Undead Agent

by Gary Jonas

  She gave her head an exasperated shake. “Point?”

  “So you’re into history. Any particular area?”

  “No. And just so you know, I don’t have daddy issues, so if you’re trying to hit on me…”

  “You’re far too young for me,” I said. “And no offense, but I’m not the least bit interested in you for anything other than information.”

  She blinked, bored now, and clearly wanting to get back to her magazine, but I was a customer, and her job required her to interact with guests.

  “Did you know that Joan of Arc’s ghost has been spotted in this very hotel?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Congratulations,” she said. “I hadn’t heard that one. Wouldn’t her ghost be in France?”

  “Probably. Maybe I shouldn’t believe everything I read on the internet.”

  “True dat,” she said.

  “But I did make you laugh. Mission accomplished.” I turned to leave.

  “Mr. Shade?” she said.

  I glanced back. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. If you need anything while you’re staying with us, please let me know.”

  “You bet.” I held up a finger. “How much do you know about local legends?”

  She shrugged. “Depends.”

  “Have you heard of Madame Rousseau?”

  She nodded. “Voodoo Queen.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Steer clear,” she said. “Someone like you should maybe go to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo and call it a day.”

  “Someone like me? What does that mean?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you strike me as a bit of a smartass.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Stick with the tourist areas. Don’t go looking for the real voodoo.”

  “Real voodoo?”

  “Madame Rousseau is serious about her craft. You don’t go messing with someone like her. Not if you want to go home to wherever it is you came from.”

  “She has a bit of a reputation, eh?”

  “She’s the real deal. No one messes with her.”

  “I wasn’t looking to mess with her,” I said.

  “You’d smirk and make some wiseass remark, and that would be the last anyone ever saw of you. Cops won’t go to her neighborhood. Stick to the safe places.”

  “Right.”

  “One more tip for you. If anyone asks where you got your shoes, just say New Orleans.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been here before,” I said.

  The ghost of an old man walked through the wall behind her. He wore a civil war uniform. At first, I thought he was short, but then I saw that from his calves on down he was wading in the floor.

  “Cool, this place really is haunted.”

  The ghost looked at me.

  I waved.

  Veronica started to wave to me, but shivered and looked over her shoulder. “There’s that damn draft again.”

  “Some old man ghost has his hand on your shoulder,” I said, and winked at her. “But don’t worry, he looks harmless.”

  “You can see me?” the old man ghost asked, adjusting his confederate jacket.

  I met his gaze and held it for a moment. “See you around,” I said, and walked away.

  “See you,” Veronica said, thinking I was referring to her.

  “Come back,” the old man said. “It’s been so long since anyone talked to me!”

  He followed me toward the elevator, but came up short in the middle of the lobby.

  “Please don’t go!” he yelled.

  I turned and walked back to him. No one was watching me, so I took out my phone and pretended to have it on speaker. If anyone looked, I was just another person talking to a phone.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Reginald. Thank you so much for coming back.”

  “You have a fifteen foot leash from where you died, or are you tied to something around here?”

  “My bones are buried under the floor. My wife shot me in the back. She didn’t mean to do it. We were accosted by a Union soldier, and—” He stopped and shook his head. “But that isn’t important right now.”

  “It’s important to you.”

  “How is it you can see me?”

  “I’ve died a few times,” I said.

  He nodded. “Once was enough for me.”

  “How many ghosts are there in the hotel?”

  “Just me and Genevieve, but she only speaks French.”

  “All right, Reginald. Do you want to stay here, or do you want me to set you free?”

  “My bones are part of the foundation. That’s why I can’t get my feet up to the floor.”

  “I can still set you free.”

  “Free as in able to roam the world? Or free as in gone from existence.”

  He’d been dead so long, he wasn’t likely to be able to get into the Underworld, and nothing I’ve seen suggests there’s a heaven, so I shot straight with him. “The latter.”

  “I think I’d rather exist,” he said. “I just want someone to talk to.”

  “All right. I have some business to attend to, but I’ll come down in a bit.” I nodded toward a couple of chairs on either side of a small table in the lobby. “Are those chairs within your range?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I said. “See you then.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.”

  “My name is Jonathan.”

  “Thank you, Jonathan. This means the world to me.”

  “Everyone should have someone to talk to,” I said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My hotel window looked out at a wall and a parking lot. So much for a nice view of the French Quarter.

  I unpacked my bag, opened one of the complimentary water bottles, and sat on the bed. It was almost four o’clock, which made it almost five in New York. I pulled out my phone and called Monica.

  She surprised me by answering. “What do you need, little brother?”

  “Are you still at the office?”

  “For another ten minutes or so.”

  “Do you have an address for Islande Rousseau?”

  “You’re mispronouncing her name. It’s Eeslonda.”

  “French for Iceland?” I asked.

  “Haitian name, Jonathan.”

  “I knew that.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I do now. Do you have an address?”

  “I’m giving you shit while I look.”

