Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  I hadn’t seen that one coming. Sheyenne sat up on the barstool. “That’s a weird request.”

  “In many ways,” Fletcher said, “not the least of which is that we sell our blood in liters, not gallons.”

  I started to do the metric conversion in my head, but couldn’t remember the exact ratio. “And why would he come to you for that?” I asked.

  “Our blood bars are starting to carry virgin’s blood. It’s an upscale product featured only in our boutique locations. We charge a premium for it, and most customers are just paying for the novelty. I haven’t found one yet who could tell the difference in a blind taste test.”

  Sheyenne suggested, “So why not just give Ah’Chulhu a shipment of regular blood, then?”

  “The straight vanilla stuff? Somehow I think he’d know, and Ah’Chulhu looks like a pissy sort of guy.” He slipped his round glasses up on his nose. “To me the big question is, what does a tentacle-faced demon want with so much virgin’s blood in the first place?”

  “So are you going to give it to him?” Sheyenne asked.

  Fletcher frowned and scratched his head again. “I turned him down. Flat. I know enough about slimy underworld figures that ‘one-time things’ are usually just a setup for the next time, and the next. No, thank you. Besides, gourmet virgin’s blood is expensive stuff. We sell it in single-serve packets, and Ah’Chulhu wanted gallons. Harry Talbot would kill me.

  “Our blood bars are turning a decent profit, and Basilisk is doing just fine, even when Ivory comes down with a bad case of the I-don’t-feel-like-singing-tonight flu. It’s no surprise that some shady small-time thug wants to work his way into my business.”

  The sewer real-estate mogul had not struck me as a small-time thug, and I couldn’t figure out why he would be buying up all that property under the Quarter, confiscating Jody’s lab experiments, and now wanting virgin’s blood. Some kind of ritual, or underground housewarming?

  Fletcher made a disgusted sound. “I’m heading out back for a cigarette before I start on the bookkeeping.”

  “Those things will kill you,” I said. “You should take better care of yourself.”

  Sheyenne added, “You never smoked before.”

  Fletcher looked at us both in surprise. “I’m getting health advice from two dead customers? Thanks for the concern.” He took out a pack of Coffin Nails and headed toward the back door behind the bar. “I’ll quit tomorrow.”

  The gaunt bartender lurched over to ask if I needed another beer. I shook my head, since Sheyenne was still toying with the ice cubes melting in her scotch.

  Romantic flirtatious moments always seem to be interrupted by some disaster. A terrified, blood-curdling shriek came from the back alley. Everyone in the club froze, but I was already off the barstool and racing toward the rear door, adrenaline racing through my embalming fluid.

  With Sheyenne right beside me, I bolted into the alley just in time to see Fletcher Knowles suspended in the air, ensnared by a long, sucker-studded tentacle that sprouted like a beanstalk out of a displaced manhole cover in the street. Two other tentacles rose from the hole, questing in the air. The central tentacle squeezed tighter, crushing Fletcher’s rib cage, and he stopped screaming. The tentacle swung from side to side, bashing him against the brick walls of the alley. He flopped about like a rag doll, broken and dead.

  I pulled out my .38 and started firing at the tentacle, which twitched and uncoiled from Fletcher’s body, letting him drop to the street. Like spaghetti being slurped into a kid’s mouth, the tentacles withdrew into the manhole and vanished down into the sewers.

  Fletcher lay dead, facedown in the clutter next to the Dumpster behind Basilisk. Sheyenne hovered over him, shocked, calling his name, but he didn’t respond. She started sobbing. She turned paler, more translucent than before, and I wished I could hug her. Fletcher Knowles had been her boss when she worked at Basilisk, and I knew the man was a decent sort, even if he’d been selling black-market blood supplies on the side. He didn’t deserve to be broken, squished, and discarded.

  “I’m so sorry, Spooky,” I said.

  I peered (unwisely) down the displaced manhole cover but could see nothing. I just knew I was going to have to go down there.

