by Mark Henry
I regained my sense of surroundings to the tune of Wendy yelling, “Go! Go! Go!”
Baljeet’s car barreled toward us, the woman ranting madly inside as though we could hear her. I floored the accelerator and we barreled over Capitol Hill, toward the freeway overpass. The two ghosts faced out the back window.
“Is she still coming?” I asked.
The cars and buildings were blurring around us. I looked down at the speedometer and hit the brake. Sixty downtown was a death wish. Baljeet’s car clipped us as she sped past to prove my point—the car shimmied as paint and metal grated. The other cab swerved a bit, and I thought she might just ease past the garbage truck idling at the stoplight. But without braking at all, Baljeet plowed into the mass of steel at full speed. The cab collapsed on itself. Glass shattered across the street in all directions and the cab’s trunk drove straight through to the engine, coming to rest underneath the hulking truck’s bumper. The top of the cab crimped like a used soda can.
“Holy crap. Look at that, would ya?” Lumpy slipped through the front seat and onto the hood of the taxi. “Cut her right in two.”
I inched forward. Lumpy was right. Baljeet’s torso, severed just below the breastbone, jettisoned through the windshield and slid down the closed bin of the truck, arms twitching and leaving a brownish smear.
The ghosts didn’t take the presence of viscera well at all. Pie-hole hung out the window, spewing great big mouthfuls of ectoplasm onto the street. Lumpy moaned and covered his eyes, threatening to puke himself.
I glanced over at Wendy, who simply shrugged and went back to her surveillance of Abuelita.
“I guess I don’t have to worry about Baljeet anymore.” Nor did she look particularly appetizing amidst the Hefty bags, though you probably weren’t interested in hearing that.64 There is something to be said about presentation—you eat with your eyes, after all.
I wriggled my pelvis around and somewhere in the melee, my leg popped back into place, thank God. Still it was sore as fuck. I dreaded the inevitable limp, made all the more obvious when amplified by a pair of peek-toe stilettos.
“I’m gonna need a little help when we get out at Ether,” I said.
“Why, did you poop yourself?”
Pie-hole and Lumpy let loose with an explosion of laughter, the dwarf sniffing the air and the other holding his nose dramatically, each laughing riotously at the other’s mockery.
“No. I didn’t poop myself; that’s your modus operandi. I just have a little issue with my hip.”
Ether filled an empty space between new construction on 1st Avenue. On the left, some high-end boutique hotel sat atop a churrascaria, on the right, shops with clearance signs in the windows instead of merchandise held up a new—and completely unoccupied—condo complex.
When I say empty space, I mean it.
Ricardo enlisted the help of some psychotic banshee architect to design the place, a tribute to the club owner’s love of breezy minimalism, modern furniture and the shoegazing music of the 90s. Ether was neither visible, nor accessible to anyone, not without a guide. The bouncer, as it were, lounged on a bench tapping fat ashes directly into a smoldering trashcan, smoke drifting from it in thin curls of accusation. A crumpled fedora cast a mysterious shadow, hanging like a veil to a spot just past his nose. He wore a long wool coat, wrapped around him like a robe, and his legs were casually crossed at the ankle.
Wendy helped me hobble over.
“Are you the guy?” I asked.
The cigar shifted from one side of his mouth to the other. “The guy?” The man’s voice was as graveled and pained as bare feet on aggregate. He sniffed in our direction. “Somethin’ smells wrong.”
A growl muffled inside Wendy.
“Of course that ain’t the guy!” An androgynous creature in an odd combination of hotpants and combat boots sashayed in from a darkened alley. A moment later, a businessman squirreled his way out of the same place, buttoning up his shirt, head darting side to side pathetically. “I’m the guy, dolls!”
The fairy—I’m making an assumption here, based on both his highly effete aura, and slight elfish nature—flopped down next to the gruff gentleman like a rag doll, draping his arm around the other’s shoulders congenially. “The name’s Max, but I go by Maxey.” The man struggled to pull away, a look of disgust revealed as his fedora fell.
Maxey giggled at his response, reached over and flicked his ear like you would your little brother. I expected some sort of violent retaliation. After all, if someone flicked my ear, I’d at the very least sock them in the head—after I picked up my ear and forced Wendy to glue it back on, of course.65 Instead, his face sagged and his body went slack like the flick sent a stream of heroin straight to his brain.
“That’s better.” He lifted his hips and slipped one of his legs underneath him in a single hop. “Grumpy can just sit there and think about his mean behavior, while we talk about fun stuff.”
