Services Rendered: The Cases of Dan Shamble, Zombie

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Sheyenne said in a sour voice, “If Beaux can do anything for you, I’ll send you a bill.”

  III

  Quiet days may be boring, but they’re much better than getting shot at or having limbs torn off by angry monsters (yes, I have had those kinds of days). At the end of a slow afternoon, I headed off to the Goblin Tavern to sit at my usual bar stool and have my usual warm flat beer with my Best Human Friend, Officer Toby McGoohan, also known as McGoo. I arrived just in time for the start of Unhappy Hour.

  The Goblin Tavern is a fixture in the Quarter, a regular hangout for monsters of all sorts, including zombie detectives and beat cops who’ve been transferred here because they couldn’t get along with their human coworkers. The Goblin Tavern is a place where everybody knows your name and doesn’t hold it against you.

  McGoo sat on his regular stool. He’s a beat cop, dressed in the usual UQPD blue uniform and cap. He supposedly works regular hours, though I could never figure out what they were. He always seemed to be around, often when I needed him, often when we needed a drink.

  “Hey, Shamble,” he said as I walked through the door. The light inside the tavern was dim, but so was the light outside, so my eyes adjusted quickly.

  Four vampire teenagers stood around the pool table, taking care to use plastic cues rather than the more dangerous pointed wooden variety. Two zombies of the rotting-and-falling-apart sort attempted to throw darts at the dartboard but managed to hit only the floor or each other. A zombie hurled a dart so hard that one of his fingers came off. The tumbling finger hit the bullseye, while the dart thumped against the wall.

  Francine the salty bartender was a woman in her late fifties with a complexion going on 100, but she covered it with enough makeup to look like a teenager on prom night. Seeing me enter, she automatically swung toward the beer taps and began filling a mug for me. McGoo grinned and patted the bar stool next to him. “All ready for you, Shamble.”

  It’s nice to feel at home.

  When I looked down, I saw he had placed a pink plastic bladder on the wooden seat, a painfully obvious whoopee cushion. “You expect me to sit on that?”

  “Just wanted to relieve a little pressure. You seem to be outgassing all the time anyway.” He chuckled and took a long slurp of his beer.

  Francine set my mug in front of me. “Anything dangerous going on in the Quarter, Mr. Shamble?”

  “Nothing much to worry about today.” I looked up at the TV, where a commercial for this year’s Miss Unnatural pageant caught my attention. The cheap advertisement flashed pictures of foxy werewolves, zombies, or vampire women wearing sparkly gowns, special jewelry, even scanty swimsuits that revealed a lot of fur, pale skin, or scales, something for everyone. “Beauty comes in all forms!” said the commercial.

  I used my beer mug to point at the TV. “We just got a client connected to that contest, but it’s a legal thing, discrimination case with a Medusa. Robin’s on it. I’ve got a light caseload.”

  McGoo drank his beer, pondering. “Hey, Shamble, what’s a Medusa’s favorite cheese?”

  I didn’t see the trap. “I don’t know, what’s a Medusa’s favorite cheese?”

  “Gorgonzola!”

  I didn’t even groan. “You must have had a quiet day, too, if you have time to think up dumb jokes like that.”

  “Walking my beat gives me plenty of time to think,” McGoo replied. “Right now I don’t have any urgent cases, just the usual missing persons.”

  “Seems like there are always missing persons around the Quarter,” I said.

  McGoo put his elbows on the bar. “I don’t understand how monsters can misplace themselves so often. We’ve been getting reports of young unnatural men vanishing, but not the usual seedy types. These are quiet, single, upstanding males, no criminal record—shy, nerdy types. Ten of them disappeared in the past couple of weeks.” He slurped his beer again, and I saw I needed to hurry if I was going to catch up. “Since we have so many missing unnaturals, I think we should start a Lost-and-Found Department rather than Missing Persons.”

  “Send me the files of the missing young men and I’ll keep an eye out for them,” I said. I put my elbows on the bar and drank my beer, just like him. “I don’t have much going on right now.”