  CHAPTER 26

  The gaunt bartender and a group of terrified customers rushed outside and crowded around the body, and someone had the sense to call the police. By the time McGoo arrived, I had already done as much investigating as I could. He stared at the body and shook his head. “Anybody want to tell me what happened?”

  I said, “All I know is that it came from beneath the street.”

  Sheyenne tried to give a statement to McGoo, but was so shaken that I encouraged her to go back to the offices to tell Robin what had happened. With the police on the scene, she knew I would be caught up in the crime scene investigation. “Be safe, Beaux,” she said. She was an ectoplasmic wreck.

  “I will,” I said. “I promise.”

  We knew damn well where the slimy sucker appendages had gone—plus whatever monstrous body they were connected to. And I personally had no doubt that Ah’Chulhu was in some way responsible.

  After Sheyenne flitted away, McGoo hitched up his belt as we stood at the manhole opening. “We’d better go down there after it—you and me, Shamble.”

  I was alarmed, with good reason. “That’s the first solution you can think of?”

  He pulled out the long flashlight at his hip. “Those tentacles murdered a man. I’ll call for backup here, and it’s not like you have to worry about dying again. Come on, it’ll be brave.”

  I might have chosen a different word, but I knew he was right. As a private investigator with a strong moral backbone (sort of) and a beat cop dedicated to preserve and protect, we could not let a slimy tentacle killer go unpursued.

  So, McGoo and I climbed down into the sewers. Holding the flashlight, he politely motioned for me to go first.

  We made our way down the rungs and into the urine-warm and smelly waters that flowed through the passageways beneath the Quarter. The raised walkways along the tunnels were too narrow for a person to use, at least in this neighborhood, although rats commuted back and forth to work. At this time of the season, the water levels in the catacombs were less than knee-deep, despite the recent shit storm that had surged across the Quarter; even so, McGoo did not look happy about sloshing along.

  He shone his bright white beam in front of us, but the ceiling lights were bright enough for us to see our way, so he switched off the flashlight. “You know the real disadvantage of following an aquatic tentacle creature, Shamble? It doesn’t leave any footprints.”

  “We don’t need footprints. I have a good idea where we should start looking.” I explained what Fletcher had told us about Ah’Chulhu twisting the thumbscrews. “Follow me.”

  I set off in the lead, striking a confident pose like any good male, determined to convince everyone that I knew where I was going, although I mostly fumbled along and hoped. The gator-guys, not to mention Sheyenne and I, had been so lost during our last visit that I was not at all certain I could find Ah’Chulhu’s main grotto. When we were in hot pursuit of a horrific tentacled monster, though, I didn’t want to stop and ask directions.

  “Hey, Shamble, did you hear about the girl monster with five legs? Her panties fit her like a glove!”

  I peered down a dark side tunnel, but it didn’t look familiar. “If the tentacles attack us, maybe you can sucker punch them with bad jokes.”

  As we sloshed along, I briefed McGoo on what I knew about Ah’Chulhu, his disadvantaged childhood, his parental issues, and his business suits. I think it was the latter that convinced McGoo he was a sinister criminal mastermind.

  Through small speakers in the ceiling, we could hear the faint melodies of pipe-organ music, ominous, bombastic. As part of his improvements to the underworld, Ah’Chulhu had installed a sewer-wide sound system to provide pleasant background music. It seemed to be everywhere.

 
Now we heard the classic pipe-organ melody that I always thought of as the “Phantom of the Opera song,” but Sheyenne (in her constant efforts to make me more culturally literate) had informed me that it was Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.” It’s not my place to be a music critic, but that Bach guy really needed to pick catchier titles.

  McGoo was also listening to the organ notes, frowning. “What is that?”

  “Organ music,” I answered, helpfully.

  “I can hear that.”

  “Ah, but do you know the title of the piece?” I’m not a know-it-all, but I do like to prove that I know more than my BHF.

  “Everybody knows the title,” he said. “It’s the Phantom of the Opera song.”

  I sighed. “Nailed it first time, McGoo.”

  As we followed the music, the scenery in the tunnels began to look familiar, and now I was certain we were going in the right direction. The tunnels began to converge, and the organ music grew louder up ahead—not just through the speakers of the sound system, but echoing throughout the sewers.

