Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  When I slipped my hand around the fingers of the glove and squeezed, I felt a firm hand inside. It was Sheyenne! “We’re like a couple of teenagers.”

  She batted her spectral eyelashes. “Holding hands isn’t enough, but at least it’s contact.”

  “Best I’ve had in a long time,” I said. “This may be a good date after all.” She squeezed her fingers, lacing them in mine, and I squeezed back.

  Hand in hand, we walked through the wrought-iron cemetery gates, which had a welcome mat on either side.

  We arrived just before midnight, still hoping to get good seats. It proved easier than expected, since only a small crowd had gathered for the show. Previously, the Shakespeare troupe had held a matinee performance at 10:00 P.M. for families and children, but they discontinued it due to lack of attendance.

  Every time I returned to Greenlawn Cemetery, I had mixed feelings—how could I not? There’s no place like home. This was where I’d been buried after my murder, where Robin, McGoo, kindly old Mrs. Saldana—and not many others—had come to pay their last respects. Private detectives had clients, but few friends; some unsuccessful PIs didn’t have many clients, either.

  After the Big Uneasy, one in seventy-five dead people came back as a zombie, while one in thirty returned as a ghost. Even from six feet under, I had beaten the odds. It was one of the first lucky breaks I’d had in my life; I just wish it’d happened in my life.

  I’d come out of the ground nicely embalmed but caked with dirt, my funereal suit ruined. (I almost never wore it anyway.) One other guy had risen up the same evening, Steve something-or-other. As I’d stood there on the dew-damp grass, trying to gain my bearings, I heard the sound of sod tearing from a nearby grave, seen the dirt move and a questing hand reach up and out, fingers crooked. By now, you’d think gravediggers would have figured out a quick-release exit from the plot. I lurched over like a drunk arthritic, still trying to loosen up my own joints. I reached down to grab my undead comrade by the hand and helped him clamber out of the ground.

  We brushed each other off as best we could until we were somewhat presentable. I looked around at all the tombstones and crypts, saw the wrought-iron gates, and pointed. “I think that’s the way out.”

  Still disoriented, we shambled out of the cemetery, getting our bearings. I even gave him my business card, which somebody had placed in the pocket of my burial suit (now, that’s planning ahead). Steve and I shook hands, wished each other better luck the second time around, and I made my way back to the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer to a still-grieving Robin and the ghost of Sheyenne. . . .

  Greenlawn Cemetery had changed quite a lot in the months since. As Robin went off to buy her own ticket for the evening’s Shakespeare performance, Sheyenne and I followed other theater fans into the graveyard. Just inside the gate, we passed a small card table manned by a plump woman with cat’s-eye glasses. Her fangs were so small it took me a moment to realize she was a vampire. She greeted everyone coming in: “Hello, welcome to the cemetery. Hello, I hope you have a good time.”

  With all the zombies, ghosts, vampires, and whatnot coming back from the dead, well-meaning volunteers had established a Welcome Back Wagon. I stopped to take a look at their packets and complimented the plump vampire. “Thanks for doing this. I sure could have used a friendly face after I came out of the grave.”

  The vampire volunteer made a tsking sound. “So sorry you had to face that yourself, dear. You didn’t get a welcome packet, then?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Here you go, dear. You deserve one. It’s been hard to find sponsors, so the goodie bag has an eclectic mix of useful and, well, interesting items. But we’re growing every day.”

  I accepted the packet and thanked her. Drifting beside me, Sheyenne thought aloud. “Maybe we should include Chambeaux and Deyer refrigerator magnets—to let the newcomers know about the services we offer.” She was always looking for new business. “New unnaturals often come back with mysteries to solve, or probate and legal issues.”

  “But refrigerator magnets?” I didn’t want to dismiss Sheyenne’s suggestion outright, but the recent raid on the golem sweatshop and all those ridiculous black-market souvenirs had given me a jaded view toward commercialization. “Let’s think about it. Maybe we can find something classy.”

  “What else is in the bag?” Sheyenne said.

