Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The mummy madam looked concerned. “Come in and have a look at the rest. It gets worse.”

  Inside the brothel, she led me up the curved grand staircase to the lavishly appointed rooms where the ladies did their business. Someone had thrown bricks through the black painted glass, shattering the darkened windows. Shards lay strewn over the comforters on the brass beds.

  “Intimidation, pure and simple. The ladies can’t use these rooms now. What if this had happened during broad daylight? All that would be left is a pile of ash and a scorched comforter—and I’d have to hire new ladies.”

  “I see your point.” I felt truly concerned now. Would Balfour’s activists go this far? “There’s a big difference between vandalism and attempted murder.”

  I recalled the clueless and inept heckler at the Shakespeare in the Dark performance. If the senator’s people had burned down the theater set, they had already gone further than protesting, but this was another giant leap from arson.

  “To tell you the truth, the senator’s minions may not have had anything to do with this. I think the mob is trying to twist my arm—and with these old joints, it is not an easy arm to twist.” Neffi held up her brown petrified hand, bent her elbow. “Come, let me show you the worst.”

  Inside her office, Neffi paused to steel herself. Someone had broken into her private quarters, found the three carved sarcophagi that held the mummified remains of her pet cats. Two of the three had been smashed on her desk, the gauze-wrapped kitties crumbled to dust and fluff, the third one left intact, either as a taunt or a threat.

  “Gone,” Neffi whispered. “Even the best taxidermist in the Quarter can’t put them together again. Who would do that to poor innocent pets?”

  “They didn’t do it to the pets, Neffi. They did it to you.” If organized crime was involved, this was the unnatural equivalent of leaving a horse head tucked in her sarcophagus.

  “They want to scare me out of business. It’s not going to work!”

  It was time, I decided, to take this case a lot more seriously. I called McGoo and asked if he could increase the visible police presence around the Full Moon until I could arrange for private security. He said, “That’s ironic, Shamble, since unnatural prostitution is still technically illegal.”

  “Would it help if I asked you to do it for me, McGoo?” You can’t keep spending favors unless you earn them back, but my account wasn’t empty yet.

  “Marginally. But you have to promise to laugh at my jokes from now on.”

  I hesitated. “All of them?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Some of them,” I agreed. McGoo realized it was the best he was going to get, so he left it at that.

  “What’s the difference between a werewolf and a poodle?” Yes, he was going to make me pay for the favor.

  “I don’t know. What?”

  “If a werewolf starts humping your leg, you’d better let it finish instead of kicking it away.”

  So I laughed, because I had promised, although I had an odd image of Cinnamon in my head.

  At daybreak, when part of the Quarter awakened and the other part crawled back into their darkest holes, I decided to get all my mummies in a row and find out as much as I could about Neffi, just to make sure I had the full story.

  The Metropolitan Museum wasn’t technically open to the public at dawn, but I had an inside contact. Once upon a time, before the Big Uneasy, patrons would go to the museum to look at the butterfly collection, the gem and geode displays, the dioramas of human civilization, the stuffed wild animals in supposedly natural poses, the hall of dinosaur bones. Lately, the big draw was the original tome of the Necronomicon, the ancient spell book that—through a combination of a rare planetary alignment, the phase of the moon, and a homely old witch’s paper cut that had provided the requisite drop of virgin’s blood—had sparked the reality upheaval that gave birth to all manner of creatures formerly relegated to ghost stories and paranoid imaginations. The museum dioramas, the insect display cases, even the dinosaur bones, now took a backseat to the creepy stuff.

  When I gave my name to the security guard at the door and told him I was a friend of Ramen Ho-Tep’s, the man looked skeptical. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

  I was puzzled. “What do you mean? He was a client of mine. I know him well.”

  Again, the guard was unimpressed. “Do you know how many groupies hang around the delivery doors just trying to get his autograph?”

  “Uh . . . no, I don’t. How many?”

  “A lot,” the guard said. “He was the Pharaoh of all Egypt, you know.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that before. Tell him Dan Chambeaux is here—I’d just like a word.”

