Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Somebody needs help,” I said. “In fact, a lot of somebodies.”

  “Why, that’s exactly the reason I’m here—to help.”

  Rescuing a hundred golems would strain the limits of Hope & Salvation’s resources, however. “This is bigger than the usual hard-luck case.”

  As I described the plight of Bill’s friends, Mrs. Saldana’s zombie assistant, Jerry, shuffled into the room, leaning on the handle of a push broom that he nudged around the floor. He was a shambler, one of the zombies less fortunate than me—an addict with a taste for brains. Mrs. Saldana had rescued Jerry, and he was a recovering brain-eater, one of her greatest success stories. He had stayed by her side for years, working in the shelter.

  Jerry seemed more listless and sluggish than I had ever seen him, however. Without even looking at us, he pushed the broom over to the wobbly old piano Mrs. Saldana used for her church services; she had tried to train Jerry to be her pianist, but he didn’t have the aptitude or dexterity to play more than a dirge. Now, seeming mournful, Jerry began a slow and painstaking tapping of the keys. At first, it sounded like random notes, but I managed to identify the melody, “Heart and Soul.” At least he had graduated from “Chopsticks.”

  Before I could ask if Jerry was sick—I had no idea whether zombies could get sick, although I hadn’t had so much as a sniffle in the months since I returned to life—Mrs. Saldana held up an extended finger like a schoolteacher. “Oh, I have just the thing for those poor golems! Would you and Ms. Deyer be my guests tomorrow night at a charity banquet? I’m presenting a Humanitarian of the Year award to Irwyn Goodfellow for all the marvelous work he’s done in the Unnatural Quarter. It’s an evening to benefit MLDW.”

  While I had heard of the philanthropist Irwyn Goodfellow, the organization was new to me. “What’s Mildew?”

  “MLDW—Monster Legal Defense Workers. I’m acting director and member of the board. We might have just the thing for those poor golems.”

  “Robin and I will be there,” I said.

  It was an excellent idea. A man like Irwyn Goodfellow might indeed be able to integrate the hundred golems into society. Satisfied to have found a possible solution, I finished my cookie and waved farewell to Mrs. Saldana and her zombie helper.

  Jerry just leaned against the push broom, looked up, and let out a low moan.

  CHAPTER 5

  Private investigators don’t usually make house calls for initial consultations, but when the madam asked me to come to the Full Moon brothel on an urgent matter, I decided to make an exception. Strictly business, of course.

  The Full Moon was a big row house with a full porch, dusty blue siding, and fake shutters on the windows. The two adjacent houses had been condemned and sat empty and available, in case Full Moon decided to expand their operations.

  Once I stepped into the parlor, I found myself facing the receptionist, who was all teeth—pointed ones—in a professional smile. She was a slender, slinky wolf-woman who wore only a black negligee and panties that didn’t cover much. With a wide hairbrush, she languidly stroked the reddish fur on her arms and thighs. According to the name tag on the reception desk, her name was Cinnamon.

  She licked her muzzle. “Girls, we’ve got a live one—or a dead one. At any rate, it’s a customer.”

  “Not a customer,” I corrected her. “I’m here to see a Miss . . . Neffi?”

  “Ooh, he wants the madam! Starting right at the top.”

  “You think he wants to be laid to rest?”

  Two vampire princesses, a strawberry blonde and a brunette, came out to regard me with their large hypnotic eyes, followed by a pair of pallid and long-haired zombie girls who would have delighted a Tim Burton casting director. The zombie girls introduced themselves as Savannah and Aubrey; the vampire princesses had more flowery names, Nightshade and Hemlock.

  The Full Moon was appointed in lavish—or gaudy, depending on your point of view—bordello décor, with an abundance of blood-colored velvet, chaise lounges strategically placed so the girls could lie back and look sexy, overstuffed chairs where clients would relax and have a cigar or sip a glass of their favorite intoxicating beverage. A curving grand staircase led upstairs to a series of rooms. Three of the doors were closed, behind which I heard what might have been sounds of pleasure, of one form or another. Everything about the place suggested “ill repute.”