  “Good.” McGoo raised his now-empty mug to get Francine’s attention. “Then you have time to buy me a second round.”

  IV

  When the shouting started in the meeting, the members of the Miss Unnatural pageant committee were loud enough to make you wish you knew how to spell the word “cacophony.”

  Robin had set up the meeting at our offices for the day after we had met the Medusa, summoning the pageant committee on threat of legal action. Those last five words usually provoked an immediate response. Our new client wore a different sequined cocktail gown and a fresh paper bag on her head. This time, Alexandra had used a large paper punch to cut perfect round holes for her eyes, as well as others for ventilation for her hair serpents.

  The four members of the pageant committee also served as the panel of judges. Sheila was a blond-haired harpy whose disposition made PMS seem a delightful alternative. Her name had an intrinsic built-in shriek when she introduced herself as Sheeeeeeee-ila! She was a past Miss Unnatural herself, which made her arrogant and judgmental of the less-adequate contestants. Next to her sat a prim blue-haired old lady named Eleanor, who had her hair done up so perfectly that it took me a moment to realize she was a zombie.

  Lewis, a dapper broad-shouldered werewolf with lush brown fur wore a pinstripe suit and seemed quite erudite and proper, like a butler who had inherited all of his master’s wealth. The last committee member was a big gray golem with clay features, a smooth bare chest, and a round head like a basketball, with indentations for eyes. He was the quietest of the four, but when he spoke his words came out in a deep rumbling voice. He was either keenly interested or just a lump of soft rock. His name was Egnort.

  The pageant committee arrived at 1:00 sharp, responding to the summons that Robin insisted was merely a “polite invitation.” After Sheyenne led them into the conference room, Lewis got down to business before they even sat down. “We have a great deal of work to finish before the pageant tomorrow night. What is this all about?”

  “Legal action!” shrieked Sheila. “How dare you threaten legal action! We run a clean contest! Even I was Miss UQ! The pageant’s reputation is flawless, just ask any of our sponsors!”

  “Lots of pretty ladies,” Egnort muttered as he slumped into the groaning chair.

  They all noticed our client sitting at the far end of the table, glaring at them through the eye holes in the brown paper bag.

  Robin made her case calmly, threatening to expose the obvious discrimination in court before a jury of unnatural peers. In a normal, rational world, the committee would have seen the error of their ways, but the world hadn’t been rational since the Big Uneasy changed all the rules of magic and monsters. On the other hand, I didn’t recall the world ever being normal and rational, with or without monsters.

  Sheila’s shriek was loud enough to rattle the windows in the conference room. Lewis growled deep in his throat, and the golem shook the whole table by pounding with his hefty fist. The blue-haired old zombie lady made no noise whatsoever, but I’m sure she was thinking unkind thoughts.

  Sheyenne hovered next to me, worried, and she whispered in my ear, “It’s all right, Beaux. I had them sign the glass-breakage disclaimer.”

  With monster tempers flaring, I was more worried about Robin-breakage than glass breakage.

  Alexandra rose to her feet and all her serpents stood erect, hissing. Muffled by the paper bag, she said, “But I am beautiful! I want people to see me. I want people to judge me as the most beautiful woman in the Quarter! You can’t discriminate against my entire race!”

  “It’s a clear case of bias,” Robin said, gently urging the Medusa to sit back down. “None of you can argue with that. It doesn’t matter how beautiful Alexandra is, as
long as she thinks she has a chance. It’s her right.”

  “Let me show you how beautiful I am!” Alexandra grabbed the paper bag, but Robin nearly tackled her, tugging the covering back in place. Sheila and Eleanor quickly averted their eyes, and Lewis howled. The golem just sat there grinning with his big clay lips.

  “Calm down,” I said. “We’re talking about a beauty pageant. No need for this to get ugly.”

  Robin picked up her yellow legal pad and tapped the pencil on the notes. “The law is clear in matters like this, I’m afraid. The rules of your pageant prevent Alexandra from being a contestant for no other reason than who she is. No jury in the world would disagree with us.”

