Working Stiff

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Earl Joe Bob scowled. “That doesn’t give me much time, then. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way.” He straightened his cap, which sat askew from when he’d been gunned down. He sneered at the two Hemoglobin boys, who lay in their light camouflage on the ground, necks bent at improbable angles. “I hate dealing with amateurs. I’ve dealt with witness protection cases plenty of times, and I’m always available for additional ‘enhanced disappearing’ for a substantial fee. When I make people disappear, I really make them disappear.”

  I tried to move along the side of the truck; in a race, I could never outrun the vampire. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “I don’t lose any sleep over it,” Earl Joe Bob said. “Pay is good, and I gotta earn a living.”

  I knew that he was going to have to get rid of me. I was the only one who could explain the mess around me, but Earl Joe Bob would make up some story of his own.

  “We can be reasonable about this,” I offered.

  “Good idea.” He lunged. I lurched—it was a much less fluid movement than his, but I did manage to evade the first pass. Earl Joe Bob slammed into the side of the trailer, shattering more wood.

  “Careful about the splinters.” My mind was racing. I could get one of the jagged spears and thrust it through the vampire’s heart. In my imagination, it all worked out just fine, but in practice I wasn’t quite the nimble athlete that I’d need to be for the scheme to work.

  I did break off the long wooden splinter, lifted it—and Earl Joe Bob slapped it out of my hands. At least he got a splinter in his palm, and he paused to pluck it out. That brief respite gave me the chance to scramble through the blasted crater in the side of the trailer.

  “Now I’ve got you cornered,” the trucker said. While I shuffled and slipped among the debris of packaged school lunches, I saw his sturdy muscular form silhouetted against the starlit sky as he pulled himself through the hole. “Where are you going to hide?”

  I hurled a package of Salisbury steak, which struck him in the center of the chest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the stake through the heart I required. The vamp trucker’s eyes were glowing in the shadows. I could see him coming toward me. I nearly tripped backward over the coffin that had held me during my cross-country trip.

  Police sirens howled down the highway, coming closer. Ironic, I thought: the cavalry was going to arrive much too late.

  “At least we’ve already got a coffin to store you in,” said Earl Joe Bob.

  “Been there, done that,” I answered.

  He came closer, fangs bared, eyes glowing, hands outstretched. Earl Joe Bob was a burly guy, powerful enough to change one of his eighteen tires simply by lifting the rig and undoing the lug nuts with his fingertips. He could probably rip me limb from limb, stomp on any pieces still twitching, and then claim I’d been mangled in the explosion. McGoo already knew better than that.

  “You haven’t thought this through,” I said.

  The trucker laughed. “I could say the same to you—a vampire versus a zombie? The vamp will win, every time.” He reached toward me.

  That’s when I pulled up the loose silver chains that lay draped over the coffin. I threw them onto Earl Joe Bob.

  “Not every time,” I said.

  It was like Superman and Kryptonite—a real sight to see. Within seconds, the vamp trucker went from being a scary, overpowering opponent to a whimpering and helpless guy in a flannel shirt who squirmed under the chains.

  “Awww crap!” Earl Joe whined. “That’s not fair!”

  Now the sirens were louder, and I could see the flashing lights through the hole in the side of the truck. Squad cars raced along the highway, followed by the state patrol. I was still undead and kicking, but I no longer needed them to rescue me. Still, I’d be happy to let McGoo handle the wrap-up paperwork.

  As soon as the police climbed into the trailer, I waved McGoo over. He looked flushed and worried. “Shamble, you all right?”

  There were shouts outside as other officers found the two bodies of Ma Hemoglobin’s boys.

  “Better than they are. And better than he is.” I nodded to where Earl Joe Bob squirmed on the floor under the silver chains.

  His cap had fallen off in the struggle, and I reached down and plucked it up. It wasn’t my style—I much preferred the fedora, but that was gone for now, apparently on the head of a disguised Sebastian Bund. Since I felt naked without a hat, I settled the trucker cap in place.