  Rooting around, I found a packet of breath mints (a newly reanimated corpse could certainly use those), a stale granola bar past its expiration date, a packet of antacids from the Ghoul’s Diner, a coupon for a free drink from the Basilisk nightclub (Premium alcohol and specialty blood types excluded). I also found the cartoony chamber-of-commerce map of the Unnatural Quarter, and a flyer for Full Moon Escort Services. Our Ladies Cater to Discriminating Unnatural Clientele. All species accepted. In fine print, it said, Succubus available upon request.

  The Quarter had rough edges and a tendency to ignore gray areas of the law. Prostitution seemed more minor than many evils in the changed world, and nobody minded letting ferocious monsters blow off a little steam.

  Sheyenne’s gloved hand squeezed mine. “Why are you studying that brothel flyer so closely, Beaux?” I quickly put it at the back of the stack.

  The next page was even more startling, declaring in bold capital letters: You Are Damned! Below that was a campaign picture of stern, cadaverous-looking Senator Rupert Balfour.

  “I represent the normal natural humans in this senate district. Monsters might be contained, but they are not forgiven! You creatures may think you can interact with normal society, but sooner or later your true blood will show itself. Good, decent citizens are watching, and we are ready!” In tiny letters at the bottom of the page, a sentence read: Paid for by the Re-elect Senator Rupert Balfour Committee.

  “He’s not going to make many friends in the Quarter,” I said. Since unnaturals were not allowed to vote, they were not a constituency that politicians bothered to pander to.

  I had heard of the man, a grim and humorless blowhard, an ultraconservative senator who demanded enforcement of laws that prohibited “unnatural acts,” which he defined as any form of sex among vampires, werewolves, zombies, and the like. The senator looked as if he himself had not had sex of any kind, natural or otherwise, in many years, despite the fact that he was married (to an equally grim, humorless, and unattractive woman). He also looked as if he suffered from persistent hemorrhoids. Or maybe I was making assumptions....

  Balfour had garnered publicity on far-fringe radio talk shows, whose hosts called for UFOs to abduct the unnaturals and take them away for medical experimentation (don’t forget the anal probes). It was the sort of thing that made most people roll their eyes and regard the man as a joke; the senator’s supporters, however, came out of the woodwork and made so much noise that Balfour’s proposed Unnatural Acts Act had actually gained some traction.

  With our tickets for the festival seating area, Sheyenne and I found a comfortable spot on the green among the tombstones. We managed to get close to the stage, since only about thirty others had come to see the play. I guess there isn’t much call for highbrow entertainment in the Unnatural Quarter.

  The acting troupe, run by a man who claimed to be the actual ghost of William Shakespeare, struggled valiantly to bring culture to the monsters, though with mixed results. The troupe had built an elaborate stage set that evoked the original Globe Theatre in London, the venue where Shakespeare’s plays had initially been performed (probably to larger audiences than this, and with fewer ghosts). The ambitious set was constructed of whitewashed plywood with painted half timbers and clumps of straw to simulate a thatched roof. By special arrangement with the Greenlawn Cemetery outreach committee, the troupe was allowed to leave the stage in place over the summer months.

  Robin joined us with her ticket in hand and a stormy expression on her face. “One of those intolerant Neanderthals who works for Senator Balfour is standing there with a sign that says God Hates Unnaturals.�
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  “Only one supporter?” Sheyenne asked. “Not a whole demonstration?”

  “Just the one man, and he’s being heckled by a bunch of goblins. Normally I’d call them hooligans, but right now I’m tempted to applaud them.”

  “If it’s just one person,” I said, “then he looks silly instead of threatening.”

  Robin allowed herself a smile. “He does look rather silly, at that.”

  For the start of the performance, a ghost flitted onto the stage, and he was the clichéd image of William Shakespeare from all the history books. He wore a velvet cap, a stuffed doublet, a heavily laced and embroidered shirt, and trunk hose padded to an impressive girth. His face was as painted as any woman’s I’d ever seen. All in all, he looked like an overstuffed jeweled-velvet sausage.

