Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Been quiet since the ambulance left—too quiet, in fact. Most of the Full Moon clientele slipped out the back door or ducked through windows as soon as they heard the sirens.”

  “People can’t tell the difference between an ambulance and a police siren,” I said.

  I plodded up the steps, walked across the creaking porch, and opened the ornate Victorian front door. The fifth golem stood like a statue inside the reception parlor, doubling as a hat rack, if necessary; his name, etched on the back of his neck, was Mike.

  Cinnamon was brushing her fur at the reception desk again. The zombie ladies and vampire princesses sat around a table playing cards and looking bored. Neffi paced back and forth in the customer-less lobby, but the girls seemed deaf to her grumbles.

  I decided to take an unusual approach and called out with as much cheer as I could manage, “Good news!”

  The mummy madam turned her coal-black eyes in my direction. “What’s good about it? We haven’t had a single client, not even after I announced my special discounts last night. I’m going to have to take out radio ads, offer two-for-one specials . . . hmm, but that’ll only attract the kinky customers.”

  “They’re just spooked—they’ll come around. The good news is, Travis Carey is recovering in the hospital. I arranged to have a couple of witch friends perform a restorative spell.”

  Neffi still wasn’t overjoyed. “Good, he’ll bounce back full of energy and ready to lawyer up. What are we going to do, Mr. Chambeaux?”

  “He won’t press charges. In fact, I expect him to leave the Quarter before long.” There really was nothing left for Travis here; he had said goodbye to his sister’s ghost and immediately squandered what meager inheritance Sheyenne had left. No good could come of him hanging around. I’d make sure he understood that.

  A ghost in a checkered jacket and stylish hat flitted through the closed front door, tipped his hat, and turned around to open the door from inside. He returned to the porch so he could snatch up the bouquet of daisies he had left there. “Hello, ladies!” Alphonse Wheeler was certainly cheery.

  “At least this time you’re not bothering any paying customers, Mr. Wheeler,” said Neffi. “No competition today.”

  The bank robber looked around the parlor, surprised. “And these adorable and ravishing women have no company whatsoever? Lucky me.” He noticed me standing there. “Apologies, Mr. Chambeaux. You obviously have first pick.”

  Aubrey the zombie girl clumsily shuffled the deck, spilling cards all over the table, then scooped them back into a pile. Nightshade and Hemlock each drew cards.

  “Mr. Wheeler is a frequent visitor, but never a paying customer,” Neffi said.

  Wheeler grinned. “Not through lack of trying. I used to be quite a ladies’ man—I was rather randy in my life. I had frequent-guest cards with three different escort services from Nevada to Rhode Island. But now, being a ghost”—he spread his hands, looking forlorn—“I can look, but not touch. Admittedly, looking upon such beauty is its own reward, but I do find it discouraging.” He let out a long sigh. “It’s depressing to be a horny ghost. The spirit is willing . . .”

  “I know how you feel, Mr. Wheeler,” I said. Sheyenne and I faced similar challenges in our love life.

  “At least I’m out of prison—for all the good that does me,” Wheeler said. “For two decades I dreamed about being back on the outside, but this afterlife business isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  I spotted Ruth standing shyly in the hall. Her large emerald eyes were shadowed; she had been crying. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s all my fault.”

  “It is your fault.” Neffi’s voice was always harsh since her vocal cords were dried and sinewy. “But it’s that dimwit customer’s fault just as much.” She turned to me. “He did sign a waiver. I can prove we warned him about the succubus. We explained the dangers and the safety procedures. All conjugal relations are at your own risk. Generally, we don’t recommend humans spend time with Ruth. I tell them again and again.” She cocked her head, put her hand on her hip, and put on a performance, speaking in a nasal, bad Jack Nicholson imitation. “ ‘You want Ruth? You can’t handle Ruth!’ But they don’t listen, that man in particular. He filled out a new-client card and everything, and I can tell you this—I filed it right in the blacklist folder. Travis Carey is no longer welcome at the Full Moon.”

  Ruth sniffled. “But I’m not going to get any more customers, not after this. What am I going to do? How do I make a living?” The girl was quite sweet.