“Like Ether?”
“Exactly like Ether. What could be more fun to talk about. Have you been? Oh my God, it’s so awesome. And the cover’s only twenty-five bucks each, can you believe it?”
I turned to Wendy and blinked innocently.
“Don’t look at me,” she said and pointed the camera at me. “I’m the crew. Remember?”
“Here’s the thing, Maxey.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He clasped his hands and brought both index fingers to a point, playing with his lower lip while he listened.
“We’re filming segments for the new Johnny Birch reality show and I’m certain Ricardo would just adore having Ether featured. Plus, we know him really well. He even created this fabulous zombie you see here.” I gestured to Wendy, who did a quick pose, twirling a pigtail like she was winding up a clockwork.
“Gorgeousness!” He clapped his hands rapidly then stopped short. “But I’m still gonna need a fitty to take you in. It’s my fee.”
“Isn’t there a password or something we can try for?” Wendy pouted.
“You could try, but since there isn’t one, it would really just be for my entertainment.”
I slipped onto the bench next to him. “What if I could offer you a guarantee that you’d be on TV?”
Maxey’s face brightened, and I do mean actually glowed. “Keep talkin’.”
“We could film the entire exchange once we’re inside. You take us to Ricardo and we all talk about what a sensation you are.”
“Okay. But I’m still gonna need my fifty dollars.”
“What if we owed you?” Wendy asked.
“Are you serious?” He grinned. “You want to be beholden to me?” He shrugged. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Maxey bounded from his spot between the grump and me and reached out his hand to Wendy. “Just say, I’m beholden to you and we’ll be good as gold.”
The blonde frowned then, looked at his delicately constructed hand like it might hold a trick buzzer, then to me. I heaved my shoulders, probably not the best person to seek advice from, since I only cared about getting in. She took his hand and spoke the words.
A visible shiver passed over the fairy’s frame and he chuckled like Wendy just let loose with an inappropriate joke. He skipped a short distance away and planted his hands on his hips. “Well. Come on then.”
CHANNEL 14
Tuesday
10:00–11:00 P.M.
Supernature’s Top Ten Hotspots
Join everyone’s favorite werecat, Samantha Brown, as she paints the town blood red and shows off the hippest clubs, hottest cocktails, and sickest nightlife.
Maxey flitted to a nearby concrete planter—despite his lack of wings, his ability to rock some airtime was quite impressive—and motioned for us to follow. Wendy boosted me up and stuck close as we balanced the thin ledge behind the fairy, his hips swiveling carelessly as a hula skirt.66
The gap between the buildings gave way to steep stairs carved into the hillside and running at least a hundred feet down to Western Avenue, where most
of the supernatural clubs hid amidst the warehouses of home furnishing stores. I held on to a maple branch, as we peered out over the Seattle harbor. A massive cruise ship churned in the distance.
“So where is it?” I asked.
Maxey pointed toward the horizon. He squinted a bit and our eyes followed his. “See that?”
Literally, it was a dot of light, as difficult to find as a white guy at a Blood or Crip function.
“What are we looking at, exactly?” Wendy asked.
“That’s the keyhole.”
I looked at Wendy, who was clearly as confused as I.
“So…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Maxey said. “It just looks far. That’s why you need a guide to get to it. Can’t just put out a doormat for any Tom, Dick or Normal to wander through, now can we. Besides, if not for this, where would I get to use my fantastic people skills?”
“Well, there is your side job.” I tossed a thumb at the alley where we’d first seen Maxey appear.
“Oh that.” He snickered. “I don’t think of it as work.”
Wendy and I just stared.
“Now just follow me and watch your feet. There’s a walkway here, you just can’t see it and it changes weekly so don’t think you can just walk on in for free next time. Got it?”
Maxey stepped off the concrete and onto either some really clean glass or a bridge of some sort. His steps were measured and accompanied by a verbal count. We shuffled behind him.
“Try not to look down,” I suggested to Wendy, who glanced back thoroughly unconcerned.
Sure. I might have been projecting a little, but you try traversing an invisible bridge in the middle of the night with a bum leg and see how you do.
A couple of sidesteps and a near-fall and we all but fell into Ether.
The door swung open into a wide arcing hall filled with the usual suspects of the club scene, like Gretchen de Bellefour in a fur they must have stripped off a mammoth to cloak her in—the reapers have their magic, but they can’t change eating habits.
