Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Wheeler was beaming. “By all means, use it for that purpose!”

  Robin cautioned in a low voice so as not to dampen the buzz of excitement, “The insurance companies will come after this, claiming it’s theirs.”

  “Maybe,” I whispered back to her, “but they’ll look like fools if they try to take it from a charity.”

  Instigated by Bill and Tiffany, the hundred golems let out three cheers, in an eerie, perfect unison, for Alphonse Wheeler and Irwyn Goodfellow. Then, although I’m not sure they realized the humor or the pun, they sang a boisterous chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  CHAPTER 18

  In order to help Jerry the zombie, I decided to keep an eye on Timeworn Treasures. Actually, two eyes, since both of mine still remained firmly attached in their sockets.

  I had asked McGoo for a favor, to make up some reason to flash his badge and demand a look at the pawnshop ledger book while I happened to be standing next to him. But favors only went so far—unless I could provide evidence that some kind of crime had been committed, McGoo had no basis for a warrant. Jerry had voluntarily pawned his heart and soul, and Snazz could sell it to anyone he liked. He was under no legal obligation to reveal the purchaser no matter how nicely I asked.

  But I could still watch the store.

  At an outdoor café conveniently located across from the pawnshop’s shadowy alley, I bought a cup of coffee, the special extra-bitter blend, took a seat, and watched the pedestrians go by. The café had introduced a new two-sided menu—one for unnatural tastes and one for human tourists.

  At the table next to mine, three tourists chattered about the everyday sights in the Quarter; the woman took photos of every werewolf, vampire, or zombie that wandered by, while her two companions studied the cartoony chamber-of-commerce map and a guidebook as if it were one of those star maps to the homes of Hollywood celebrities. The photographer waved at me and took several photos; her camera was enormous, far larger than was practical or necessary. She encouraged her two companions—husband and brother, presumably—to stand next to me and have their photos taken. Enough of that, and I shooed them away. I was in the middle of a discreet stakeout.

  Across the street, a new adult novelty boutique had opened up, featuring items for natural, unnatural, and combined tastes. The shop was named Unnatural Acts, a deliberate jab at Senator Balfour’s crusade. Safe, Fun, Unusual.

  For the grand opening, the adult-shop owners had strung black crepe paper around the door, filled black helium balloons, and set out colorful reflective pinwheels that remained motionless in the forlorn hope of a breeze. A blackboard advertised the daily specials, toys that sounded like torture devices, the usual assortment of whips, spiked collars, and manacles that you would find in any traditional adult novelty shop, as well as a list of items that, I had to admit with some embarrassment, were complete mysteries to me.

  Now, I’m well preserved and still capable—at least judging by my morning stiffness in the usual place, as well as a lot of additional places—but since I can’t even touch my ghost girlfriend, I don’t have much opportunity anymore. I wasn’t the target audience for the Unnatural Acts boutique....

  The coffee was terrible, as advertised. I finished it and ordered a second cup. The nosy tourists dashed off to chase after a tall horned demon who strolled past and entered an electronics store.

  I kept my eyes on the pawnshop alley, and I didn’t have long to wait. Unfortunately, Travis Carey was not the one I’d expected to see on my stakeout.

  Sheyenne’s brother came by with a bounce in his step and a grin on his face, still wearing the same natty jacket, without a care in the world. He ducked down the alley carrying a small paper sack and entered the pawnshop without a hint of hesitation, as if he’d been there before and knew exactly what he was doing.

  I was disappointed, saddened, and angry on Sheyenne’s behalf, but not particularly surprised. I had no doubt that the sack contained the gold necklaces, rings, and other jewelry she had given him as family keepsakes. Travis said he had gambling debts and people were after him for money. I wondered if he had retreated to the Quarter to get away from brass-knuckled debt collectors.

  As I sat there stewing, I debated whether or not to tell Sheyenne. If Travis did pawn the jewelry, maybe I’d dip into the Chambeaux & Deyer petty cash fund and buy the items back for her—if Snazz was willing to part with them.