  I didn’t point out that any jury would be turned to stone if Alexandra ever testified.

  Eleanor explained in a thin church-lady voice, “We also exclude males as a general class of contestants. Is that discriminatory, too, Ms. Deyer?”

  “And hermaphrodites,” Lewis added. “As well as genderless nonsexual entities.”

  Egnort sounded disappointed. “That’s why you don’t see any golem contestants.”

  “Do they even make female golems?” I wondered aloud.

  Egnort used his big hands to rearrange his chest to produce a remarkable pair of breasts. “Depends on where you squish the clay.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “I didn’t need to see that.”

  “Medusas have rights!” Alexandra insisted. “This is why I hired Ms. Deyer.”

  All four judges were clearly exasperated. “Talk all you like about rights, miss, but what does it mean?” Sheila cried. “Even if we allowed her on stage, what is a Medusa going to do during the bikini contest?”

  Robin made a disgusted sound. “The bikini contest is intrinsically exploitative.”

  The old zombie lady calmly explained, “This isn’t a theoretical question, Ms. Deyer. We have to exclude Medusas for reasons of public safety. In a similar rule, we cannot allow banshees to compete in the singing contest. It’s just too dangerous.”

  “Public safety is paramount,” Lewis said.

  Alexandra’s snakes twitched and hissed. Behind the brown paper bag, I knew the Medusa must be wearing a very pissy expression.

  Robin remained indignant. “You’d better find some accommodation for my client to compete just like any other unnatural.” She reached over to give the Medusa’s wrist a reassuring pat. “Put up gauzy curtains or filmy screens, something to decrease the stone potency, but which will still allow her to be a contestant.”

  “How can we do that?” shrieked Sheila. “The contest is tomorrow night!” The other committee members shifted uncomfortably.

  “You’d better think fast,” I said.

  V

  The unnatural beauty contest got me thinking about the quiet, nerdy young men on McGoo’s missing persons/lost-and-found list, and that made me remember Neffi’s complaints about the Monster Match dating service. It occurred to me that lonely monster singles would be more likely to sign up for a dating service than venture into the frightening unnatural singles-bar scene or a brothel, no matter how many coupons Neffi gave out.

  While Robin furiously filed motions, sent angry letters, and did incomprehensible legal jousting (give me my .38 or a good fistfight any day) on the Medusa’s behalf, I had Sheyenne look up the address for Monster Match. Then I quickly explained that I didn’t intend to sign up as a client.

  The dating service headquarters was a room not much larger than a broom closet, a small rented spot in a larger office building. Many such services would have been nothing more than a “suite number,” which really meant a P.O. Box in a shipping store. Monster Match was a real, physical space with a receptionist, a manager, and an in-house data specialist. All three were the same person, a short balding human with a round head, a round face, a round nose, and a round belly.

  He smiled politely up at me as I stepped into the cramped office. I barely had enough room to close the door behind me with only two feet of space between the door and the desk of the receptionist/manager/IT guy.

  “Welcome to Monster Match!” he said, sizing me up, noting my fedora, my grayish skin, the bullet hole in my forehead, the stitched-up sports jacket. “I’m so glad you came in person. Our new clients are often shy, but I can assure you we have many fine matches, many lovely zombie women, or other unnaturals?” He raised his eyebrows, which made his naked forehead wrinkle all the way to the top of his head. “If you’re more adventurous, we have other types as well, same sex, same species, same level of decay. Something for everyone.” Before I could stop him, he pulled out a clipboard with a new application form. He introduced himself as Terry Bookings.

  I cut him off by showing him my private investigator’s license. “I’m just here doing a little investigation.” I handed him a business card, which he studied carefully.

  “Hmm, still sounds exciting. Are you single? A zombie private investigator would look great on your profile.”

  “I’m already romantically haunted. This is strictly business.” I tried to explain in a way that didn’t contain too many lies or exaggerations. “I often assist the UQPD in some of their missing-persons investigations, and I’m also trying to head off a potential business dispute between you and the Full Moon brothel.”