  One other girl remained in the downstairs hall, endearingly shy. She was small and waifish with bobbed red hair in a tight perm; her emerald-green eyes showed not the slightest hint of a reptilian slit. She had elfin features and a pointed chin, and her whole demeanor had a little orphan “please hold me and take care of me” vibe that brought out the full-fledged paternal instinct even in a guy like me, who had no paternal instinct whatsoever.

  It took me a moment to realize that this was the brothel’s resident succubus. Her name was Ruth.

  One of the vampire princesses interrupted my thoughts. “You sure you want to see the old lady?” Hemlock was a buxom, ebony-haired beauty in a white nightgown that wasn’t much more than a tangle of cobwebs. “A man like you needs someone with youth and vigor, not a dried-up, ancient—”

  “Maybe he prefers someone with experience,” said a husky voice as a door opened from a main office adjacent to the main sitting room. “Lots of experience.” I turned around to see the Full Moon’s madam, Neffi, standing there in all her (theoretical) splendor.

  I removed my fedora. “I’m Dan Chambeaux, ma’am. You called me here for an appointment?”

  “We have plenty to discuss, Mr. Chambeaux.” She gestured me toward her office. “This is business, girls.”

  “I thought it was all business,” said one of the pretty corpse girls.

  “When’s the last time you had an actual client, Neffi?” huffed the werewolf receptionist, which elicited a chorus of good-natured chuckles from the ladies.

  “Don’t mind them, Mr. Chambeaux,” Neffi purred. “Come into my parlor.”

  The madam was an unwrapped, well-preserved Egyptian mummy with leathery brown skin stretched tightly over sticklike bones. Her breasts looked as hard as knots on an old log of firewood. Her lips were pulled back to show yellowed teeth in what might have been a smile or just a desiccated rictus. Her eyes were like black lumps of burned-out coal.

  Her gray metal business desk was similar to what might be found in any Cold War–era government office; in addition to the in-box and a telephone, the desktop was covered with widemouthed jars, pump bottles, and squeeze tubes of skin creams and lotions. As I followed her into the office, Neffi picked up a bottle in one clawlike hand, squirted a dollop of a honeysuckle-scented cream, and rubbed it on the skin of her upper arms.

  A four-drawer metal filing cabinet stood against the far wall. A dozen manila folders lay strewn on her desk, each with a name written on the tab. Clients? Or maybe the Full Moon customers put their names on a mailing list.

  “Thank you for coming.” She let out a brief cackle. “That’s a line we use whenever satisfied clients leave: Thank you for coming! Not an original joke, but it goes with the territory. Have a seat.”

  Unlike the plush bordello lounges in the lobby, Neffi’s private room had standard office chairs. I was glad the madam intended to treat this as a straightforward interview; Sheyenne was sure to question me about what happened there.

  A fish tank filled with dead, floating goldfish sat on a waist-high credenza next to an antique grandfather clock that had stopped ticking long ago. Through an open door in the back of the office, I could see a dim private bedroom with several canopic jars and an Egyptian sarcophagus where Neffi no doubt slept. She also had an actual bed for the occasional discriminating customer, but banker’s boxes and stacks of paper were piled on the mattress.

  I lowered myself onto the hard chair. My knees felt more stiff than usual today, the result of sitting on the damp cemetery grass during the previous night’s Shakespeare performance.

  Neffi took a seat behind the desk
and folded her clawlike hands together into a macramé of knuckles. On the floor were three small sarcophagi carved in the images of cats. Neffi set one of the ornate containers in her lap and began stroking the carved feline head. “These were my pets in ancient Egypt, mummified and placed in the tomb with me so they could be my companions through eternal life. Even though they weren’t restored to life in the Big Uneasy, they’re still my beloved cats.”

  I wanted to get down to business. “Your request was rather vague, Madame Neffi. How can I help you?”

  She pulled her chair closer to the desk. “At Full Moon, we’re in the pleasure business. It’s a necessary service, and unnaturals have needs just like anyone else. Those needs tend to be a bit different, but no less legitimate. We have an understanding with the police department.” She picked up several files, glanced at them, and not quite accidentally let me see the names on the tabs. One I recognized as McGoo’s watch commander.