  All of this nonsense was a mystery to me. I didn’t have any brothers and sisters. My dad left us when I was eight years old, my mom worked two jobs just to make ends meet, so I rarely saw her. All the stress, and all the smoking, had put her into an early grave. And those were the days when there wasn’t even a chance that someone might come back.

  After years of warm-sentiment greeting cards, heart-aching holiday specials, and sappy songs, I’d been brainwashed into believing in the joys of having close family ties, but I’d never understood them, not really. Now, knowing everything that Travis had done to Sheyenne and how she felt about it, I couldn’t understand why people got completely irrational when it came to idiocy committed by family members. People will roll their eyes and sigh, tolerating stupidity from a relative that they would never accept from a stranger or business partner. Supposedly, you have to put up with it because they’re family; you have to love them unconditionally.

  That sort of sentiment might sound great on a greeting card, but it didn’t make any sense to me now. Travis was a jerk by any possible definition.

  Suddenly I heard a commotion up the street, drums banging and a squawking brassy noise—a vuvuzela? Not a peppy sound like a parade, but more like a funeral procession (although in the Unnatural Quarter, funeral processions and parades often served dual purposes). A group of normal humans who looked passionate, yet entirely humorless, marched along like an old-fashioned temperance rally, holding up signs that said GOD HATES UNNATURALS, each one hand-lettered and featuring a variety of misspellings. Other signs in the procession proclaimed PASS THEE UNATURAL ACTS ACT NOW!

  They handed out leaflets—or tried to. Occasionally, human tourists accepted the flyers; very few unnaturals did. Grumbling complaints and raucous catcalls followed the protesters as they came down the street. Their target, the Unnatural Acts adult novelty boutique, must have been a sharp stick in the senator’s eye. How could he resist bringing his minions here?

  At the head of the procession was the man himself—tall, with a pale face, lantern jaw, and permanent scowl, as if it had been chiseled onto his visage by a gravestone artist. Balfour’s appearance reminded me of photos I had seen of H. P. Lovecraft, except this guy wasn’t nearly so handsome—and Lovecraft was by no means a handsome man. A frumpy and equally unattractive woman whose facial muscles seemed incapable of performing the complex act of smiling accompanied the senator—his wife, presumably. If they had been scuffed up and their clothes moldered, Senator and Mrs. Balfour could easily have passed for a pair of zombies.

  The procession came forward, causing quite a spectacle, and stopped on the street in front of the café, turning their ire toward the adult novelty boutique. They blocked my view of the alley, and I could no longer see the pawnshop. The ever-increasing crowd of unnatural hecklers made it even more difficult to see, but since the senator’s minions were likely responsible for the arson at the cemetery, I decided to pay attention to them as well. I liked working on multiple cases at once. Senator Balfour’s intolerance, coupled with his incitement to violence, was something to watch.

  The drums and vuvuzela continued to make a racket until the group faced the front of the adult shop. Senator Balfour raised his head, looking proud and arrogant. The alleged music fell silent. “This place is an abomination!” he called. “I should have it burned to the ground.”

  Like the Shakespeare set? I found the threat interesting.

  Two of Balfour’s minions popped the black balloons and yanked down the black crepe paper while a third paused to not-too-subtly read the specials listed on the blackbo
ard sign. The camera-happy tourists took numerous photos of the proceedings.

  The boutique proprietor came out, looking indignant. “Here now, this is my place of business! Buy something or move on.”

  She was a mousy, overweight woman—apparently human, but you never could tell. She looked to be in her early forties, not the type you would expect to own an adult novelty store, but people led all sorts of double lives.

  One of Balfour’s followers tried to hand her a leaflet. She responded by handing him a catalog.

  “Your pandering to base instincts disgusts me,” Balfour said.

  The woman sized him up, then spoke directly to his wife in a loud but conspiratorial whisper. “I can help, truly. We have instructional videos, special oils, role-playing gear. I have an Elvira costume that will fit you . . . or your husband.”