  “You’d better not be wasting my time.” The guard left me standing outside the museum’s side entrance. I continued to smile pleasantly at him, holding back my own comment that this guy was wasting my time. A few minutes later he opened the door again, looking both surprised and humbled. “What do you know? He says come on in. It’s your lucky day.”

  “Right.”

  Robin and I had helped Ramen Ho-Tep in his suit to be emancipated from the museum, on the basis that he was a person, not property. Since Mr. Ho-Tep, the Pharaoh of all Egypt, was a significant draw in their Ancient Egypt wing, the museum resisted letting him go his own way. Eventually, we reached a resolution, and now, with his regular dramatic readings, Ramen Ho-Tep had become something of a star, and his weekly performances of “Egypt through the Eye Sockets of Someone Who Was Really There” had even been featured on a national news program.

  When I went into his dressing room, the mummy rose to his feet, glad to see me. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Jellied larks’ tongues? I shall summon my slaves.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Ho-Tep. Just a quick question—I’m hoping you can shed some light on one of my cases.”

  Ramen Ho-Tep was looking well. His laundered and bleached bandages had a stiff clean-linen appearance, and his dust-dry sinews and skin had plumped up again (just like any other ramen when soaked in water).

  “The wealth of my knowledge is yours for the asking, Mr. Chambeaux. I was the Pharaoh of all Egypt, and I am generous to my friends.”

  “I’ve been hired by another Egyptian, with whom you may be acquainted. She’s experiencing some trouble.”

  “I am concerned for all of my subjects,” Ho-Tep said. “Who is this person and how may I help?”

  “She’s another mummy, maybe from a different dynasty. Her name is Neffi. She runs the Full Moon.”

  Even behind all those bandages, I could see Ho-Tep’s expression pull into a pinched grimace of distaste. “She’s most definitely a slut, Mr. Chambeaux. No two ways about it. There was nothing between us whatsoever. Just gossip.”

  Playing it cool, I said, “You know her, then?”

  “Knew her—a long time ago. She used to think she was the scarab’s knees. Had quite a reputation, that one. But she wasn’t as lovely as she wanted to think. She painted herself up more than my sarcophagus, and she always used too much myrrh.”

  “So . . . ,” I ventured, sensing a lot more there than mere hostility, “you two had a little thing going?”

  “Not much of a thing,” Ramen Ho-Tep said. “Not at the rates she charged! She wanted me to build a pyramid for her, just to show my appreciation, but I wasn’t her honey daddy. Plenty of other fish in the Nile.”

  “Somebody’s been harassing her,” I told him, “apparently trying to drive the Full Moon out of business.”

  “Neffi?” He sounded alarmed, and he didn’t even try to hide his concern. “Is she all right?”

  “Unharmed, but worried. Someone smashed two of the jars where she kept her mummified pet cats.”

  “Oh, no! Not poor Socks, Whiskers, and Blackie!”

  Ramen Ho-Tep had been a cat lover himself. His own pet, Fluffy, was preserved and on display in the museum.

  “I shall have to send her my condolences, uh, as a profe
ssional matter,” he said. “If there is anything that I, as pharaoh, can do to help you solve this case, Mr. Chambeaux, I’ll do it. A fiend who would commit such a heinous crime must be punished.”

  “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know, Mr. Ho-Tep. Thanks for the background information.”

  The mummy seemed rattled, but not so much that he forgot to give me two free passes to Saturday’s show. I thanked him and left.

  CHAPTER 17

  As a man who devoted his wealth to charitable causes, Irwyn Goodfellow did not scrimp when it came to his grand openings. To launch his program to help the rescued golems, Goodfellow hosted a lavish reception and job fair in the Unnatural Quarter community center.

  Gratified that the pieces had fallen so smoothly into place, Robin and I wouldn’t have missed it. I intended to do my part by contracting four or five of the burliest golems for security work at the Full Moon.

  Mrs. Saldana busied herself at various tables where the golems could meet prospective employers. At the reception desk she set out clipboards so that any interested inhuman-resources staff could request golems with specific skill sets (to the best of my knowledge, golems started out as blank clay slates, but they were easily trained).