  “We also cater to human clients who like to take a walk on the dark side—it gives them a thrill, and the girls say humans tend to tip better anyway. You know, when a zombie tells you to keep the tip, you have to be careful what he really means. . . .” She waited for me to laugh, so I did. Just to be polite. It reminded me of McGoo’s jokes.

  Neffi squirted another blob of lotion and rubbed her hands. “I may not look it now, Mr. Chambeaux, but I was quite a dish in my day. Cleopatra and Nefertiti had nothing on me. Wealthy patrons showered me with gifts, which allowed me to build myself a large tomb, designed by the best interior decorator on the Nile. Gold, lapis lazuli, pearls. When I came back, I had the stake I needed to open this business. I’m a competent businesswoman, and I know how to run the oldest profession—it’s been around even longer than I have.” She cackled again. “I thought I was all set.”

  “So why do you require my services?”

  “Because I’m being intimidated! The Full Moon has been the target of vandalism, attempted arson, threatening letters thrown through windows. Someone’s trying to drive us out of the Quarter, and I need to put a stop to it. Nervous clientele are often limp clientele.”

  Remembering the pathetic lone demonstrator at the Shakespeare play—God Hates Unnaturals—I asked, “Does Senator Balfour have anything to do with it?”

  Neffi’s expression shriveled up even further, though I hadn’t imagined that was possible. “No, not that dickhead. It’s organized crime moving in, Mr. Chambeaux. Wiseguys who think they can intimidate a five-thousand-year-old mummy. But they picked the wrong bitch to mess with!”

  I was surprised I hadn’t heard of it. “Organized crime is trying to move into the necrophilia and prostitution racket?”

  “I run a good clean business here, a family business, and I don’t want to see it corrupted.” She made an angry sound, her vocal cords vibrating until I feared they would snap like frayed cello strings. “This town might belong to monsters, but I’ll be damned if I surrender to a bunch of thugs.” She calmed herself by stroking the cat sarcophagus. “That’s why I need private security, around the clock. Does your company have rent-a-goons? I need someone big, ferocious, and intimidating.”

  I looked down at my average physique, my rumpled and stitched-up jacket. “Chambeaux and Deyer is just me, my lawyer partner, and our receptionist. And as you can see”—I held up my hands—“I’m not all that intimidating.”

  The old Egyptian mummy considered. “No, you wouldn’t project a very frightening presence, unless you were willing to let yourself rot a little.”

  I don’t give up on a client so easily. “Let me ask around. I know people.” I rose from the chair, placing the fedora back on my head. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chambeaux. And please . . . feel free to stop by anytime. For any reason.”

  CHAPTER 6

  When I returned to the office, Robin was waiting for me, wearing a good business suit, briefcase in hand, ready to head out the door. “Dan, you made it in time! Come with me to the police station. Officer McGoohan is about to interrogate that necromancer. He said we could sit in, and I think it’s important for our case. Besides, I want to look that creep in the eye.”

  “All three eyes,” I said, turning around again. “I’m ready.”

  When Sheyenne appeared in the air, I noticed a flush on her semitransparent cheeks—maybe a twinge of jealousy? “How was the brothel, Beaux?”

  “A very nice place,” I said. “Professional. Some charming ladies.” One glance at Sheyenne’s face, and I could see that this wasn’t the time or the place for teasing. “I informed the madam that I was unable to provide the services she requested.”

  “You’ve got that right! And what services was she after?”

  “Protection.” I thought of making a wisecrack that every client at an unnatural brothel should use protection, but decided to keep my mouth shut. “It’s outside the scope of Chambeaux and Deyer, but I promised I’d try to find someone.”

  Robin was at the door, holding it open. “Dan, we’ll be late. I want to hear how that simpering worm plans to defend himself.”

  I softened my expression and looked into Sheyenne’s big blue eyes. “Spooky, you don’t have a thing to worry about. Really.” I blew her an air-kiss as I followed Robin out the door, and she blew me one back.

