Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  She didn’t seem to mind seeing a zombie at her front door, but McGoo’s uniform gave her sudden pause. “Oh, my! You’re here about my boy, aren’t you?”

  He bent down so he could meet her at eye level. “Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid he’s in a lot of trouble. If you know his whereabouts, it would be best if you convinced him to give himself up.”

  I crouched down beside McGoo. “Is he here?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen my poor boy in months.” Remembering her manners, for lawn gnomes are invariably polite, she invited us inside. The door was so small that McGoo and I ducked to enter the house, and the ceilings were low enough that we had to hunch on the diminutive sofa. She offered us tea, but we politely declined. Seeing our discomfort in the cramped domicile, she led us outside. “Come into my garden. We’ll have more elbow room there.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Both of us seem to have big elbows.”

  Mama Bignome’s lavish garden was well tended. She took off her gardening gloves and set them next to a small trowel. She had birdbaths, gazing globes, sundials, statues of satyrs and fauns. Wind chimes dangled from a rowan tree. Toadstools three feet high were propped at decorative angles. All the flowers were in bloom: marigolds, gladiolas, snapdragons. A large Venus flytrap whimpered “Feed me!” over and over again, but Mama Bignome paid no attention to it.

  “Lovely garden, ma’am,” McGoo said. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were growing long.

  “It’s just a hobby. An old woman needs something to occupy her time, especially now that the house is empty. I have no grandchildren, not even a son who visits his lonely old mother.” She wiped a tear from her painted eye.

  “You may not be aware of this, ma’am, but your son has fallen in with a bad gang. He’s been involved in numerous robberies,” McGoo said. “We’re hoping you can give us some clues about where his hideout might be.”

  “He was such a good boy. You have to believe me.” She wandered among the shrubs, plucking out weeds, straightening gravel on the walking paths. “I’m a failure as a mother. I tried to raise him right, but since he didn’t have a father, no role model to look up to . . .” She sniffled again.

  I heard a thrumming sound like a spinning fan, and three creatures darted into the garden, hovering over the bright flowers. At first I thought they were large hummingbirds, but when they alighted on a bush I could see the slender, shapely feminine bodies, the pastel green clothes, the long, multifaceted wings.

  “Fairies,” I said. “You don’t see them often here in the Quarter—too urban.”

  Mama Bignome’s ceramic face crinkled in a twinge of disgust. The fairies chirped and hummed, bouncing up and down as they flitted around her, but the matronly lawn gnome swatted at them. She picked up her hand trowel and slashed the air like a ghetto knife fighter.

  The fairies dodged and danced, blinking large, soulful eyes at her. They sang, they tinkled, they cooed, exuding heartwarming sympathy, but Mama Bignome was having none of it. “Out, out!” She swiped with the trowel. “I’ve had enough of you pests.”

  “Lawn gnomes and fairies have a longstanding relationship,” I explained to McGoo in a low voice.

  “I thought they were friends and partners,” he said.

  “Pests!” yelled Mama Bignome. “Just pests. They trample my flowers. They eat my berries. They think a sparkling song and a glitter of fairy dust is all they need to make up for that. But fairy dust makes crappy fertilizer. Shoo!”

  She finally succeeded in driving the fairies away. They fluttered up and vanished into the sky in search of more welcoming gardens. Mama Bignome was rattled. “I can’t leave this place unattended for an hour.” She took a seat beneath one of the large umbrella-like toadstools. “I ordered a scare-fairy from the Toscano catalog, but it hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Now, ma’am—about your son?” I prodded. “It’s very important that we find him before he hurts someone else. Apprehending him and his gang is the department’s top priority. It would be best if he turned himself in without any trouble.”

  “I fear he’s too far gone. There’s nothing even a mother can do,” Mama Bignome moaned. “If I knew where he was, I would tell you, officers. Honest.”

  “I’m an officer,” said McGoo. “He’s just a private detective.”

  “A zombie private detective,” I added, although I wasn’t sure whether that raised or lowered my cachet.