  “I didn’t call for you to give me shit. You already did that by siccing that Doris Tanner lady on me.”

  “Better you than us. She got two of my independent investigators killed.”

  “So you sent her to me,” I said. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Because I know you have Kelly to protect you.”

  “She’s still in Chicago.”

  “Then don’t be like the Nordens. I don’t have an address for Islande. I do have a cell number for her daughter, Tara, though.”

  “Cool. Text it to me.”

  “No. Write it down.”

  “Bossy much?” I got up and went to the table where room service menus and a New Orleans Magazine were stacked beside a pad of paper and a pen with the hotel name and number on it.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  “Yep. Fire when ready.”

  She gave me the number. “Jonathan?” she said. “Don’t mouth off to Madame Rousseau.”

  “Would I do a thing like that?”

  “Just don’t.”

  “Any other tips?”

  “Make sure Doris’s check clears before you start working.”

  “Way ahead of you on that one.”

  “One more thing.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Don’t sleep with Madame Rousseau’s daughter.”

  “You think you have to tell me that?”

  “Yes. She looks a lot like Zoe Saldana.”

  “Oh,” I said
, finding the prospect of meeting Tara to be a lot more pleasant now.

  When I got off the phone with Monica, I placed a call to Tara.

  She didn’t answer, so I left a message. “This is Jonathan Shade, and I was referred to you by Dragon Gate Industries. If you can return my call, I’d greatly appreciate it. Thank you so much.” I left my number and hung up.

  I tossed the phone on the desk, thought about going down to talk to Reginald, but figured I should give Tara time to return my call first. It hadn’t been an hour yet. I picked up the TV remote, and was just about to power it on when my phone rang. It was Tara’s number.

  “This is Jonathan Shade, master of the myriad arts,” I said by way of answering.

  “I thought that was Doctor Strange,” she said.

  “No, he handles the mystic arts. And Bruce Lee handled the martial arts, so I took what was left over.”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding uncertain that she should have bothered returning my call. “This is Tara Rousseau. You mentioned DGI, so what can I do for you?”

  “I need to set up a meeting with your mother.”

  “Are you working for DGI?” she asked.

  “I’m more DGI adjacent,” I said. “They occasionally refer cases my way, and this is one of those. Your mother may have some information that would help.”

  “She’s very busy, and she’s not particularly fond of DGI.”

  “I’m right there with her on that front. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I didn’t want this case, and I only took it because I’m hoping your mother might be able to help a friend of mine.”

  “As we’ve been talking, I looked you up. Are you the Jonathan Shade from Shade Investigations in Denver, Colorado?”

  “Formerly.”

  “According to the internet, you’ve been dead for ten years.”

  “What can I say? Like Mark Twain, the report of my death was an exaggeration.”

  “I thought that was Paul McCartney,” she said.

  Yes, I admit it; my first thought was that she fit my parameters for dating. My second thought was that it was a reference to Abbey Road and Doris Tanner had received that album cover warning.

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sorry. Tell you what,” I said. “Meet me for lunch tomorrow, and if I pass your inspection, you can set up an appointment for me with your mother.”

  “No,” she said. “I have plans for lunch already. I’ll meet you for drinks instead. I’m not sure what time, so I’ll have to give you a call.”

  “Works for me.”

  “I’m looking at an article in The Denver Post that says you were shot in the head and killed.”

  “All right, I confess. I did die. But I came back.”

  She drew a deep breath and held it. “I’m intrigued,” she finally said. “I suppose tomorrow is Meet a Dead Guy for Drinks Day.”

  I liked her already. The Zoe Saldana resemblance was going to be a bonus.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tara didn’t call me until nearly four the next afternoon. That was good because I’d talked to Reginald for hours, so I slept in. I spent part of the day doing research on Madame Rousseau, but there wasn’t much reliable information online about her. I looked into her son, Emmanuel Rousseau, who died in 2013. He’d been spotted in 2014, but the police report suggested a case of mistaken identity. Nothing since then.

  So I looked up Paul Tanner, who worked for the FBI from 1992 until his death in 2018. Doris claimed he’d quit the Bureau, but the discrepancy didn’t mean anything. The internet isn’t exactly a bastion of truth.

  I ran down some leads on his movements from a month ago, but came up empty. The people I talked to all remembered Sam and Charles Norden, who had followed the same trail a few weeks before me.

  I was about ready to head back to my hotel when Tara called. As I had her number in my phone, I answered, “Shade Investigations, for English press one, para Español, presiona dos.”

  “I’ll meet you at Kinky McStagger’s Pub at five-thirty,” she said.

  “No hello, how are you?” I asked, but she hung up on me before I could finish my question.

  Well, at least she called.

  I Googled the pub and caught an Uber as it was a couple miles away.

  I arrived at Kinky McStaggers Pub a few minutes early, and went inside.

  The decor looked like it had been directly transplanted from a nineteenth century Irish pub. Dark woods formed the bar, tables, and chairs. Bottles of booze stacked on shelves on either side of a large mirror.