  We reached the entrance to the large subterranean chamber where I’d first met Ah’Chulhu. Now the vault was crowded with frog demons and gator-guys, as well as numerous parents, some of them unnaturals, although many were human moms and dads.

  Alarmed by the size of the crowd, McGoo asked, “Do you think Ah’Chulhu is building an army to take over the Quarter?”

  “This seems more like a recital,” I said.

  Inside the grotto, on a temporary stage, the masked Phantom of the Opera wore his best tuxedo and sat on a bench in front of his small portable Wurlitzer organ, which had been brought in for the occasion. With his shoulders hunched and stiff, he attacked the small keys, his fingers bouncing up and down. His fingers flew along, eliciting notes with all the verve of a ragtime piano player.

  A group of waifish young girls stood in their Sunday best dresses, waiting for the Phantom to finish his performance. The organ notes reached a finale, then fell off, and the Phantom turned to his audience. He doffed his white porcelain mask as he bowed, exposing his hideous features. But the audience applauded, slapping palms together, or paws, talons, or tentacles, some of them damp and squishy, others furred, others scaled.

  McGoo grudgingly admitted, “That was a decent performance.”

  “Thus ends our interlude.” The Phantom nestled his mask back into place. “Now, back to my charming students—angels who can sing like the devil.”

  The young girls shuffled into place, arranging themselves in a choir grouping. The Phantom directed the performance, waving his fingers back and forth. One after another, each girl performed a solo as the Phantom yelled, “Sing! Sing!” He pounded his chest. “Music must come from the heart!” Then he punched himself in the stomach. “And also from the diaphragm!”

  McGoo and I worked our way through the crowd. Numerous parents were holding up camcorders or phone cameras to record the recital.

  When the girls were finished, the audience applauded and cheered; proud parents called out their daughters’ names. After a thorough inspection, however, I could spot no giant tentacles in the audience. To be completely honest, I was glad we hadn’t encountered them while McGoo and I were alone in the tunnels.

  Ah’Chulhu sat high on his porcelain throne, admiring the show. Seeing him, McGoo whispered to me, “You’re right for once, Shamble—that guy really is ugly.”

  The half demon noticed us and rose up from his smooth white throne. “Crikey, gents, this is a private pageant! You got sprogs here among the singers?”

  McGoo said in his best tough cop voice, “We’re here investigating a murder. There’s a monster on the loose.”

  I was afraid that would spark a panic, but the parents were so giddy at seeing their daughters perform that there was barely a murmur. One of the human parents said, “Lots of monsters around here.”

  Ah’Chulhu raised his voice. “A murder, you say? Bugger that.” The mass of small, wormlike appendages around his mouth flickered and twitched. “Has anyone here been murdered?”

  The muttering became an overlapping patchwork of “No,” “Not me,” “Nobody dead here,” and “I was murdered, but not tonight.”

  “It didn’t take place down here,” I said, “but up in the alley behind the Basilisk nightclub. The owner and manager was slain by giant tentacles, and the tentacles escaped down into the sewers.”

  McGoo stood in a puddle that had dripped from his soaked trousers. “We’re in hot pursuit.”

  “Good on ya,” said Ah’Chulhu. “But what’s that to do with us? You suspect me just because I have tentacles? That’s bloody profiling, and I won’t stand for it. Can you identify these murderous tentacles?”

  “Long, rubbery, greenish brown . . . studded with suckers.”

  “That could be any giant tentacle creature,” said Ah’Chulhu.

  I knew that the ugly guy could rile up his audience and get us in even deeper poop than we had waded through in order to get here. I tried to defuse the situation. “We were just wondering if those tentacles might be friends of yours. You could help us solve a murder.”

  “Sorry, gents. I’m not acquainted with any murderous tentacles. I swear to you blokes that I’ve been here all night long listening to this wonderful recital by the Phantom’s students.”

  The Phantom played an ominous series of notes on the little Wurlitzer, then stood up. “I can vouch for that.”

