Working Stiff

by Kevin J. Anderson

  I picked up a spare program book at the registration desk. “Find Your Inner YOU!” Killing time, I flipped through the program listings. McGoo fidgeted, waiting.

  Fanble seemed optimistic. “We’re on the verge of solving this case, I know it—and I’m proud that I could help. Is there any better way of getting in character?” He grinned, then remembered his serious expression again. I had to admit, he was doing a decent job.

  The registrar’s fingers must have been nimble from her knitting. She flipped through all the cards quickly, pulling out every one that listed John Doe. “That’s all of them.”

  McGoo, Fanble, and I turned as she spread the cards as if they came from a Tarot deck. “All these were submitted at different times, all registered to a John Doe. He’s a very ambitious costumer.” She flipped one down. “Klingon, name of Ach-gLokh Heqht.” I was impressed by how well she pronounced the name.

  “501st stormtrooper, designated TK-10625. And a Dr. Who—Tom Baker Incarnation—oh, we have several of those here at the con.” She kept flipping down cards.

  “Old series cylon, toaster variety.” She pursued her lips. “Hmm. Honest Abe Van Helsing … one or two of those at the con as well, but he claims to be the real one.” She rolled her eyes, “Don’t they all? And …” She held up the last card, squinting down at it. “This is strange … he’s also dressed as Dan Shamble, Zombie PI.”

  McGoo looked at me. “What’s that all about?”

  A cold dread rose within me as I turned to look at Fanble. “You?”

  Startled, Fanble raised his hands. His fedora was askew. “No, not me! How could think it was me? It was one of those other guys!” He shook his head as if having a seizure. “That was someone else! They were all someone else!”

  “But you’re the one who called attention to John Doe in the first place,” I said, though I liked to think I would have figured it out myself sooner or later. “If you’re the murderer, why would you put us on the trail?”

  “Because that’s what Dan Shamble would do.”

  McGoo pulled out his handcuffs, crouched, and prepared for a fight.

  Fanble lurched away. His shoulders jittered, his arms flapped. His bullet-ridden sport jacket whipped about as he thrashed. His face blurred like melted putty, fuzzing, reshifting. He shook his head. “No, not me! Gotta stay in character … all the voices in my head!” He clapped both hands to his temples, knocking off the fedora. “Too many personalities. So many expectations!” His features shifted, twisted.

  After the cosmic upheaval of the Big Uneasy, just about every form of legendary creature had returned to the world, from basic garden-variety vampires, werewolves, et cetera, to the more exotic mythical beings, even including Santa Claus. After all my years of investigating in the Quarter, I was beyond being surprised when I figured it out. “You’re a shape-shifter.”

  “That would explain all the different characters,” McGoo said. “John Doe, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of TK-9399.”

  Fanble backed away, still twisting and writhing. Somehow, he found the energy within himself to snap back into character so that his features looked just like mine again. He reached inside his sport jacket and drew his .38—which I suspected was very real.

  The con chairman, Phil Somerstein, ran forward with an angry and annoyed look on his face. “Hey! That’s not properly peacebonded!”

  A large number of cosplay fans had gathered in the main lobby, many in costume, everyone excited for the impending masquerade. They gasped to see Fanble wave his gun. He pointed the .38 at me again.

  I took a chance, though. I saw how determined Fanble was, how hard he worked. His features were so eerily similar to mine it was like confronting myself in the mirror. Holding my hands up, trying to calm him, I stepped closer.

  Fanble yelled, “Don’t come any closer. I’ll shoot!”

  “I’ve been shot plenty of times.”

  Then the shape-shifter swung the gun toward the fans in the crowd. “Then I’ll shoot them.”

  I took another step forward. “But if you’re truly in character, as me, then you know I’d never shoot innocent people. Not humans, not unnaturals.”

  The crowd grew thicker around the tableau, redshirts, numerous incarnations of Dr. Who, Klingons, stormtroopers, cylons, Jedi Knights, Browncoats, Visitors, and countless anime, superhero, and videogame characters, even another faux Van Helsing, whose costume was much less impressive than the one I had seen on stage—the costume John Doe had worn.