  I took a few steps closer to her. “It’ll be all right. Look at me—I’m dead, and I’m still optimistic that things will turn out for the best.”

  “We don’t run a charity operation here,” Neffi said to Ruth. “Your take was always smaller than the other girls’. We kept you on because of the novelty, but this is the last straw. If you don’t earn money for the establishment, then I can’t keep you around. I have to cut you loose. Sorry. It’s business.”

  Ruth began trembling and sniffing. Tears ran down her cheeks to her pointed chin and dangled there like little diamonds in the parlor lights. She slid down the wall, folding her knees until she sat on the floor.

  “Give her another chance, Neffi,” I said. “Hold off for just a little while. See if things turn around.”

  “They won’t turn around,” Ruth said. “I never wanted to work in a brothel—I just wanted to be loved, but I’m poison to anyone who loves me. Even for daredevils, the thrill wears off after a while. Then where am I?” She spread her hands. “And now even the brothel won’t have me! This really sucks.”

  “That’s supposed to be my joke.” Nightshade threw down her hand of cards and raked in the money from the pot.

  “I’ll still spend time with you,” said Alphonse Wheeler. “It’s not as if I can do anything else with the girls.”

  Neffi said in a hard voice, “We charge clients to spend time with the girls, Mr. Wheeler, whether or not they can get it up. Can you pay for the privilege?”

  “If only you had asked me a few days ago, but I don’t have my stash anymore.”

  “Thanks for trying, Mr. Wheeler,” Ruth said with a sniff.

  I turned back to the mummy madam, very much wanting to help the poor succubus. “Give me a few days to figure out something for her.”

  “All right, Mr. Chambeaux—I owe you a favor,” Neffi said. “A small one.”

  I retrieved my fedora from Mike the golem hat rack, and left, already putting my detective skills to good use.

  CHAPTER 28

  Irwyn Goodfellow never seemed to tire of doing good deeds, and I couldn’t keep track of all his charitable projects. Fortunately, Chambeaux & Deyer received a high-end engraved invitation for his gala ribbon-cutting ceremony at his new zombie rehab clinic, Fresh Corpses. Sheyenne and I attended, although Robin stayed in the office, swamped with casework for the Pattersons.

  The plastic-and-leather surgery facility specialized in restorative operations for zombies who had lost body parts, articulated joints, or large sections of musculature or skin. A team of skilled surgeons, morticians, seamstresses, and upholsterers offered community service work for the free clinic. Zombies could shamble in with no questions asked. Skilled wood-carvers and animatronics specialists who were laid off from Hollywood (when studios could simply hire a real monster, why spend a large budget on special effects?) provided prosthetic limbs and replacements for the less fortunate undead.

  In front of the whitewashed clinic, an engraved granite block read: ALL WELCOME. Irwyn Goodfellow stood behind a podium at the entry. “It brings me such great joy to do this. Zombies need no longer be afraid to come out in the daylight. Fresh Corpses has fifty beds and a complete staff to take care of your needs.”

  “Cute nurses, too?” yelled one of the zombies in the audience.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Irwyn answered—by which I knew he meant no, the nurses are not very attractive—but he used this as a springboa
rd to continue, “And you are all beautiful people, no matter how badly you may be falling apart, no matter which choices you made in life or death. You deserve a second chance, or a third chance. Nobody’s keeping score. This privately funded clinic will make you whole again so you can be productive citizens.”

  Hope Saldana stood beside him and spoke into the microphone. “On behalf of the Monster Legal Defense Workers, we officially declare the Fresh Corpses facility open! It will help zombies with their physical needs.” The old woman’s voice cracked as she looked out at Jerry, who stood where she had propped him. Alas, restorative surgery would not help Jerry with his missing heart and soul.

  Even with Snazz murdered, I hadn’t given up yet on discovering who had purchased the bundle pack from the pawnshop. McGoo would get back to me soon; a simple glance at the ledger book, and then I could go make the new owner an offer he couldn’t refuse, or at least we could start bargaining.

  A wide red ribbon was stretched from one lintel post to the other. Mrs. Saldana offered a large and very sharp pair of silver scissors to Irwyn. “Would you like to do the honors, Mr. Goodfellow?”