  “Good ladies and gentle sirs,” said Shakespeare’s ghost. “Tonight we put before you a play whose name no living actor dare speak. Now dead, we no longer fear such a curse, and so this band of humble players presents the Immortal Bard’s Macbeth —a tale of witches, curses, and bloodstained hands . . . a story to which every gentleperson here can relate! For this performance, we are also pleased to have as our special guests three genuine witches to portray the Weird Sisters.”

  From the ticket booth, the lone protester yelled, “God hates unnaturals!” which set up an angry grumbling among the audience. Claws and fangs were bared; hulking shapes rose up and began to loom toward the man, who held his sign like a pathetically small shield.

  Shakespeare’s ghost defused the situation by calling from the stage, “We thank you for your opinion, sir, and for your amusing performance. All the world’s a stage, but this one does not belong to you. If you have not purchased a ticket, I shall ask you to leave.”

  Two hunchbacked bouncers advanced toward the ticket booth, and the man seemed to shrink into himself. Senator Balfour’s support quickly vanished as the man dashed through the cemetery gates and fled into the night.

  “Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow . . . ,” Shakespeare’s ghost said with comical regret, and the audience tittered. He continued to strut across the stage. “ ’Tis a sad reminder. Back in my day, religious zealots labeled all plays the work of the Devil, and my Globe Theatre was burned down. The world has changed overmuch since the Big Uneasy, but alas, not in every way.” He cleared his throat. “For tonight, the show must go on. Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, zombies, and unnaturals everywhere, we present . . . the Scottish Play!”

  Robin heaved a contented sigh. I clasped Sheyenne’s glove, and we leaned back against a comfortable tombstone to watch the performance.

  CHAPTER 4

  I didn’t expect the ghost of a legendary bank robber to come into our offices, and certainly not to ask for legal advice. But a client is a client.

  Alphonse Wheeler had been famous in his day—about twenty years ago—for a series of daring bank robberies that were as much performances as they were crimes, and he’d won over the hearts of the public. Wearing his signature pencil mustache, checkered sport coat, and dapper hat, he arrived at every scene holding a bouquet of flowers. After finishing a robbery, but before dashing to his getaway car, Wheeler would hand a flower to each of the female bank tellers he had just robbed, give them a polite tip of his hat, and escape.

  Banks wisely became leery of mustachioed customers wearing dapper hats and checkered sport coats and carrying bouquets of flowers. As a delightful joke on the day before his last caper, Wheeler had paid twenty look-alikes to wander into different banks wearing his distinctive outfit. Twenty-one were arrested, and one turned out to be the real Alphonse Wheeler.

  Although he was an independent robber, Wheeler had connections to organized crime. He paid a portion of the stolen money to his criminal masters—he wrote the money off as “membership dues” on his taxes, a deduction that was “disallowed with prejudice” when auditors went over his filings—and kept the rest for himself. After he was thrown in jail, Wheeler refused to turn against his mob accomplices, and he also refused to reveal where he’d hidden his stash of stolen money. He vowed to take the secret to his grave—which he did. Alphonse Wheeler died after two decades in prison.

  And now his ghost had turned up at our office door, asking Robin for advice.

  Though he had worn a prison uniform for twenty years, Wheeler’s ghost chose to manifest wearing his distinctive clothes again. He even brought a bouquet of daisies, which he presented to a delighted Sheyenne. “Beautiful flowers for the lady. I was in lockup for so many years, I’m out of touch with the outside world, but I assume flowers are still appropriate?”

  “You assume correctly.” Sheyenne sounded like a giggly schoolgirl as she took the flowers. “I remember reading about your exploits when I was a girl—I had a crush on you.”

  Alphonse stroked a finger along his pencil mustache. “Did you send me a marriage proposal while I was in prison? There were so many I couldn’t keep track.”

  Sheyenne seemed embarrassed. “I was only ten years old.”

  “And now you’ve grown into quite a ravishing—”

  I cut him off by introducing myself. Robin also seemed immune to his charms, saying, “Mr. Wheeler, how may we be of service?”