  I started rattling off the full story as an officer handcuffed Earl Joe Bob with silver-plated handcuffs. The vamp trucker spluttered and groaned at the way I described a few things, but he didn’t deny any of the details.

  “I’ll cut a deal,” he said. “Ma Hemoglobin is scary, and she’s got four boys left. I’ll turn State’s witness. Put me into witness protection, otherwise I’ll never survive until the trial.” His eyes flashed, and he struggled against the silver handcuffs. “I know where all the bodies are buried—some of them more than once.”

  3

  Back in the offices, Robin and Sheyenne were both in very good moods, having delivered Sebastian Bund to his official new undisclosed location.

  “He was delightful company.” Robin flashed a smile at me. “Did you know he used to be a singing barista?”

  “Broadway show tunes,” Sheyenne said. “That’s all we talked about. He’s a fan of musicals. Why don’t you ever see musicals with me?”

  “Because I don’t like musicals,” I said.

  She gave me a spectral raspberry. “When you go out on a date, you’re supposed to do something you don’t like. That’s how you show a girl you care for her.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time we go out on a date.” Our cases almost always interfered with our love life—and so did the fact that, as a ghost, she couldn’t physically touch me, which made the intimate aspect of our relationship much more problematic. “Did we at least get paid for the case?”

  “We got paid in satisfaction,” Robin said. “That’s our purpose here, to know that justice is done.”

  “Right.” I turned to Sheyenne, repeating the question. “Did we at least get paid?”

  She showed me a Chambeaux & Deyer invoice, on which she had merely written in capital letters: SERVICES RENDERED, no other details. “Officer McGoohan was true to his word.” She pulled out a stack of other pending cases and floated ahead to place the files on my desk. “One more step in making the world safe for naturals and unnaturals everywhere.”

  “It’s a start.” I looked down at all the folders Sheyenne had gotten out, and I knew exactly what they were. Job security.

  ***

  Naughty & Nice

  1

  Santa Claus was an unnatural. That made perfect sense—I just hadn’t thought of it before.

  The jolly bearded guy in the bright-red suit came into the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, desperate to hire my services. It’s not often, I suppose, that Santa requires a detective—particularly a zombie detective.

  “I need your help, Mr. Chambeaux,” Santa said.

  I extended my gray hand to shake his black-gloved one. “At your service.”

  I assessed my client-to-be. Santa carried a voluminous cloth sack over his left shoulder; it was limp and empty at the moment, rather than bulging with brightly wrapped gifts. His bloodshot eyes were as red as his suit. His cheeks were pale, and his face seemed less plump than the pictures I had seen on a million Christmas cards.

  “It’s a crisis.” He looked around with haunted eyes. “I’ve been robbed!”

  In the Unnatural Quarter, we see all sorts of clients. After the Big Uneasy, all manner of legendary creatures had reappeared: ghosts, vampires, zombies, werewolves, ghouls, and other creatures that go bump, growl, or thud in the night. Why not Santa, too? Somebody who can slip down billions of chimneys in a night—without incurring a single home-invasion charge—would fit right in.

  “We’ll do everything we can to help, Mr. Claus,
” said Robin Deyer, as she came out to greet the new client. “Is this more of a legal matter or an investigative one?”

  “Oh-ho-ho, I definitely need a detective, and I came here because Mrs. Claus and I have heard about Mr. Chambeaux.”

  I was surprised. “We don’t even advertise up at the North Pole. How did you find out about Chambeaux and Deyer Investigations?”

  “Actually, we’re local. My powers only manifest during the holiday season—it’s not a full-time gig up in the cold. The rest of the year Mrs. Claus and I run a nice little bed-and-breakfast in the Quarter. Everybody around town knows the zombie detective to call when they’re in a bind.”

  When I first moved into the Unnatural Quarter, I was a regular human P.I., trying to make a living like anybody else. I catered to clients who, though they sometimes looked like monsters on the outside, still had very human problems. Even after I got myself killed on a case, I climbed out of the grave and got back to work, still with Robin as my partner. Most unnaturals aren’t even bothered by the bullet hole in the middle of my forehead, and I’ve stopped being self-conscious about applying morticians’ putty to cover it up.