  The homeless golems milled about, fully hydrated now, so that they shed no dust on the furnishings. They gathered the courage to walk up to likely patrons or employers, introduced themselves, struck up conversations. Each golem had his name etched at the base of his neck, and by now Irwyn Goodfellow’s volunteer staff had told them who they really were.

  Some wore elegant tuxedoes and carried trays of drinks or hors d’oeuvres to audition for jobs in the service industry; some wore chauffeur’s uniforms, while others offered to be rented out for straightforward manual labor. Golems weren’t picky and tended to be model employees.

  Tiffany was there in a clean work shirt and jeans, standing next to Bill, who rarely left her side. His face flexed into a smile when he saw us. “Isn’t this wonderful? My people have a chance now for worthwhile lives, an opportunity to be productive in a meaningful way. And we don’t have to work for an employer who treats us like dirt!”

  I didn’t point out that golems, by definition, were made out of dirt.

  Tiffany said, “We’re here to offer moral support. Bill’s going to stay with me for a while, and he’s been . . . generally useful.” She smiled at him, showing her fangs; if a golem could have blushed, Bill would have been scarlet.

  I said, “With a recommendation from you, Tiffany, I’m sure Bill will find an employer who’d be happy to have him. And we’ll get all of the other golems taken care of. In fact, I’m hiring some golems for the brothel security job I told you about.”

  Bill said, “Security would be a good profession for me, and I can heartily recommend any of my friends.”

  The job fair had a happy buzz of optimism, and I was sure that by the end of the event, many of the downtrodden golems would have decent jobs. Golems continued to talk to potential employers, extolling their skills and interests, but soon heads turned and conversation stopped. An uncomfortable hush rippled through the room.

  At first, I saw Larry the werewolf bodyguard. He entered with shoulders squared, his hirsute chest puffed up, and walked with an awkwardly feigned “I’m tough, I’m bad, and don’t mess with me” attitude. In his wake came Harvey Jekyll, completely bald, with simian features and a scowl indelibly stamped on his face, which made him look as if he ate too much mustard.

  I looked at him, and he looked at me and Robin. There was no love lost between us. I muttered, “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Robin does occasionally hold a grudge—despite the way I paint her, she isn’t a complete saint—but she also has a pragmatic streak that goes over my head. “He’s probably trying to hire some household staff. I doubt anyone else would work for him.”

  “Larry does,” I said, “and he’s none too happy about it.”

  Jekyll was a maniacal, murderous madman, and even in the Unnatural Quarter that wasn’t always a good thing. As a human, he had concocted a nefarious scheme to exterminate unnaturals with a line of deadly hygiene items, but we had foiled him. Jekyll was sentenced to death by electric chair, and then, in an irony appreciated by no one (least of all Harvey Jekyll), he came back as an unnatural himself and hated every minute of it. The ride on Sparky, Jr. had not improved his disposition. Even my untrained eye could tell that he needed a better embalming job, but he probably could not afford one after losing his entire fortune to his ex-wife Miranda.

  I looked around the room, avoiding my nemesis. “Come on, I want to hire some of these guys for Neffi before Jekyll gets to them.”

  Even though golems are made from the same general mold—especially the ones mass-produced by Maximus Max—Robin and I signed up the five most intimidating clay figures to work as bodyguards, bouncers, and doormen for the Full Moon. With five never-sleeping, ever-vigilant goons positioned around the building, I doubted Senator Balfour’s troublemakers would bother the brothel anymore. Even organized-crime wiseguys would think twice.

  After we filled out the paperwork, a simple employment agreement that Robin had drawn up for the job fair, each golem’s mimeographed animation spell was transcribed onto more permanent paper, and we sent their employment forms over to Madam Neffi.

  Smiling with satisfaction, Irwyn Goodfellow walked among the golem candidates and prospective employers—all smiles, laughing, in his element. He said hello to us and thanked Robin for her legal help in setting up the Adopt-a-Golem program.

  Since Irwyn was in a good mood, I took the opportunity to fish for more information. “I appreciate that you’re helping these liberated golems, Mr. Goodfellow. It helps to atone for how they were forced to make souvenirs for the Smile Syndicate.”