  “He used to be such a good boy,” Mama Bignome repeated, “but something turned him bad. I can remember that day. I wanted to be a good mother, show him the finer things, give him culture and the arts like every good lawn gnome should have. We went to the opera, and it was quite a performance! Loud and powerful singing . . . especially that ogre, a baritone I think.”

  “Stentor,” I said.

  “That’s the one. We saw him at the beginning of his career, but now I believe he’s the most famous ogre baritone that ever lived. Even my boy was impressed. But there was a particular high note in one song and”—she paused to sniffle again—“and something broke inside of him. My boy hasn’t been the same since.” She shook her head, deeply forlorn. “That was the day I lost him. My poor, sweet little boy.” She began to sob uncontrollably. “I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid he’s hollow inside.”

  CHAPTER 25

  All work and no play makes for a dull, grim zombie . . . and the world is tired of those. Sheyenne thinks I spend too much time on the job—but all I have is time, an eternity’s worth . . . or as long as the flesh lasts.

  After the Big Uneasy, when I became one of the “lucky” percentage of dead bodies who reawakened and emerged from the grave, I kept going like an old Timex watch—but my zombie body doesn’t have an extended warranty. We’ve all seen too many falling-apart shamblers who don’t bother to think about the future.

  For zombies, once your muscles atrophy, your limbs collapse, your skin sloughs off, and your organs rearrange themselves in a heap, you’re in for a mighty dull existence, just sitting there as a bag of bones and watching the world go by. If worse came to worst, I supposed I could still think about cases, come up with ingenious solutions without lifting a finger bone, like that classic fat detective Nero Wolfe.

  That’s not my style. I put in the extra effort, since I plan to remain an ambulatory detective for as long as possible. Stay in the lurch, as it were.

  In addition to my interesting caseload, however, I had a relationship to maintain. While ghosts linger for as long as zombies—and Sheyenne looked just as sparkling and beautiful now as the day her luminous form first manifested itself in our offices—she didn’t have to stick with me, unless I gave her good reason to.

  So this was a date, a spontaneous one (although I had surreptitiously planned it, setting aside the time). Sheyenne liked it when I was spontaneous.

  I took her to Basilisk, the nightclub where I first met her, back when I was alive and she was alive, and we were both young, and the future looked bright. Basilisk was an upscale nightclub that catered to unnaturals and a few brave humans. The bar served all manner of beverages for all manner of creatures. Tonight, she manifested a very skimpy, very sexy, and very red dress for the occasion; she was going to turn so many heads that somebody might be inclined to call an exorcist.

  Not only had Sheyenne worked here as a cocktail waitress, she had also sung onstage with a voice so supernaturally beautiful that she ruffled the feathers of other torch singers who felt she was stealing their limelight.

  Basilisk was managed by Fletcher Knowles, co-owner of the expanding Talbot & Knowles chain of blood bars, but Fletcher kept the club because it was his dream. His pride of ownership exceeded the headaches of management.

  As we approached the place, Sheyenne slipped her ghostly arm through mine in a symbolic gesture. She wore a wistful expression. “This place holds a lot of memories, Beaux.”

  I held the door open for her. “I like to reinforce the good ones. This is where we met.” She drifted ins
ide. “And it’s where I first heard you sing.” I smiled at the memory.

  Basilisk was also where she had been poisoned, and I’d been killed in an alley not far from here. Such memories might have put a damper on a romantic evening, but Sheyenne and I were past all that . . . water under the bridge and down the gutter, into the sewer.

  Basilisk’s walls, stools, and booths were appointed in lavish red upholstery and wallpaper. There was no mirror behind the bar. Even the fittings and brushed-nickel fixtures were dull so as to avoid reflections. Crimson lighting gave the interior a warm abattoir/boudoir glow. On the stage, a lounge lizard plinked out tuneless jazz melodies on the piano to a crowd of unnaturals who didn’t seem to be listening.

  A mummy tore off a scrap of bandage and wrote down his phone number, slipping it to a haughty vampire cocktail waitress, who snubbed him but glanced at the numbers nevertheless and discreetly tucked the scrap inside the pocket of her skimpy apron.