  Sheyenne flitted up to Santa, beaming her gorgeous smile. “May I take your coat, Mr. Claus?”

  Not only is Sheyenne extremely smart, competent, and efficient, she’s beautiful on all counts. She’s also my girlfriend. On top of that, she happens to be a ghost, murdered in the same case that saw me dead. But even through all that, we stuck together. It’s a testament to the strength of our relationship.

  Santa decided against removing his red coat. “No-ho-ho! It’s part of my traditional image. The coat is made of magical material that keeps me comfortable no matter the temperature. That way I never have to take it off until the season’s over. Traditions are important, and never more so than around the holidays.”

  Sheyenne leaned closer and whispered, “For the record, I never stopped believing in you.”

  He regarded Sheyenne with both wonder and mirth. “Strangely enough, I didn’t believe in ghosts—until a few years ago.” Santa sneezed, then turned back to me. “Mr. Chambeaux, I’m not going to kid you. There’s more riding on this particular Christmas than ever before, and I’m coming apart at the seams. I need you to find my stolen property before Christmas Eve, or there’ll be no joy to the world, no ho-ho-ho, no holly jolly, no Feliz in the Navidad, no Frohe in the Weihnachten, no Merry in the Christmas. You see how serious this is?”

  “I think I do.” I really had no idea, but I didn’t want to look dumb in front of Santa Claus. “What exactly was stolen?”

  “My list!” He was distraught—which was not at all the sort of attitude I expected from a man famous for his rumbling belly laugh and infectious good cheer. “My list of who’s Naughty and Nice! Without that list, I won’t know which houses to visit, which Johnny deserves a model train set and which one gets a lump of coal, which Susie deserves a doll and which one gets a boring sweater. If I can’t figure that out, Christmas definitely won’t be the most wonderful time of the year.”

  “Don’t you keep a photocopy?” Robin asked. “Or an on-line backup?”

  Santa was horrified. “And break Christmas tradition? Millions of children believe in me and the way I do things, just so. They have dreams about Christmas, and it’s my responsibility to safeguard those dreams.” He shook his head again. “If I modernized, there’d be an uproar—not to mention countless bugs in the system—and then you can bet the Easter Bunny would hack into my database and start grabbing my market share. No, everything’s done by hand on a very long roll of parchment, the names of every single boy and girl written with a goose quill.”

  That must have been the world’s largest two-column spreadsheet. “And how exactly was it stolen?”

  “Someone broke into the offices of my North Pole headquarters. It’s our busy season, all of my helpers doing double shifts, decking the halls, dashing through the snow. Our packaging department is a madhouse, full of complete sets of lords a-leaping, partridges, pear trees—and everybody wants five golden rings. We still have an overstock of last year’s fruitcakes, and I don’t know what to do with the figgy puddings. I was sure there’d be a demand for those again.” He wiped a gloved hand across his forehead.

  “It’s very hectic. I was taking a break with Mrs. Claus. She had made a fresh batch of eggnog, and this time of year she spikes it rather heavily. I slept like a baby … and when I went back to the office the list was gone!” He tugged on his beard. “It had to be an inside job.” He paced back and forth, scuffing his black boots on our all-weather carpet. “I checked with all the line supervisor elves and every single one of the toy builders. This time of year they work around the clock without even restroom or cigarette breaks. But everyone had an alibi.”

  “Could you have been targeted by Homeland Security?” Robin asked. “Or some other law-enforcement organization monitoring your research as to who might be on a Most Naughty list?”

  “I can see why they might want that,” I said.

  “Not at all, I have a close cooperative relationship with government agencies, considering all that airspace I fly over—and my work has to be done in a single night, so I have no time to mess with clearances. I even let NORAD track me every year. No, that list is in the hands of someone who means no good, mark my words … and no human could have gotten through my security. It had to be an unnatural.”

  He hung his head and seemed so sad that I wanted to sit on Santa’s lap and give him a hug. He continued, “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Chambeaux. If I don’t get that Naughty and Nice list in time, I can’t stop thinking about all those poor children who’ll be disappointed, all those broken dreams, all those undelivered presents. It’ll destroy their faith in Christmas … and they just might turn out to be naughty next year.”

