as a detective. “When was the last time you saw your head?”

  Headless Guy pondered, then began to type out in detail. “It was just another lazy Sunday. We went for a walk, so my head could smell the flowers around the drainage ditches. We went to the candy store because my head likes hard candies. He used to like drinking coffee, but that’s a mess unless I adjust him carefully over my neck. Then we went hat shopping because my head is very fond of hats. Then we went to hear a skeleton jazz band, because my head likes music, even though I can’t hear. And I don’t like jazz anyway … but you have to be patient with your partner. We’ve been together so long.”

  I frowned. “You mean your head and your body?”

  Ignoring my question, Guy kept typing. “When I woke up, my head was gone. I’m sure it’s been kidnapped! Someone’s holding my head for ransom, but I haven’t found a ransom note yet.” With his big hands, he patted his jacket, fumbled in his pockets, then went back to typing, somehow finding the right position on the keyboard again. “What am I going to do? I’m lost without my head. Can you help me, Mr. Shamble?”

  Even typing, he spelled my name wrong … but I don’t hold that against a potential client.

  “Maybe somebody buried it,” the conscience demon suggested, still perched on Headless Guy’s shoulder. “And you’ll never find the body. It worked for me.”

  “You’re not helping, CD,” I pointed out.

  “We have the body right here,” Robin said. “And we’ll help you find your head.”

  “First, the formalities,” I said, already formulating my plan. The cases don’t solve themselves. “We better go down to the police station and talk with Detective McGoohan. We’ll file a missing person’s report.” I reconsidered. “Or a missing piece of a person report.”

  Headless Guy stood from the office chair, eager to follow me, but he crashed into the desk. Recovering himself, Guy moved in the other direction and lurched into the chair, nearly tripping.

  Exasperated, CD kept his balance on the dark jacketed shoulder. “This is ridiculous! Let me help you out, right?” The devilish little creature broke into a wide, malicious grin. “I won’t steer you wrong.”

  Officer Toby McGoohan, or “McGoo” to his friends, is a wisecracking, insensitive but reasonably confident beat cop who was no more happy about his transfer to the Unnatural Quarter than his superiors were to hear his offensive and politically incorrect ethnic jokes, which had led to the transfer in the first place. Here among the monsters, McGoo could be as rude as he liked since unnaturals had thick skins … sometimes scaly skins, sometimes covered in spines or fur.

  I led Headless Guy through the bustle of the UQPD. I made my way past the ringing phones, the officers typing on keyboards, other cops dragging a wide variety of handcuffed perps. McGoo’s desk was in back, and I waved at some of the other cops. They were all familiar with the most prominent undead detective in the Quarter.

  The imp on Headless Guy’s shoulder directed him. “Straight forward, two more steps, now a little to your left.” Guy crashed his hip into the corner of a detective’s desk, scattering the papers from an inbox. “Sorry, I meant right, not left,” CD said.

  Headless Guy stumbled along, bumped into another desk, and I realized that the imp was teasing him. That made me impatient. “Come on. Let’s go. This is serious business.”

  “Yes, but it’s fun too, right?” said CD. But he did cease his practical jokes, and we arrived at McGoo’s desk.

  “Hey Shamble,” he said, looking at Guy. “Let me guess, he’s a jogger who doesn’t remember to duck when he runs under low bridges? Or maybe it was a low-flying haircut?”

  The conscience demon snickered. “I like him! For a cop.”

  “We’re not here to talk about how Headless Guy lost his head in the first place,” I said. “We’re more interested in the second time he lost his head, and it was recent. We think his head has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom.”

  McGoo took out a set of forms. “Sorry to hear that, Mr. Guy.” His serious tone lasted only a moment before he turned to me. “Sounds like you’ve got a real head case here, Shamble.”

  McGoo has freckled skin, reddish hair, and a wide mouth with a persistent grin that made him always seem to get in trouble. In our work in the Unnatural Quarter, I often got McGoo into trouble, and he did the same for me. He’s my B
HF, my Best Human Friend, and that’s what friends are for.

  “We’ve come to fill out a missing person’s report,” I said. “And then I’ll start investigating.”

  McGoo scribbled some information on the form, looked at Headless Guy, then tore off the bottom third. “It’s just a partial missing person’s form, for just a partial missing person.”

  “The joke’s already been made, McGoo,” I said, and he seemed disappointed.

  “Give me a description of your head,” he said. “We’ll need to be able to identify it.”

  The conscience demon on his shoulder peered down into the open mouth of the turtleneck but didn’t hear any answer.

  “He’s better off using your keyboard, McGoo,” I said.

  Headless Guy typed out descriptions. The height of the head, the color of hair (brown), wavy locks (well-combed), eye color (beautiful, hauntingly blue), distinguishing features (chiseled nose, square jaw, handsome features, a perfect smile).

  McGoo snorted. “Sounds like he’s describing me.”

  “I don’t think he’d want your head as replacement, McGoo.”

  “We’ll put out an all-points bulletin to see if anyone spots a suspicious looking head.”

  Agitated, Headless Guy typed on the keyboard using all caps to show his exasperation. “IT’S BEEN KIDNAPPED!”

  “We better go find the ransom note,” I suggested. “Once we’ve made contact with the headnappers, then your missing head will have a lot more to stand on.”

  McGoo got right to work, after his coffee break.

  After we finished, the conscience demon began whispering down into the turtleneck. “It’s not so bad really. Think of your options now! You’re free to do what you want for the first time in your life. Effectively you’re a bachelor. Live a little, right?”

  Headless Guy did not seem overly enthusiastic, although I couldn’t read his expression. He followed me, occasionally bumping into desks and people as we left the police station. CD worked harder at giving him better guidance.