  All the parents lifted their camcorders and their phone cameras. Dozens of them would have time-stamped footage to prove Ah’Chulhu’s whereabouts. He had an airtight alibi, although it seemed too convenient to me.

  The Phantom continued, “Ah’Chulhu is a benevolent developer here in the underworld. He’s going to grant music scholarships for the young singers I train.”

  “That’s right,” said Ah’Chulhu. “And I’m even piping some of the Phantom’s easy-listening compositions throughout the catacombs. None of that insipid elevator music—sewer music.”

  “Yes, we noticed the new sound system on our way in.” I tried to nudge McGoo out, knowing we could do nothing more here. “Very nice.”

  “Just bringing a little more joy to everyone’s day,” said the Phantom in a flippant voice. “Now, the show must go on.” He turned back to his Wurlitzer and played “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

  The UQPD spent the next two days running a dragnet through the entire sewer system in search of the gigantic tentacles. McGoo found himself in command of the operation, and because some of the other uniformed cops had even lower marks in their personnel files than he did, he put them on point, trudging through the labyrinth, tunnel after tunnel after tunnel.

  They dredged up a lot of garbage, some of it interesting, most of it not. They uncovered numerous secrets, ruffled plenty of fins and scales, but ultimately found no gigantic tentacle creature. It had vanished.

  The precinct chief announced that further efforts were not worth the cost in uniform cleaning, and the cops were put back on their usual beats.

  CHAPTER 27

  When the Mad Scientists Patent Office sends a courtesy notice, there isn’t much courtesy involved.

  The letter was delivered by a special civil-servant courier who worked for the low-bid delivery service the patent office was required to use, based on minority monster considerations, safety records, cost per delivery, plus a special government surcharge—with all the efficiency and speed that implied.

  The courier was a gray-faced, dull-eyed zombie who seemed utterly uninterested in his job. He wore a delivery uniform that matched his skin tone, a cap that sat askew on his matted hair. His eyes had the sleepy apathy of an employee who never had to worry about being fired, and he moved with the speed of a greased glacier. When he arrived at our doorstep, he insisted it was time for a coffee and cigarette break, which he enjoyed at great length in the hallway, before he handed over the letter to an impatient Sheyenne.

  Still shaken by Fletcher’s murder, she had been th
rowing herself into work around the office to keep her mind occupied. Now she signed the receipt, handed back the courier’s clipboard, and tore open the envelope. The zombie courier shuffled off to the end of the hall, where he felt he needed to take another break before descending the one flight of stairs.

  From my desk, I watched Sheyenne’s expression as she scanned the letter. “It’s from the patent office,” she called, then scowled at the date. “This was dispatched two days ago! What took the courier so long?”

  Having seen him move, there wasn’t much mystery about it. Even so, a zombie moving at his most lethargic, stiff-limbed shuffle should have been able to make it across the Quarter and back at least twice in that amount of time.

  Robin took the letter from Sheyenne’s ghostly hand and scanned it. “It reads like a summons, but not in proper legal terms.”

  It was an invitation, called a courtesy notice, from Deputy Assistant Manager of Patents Mellivar. “I request your immediate presence at my office regarding a matter of some concern. Come immediately, with all due dispatch, and quickly. I hope to see you very soon regarding the matter of the young man Jody Caligari.”

  At the bottom of the letter was a long paragraph of fine print containing disclaimers, legal notices, and CYA language that neither bound nor obligated the Mad Scientists Patent Office to any of the statements, claims, or promises made by any of their employees.

  “We should have known about this two days ago,” Sheyenne grumbled. “Miz Mellivar could have picked up a phone.”

  “That probably would have required her to fill out more forms.” I realized that for a government office, responding within a leisurely couple of days did equate to “immediately.”

  Robin and I took the puttering Pro Bono Mobile to the patent offices in the nondescript business park. When we rang the service bell and showed the courtesy notice to the receptionist, apologizing for the delay, she blinked dully at her calendar. “Oh, the DAMP wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. If you fill out this early arrival intake form, I’ll see if she’s available.”