  Senator Balfour looked flustered. The horned demon had emerged from the electronics store, assessed the situation, then indignantly vomited out a steaming glob of phlegm that burst into flame upon contact with the air. He had excellent aim: The tumbling glob struck the open mouth of the vuvuzela and tunneled inside with a glurp of greenish smoke. The player yelped and dropped it on the street.

  “You are damned!” Senator Balfour called. “That goes without saying.”

  “Then why bother saying it?” howled a werewolf, to much tittering and chuckling.

  Sheyenne’s brother had come out of the pawnshop, empty-handed now, and he accepted one of the leaflets from a protester. He read the inflammatory words with great interest and stopped to listen to the senator. One of the protesters came up to the outdoor tables of the café and set leaflets at every place. I pocketed one to put in the file.

  Balfour continued his rant. “The Unnatural Acts Act has garnered much support in the senate, and we’re going to pass it soon. Then everything will change.” Balfour raised his fist. “You thought the Big Uneasy was a dramatic shift? This’ll be the Big Crackdown.”

  A ghost called, “Boo!”

  “Go back to the rock you crawled out from under!” shouted a vampire.

  Senator Balfour pointed his finger at the vampire heckler. “You’re the one who crawled out from under a rock.” Not the snappiest comeback I’d ever heard.

  The vampire was baffled. “I didn’t crawl out from under a rock.”

  Next to him, a zombie said, “I did.”

  “This is a free country,” Balfour said. “We have every right to let it be known that we do not approve of unnaturals.”

  “We have our right to free speech, too,” slurred a ghoul. Next to him, a decrepit and fragrant shambler zombie pulled off an ear and threw it at the senator, striking him in the face to peals of laughter.

  Balfour reacted with disgust, and other zombies began hurling body parts. One even sacrificed a hand, which struck Balfour’s wife in the chest and, through reflexive action, clamped down on her left breast. She screamed and slapped at it.

  McGoo and two other cops showed up then. “Here, now, Senator, maybe you should protest somewhere else. How about finding a neighborhood where people want to hear what you have to say?”

  “We’re perfectly within our rights,” Balfour said to McGoo. “Officer . . . ?”

  “McGoohan, sir. Toby McGoohan. I’m just trying to keep the peace in the Quarter.”

  “You’re a human, and you serve in this cesspit?” The senator still had a mark of ooze on his cheek from where the orphaned ear had struck him.

  “At least until I get a promotion, Senator. Now, please move along. You made your point, and you’re not going to win any converts here.” McGoo pointed down to the vuvuzela that had been ruined by demon spit. “And pick that up. I’ll cite you for littering if you leave it there.” Greenish steam from the volatile demon phlegm continued to bubble up from the instrument’s opening, and I doubted it would be playing any more “music.”

  As the crowd broke up and the hecklers realized the show was over, I lounged back in my seat at the café. Travis had already disappeared down the street. In the commotion, however, I’d missed another customer who slipped into Timeworn Treasures—now, as she left the shop, I recognized Angela Drake, Missy Goodfellow’s anorexic assistant.

  Unlike Travis, Angela looked furtive as she hurried out of the alley. She wore sunglasses and a scarf over her mouse-brown hair. I knew who she was, but I couldn’t tell whether she carried anything. I stood up to get a better look, but Angela vanished in the crowd of protesters and tourists.

  Missy Goodfellow’s assistant at the pawnshop? That raised another set of questions entirely.

  CHAPTER 19

  Although Chambeaux & Deyer does good work and tries to make sure every client is satisfied with our services, we don’t have many repeat customers. Who needs a private eye more than once? Still, we maintain a close relationship with our former clients, and sometimes they come back to visit. Just because.

  The Wannovich sisters, Mavis and Alma, were both witches, pleasant and generous ladies, a little lonely. According to Mavis, her sister had a soft spot for me—call it a weekend crush. I try not to fraternize with my clients, and I had no romantic interest in Alma, and not just because she had been transformed into an enormous sow.