  He pushed them back toward Mrs. Saldana. “Please, after all the fine things you’ve accomplished in the Unnatural Quarter, you should be the one to do it.”

  While she loved to help unfortunates, Mrs. Saldana did not like to be the center of attention—except when she was leading hymns or sermonizing to her patchwork congregation. Despite her obvious embarrassment, Goodfellow raised his voice. “Ladies, gentlemen, and genderless creatures—please give a round of applause to Mrs. Hope Saldana, acting director of the MLDW Society, who has worked tirelessly for years at her Hope and Salvation Mission.”

  The gathered zombies moaned out a cheer and began applauding—some so vigorously that their wrists bent at unfortunate angles.

  “Oh, all right.” She took the scissors and sliced the ribbon in half, as if she were snipping a particularly tough umbilical cord. The streamers fell to each side.

  Irwyn opened the front door with an extravagant gesture. “Come inside for the reception, everyone.”

  Sheyenne and I entered Fresh Corpses, along with the inexorable crowd of shambling undead. In the foyer of the restorative clinic, a piano had been set up. A vampire pianist cracked his knuckles, smiled at us all, and launched into a jaunty theme. He wore a white tuxedo jacket and pants encrusted with rhinestones and sequins. As he played, his fingers were a blur, his sharp nails tickling (and scratching) the ivories. The rhinestones and sequins caught the light from the chandeliers above in a dazzling display that blinded me.

  As the crowds came in, Goodfellow welcomed them all. Servers—many of them newly hired golems—walked around carrying trays of drinks or hors d’oeuvres. The zombies sniffed at textured lumps of grayish white matter, then discreetly set the hors d’oeuvres aside when they discovered the snack was, in fact, shaped tofu instead of real brains. Goodfellow had declared the clinic to be a “brain-free zone.” One entire wing of the facility was a lockdown, closely monitored withdrawal ward for addicts, so that zombies could kick the habit.

  The doctors and nurses acted as tour guides, taking potential donors as well as likely patients around the facility, showing the beds, the various leatherette selections for skin replacement, the putrefaction-freshening spa, embalming-fluid top-offs, and exercise room, where there would be weekly yoga and Pilates sessions to keep the zombies limber. The staff members were especially proud of their high-throughput ventilation and air-freshening system.

  Sheyenne and I signed the guest book, picked up brochures that described how Fresh Corpses was funded by the benevolence of Irwyn Goodfellow (though private donations were cheerfully accepted). Irwyn shook my hand vigorously but was careful not to do any damage; my reattached arm still suffered a few twinges. He seemed to be in his element, thriving on the attention and adulation; doing kind deeds was like a jolt of endorphins to the man. Missy Goodfellow, on the other hand, was noticeably absent.

  “Now that I’ve met your sister, Mr. Goodfellow, it’s obvious that generosity doesn’t run in the family,” I said. “Did some angel loan you a halo? How did you get bitten by the philanthropy bug?”

  Sheyenne looked at me as if my questions were rude, but Irwyn took no offense. “I wasn’t bitten by a bug . . . rather, I was nearly crushed by a falling piano. I didn’t think people really used pulleys and winches to haul pianos up to fourth-story windows anymore, but there I was, walking down the street, when it came crashing down in one big discordant note. Missed me by only a few inches.”

  “And you took that as a sign?” Sheyenne asked.

  “No, I saw it as a threat. It wasn’t an accident, you see—I didn’t need to hire a private investigator to figure that out. My father, Oswald Goodfellow, was a high-ranking member of the mob, though more of a distant uncle than an actual godfather. He had plenty of blood on his hands, and money in the accounts, mostly illegal stuff, that formed the foundation of the Smile Syndicate.

  “I was being raised to follow in his footsteps, a rotten apple falling not far from the tree. But when he tried to crush a rival’s church bingo racket, the other mobsters decided to send him a message by dropping a piano on the head of his heir apparent. Fortunately for me, it missed.

  “My father insisted on getting revenge, but to me it was an epiphany, like a born-again conversion. Falling pianos can do that. From that point on, I wanted nothing to do with the syndicate money, the corruption, the violence. I vowed to do good things with the family fortune. Since my sister and I inherited all the money very shortly thereafter, I could do what I liked with my share.”