  At one table, a group of necromancers huddled around the black cocktail candle, discussing business. At the far corner of the bar, a balding ghoul with very little dermal integrity was hitting on a prim zombie woman who allowed him to buy her drinks but rebuffed any further romantic progress.

  I led Sheyenne to a quiet corner of the bar, and we each took a stool. The bartender came over, a tall, gaunt man with sunken cheeks and a vacant stare; he looked like either a mortician or a greeter at Walmart. I ordered my usual beer, and Sheyenne asked for a scotch on the rocks; I offered to buy her the good stuff, but she insisted on nothing more than the cheap well brand. She couldn’t actually drink it, but liked to swirl the ice cubes in the amber-colored liquid.

  “Is Ivory singing tonight?” I asked with a nod toward the stage and the vacant microphone. The big-breasted vamp singer always belted out her songs in startling contrast to Sheyenne’s angelic voice.

  “Not tonight,” said the bartender in a voice like a dirge. “Lost her voice.”

  I perked up, wondering if this had anything to do with Stentor and the lawn gnome gang.

  Sheyenne loathed the petulant vampire singer. “Too bad. Laryngitis?”

  “No, just a case of the divas.” The bartender swiveled around and shuffled down to freshen the drink of the prim zombie woman as her would-be suitor waved a flabby gray hand toward the bartender, urgently trying to get her intoxicated.

  Sheyenne lifted her drink to me in a toast. I raised my beer glass to clink against hers. “It’s good to be with you, Spooky.”

  “You’re always with me,” she said with a teasing smile.

  “And it’s always good to be with you,” I repeated. I wasn’t just being flirtatious or buttering her up; I really meant it.

  She peered into her drink. “I’ve been watching those weather wizards, seeing how passionate they are about their campaign, if a bit clueless. And they’re making me think.”

  “They’re making me annoyed,” I said, but I realized she wasn’t joking.

  She gazed at me with those haunting (literally) blue eyes. “Just look at the two of them, all the energy each one pours into his campaign, the sheer determination. Both Thunder Dick and Alastair Cumulus live to win this election—just to become president of a minor organization that no one’s ever heard of. But it’s the most important thing in their lives.”

  I tried to figure out where she was going with this. “Are you saying that it’s sad?”

  “Objectively speaking, maybe—but I’m trying to remember the last time I was so fired up about something.”

  “I remember seeing the look on your face when you were on stage, microphone in hand, and singing. That was your passion.”

  She flushed. “Yeah, and whenever you were in the audience I was doing that for you.”

  “And I definitely noticed.”

  Sheyenne continued to muse. “Look at Robin: When she latches on to a cause, a pack of pit bulls couldn’t tear her away from it. What’s your passion, Beaux? What makes you tick?”

  I had never really thought about it. “Solving cases, I suppose.” Too late, I wondered if she was fishing for a compliment, wanting me to say that she was my passion, my reason for existence. I fumbled and tried to save the conversation, but that wasn’t what Sheyenne was looking for.

  She asked again. “You don’t sound sure. I know you were fully committed to solving my murder. You had that spark in your eyes then. Angry demons couldn’t have kept you from it. But that case is over. What drives you? Really?”

  I tapped my fingers on the bar, took another sip of beer, and kept considering the question. “I do exist to solve cases. That’s what gets me through the day and night. It might not seem as earth-shattering to help an ogre opera singer get his voice back, or to reclaim the possessions from a junior mad scientist’s laboratory, but it’s a big deal to them. It’s their case, their life. And I like the feeling of helping people solve problems that mean so much to them.”

  Now she had me thinking. In fact, some of my cases did indeed save the world, or at least the unnaturals—such as the genocidal plot from Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuti-cals, or the ectoplasmic defibrillator massacre that would have wiped out thousands of ghosts. “There’s great satisfaction in just doing my job. I’m a working stiff.”

  “Is that enough for you?” Sheyenne asked.

  I pondered, took another drink of my beer. “When you think about it, some zombies spend their whole day just trying to find brains. At least my work benefits society, in its own way.”