  I was determined to solve the problem. It’s not every day you get a chance to save Christmas—and not just because Christmas only comes once a year. “Don’t underestimate how relentless a zombie can be, Santa. I’ll find your list. If I have any questions or developments, how will I get hold of you? Do you have a business card?”

  “Much better than that.” Santa reached into a pocket of his red jacket and pulled out a bright green ribbon with a jingle bell attached. “Just ring this, and I’ll be there. Even if I’m otherwise occupied, I have an answering service that can get hold of me.”

  The pink had come back to his cheeks, and a droll smile lifted his lips. “Oh-ho-ho, if you solve this case, there’ll be something very special under the tree—for all of you.”

  Relieved and encouraged, Santa slung his empty sack over one shoulder and prepared to go. He closed his eyes and touched a finger to the side of his nose.

  When nothing happened, he looked around our offices. Finding no chimney, he chuckled. “Sorry, I’ve been so worried about Christmas being ruined, I forgot how I arrived!” He left through the front door instead.

  2

  Although I knew I might have to go to Santa’s North Pole seasonal offices to see the crime scene, I decided to search in the Unnatural Quarter first, which was much more convenient. (Riding up to the Arctic for hours in a freezing open sleigh sounded worse than flying in a middle seat in Coach.)

  I started with someone who kept a similar list—primarily a Naughty list.

  Officer Toby McGoohan is a dedicated beat cop, but his penchant for telling off-color jokes to the wrong people had gotten him transferred to the Quarter. McGoo is also my BHF, my best human friend. We help each other on cases. We commiserate about life and unlife over beers at the Goblin Tavern.

  I found him outside one of the Talbot & Knowles blood bars, which are frequented by vampires who need their daily caffeine and hemoglobin fix. Some fanged customers drink straight blood, while others go for berry-flavored blood frappés or, now that the weather had turned colder, steaming cinnamon-spice hot clotties.

  “Hey, Shamble,” McGoo said, tipping his blue cap. “What do you get whe
n you cross a snowman with a vampire?”

  “What?” I groaned in advance.

  “Frostbite.” He persists in telling me jokes. I haven’t been able to convince him they’re not funny, and he hasn’t been able to convince me that they are. As a special favor, I did promise I would try to laugh at some of them. But only some. “What’s new and exciting in your world?”

  “I just picked up Santa Claus as a client. Somebody stole his list of Naughty and Nice kids.”

  McGoo’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s a miracle on …” he glanced up, looking for a street corner, “32nd Street. If even Santa isn’t safe from criminal activity, we are living in troubled times indeed. What does the list look like?”

  “Long roll of parchment, millions of handwritten names. Two columns labeled N and N.”

  McGoo shook his head. “I’ll keep an eye out, but we’ve got real problems of our own in the Quarter.” He lowered his voice. “Kids are going missing, Shamble—a lot of them. We’ve received a rash of reports.”

  A vampire couple came out of the blood bar, chatting away. One held a to-go carrier with four cups of blood drinks marked with Type A (extra hot), Type O negative, and two with Type B positive (and a hand-drawn smiley face).

  McGoo called, “Excuse me, can I see those for a second?”

  The vampires turned, surprised. “What is it, Officer?”

  “Your blood drinks. I want to show my friend something.”

  McGoo indicated the to-go cups, the first of which showed the printed picture of a young vampire boy who had been turned when he was maybe twelve years old. Big letters said “Have You Seen Me?” Printed below the photo were the vampire kid’s name, pre-turned age, and last-seen data.

  The second cup showed a zombie boy with an incongruous smile beneath his sunken eyes. The third was a scruffy-looking full-furred werewolf, and the fourth showed a human girl in Goth makeup wearing an off-the-shelf gloomy expression.

  After he thanked the vampire couple, they left. I shook my head. “That’s troubling, McGoo. I think I recognize the werewolf kid. He was part of the gang at the rumble a few months ago, Hairballs versus the Monthlies.