Unnatural Acts

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “A new acquisition—high-powered ectoplasmic defibrillator designed for emergency situations like this.”

  “One of Jekyll’s zappers?” I asked.

  “He’s got the patent,” McGoo said, “and these things are supposed to be effective against violent ghosts. Senator Balfour presented it as a gift to the department, and the chief accepted it.”

  The very idea sent a chill down my back. Sheyenne was even more upset. “No, you can’t just use that on Mr. Wheeler!”

  “Not my call,” McGoo said. “But Wheeler won’t talk, and he won’t come out. He’s got hostages. We’ve already verified that he’s the only ghost inside, so there won’t be any innocents harmed.”

  Sheyenne got that determined look on her face—I think she’d been learning it from Robin. Before we could stop her (not that we could if we’d tried), she flitted forward, ignoring the shouts of the policemen, and drifted straight through the front door of the bank.

  “You can’t turn that zapper on now,” I said to McGoo.

  His face had gone pale. “Shamble, get her out of there! This is a crisis situation.”

  “You think Spooky listens to me?”

  The police chief was clearly flustered. He was eager to test the department’s new toy, and Sheyenne had just spoiled his opportunity. Trying to demonstrate that he was in charge, the chief took up the bullhorn. “Now, you come on out of there. We haven’t got all day.” I couldn’t tell if he was talking to Alphonse Wheeler or scolding Sheyenne.

  “No!” Wheeler called out, his voice audible even above the ringing alarm.

  “Give us a minute,” Sheyenne shouted, also from inside the bank. “We’re having a conversation here.”

  The Special Response officers looked impatient now that they had set up their ectoplasmic defibrillator. Just to be safe, I walked over and tore out the power cord.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” said one of the men.

  “Making sure you don’t get itchy fingers on that power button. That’s my girlfriend in there.”

  Both officers said something that made even my dead ears burn, and then set about reconnecting the cable. So I unplugged the second cord for good measure.

  Sheyenne soared back out through the bank’s front door amidst a chorus of shouts and cheers from the onlookers. Smiling, she drifted right up to me. “It’s a tense situation in there, but Mr. Wheeler says he’ll talk. Beaux, he’s agreed to let you come in and negotiate—you and only you.”

  I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect. “I’m not a hostage negotiator.”

  The chief was also miffed, but McGoo said, “May as well try, Shamble. What’s he going to do, shoot you?”

  “I’ll do it, on the condition that you stay far back.” I pointed to Sheyenne, then added to McGoo, “And you make sure those guys don’t start blasting with the defibrillator.”

  “You got it, Shamble.” McGoo walked over and yanked out the cables the Special Response officers had just reconnected.

  “Only Chambeaux—nobody else!” Wheeler called. “And approach the door slowly!”

  “That’s my primary speed these days,” I said as I moved forward in my stiff-legged gait. I needed to put in some time at the All-Day/All-Nite Fitness Center to limber up again.

  Wheeler opened the bank’s door for me, waving his gun offhandedly at the three tellers and four customers who were still inside the lobby. He looked depressed, not the jaunty and cheerful man I had met previously.

  “You’re having a bad day, Mr. Wheeler.”

  “The worst—and just one of many.” He closed the door behind me and waved the gun at my chest.

  I pointed to the repairs in my sport jacket. “Let’s not resort to threats. I’ve been shot before, and in my line of work it’ll probably happen again. That gun isn’t going to scare me off. How about instead you tell me how we can wrap this up? Do you have a list of demands?”

  He seemed surprised. “That’s the best you can do as a negotiator?”

  “I’m an amateur. You asked for me, so take what you got. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  He looked deeply sad, blew out a long imaginary exhale. “So now you’re my psychiatrist?”

  “Private detective. That’s my calling in life, and I’m trying to figure out what you have to gain by robbing a bank. Makes no sense to me.”

  “At least it’s something I can do.” The ghost let out a low moan. “There’s not much else. I spent so many years in jail that I don’t know how to handle unlife on the outside. And now that I’m a ghost, I can’t enjoy a good meal, can’t taste a good drink, can’t make love to a pretty lady. When I first came back, I bought a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, poured myself a glass—and all I could do was look at it.”