  An old man tended bar. He glanced at me as I entered, gave me a nod, then returned his focus to his customers at the counter.

  The pub was about half full. No music played. Just people sitting at tables or at the bar sharing conversations. If not for the air conditioning, they could have stepped back through time.

  I took a seat at the bar.

  “Be right with you,” the bartender said.

  A sign on the mirror read, I’m somewhat of a bullshitter myself, but occasionally I like to listen to an expert. Please carry on.

  “What can I get you, good sir?”

  “Guinness,” I said.

  “Coming right up.”

  “Thanks. What’s with the name Kinky?” I asked.

  The bartender slid a pint of Guinness across the bar. “Kinky was me great-grand pappy’s nickname.”

  “Like the country singer and writer, Kinky Friedman?”

  “Don’t know that lad. Ol’ Kinky, he earned his name, he did. His exploits are the thing of legend. Why, one time, back in 1978 I think it was, he gussied himself up right good for a double date with a couple of red-haired lassies who had a sexy little trick they did with ping pong balls…”

  Before I could find out about the trick, a lovely young woman who really did look a lot like Zoe Saldana stepped into the pub. She wore Caribbean garb, and she spotted me instantly.

  She frowned, and pointed to an empty table toward the back.

  “Sorry,” I said to the bartender. “I’m with her.”

  The old man threw a towel over his shoulder and gave me a wink. “Watch yourself, laddie, that one’s got the touch.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” I said, “but I appreciate the warning.”

  “Laddie,” the bartender said, and slid a glass of amber liquid to the edge of the bar. “For the lass.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and handed him some cash.

  I carried the drinks to the table.

  “Hello, Tara,” I said. “I’m Jonathan Shade.”

  “I know who you are.” She accepted the amber drink and raised the glass to the bartender. “Thank you, Brendan.”

  “Tell Mama hello for me,” Brendan said.

  “What do you want with Mama?” Tara asked me.

  “Right to the point,” I said. “I like that.”

  “I like the sound of my feet walking away from a bullshitter.”

  I thought about the sign over the bar, but realized this woman would not be amused. “I need your mother’s help.”

  “Doing what?” She glanced at the door, then met my gaze.

  “I just need some information from her.”

  “What information?”

  “I should really talk to her directly.”

  Tara rolled her eyes, and started to get up. “My feet are about to walk me away, Jonathan Shade.”

  “I’m authorized to make a generous donation to your mother’s bank account.”

  “Truth be told, Mama isn’t my mother. She’s my grandmother. Maybe even my great-great grandmother.”

  “The money will spend regardless,” I said. “And I’m willing to pay you an introduction fee.”

  “How much?”

  “Hundred bucks?” I pulled out five twenties and held them up.

  She snatched the cash away and shoved the bills into a hidden pocket. Then she sat down.

  “We can finish our drinks,” she said. Her eyes drifted t
oward the door again.

  “You expecting company?” I asked.

  “Don’t sweat it, Jonathan Shade.”

  “Just Jonathan.”

  “I like saying your full name,” she said, and batted her eyelashes. She threw in a hair flip as well.

  “You’re playing me,” I said.

  “You’re the one who wanted to meet.”

  “I really just need to talk to Madame Rousseau.”

  “We’ll see.” Her eyes went to the door again, and this time, they didn’t come back to me.

  I turned to look.

  Three large men entered the pub. They wore all black and sported angry expressions. One of them pointed at me.

  “There he is.”

  The men crossed the floor toward our table.

  Tara frowned. “Looks like you’re in a spot of trouble, Jonathan Shade.”

  “Well, what have we here?” asked the leader of the men.

  “Um, can I help you gentlemen?” I asked, looking up at them.

  The leader cocked a thumb at his chest. “My name is Mr. Andrews.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Andrews,” I said.

  “I doubt it,” Andrews said, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. He tightened his grip. “You’re in my seat.”

  I gave him a smile. “I guess I didn’t see the seating chart posted anywhere.”

  The second man took up a position on my other side. He smacked a fist into his palm.

  Brendan pounded on the bar, and called out to them. “No violence in here, lads. You want to fight, you take it outside.”

  “Ain’t gonna be a fight,” Andrews said, and looked at me. “Ain’t that right?”

  “I’m all about peace, love, and understanding,” I said.

  The third man moved around the table to stand in front of Tara. “You’re keeping out of this,” he said, pointing at her.

  Tara smiled at him. “I just met this clown.”

  “Good.”

  “Depends on how you look at it,” Tara said, and held up a little bag tied with string. Two words were scrawled on the bag: Bad Mojo.

  The man blinked twice. “Uh, Hank?”

  But Hank Andrews kept his focus on me. “Ain’t just the seat that’s mine. I got dibs on the hot young lady here.”

  “Hank!”

  Andrews turned to his wingmen. “I’m talkin’ here, Franklin.”

  Franklin pointed to the hex bag in Tara’s hand. Tara grinned as she started to pull on the string to open the bag.