  And it wasn’t just the cosplayers. The unnatural attendees from the Quarter were also caught in the crowd: real vampires, werewolves, even the dedicated mummy fan with his hieroglyphic Issue 0 Action Comics ashcan edition.

  Fanble’s .38 wavered. He swung it around the gathered crowd, then seemed to sulk like a marionette with the strings cut. “You’re right—Dan Shamble, Zombie PI would never do something like that.” He dropped the .38 on the floor, then shucked the sport jacket, stomped on the fedora—and his features began to morph in an extravagant transformation.

  As the flaccid flesh, skull, and facial features reorganized themselves, Fanble shifted through Tom Baker, then into a burly Klingon, thrashed about, and finally settled on a powerful and murderous character, someone who would not hesitate to harm innocent fans: Van Helsing—Honest Abe, ruthless vampire serial killer. His eyes flashed, his dark hair writhed. He drew his lips back to expose his teeth in a glare. “I’ll kill you all!”

  But despite his facial features, he didn’t have his full costume, didn’t have his tools or props.

  Before McGoo and I could bolt forward to seize him, though, my doppelganger lunged toward the crowd like a quarterback in a game. The fans yelled, trying to scramble away.

  Then I saw where he was headed. Van Helsing leaped toward the other Van Helsing cosplayer, knocking him to the ground and ripping at the wooden stakes thrust into his belt. He drew back, holding up one of the sharp projectiles.

  Trying to get away, the vampires in the crowd screamed, “Watch out! He’s got a stake!”

  Van Helsing’s hands blurred as if they were rapid-fire crossbows. He hurled his sharp projectiles at random into the crowd, and somehow every stake struck and injured a Star Trek redshirt, all of whom dropped to the ground, bleeding.

  Drawing my own .38, I yelled at McGoo. “As Van Helsing at least he’s human. We can take him down.”

  Realizing his vulnerability as a human, Van Helsing blurred and took on a different form, sprouting fur and massive muscles. His face elongated into a fang-filled canine muzzle and he became a powerful bull werewolf.

  I hesitated before I fired, but McGoo didn’t. He drew one of his two service revolvers. “I’ll just wing him,” he said.

  McGoo’s shot struck him in the shoulder, which flung the shape-shifter backward to the floor of the lobby. He thrashed about like an earthworm on a hotplate.

  “It’s just a flesh wound. I was careful—Nothing to worry about.”

  The shape-shifter didn’t react as if it were a minor injury, though. He wailed and spasmed, clearly dying.

  “What did you hit him with, McGoo?” I asked.

  “Uh-oh. Looks like John Doe picked the wrong cosplay creature this time.” He looked down at his service revolver. “This is the one loaded with silver bullets in case I get in a shootout against unnaturals.”

  The shape-shifter moaned and jittered, shed his werewolf persona, and lay twitching—a formless thing like a store mannequin whose features had melted away, gasping out of a round toothless mouth.

  He said something, and I bent close, still feeling a certain connection to the man—to the being—who had known and imitated me so well. John Doe gasped, “I couldn’t stand the pressure … I just wanted to be somebody … to be everybody.”

  With a last writhing rattle, the shape-shifter lost even its featureless humanoid form and dissolved into a puddle of organic goo that seeped into the StainGuard carpet of the motel lobby.

  I
stood next to McGoo, and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill him. Now there’ll be a lot of paperwork.” He sighed. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen a shape-shifter before.”

  I turned to him. “How would you ever know if you had?”

  The cylon con security guards came forward to help wrap up, and McGoo decided there was no further need for a lockdown. I realized that it was a good thing McGoo had coaxed me here in the first place.

  I felt sorry for Fanble. He had been so earnest, wanting to be the best “me” he could be. I often wondered who I really was inside, just an undead guy who liked to solve cases—was that enough? I had a wonderful (if ectoplasmic) girlfriend in Sheyenne, a great partner in Robin, a true friend in McGoo. I didn’t have a need to be anybody else. Zombie detective suited me just fine.

  Phil Somerstein announced that the CosplayCon Masquerade would take place in fifteen minutes, on schedule. He called out, “Photo opportunities in the side hall.”