  The Wannoviches were one of our gold-star cases; from a legal perspective, Robin had achieved exactly what the clients hoped for. The witches had suffered disastrous consequences from an attraction spell gone awry, caused by a misprint in a spell book. Alma—who hadn’t been all that attractive in the first place, judging by the photos Mavis showed us—was turned into a pig. The sisters had sued Howard Phillips Publishing, and the parties eventually reached an unusual settlement. Although Alma was not (yet) restored to human form, the two women accepted positions with the publisher. Mavis was now a senior editor there, while Alma spent her days rooting through the slush pile.

  The two dropped in for a visit in the late afternoon. Mavis, a hefty woman who wore a black witch’s dress and pointed hat over a mop of black hair like steel wool, extended a paper plate covered with cellophane wrap. “I brought cookies.” She looked at me with a smile. “Especially for you, Mr. Chambeaux.”

  The plate of flattened patties looked unappetizing. The witches might be good at making exotic potions and casting unusual spells, but they weren’t proficient in the kitchen. I also suspected that they might have added a few special ingredients from the magical pantry to soften me up—or harden me up—for amorous intentions. I didn’t need zombie Viagra, nor did I have any intention of becoming the Wannoviches’ zombie plaything. I wanted to keep our relationship on a professional level.

  “We’ve come with good news,” Mavis said as she passed around the plate of cookies; Sheyenne carried it into the office kitchenette. “We’re introducing a new line at Howard Phillips Publishing, calling them Penny Dreadfuls, at a special price of only $5.99. Adventures for the unnatural audience, although we’ll distribute them widely across the country.”

  Alma snorted with excitement and paced around the front offices. Mavis grinned at me, and I saw that her teeth, although still crooked, had recently been whitened. “You inspired our very first release, Mr. Chambeaux. It’s going to be a detective series about a zombie private investigator and his bleeding-heart human lawyer partner, who solve cases and defend the rights of monsters everywhere.”

  “Sounds . . . familiar,” I said.

  “We’re calling it Shamble and Die Investigations. Do you get it?” She giggled. “A play on your names.”

  “Yes, we get it,” Robin said. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Oh, it’s only loosely based on your exploits, but we’d still like to have your permission? And Mr. Chambeaux, of course, is the heroic main character, a brave detective who won’t let even death stop him from solving crimes. We expect it to be a best seller.”

  I couldn’t imagine who would want to read such a thing. “Are you pulling my leg, Mavis?”

  “Oh, my, that would be dangerous, Mr. Chambeaux. Speaking of which, ho
w is your arm? I hear it was detached during the fight against Harvey Jekyll.”

  “All pieces are back in place.” I raised and lowered my arms to demonstrate, flexing my wrist and forearm.

  Mavis continued. “I assure you, it’s no joke—well, there will be humor in the stories. The Penny Dreadfuls are entertaining stories, not dreary, socially meaningful tracts targeted toward women’s book clubs.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Robin said, still uncertain. “I suppose.”

  Sheyenne drifted closer. “And who’s going to write it?”

  “We already have a ghostwriter,” Mavis said, still delighted. “And that’s why we’re here.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “A ghost writer? Really?”

  “Actually, she’s a vampire,” Mavis said. “An aspiring writer who’s thrilled to be part of the project. We can’t put her name on the cover because it’s going to be told in first person, and the readers have to think it’s truly written by ‘Dan Shamble.’ But we’d like the ghostwriter to speak with you, shadow you on a few cases, listen to the way you talk, pick up details. It’s the best way to get a sense of realism.”

  “That wouldn’t be appropriate,” I said, although I couldn’t give an actual reason why.

  Robin, with her legal expertise, did that for me. “Our cases are confidential, Mavis. Our clients remain anonymous unless they choose to go public. Having an observer would breach the attorney-client privilege.”

  “And there is an element of danger in our investigations.” I plucked at my sport jacket to show the stitched-up holes. “I’ve been shot and disassembled myself.”

  The sow sat down on the carpet with a loud snort, and Mavis was obviously disappointed.

  Sheyenne, always business oriented, looked on the bright side. “We think it’s a delightful idea, Mavis, but if Howard Phillips Publishing is going to sell our stories, Chambeaux and Deyer will have to receive some sort of compensation.”