  Whoever designed the basic police interrogation room must have been having a bad day. An austere room with cinder-block walls painted white, a table in the middle, several uncomfortable chairs, not much else. You’ve seen it in every cop show since the dawn of television.

  The necromancer Maximus Max sat on one side of the table, miserable. His embroidered purple robes were rumpled, since Max had slept in them in a general population holding cell—and gen-pop in the Unnatural Quarter precinct wasn’t anybody’s idea of a cocktail party. Max’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot; the third eye drawn in eyeliner on his forehead was smudged.

  Robin and I entered the interrogation room with McGoo, who had a notepad and a digital recorder, which he set upright on the table. Anxious to get his ordeal over with as quickly as possible, the necromancer looked ready to babble any confession we desired, so long as we let him go. He had already waived his right to counsel and to keep his mouth shut. Robin gave him a baleful glare as she opened her briefcase, removed a yellow legal pad and a pen, and took her seat.

  I sat straight-backed and silent, observing, partly for moral support, partly to make the suspect nervous. It was my job.

  McGoo went through the preliminaries, noting the date, time, location, and subject of the interrogation, and confirming that Max had chosen not to remain silent. “Maximilian Grubb, also known as Maximus Max, certified necromancer and, judging from your rap sheet”—he pulled out a folder and opened it—“a small-time troublemaker and general nuisance, the type of person who gives me heartburn.”

  “I’m just trying to make a living, a guy who wants to get by.” Max’s voice had a persistent whining quality. “It’s not easy these days. Tough times.”

  “We’ve filed only minor charges so far, but it could get a lot worse,” McGoo said. “This is a conversation to obtain more information, even though you’ve already confessed to plenty. You waived your right to an attorney. Are you certain you don’t want one present on your behalf?”

  “I don’t like lawyers,” Max said. “They scare me.”

  Robin said, “Boo,” and he flinched.

  As McGoo reviewed the papers, he shook his head. “To be honest, it doesn’t look good for you, Mr. Grubb. We’ve impounded your sweatshop, freed your golem workforce, and confiscated all of your trinkets as evidence.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” he wailed.

  Robin’s nostrils flared. “Oh? So slavery is fine with you?”

  Maximus Max looked more confused than terrified. “But golems are made for work! Would you call me a terrible person for using a lawn mower or a coffeemaker?”

  Robin extracted a legal document from her briefcase and slapp
ed it on the table. “As of a ruling seven months ago in the case of McDowell v. Clay, golems were classified as unnaturals, and therefore entitled to citizenship in the Quarter. They must be treated as any other citizen and must receive equal protection under the law.”

  Max opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. The second time, words spilled out. “But golems are disposable—they’re mass produced! You use a golem until he wears out, and then you get another one.”

  Indignant, Robin leaned over the table. I could see sparks were about to fly. “Are you comparing those poor golems to . . . toothbrushes? Golems are thinking beings, not inanimate objects. Your days of using golems as slaves to manufacture tourist garbage are over, Mr. Grubb. Ignorance of the law is not a viable defense.”

  Beads of sweat stood out on Max’s brow, causing the drawn third eye to run. He sniffled. “I was trying to be respectable, and now I’m ruined because the rules keep changing. What’s going to be politically correct next week? How can I keep up? I’m just a middleman. I fill the orders and ship them off. The Smile Syndicate runs the gift shop racket inside the Quarter—why not go after them? If there weren’t any customers, I wouldn’t need golems to make trinkets.”

  I was surprised to learn that the Smile Syndicate owned the new Kreepsakes souvenir shops. A big conglomerate, the Syndicate kept a low profile, buying businesses right and left, but they did not put their name on neon signs. They had been around for decades, family owned and operated by the Goodfellows. Apparently, the Smile Syndicate had decided that tourism was the Next Big Thing in the Unnatural Quarter.

  Several years ago, Irwyn Goodfellow—Hope Saldana’s philanthropist benefactor—had publicly and dramatically broken ties with his sister, Missy Goodfellow, who continued to handle the family business. Irwyn wanted to do good deeds with the family fortune, to leave a positive mark on the world; he washed his hands of what he called their “shadowy and underhanded dealings” (although he never gave specifics).