  “Bummer,” I said. “But what are you going to do with the money anyway? It makes no sense.”

  “I don’t need to do anything with it!” He waved the gun around, making the tellers cringe; the hostages put up their hands in surrender. “I just want to have it.”

  “That’s kind of pointless.”

  Wheeler groaned again. “Story of my afterlife. They’re just going to put me in jail again, but no jail can hold me. I’m a ghost!”

  Apparently, Wheeler didn’t understand the true danger he faced. “They don’t plan to put you in jail—they’re going to defib you,” I said. “Judges have gotten a lot harsher since that poltergeist terror spree a few months back, and Senator Balfour is pushing to impose extreme punitive measures on any unnatural who steps out of line. You know that. They already have the equipment set up outside.”

  Wheeler grew a little more transparent. “Really? But I wasn’t going to hurt anybody. I just needed to make sure that I can still rob a bank.”

  “All right, consider the bank robbed,” I said, pointing around at the lobby. “You proved you can do it. Now hand me the gun, and we can let these people go. Don’t you have a bouquet to hand out?”

  He brightened. “Why, yes I do! It’s my trademark.”

  I plucked the gun from Wheeler’s spectral hand, and he, didn’t even seem to notice. He was much more interested in passing out flowers to the tellers and, for good measure, he gave one to each of the hostages as well. Finally, he let out a miserable sigh and addressed his victims with a forlorn expression. “Sorry, everybody.”

  Then I opened the bank’s front door and led him out to the waiting police.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Quarter has restless spirits, vengeful members of the undead, hormone-juiced and short-tempered werewolves, and vampire family feuds that have lasted for centuries. Even so, I sensed even more unrest than usual around here—it seemed there was something in the air.

  I knew about the protest at the Goblin Tavern ahead of time, since Robin had cooked it up herself. Hard-bitten Francine was too proud and her feelings too hurt to beg for any intervention, but after I grumbled to Robin about how unfairly the Smile Syndicate was treating our favorite bartender, she took the crusade to heart. (Maybe subconsciously I had hoped she’d do exactly that.)

  Since Francine was due to stop by the Tavern that night to pick up her last paycheck, her regular customers had gathered there to show our support. I found it heartwarming to see how many turned out. What a crowd!

  Robin had arrived half an hour earlier to organize the protest. Following the incident at the bank, Sheyenne and Robin had spent the afternoon making picket signs to be passed out among the zombie, vampire, and werewolf customers who frequented the Goblin Tavern. Normally, the customers just came to the Tavern to rehydrate themselves and socialize, to grumble about their common problems, or to reminisce about old times. They weren’t a rabble-rousing bunch, but Robin had whipped them up with the slogans on her signs.

  BOYCOTT THE GOBLIN TAVERN!

  FRANCINE IS THE TAVERN’S ♥ AND SOUL!

  Another said SHAME ON YOU, SMILE SYNDICATE with a frowny face drawn below the words.

  McGoo arrived at the Tavern at the usu
al time, expecting to meet me for our usual beer, but when he saw the growing mob, he tipped back his cap and said, “What is all this, Shamble?”

  “A lot of us want Francine back. Care to join the movement?”

  McGoo didn’t hesitate. “Give me one of those signs.” Robin handed him one that said WE CAN DRINK SOMEWHERE ELSE.

  Stu, the corpulent and too-good-natured new manager of the Tavern, came out, looking surprised and distraught. “What is this? Why are you all here? I don’t deserve this—what did I do?”

  “You fired Francine,” a once-a-month werewolf growled.

  “But you’ll have to take it up with Missy Goodfellow,” Stu said. “That was part of the corporate restructuring—a management decision.”

  “You’re the Tavern’s manager,” I pointed out. “Bad decision.”

  Stu was so flustered he looked as if he might burst into tears. “Please, let me make it up to you all—a gesture of good faith. Free pretzels for everyone!”

  “Francine always put out free pretzels,” said a zombie. “And other snacks.”

  “All right, other snacks, then. I want the Goblin Tavern to be a friendly place where you can all feel at home.”