  Fletcher Knowles came in from the back office carrying a ledger book and a laptop and took a seat at the corner of the bar. He was in his late thirties and wore round John Lennon eyeglasses; he also sported a full goatee that he bleached very blond. Taking advantage of a relatively quiet night in the club, he was ready to tackle his business paperwork as if it were a criminal sentence. Seeing us, he grinned and came over. “Sheyenne! Did you come in to sing again? We’d love to have you.”

  “That’s flattering,” she said with a slight spectral blush, “but my boyfriend and I are on a date.”

  I leaned closer to Sheyenne as I looked over at the empty stage, the lonely microphone. With Ivory being her usual diva self, Sheyenne would have the limelight to herself and certainly my complete attention. “Go on, Spooky—why not?”

  She was reticent. “But I’m not prepared. I haven’t practiced in a while.” I could tell she was tempted, though.

  I did my best imitation of Jody Caligari’s puppy-dog expression. “You have a gift. Take pity on us mere mortals and immortals.” Besides, every now and then I didn’t mind showing off that I was with the smartest, most beautiful, talented ghost in the Quarter.

  Her eyes twinkled, and she saw right through me as if I were the ghost. “All right, Beaux. For you.” She bent close to give me an air-kiss and drifted over to the stage.

  Even the intent necromancers looked up from their discussion at their little round table. Fletcher grinned and said to me, “It just hasn’t been the same without her singing. And it’ll be good for Ivory.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t hurt to remind her that she’s not the only set of sultry vocal cords in town. Maybe it’ll make her less cantankerous.”

  Sheyenne hovered in front of the microphone in her very skimpy, very sexy, and very red cocktail dress. The lounge lizard tickled the ivories with his sharp claws. Sheyenne looked right at me, ignoring everyone else in Basilisk. She held the microphone, made that pouty look with her lips that made my heart go all aflutter (if it had been beating). “This is for a very special friend of mine.”

  And she began to sing a slow torch version of “Spooky.” Our song. She took my breath away and resuscitated me at the same time. Everyone was transfixed, but I didn’t care because the performance was all for me.

  When she finished, the audience cheered, applauded, howled, whistled, and made various species-appropriate enthusiastic noises. Drifting back to the barstool, Sheyenne glowed, energized. Al
though she pretended to be embarrassed, she couldn’t hide how completely pleased she was. I wanted to hold her and kiss her.

  Fletcher was ecstatic. “You are welcome here anytime, young lady—anytime at all.”

  Despite his euphoria, though, the manager seemed troubled. When we had settled down again, he turned to me. “Come to think of it, Mr. Chambeaux, I’ve been having some troubles here. Maybe you can help me out.”

  “Are you looking for a free consultation?” Sheyenne asked.

  “I’ll listen,” I said, “but the last time I got involved here at Basilisk, it didn’t turn out well for Sheyenne, or for me.” Self-consciously, I fingered the bullet hole in the center of my forehead.

  “I understand,” Fletcher said. “Although on the bright side, it’s what got me and Harry Talbot together to launch our line of blood bars.”

  “Glad it worked out for you.” But not for me. “What’s going on?”

  “A new property owner is trying to strong-arm me, and I don’t understand it,” said Fletcher.

  “I thought you owned Basilisk outright,” Sheyenne said.

  “I do, free and clear—the whole nightclub and the ground it sits on. But some slimy developer bought the land underneath Basilisk. In fact, I hear he’s purchasing property throughout the sewer system, as if he wants to buy the Unnatural Quarter right out from underneath our feet.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Ah’Chulhu?”

  “Yes, that was his name—ugly guy with an Australian accent, wormy little appendages all over his face. Nice business suits, though. I don’t know how he keeps his power ties clean down in the sewers.”

  “Dark magic, I’m sure,” I said.

  Fletcher scratched his head. “I thought he intended to tear down Basilisk, but he’s being all nice and burbly, promised me he wouldn’t alter a thing about my business, swore that I wouldn’t notice any difference in the change of administration.” He paused.

  I said, “I’m sensing an ‘if’ or a ‘but’ there at the end of the sentence.”

  “That’s the part I don’t get.” Fletcher shook his head. “He told me I’d never be bothered again if I gave him fifteen gallons of pure virgin’s blood.”