  McGoo looked at me, adjusted his cap, and I adjusted my fedora. Both of us had to remain in character, of course. “I told you this would be fun, Shamble. Thanks for your help solving the case.”

  “It’s what I do,” I said. Maybe I’d call Sheyenne after all. She might enjoy this with me. The event ran all weekend.

  As people passed, Phil Somerstein handed out pre-registration cards for next year’s CosplayCon. Almost everybody took one.

  So did I.

  ***

  Beware of Dog

  1

  The snarling whirlwind of fur struck a quiet drinking establishment in the Unnatural Quarter just after happy hour. Rampaging destructive hairy beasts weren’t all that unusual in the Quarter, however—especially on a Saturday night.

  I wasn’t there in person, since my traditional watering hole is the Goblin Tavern, but witnesses described a tornado of claws and teeth. Luckily none of the patrons—neither monsters nor humans—were injured in the howling and smashing, but the New Deadwood Saloon was going to need a complete makeover (which it had needed for a long time anyway).

  Sheyenne heard about the incident on the police scanner, and only a few minutes later Officer Toby McGoohan called me to the scene. “Hey, Shamble, I could use your help.”

  A bar disturbance didn’t seem like something that would require the services of a zombie private investigator, but McGoo is my Best Human Friend, and friends help each other out. “I’ll be right there.”

  I tugged my fedora over the bullet hole in the center of my forehead (the formerly fatal wound that had left me a zombie detective instead of a regular detective) and donned my sport jacket with the prominently stitched-up bullet holes across the front. After tucking my .38 in its holster, I gave Sheyenne an air kiss (about all I could do with a ghost) and headed off to the New Deadwood Saloon.

  The place had batwing doors and an Old West feel—not surprising since the proprietor claimed to be the ghost of Wild Bill Hickok and could produce photo ID to prove it (complete with an olde tyme black-and-white photo on his driver’s license). Fake or not, he was a nice enough ghost with big handlebar mustache, leather vest, and bad ectoplasmic teeth from chewing too much ectoplasmic tobacco.

  The proprietor had opened up the saloon shortly after the Big Uneasy, and, claiming to have mellowed over time as the world settled down, he now preferred to be called Mild Bill.

  Now, standing outside the saloon and looking at all the destruction the hairy whirlwind had caused, the ghost put his hands on his hips. “Golly.”

  The wooden siding had been raked to splinters, windows smashed, one of the batwing doors ripped off its hinges, and the sign over the door knocked askew so that it dangled on one bent nail. The painted letters said NEW DEADWOOD SALON, with an extra “O” added by hand to correct the embarrassing typo in the last word.

  McGoo was already there in his beat cop uniform, notepad out, jotting down the reports of several witnesses: a half-unraveled mummy who looked as if he had tangled with the wild hairy beast, but on closer inspection I saw that he was just naturally disheveled; a dapper vampire, whose tuxedo vest was mis-buttoned by one and who looked as if he had imbibed too much Type AB negative mixed with Scotch; and a befuddled-looking human tourist in a golf cap who had obviously followed the wrong directions from his GPS.

  McGoo looked up at me and tipped his blue policeman’s cap. “I already called it in, Shamble. A code 10623A, Monster on the Loose (Hairy Variety).”

  I inspected the claw marks on the torn wooden siding, pulled out a few tufts of fur wedged in the cracks. “Nobody saw what it really was?”

  “No, siree,” said Mild Bill. “The thing was moving so fast—it tore up the place then ran off howling. Came in here like one of those Tasmanian devils you see in the nature documentaries.”

  “You mean in the cartoons,” I said.

  “Yeah, the animated documentaries. I watch them all the time. Somebody better catch it and put it on a leash.”

  McGoo pocketed his notebook. “We’re on it, Mild Bill. It’s not really my jurisdiction, but in the UQPD, the lines between animal control and law enforcement are a little fuzzy.”

  “Yup, that thing was fuzzy all right.” The cowboy ghost looked at the damaged façade of his establishment. “Shoot, I’ve needed to get a new sign for years. You can’t imagine how much ribbing I get for the Deadwood Salon. Next time I’ll check the work before I hang the sign.”

  McGoo was clearly done with everything he could do here. “Can you help me out, Shamble? We better catch this thing before it causes any more damage.”