  “Most of us hang out at the Tavern because we don’t want to be reminded of home,” a vampire said, eliciting a chorus of snickers. “We want it to feel like the Goblin Tavern, and it isn’t the Tavern without Francine.”

  “Bring back the real cobwebs while you’re at it,” said a ghoul, puffing on a long cigarette.

  Stu turned to uniformed McGoo for help, but my BHF just gave him a stony expression and pumped his WE CAN DRINK SOMEWHERE ELSE sign up and down.

  “I don’t know what the Smile Syndicate will do to me if sales go down,” Stu said. “If monsters don’t hang out here, the whole charm of the place is gone. Please, how about . . .” He reached deep within himself and dredged up a last resort. “How about a free round of drinks for everyone?”

  The monsters muttered, looked at one another, growled and sniffed. Many were tempted. Two zombies began to shamble toward the door of the tavern, but Robin said in a sharp voice, “Stand firm, all of you! Hold the line!”

  “Could you serve us drinks out here, so it doesn’t interrupt our protest?” asked the ghoul, finishing his cigarette. Stu seemed to consider the idea.

  Then a large bus drove up with a rumbling engine, coughing fumes of gray-blue exhaust, even though it looked like a sleek modern coach. A bright logo on the sign said U. Q. TOURS, SEE THE BEST OF THE WORST IN THE UNNATURAL QUARTER.

  Humans filled the seats, a bunch of rube tourists wearing golf hats or bright scarves and sunglasses, even though it was nearly dark. Their faces pressed against the windows, gaping at the unexpected scene.

  “Oh, no!” Stu wailed. “It’s our first tour bus—not now!”

  A few bus routes carried sightseers around in luxury air-conditioned coaches so they could watch the monsters in their unnatural element. The big player was the Gray Skin Line, but U. Q. Tours had just begun a special twilight tour, on which all patrons would stop at the Goblin Tavern and have a complimentary drink (price included in the cost of the package).

  Stu had been ecstatic about all the new business. Personally, I thought it was another death knell for the real character of the Goblin Tavern, and I intended to get a copy of the bus schedule just to make sure I was scarce whenever a busload of tourists was due to come in. According to the advertised route, the buses would also stop at strategically placed Kreepsakes gift shops, where the guests would have the opportunity to buy special mementos of their tour.

  Now, however, as the passengers saw the ferocious-looking protesters boycotting the establishment, the driver chose the better part of valor. He slowed enough to let the tourists take photos through the windows, then the bus roared off.

  Stu ran after it, waving his hands. “Wait, wait! This is just part of the show—a slice of real life in the Unnatural Quarter!” He kept running. “Please!”

  Then the guest of honor herself showed up, astonished to see her regulars there in a show of support. Francine put a hand up to her mouth as she read the signs. “All this, for me?”

  “Just making our feelings known, Francine,” I said. “The Goblin Tavern can’t replace you.”

  Tears began pouring down her face. “I’m touched. I kinda hoped you might have a little going-away party for me, but . . . I never expected this.” She sniffed, lowered her voice. “Do you think it’ll do any good?”

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure Francine wanted her old job back, considering the corporate ownership, but she had worked for miserable bosses before. Ilgar the goblin had never been a model employer either.

  Robin put an arm around the older woman’s bony shoulders. “We’re fighting for what’s right, Francine. There are laws against workplace discrimination.”

  “Thank you, thank you all.” She sounded choked up. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  Stu came back, his shoulders slumped in despair at having failed to bring the promised customers in. Robin decided to make him even more dejected. “Francine, now that you’re here to see this . . .” She marched up to the new manager of the Goblin Tavern. “Your bartender was fired without cause. Your no-humans-need-apply solicitation for replacement employees is blatantly discriminatory. On her behalf, I’m filing a wrongful termination suit against you, sir, as well as an antidiscrimination suit.”

  When she handed him a folded legal document, he looked as if she had just placed a rattlesnake in his hands. “But . . . I’m not the owner—I can’t be sued!”

  “You’re the manager, you’re named in the suit, so you’re served. Just to be fair, we’re also serving Missy Goodfellow and the entire Smile Syndicate board as co-defendants.”