  He eyed Robin up and down with an intent grin. “That’s a wide-open question, my dear. I can think of many types of service a beautiful woman like yourself could—”

  Robin remained cool. She preferred to devote her efforts to the innocent and downtrodden, not convicted bank robbers with mob connections. “And if I took you up on your implied offer, Mr. Wheeler, what do you think you could do? You’re a ghost—flirt all you want, but you can’t touch. Now, shall we get down to business?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He cracked his spectral knuckles and drifted over to a seat. “I trust you’re aware of my famous career?”

  “Your life of crime?” Robin asked.

  “Of course we are!” Sheyenne said. “Robin, be nice to the client.”

  Despite his insubstantialness, Alphonse Wheeler took a seat. “My robberies left me with a nice nest egg, for all the good it did me. I was true to my word, never revealed where I hid the loot, not even on my deathbed. But enough is enough. I’d like to retrieve my stash. After all this time, it’s my money, isn’t it?”

  Robin frowned. “It’s money that you stole from a bank, Mr. Wheeler.”

  “But that was a long time ago, and I’m dead now. Isn’t there a statute of limitations or something?”

  Robin was trying hard to be patient. “The money never belonged to you, Mr. Wheeler, and you should turn it in. Clear your conscience—don’t be one of those restless ghosts. As an attorney, that’s what I advise.”

  “But whose money is it? The insurance already paid the bank after the robberies. No depositor was harmed.”

  “Then the money belongs to the insurance company,” Robin said. “I have an obligation to answer your question, but I also have an obligation to counsel you to avoid criminal activity.”

  It wasn’t the answer Wheeler wanted to hear. He sank deeper into his chair, which rumpled his checkered ectoplasmic sport coat. “What if I just don’t tell anybody?”

  I had to interrupt. “Mr. Wheeler, your hidden stash is legendary. If you suddenly started waving money around, it wouldn’t take a private detective to put two and two together. Somebody would come after you.”

  “You’re all a bunch of spoilsports,” Wheeler said, no longer sounding flirtatious. “What happened to the law of finders keepers? Or possession is nine-tenths of the law?” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I lived in prison for so many years, I don’t know what to do with myself on the outside. And being a ghost, there’s not much fun anymore at all—as Ms. Deyer so pointedly reminded me. And now you’re telling me I can’t even spend the money I stole.” He lifted himself out of the chair and tipped his hat to Robin. “Thanks for your help, pretty lady—even though I wish you had offered counsel that was more favorable to me.”

  “
Come back if you need further assistance,” Robin called, and the ghost left through the door without bothering to open it.

  I went back to my office to review outstanding cases. I made a call to Tiffany to check on Bill. Now that all of the golems had been freed, he had no reason to remain in hiding, but the buff vamp seemed satisfied with her houseguest. “He’s going to stay with me for a while. He’s pleasant enough company, and useful around the house. He insists on cooking and cleaning and doing housework and yard work, says he owes it to me, even though I told him that’s nonsense. He doesn’t leave any chores for me to do.”

  “Glad to hear it. Want to hire a hundred more golems?”

  “No, thanks, Chambeaux. That exceeds my needs at this time.”

  Bill had been ecstatic that his people were liberated, although it left them jobless and homeless for the moment. I tried to think of some way I could help all those liberated golems, and then I had an excellent idea (yes, I do have excellent ideas occasionally).

  I pulled on my stitched-up jacket, took my fedora, and told Sheyenne, “I’m going to the mission. I’ve got a favor to ask Mrs. Saldana.” I could have used the phone, but I wanted to stretch my legs to keep the stiffness from setting in. Besides, I preferred face-to-face meetings.

  Mrs. Hope Saldana, a kindly old woman with unmatched generosity for downtrodden people (or former people), had established the Unnatural Quarter’s first soup kitchen and shelter in an effort to improve the lives of unfortunate souls, and even those who didn’t have souls. Even though the Hope & Salvation Mission had always operated on a shoestring budget, most of the Quarter’s denizens applauded the good work she was doing. I had been her friend, both as a human detective and now as a zombie.

  “Mr. Chambeaux, always a pleasure to see you!” She made me think of grandmothers every time she smiled. She offered me a cookie, which I accepted, because one does not turn down gifts from Mrs. Saldana. “What brings you here?”