  Terry Bookings frowned. “Oh, I wouldn’t go near a place like that. I prefer my dates to be safe, distant electronic contact. Most of our clients are shy, especially the members of our gold-level Very Lonely Hearts Club.”

  That sounded strange. “Monster Match doesn’t arrange actual dates in person?”

  “Oh, only in our elite packages. Many clients are too shy to do anything but interact on social media or by email. Eventually, though, some of them find the nerve to venture out of the shadows and meet their soul mates.”

  “This might be a stretch, but a string of young men from exactly that demographic have gone missing in the Quarter.” I explained what McGoo had told me in the Goblin Tavern. “They were all quiet, single, and lived alone.”

  “Precisely our clientele.” Bookings grinned. “But such people aren’t exactly rare. You’d be surprised many lonely monsters there are. It’s all about finding the right person, and Monster Match expedites that process. With so many terrifying things in the world, the most terrifying thing of all is finding the right soul mate.”

  I was curious about this man and his motivations. “Are you married yourself, Mr. Bookings? Do you have a certain special partner?” I wondered if his own soul mate was human like himself, or something else entirely.

  Switching to his IT and database-management persona, Bookings patted the computer keyboard behind him. “I have my database.”

  I kept taking mental notes. “I’m surprised a human would run a dating service for unnaturals. What drew you to romance and monsters?” There was nothing particularly suspicious about that. Robin, too, had set up shop in the Quarter because she wanted justice for all monsters, and I had come here as a human detective—when I was still alive—because I’d seen a good business opportunity.

  “Every heart needs love, whether or not it’s still beating,” said Bookings. “This was an untapped niche market, a very big niche … a bottomless pit, in fact. The natural world already has highly specialized dating services that help people find hookups among their chosen set—sanitation workers only, butchers only, bankers only, manicurists only. So why not monsters only? Monster Match has been amazingly successful, if only unnaturals would stop being so shy.”

  “Maybe you can check your list of clients?” I pulled out the names of the ten missing persons McGoo had told me about. “Just to see if there’s any connection. We need to find these people.”

  Now Bookings became stern. “We have privacy concerns and confidentiality issues, Mr. Chambeaux. I am not allowed to reveal the names of my clients.”

  Robin had taught me that you can always find a loophole. “Maybe you could just check them out yourself while I fill out this form?” I took the clipb
oard from him. “If you don’t see anything odd, then you don’t have to tell me.”

  I saw no place to sit down, or barely even turn around in the closet-sized office, so I stepped back six inches and leaned against the wall. I used the pen on the clipboard to start filling in my name. Bookings struggled with the idea, and then went into his IT-specialist persona. Looking at the names on the missing-persons list, he began to scroll through his client database. I wasn’t sure he would tell me anything, but I reminded myself this had been a long shot no matter what.

  I’d barely finished writing my name in the first line of the form before Bookings muttered in surprise as he checked one after another on the Monster Match listings. “Hmmm, these are indeed clients, Mr. Chambeaux. All ten of them.” He pulled up more details of the profiles, sounding quite concerned. I was relieved not to fill out the rest of the form.

  “All ten are gold-level clients, the ones who got up the nerve to request a real in-person date. That’s quite rare.” He pulled up profile after profile. “Young vampire men, mummies, werewolves, ghouls.” When I leaned closer, he hunched his shoulders so I couldn’t see details on the screen.

  “We set them up with their perfect match, a lonely unnatural female who hit all their special criteria.” Bookings shook his head. “But after the dates, they never bothered to post a review. Do you know how impossible it is to get your clients to post a review?” He sounded exasperated. “That’s always been a problem. I mean, how difficult is it to go on the site, type a few sentences, give us five stars? It means a lot to our business, but they just don’t care.” He huffed. “And after their one in-person date, none of those ten renewed their weekly membership. Not a one!” He sighed. “I do wish I could have helped those Very Lonely Hearts find romance. I wonder what went wrong.”

  With all ten missing young men connected with Monster Match, that was a clue even a zombie detective couldn’t ignore. “And who were their dates with? Is there any connection? Maybe she … or he, or it knows something.”