  Stu looked as if someone had told him his birthday was canceled. He shuffled back into the Tavern and closed the door. I didn’t doubt that he was going to pour himself a very large drink.

  “I guess we’ll need to find a new place to have a beer, McGoo,” I said.

  “Too bad. I really needed one tonight.” McGoo seemed unduly troubled. During the commotion, I had not noticed his reticent expression, but now it was plain as day. He hadn’t even tried to tell me a joke. Something was definitely wrong.

  “Worse day than usual?”

  “I might have to choose a new place for everything, Shamble. What would you think if I got transferred out of the Quarter? Promoted and sent to a new precinct, out among normal people?”

  I blinked at him. “I’d say you were out of your mind. Who would ever promote you?” I meant it as a teasing comment, but it was also a stalling tactic while I tried to wrap my head around what he had said. “Are you serious?”

  “Why is that so impossible? Think of all the recent successes I’ve had. My record’s looking pretty good.”

  “Partly because we help each other. That’s what friends are for, right?” I said. “How did you manage to be considered for a transfer?”

  “It’s Senator Balfour,” he said, glum again. “He wants me to talk with him, use my inside knowledge to point out any scandals that’ll make the Quarter look bad. Embarrassments, heinous crimes—anything that he can label an Unnatural Act. He wants to pick my brains.”

  Next to me, a sunken-eyed and ripe-smelling shambler perked up. “I’ll pick your brains.”

  “Hey, do you mind? It’s a private conversation!” The zombie shuffled off, and McGoo continued, “If he gets that law passed, Balfour wants to crack down like a giant hammer—and the vote’s coming right up. If I help the senator gain a big victory, he promised to see that I’m reassigned to a human area.”

  The idea made me sick inside. I couldn’t believe my friend would cooperate with such a vile man, but I also knew McGoo had no other chance at being transferred out of the precinct. He had never been happy with his assignment here.

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked, afraid of how he would answer.

  “After that bank ro
bbery nonsense this afternoon, I was sorely tempted. But after much thought, I’ve decided that I like Senator Balfour even less than I like being here. I’ll call the senator back and tell him to shove his offer up his ass—preferably with a wooden stake. He’s going to have to find himself another patsy.”

  CHAPTER 33

  At the All-Day/All-Nite Fitness Center, Tiffany had worked up a sweat—which was unusual for her. She wore a loose ash-gray sweat suit and a pink sweatband to push back her dark hair. She didn’t use the cardio monitor, which was useless for a vampire anyway, but I could tell she was straining hard.

  In my trips to the gym, she frequently intimidated me with her offhanded physical feats: the number of reps she performed, the amount of weight she lifted, how she could make the elliptical hum like a jet engine. I never attempted to keep up with her, merely tried to do enough of a workout so I didn’t seem a complete wuss by comparison (and in that, too, I failed miserably).

  I had a hard time maintaining a conversation while I was wheezing, though Tiffany never seemed out of breath. Tonight, she ran on the treadmill with the incline set to Everest mode, as fast as the motor would allow. She thundered along as if all the forces of Van Helsing were after her.

  I took up the treadmill beside her. “Hi, Tiffany.”

  “Chambeaux,” she acknowledged and then, as if to impress me for some reason, she started to run even harder, intent on her workout.

  Minding my own business, I looked up at the row of television sets mounted on the wall, half of which were tuned to competing news channels; one showed a women’s gossip show that ran in the late hours (after the Big Uneasy, kaffeeklatsch chitchat programs were no longer the domain of early-morning TV). One set showed an old rerun of The Munsters, which seemed very quaint and nostalgic now. The good old days.

  I selected a beginner’s program, and the treadmill moved at shamble speed. I shuffled my legs to keep up, loosening my muscles. I was lucky to have received a top-notch embalming job, unlike the botched and amateurish process Jekyll had undergone; nevertheless, aches and pains came with the territory. Per Robin’s suggestion, I had started taking glucosamine joint supplements, but I didn’t notice any improvement. Once I got warmed up, I could move with a speed and dexterity close to my normal pre-death rate, but warming up was the tough part.