  “How did your father die?” Sheyenne asked.

  “Oh, he died quietly in bed—someone smothered him with a pillow. The killer was never caught . . . it might have been Missy.” He shrugged. “But since she’s family, who am I to point fingers?”

  Sheyenne gestured around the zombie rehab facility. “So all this money originally came from criminal activity.”

  “And now it’s being put to good use. All shady Smile Syndicate operations are out of my hands and off my conscience—and I am a better person for it. Sometimes it’s hard, but I’m a man dedicated to my charities and my good works. Missy, on the other hand . . . well, at least the company accountants are happy with her. She’s been reaping plenty of profits these days.”

  My phone rang, and I excused myself, stepping aside while other visitors spoke to Mrs. Saldana and Irwyn Goodfellow. “Hey, Shamble,” McGoo said. “I had a look at that pawnshop ledger, but can’t find any mention of hearts or souls. Just a lot of junk.”

  I blinked. “No record at all? But Snazz told me himself he had sold seven sets already, and we know for a fact that Jerry pawned his heart and soul there.”

  “Nothing listed, Scout’s honor.”

  The evidence techs had combed the crime scene, dusted for fingerprints, taken all the necessary photographs, gathered and stored any items they considered useful. McGoo suspected a few interesting items had also found their way into the pockets of the evidence techs, but he couldn’t prove it. “We’ve got what we need from the pawnshop, and we expect to release the items to the next of kin soon enough.”

  I was sure they must have missed something. “Then can I have a closer look?”

  “Maybe. If no one else claims it.”

  “I’ve got dibs.”

  He laughed. “That’s not how the law works, Shamble.”

  For now, I could see about getting the theater props back to the Shakespeare troupe. It would be nice to close one case at least.

  After I pocketed the phone, I found Sheyenne drifting beside the vampire piano player, who was reveling in his cheerful performance. She had always liked the lounge lizard music at the Basilisk nightclub, and now she sang along with her knock-’em-dead voice. As they finished a song, Sheyenne leaned closer and asked him, “What’s with the rhinestones and sequins? I don’t see any sideburns, so it’s not an Elvis impersonation
.”

  I said, “He looks more like Liberace.”

  The pianist showed his fangs in a grin and kept playing. He didn’t miss a beat as he answered, “Neither. I’m just part of the minority that thinks vampires should sparkle.”

  CHAPTER 29

  That afternoon, when Sheyenne and I got back to work, Robin was holed up in her office. She looked noticeably run-down, still wearing yesterday’s outfit, her eyes bloodshot. I’m certainly not one to talk about somebody else’s rumpled, drained, or bedraggled appearance, but I was immediately worried about Robin.

  When I asked why she’d been losing sleep, she said, “I’m wrestling with my conscience, Dan, and it’s a knock-down-drag-out all-star wrestling match.”

  That was quintessential Robin. I recalled her various clients, wondered what could be bothering her so much. “Which case is it?”

  “Not a case I have yet . . . but one I need to take.”

  From across the office, Sheyenne groaned. “More pro bono work?”

  Robin shook her head. “No, this client can pay. . . . I just don’t like him—Harvey Jekyll.”

  “You’re not seriously considering taking his case,” Sheyenne cried.

  “I have to. He’s right, I’m sorry to say. That man has the same legal difficulties as the Pattersons. I should be taking the same moral stance against discrimination. How can I say he doesn’t deserve justice simply because I despise him? Even scumbags deserve the safety net of the law.”

  “Jekyll’s broken enough laws. He was executed for it,” I pointed out.

  “But not in this matter. He’s as much an innocent victim as Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. He may be a cretin, but I don’t have to be. I prefer to take the high road.”

  “As long as it doesn’t lead you over a cliff,” Sheyenne commented.

  “I’m going to tell him in person.” Robin sounded very brave, then her voice grew smaller. “Would you come with me, Dan?”

  Going to visit Harvey Jekyll was far down on my after-death bucket list, but this was Robin, and she had asked a favor. “Whatever you need—I’m there.”