  He frowned. “It’s a full-time job to atone for all the bad work Missy does. I wish she would soften her heart.”

  “I had the pleasure . . . well, let’s just say I met Missy yesterday,” I said. “She disavows any responsibility for the items they sell in their gift shops, claims to know nothing about it.”

  “Oh, she knows where the souvenirs came from, but you’ll never prove it,” Irwyn said. “She’s set her sights on expanding into the Unnatural Quarter. She’s a lot like our father, Oswald Goodfellow.” He let out a concerned sigh. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my sister eventually wanted to own the whole town.”

  “Looks that way, with the line of gift shops. She’s already purchased the Goblin Tavern and intends to open up a nationwide chain.”

  Irwyn’s expression fell into a frown. “Now do you see why I have little to do with my family? There’s so much good work to be done, so many people in need. With my share of the inheritance, I do have a lot of money, but it only goes so far. Nevertheless, my name is Goodfellow, and I’m trying to live up to the literal definition of the word, rather than my family history.”

  Now that I had met his sister, I wondered how Irwyn had fallen so far from the tree.

  Accompanied by her listless zombie, Mrs. Saldana joined us. She carried a clipboard, pleased with how many golems had already been hired during the reception. Her expression was worried, though, and she held Jerry’s arm possessively. “Mr. Chambeaux, I’m on tenterhooks. Have you made any progress in Jerry’s case?”

  “Oh, dear,” Goodfellow asked. “Is something the matter?”

  “I’m looking into it.” I turned back to Mrs. Saldana. “I went to Timeworn Treasures and talked with the gremlin pawnbroker. He’s not much of a businessman—he loves his possessions so much that he doesn’t want to part with any of them. But he did sell Jerry’s combo pack, as well as quite a few others. Someone’s been buying them up, but he won’t tell me who.”

  “What would anybody do with extra hearts and souls?” Robin asked.

  “People will collect anything.” I still regretted getting rid of my collectible superhero action figures for a few bucks at a garage sale.

  Jerry let ou
t a low, bubbling moan, and Mrs. Saldana put a hand to her mouth in dismay. “I wish we could do something.”

  “I’ll keep pressing, don’t you worry—I’ll find out something,” I said. “Snazz keeps his records in a big ledger book, and I assume the information is in there. Maybe if I tempt him with a few shiny things, he’ll let me have a quick look at that ledger. Don’t give up hope yet.”

  “Oh, I never do, Mr. Chambeaux.”

  We were all interrupted when the ghost of the famed bank robber Alphonse Wheeler appeared with great fanfare, wearing his checkered jacket and stylish hat. He carried a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an overstuffed duffel in the other hand.

  “Hello, hello!” Alphonse said. “The MLDW Society is doing wonderful work here—what a worthy organization! It makes my heart melt. Let’s have a round of applause for Irwyn Goodfellow and all of the Monster Legal Defense Workers.”

  Everyone clapped, except for Alphonse Wheeler himself, whose hands were full.

  “What’s he up to now?” I asked Robin, suspicious already. When Wheeler was alive and robbing banks, he had been quite an attention-getter. This was just the sort of thing the bored and restless ghost would do before causing trouble.

  “I’d like to give the MLDW Society my personal support, put my money where my mouth is. I’ve just come into quite a large stash.” He shrugged. “I found it, couldn’t say where it was from.” He handed Robin the bunch of flowers, then unzipped the duffel to display wads and wads of cash.

  “That’s your stash of stolen money, Mr. Wheeler,” Robin said. “I already told you, the cash doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Who can say where I got the money? Maybe it fell off a truck. But instead of using it for my own selfish needs, I want to donate it all to the Monster Legal Defense Workers.”

  Everybody cheered and whistled. Hope Saldana looked especially delighted.

  “I’m happy to accept the donation, Mr. Wheeler,” said Irwyn Goodfellow. “We can place it in our holding accounts to continue our good work. In fact, it will go a long way to help pay for my new zombie rehabilitation clinic that opens in a few days.”