  He knew I’d agree. “Sure thing, McGoo. The cases don’t solve themselves.”

  2

  The monster shouldn’t have been hard to track down, since a rampaging furball on the loose tends to draw attention. But no one saw the beast for the rest of the night.

  Sometimes, though, an obvious lead walks right through the front door.

  Next morning, I was in my office, looking over the files Sheyenne had put on my desk, while Robin met with clients in her office.

  Robin is on a crusade to see that unnaturals receive justice, but despite the exotic clientele most of our cases actually turn out to be pretty mundane. This morning, she met with a bickering ghost couple who wanted an easy, no-fault divorce. Robin intended to file on the basis that the “till death do us part” vow set a quantifiable time limit on the contract, and therefore made the marriage of two ghosts no longer binding. I could tell from their squabbling—which Sheyenne and I heard even through Robin’s closed door—that nothing about the divorce would be simple.

  And then a real-life legend barged into our offices. He was a burly werewolf with thick dark fur starting to turn gray at the temples and around the muzzle. He wore a dark, shabby-looking suit and a thin black tie, something a government agent might wear, or a police detective.

  Or a retired police detective.

  Or a retired legendary, rogue cop who had become a folk hero in the Unnatural Quarter.

  I had seen his furry face on the news, on a poster in the UQ Police Department precinct house, even on action figures and comics. It took me a moment to recognize him, then another moment to get over my surprise.

  I lurched out of my office, embarrassed that acted like one of those stumbling zombies rather than the well-preserved one I prided myself in being. I extended my cold hand. “You’re Hairy Harry!”

  He bristled. “Yes, I am, punk.” His clawed hands clenched into fists, and his muscles bulged in his suit, but then the low growl faded in his throat. “I don’t like attention, especially after the … incident.” Hairy Harry had left the police force under the shadow of scandal, something terrible about the death of his rookie human partner, but I didn’t know the details. “I’m retired now, keep a low profile. Just want a normal life—but they won’t leave me alone.”

  Beautiful Sheyenne levitated from behind her desk. “Could I get you something to drink, Mr. Harry? Coffee, tea, soda?”

  “Got any bourb
on?”

  “Afraid not,” I said. “I’m a beer man myself, and I do my drinking outside of the office.”

  Hairy Harry’s bristly eyebrows rose. “What kind of private investigator doesn’t have a bottle stashed in his desk drawer?”

  “A zombie private investigator,” I said. “How can I help you?”

  “I came to you, Mr. Shamble, because you’re a legend yourself—I figured you must be good with all those books about your cases.”

  “Based on my cases,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Fictionalized.”

  “Right,” growled Hairy Harry. “Most of the stories about me were fictionalized, too. Didn’t stop people from believing them. Right now I need a detective, and even a zombie will do.” The restless werewolf cop prowled around the reception area. “My pet hellhound is on the loose, and I need to get him back before somebody gets hurt.”

  Thinking of the snarling furry beast that had wrecked the New Deadwood Saloon, I thought that was a definite possibility.

  Sheyenne said, “What’s the hellhound’s name?”

  “Lucky,” said Hairy Harry. “It’s an ugly world out there full of punks and dirtbags. He must be lost and lonely.” His glowing yellow eyes focused on me. “I want you to find him, Mr. Shamble. I’ll pay whatever it takes—just remember I’m on a cop’s pension.”

  “We can work out payment plans,” said Sheyenne, who was always business minded.

  “Do you think Lucky just ran off?” I asked.

  Hairy Harry seemed offended. “A loyal dog like Lucky? He’s my guard hellhound. I suspect foul play. Come to my house and have a look at the crime scene. His doggy door was jimmied open—some sadistic pervert nabbed him.”

  3

  Hairy Harry lived in an old, quiet residential neighborhood with a lot of old, quiet, residential neighbors. His house was a modest brick rancher with aluminum awnings over the windows, shrubs that needed trimming, a small lawn that was mowed under duress, and a flowerbed that seemed to grow only dirt. I couldn’t imagine a larger-than-life rogue cop planting petunias … pushing up daisies was more likely. The back yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence, probably a place for the dog to run.