Ricardo stood at his usual spot, behind the bar, shining glasses and smiling like he knew the person on the other side. Ricardo Amandine was good at making people feel comfortable, a compelling trait in a bartender and a deadly one in a flesh-eating zombie. He waved us over.
I shifted my weight to Maxey, and motioned for Wendy to get to taping. I waited for the little red light before heading over.
“Ready for your close-up?” I whispered to the fairy, who blushed a bit, more out of excitement than any nervousness, I imagined.
“Mr. Amandine. These, um…ladies, have some questions or something.” Maxey’s delivery was stiff, measured, like he’d been rehearsing it in his head during the walk.
“Thank you, Maxey. I’ll take them from here.”
* * *
Soundtrack for Mopey Potheads
(Shoegazing at Ether)
Lali Puna• “Left Handed”
My Bloody Valentine • “Only Shallow”
The High Violets • “Chinese Letter”
Lush • “Undertow”
Cocteau Twins • “Orange Appled”
Slowdive • “Souvlaki Space Station”
Silversun Pickups • “Rusted Wheel”
Chapterhouse • “Pearl”
Swervedriver • “Duel”
Loop • “Breathe Into Me”
Jesus and Mary Chain • “Just Like Honey”
The Raveonettes • “Aly, Walk With Me”
* * *
The fairy bowed a little, winked at Wendy and then swished off toward the dance floor, where people moped to the sounds of My Bloody Valentine and could quite possibly commit suicide at any moment. To call it music was an exaggeration—the vibrating and/or swirling guitar strains and muted vocal gibberish were best suited to shifting your weight and hanging your head in shame than to anything resembling real dancing. Why Ricardo enjoyed the music was beyond me. At least he’d given the brooding dancers something to look at while they shambled like a horde of mistakes fresh from death—the floor was made of Lucite, clear as day—or night—and hovering, unbelievably, hundreds of feet over Western Avenue. The perfect vantage point to watch zombies, vampires, werewolves, hell, even, lizard people if you watch long enough, spill out of clubs like the Well of Souls and Convent and onto the street, falling down drunk or looking for some swollen shadow to plow a conquest.
“Are you loving the place?”
I took a moment to scan the predominantly white room. It had a Grecian feel—blessedly lacking the pretentiousness of columns—white, but not in a glossy, new-house kind of way. It was as though every surface was smudged with a lack of color, dusted in a light powder. Even the couches and chairs were barely delineated, edges fuzzy as peaches. Panels of sheer fabric drifted inward from arched windows, undulating gossamer tents beneath a cloud of ceiling that could have actually been clouds for all my understanding of the place.
It really is fantastic, Ricardo. You’ve outdone yourself, though—”
“Though?” he asked, concern arcing his dark brow and sliding a Hendricks in front of me.
I sipped at it, stirred the concoction with a thin polished bone. “Where is everybody? Your clubs are normally packed at this hour.”
A fat smile spread across those fit lips.
I’ll take a moment here to admire the majesty that is Ricardo, the only zombie I know able to maintain a naturally blemish-free olive complexion seemingly without several layers of makeup. Crotch achingly hot, the entrepreneur is at the top of his game and stalked by nearly every female he comes into contact with (and several males). Wendy drools for the guy—I’d certainly give him a go, if it weren’t for Scott—but he somehow allowed himself to be ensnared by Marithé, whose intentions were about as wholesome as a Tijuana donkey show. I happen to know—and this is totally between us—that my assistant, Ricardo’s loving partner, talked him into an experimental virility treatment at great cost, physically and financially.67
“The vast majority of the guests are otherwise preoccupied in the anesthesia lounges.”
The gin blew out of my nose like liquid fire. “Anesthesia?” I managed, glancing at Wendy, who, of course, nailed that shot at what would prove to be the most unflattering angle imaginable.
Bitch.
“It’s the latest in supernatural party favors—when alcohol just won’t get you there. When was the last time you even caught a buzz, Amanda?”
I drained the gin and set the glass on the bar. “Long time, lover. Are you telling me, you’ve got some gas that’ll reach beyond the grave up in here?”
“Oh, hell yeah. Good stuff, too. I even have to have it professionally administered.”
My heart would have skipped a beat. As it was my stomach clinched up tighter than a clergy coffer, or an altar boy’s ass, for that matter.68 It was the word “administered” that frightened me, sounding very much like a job for a certain evil Girl Scout troop. I started looking for the exit.
“Relax.” Ricardo sensed my fear somehow. I didn’t have to think on it very long to figure out Marithé had some loose lips when it came to our relationship (probably hers with Ricardo too, but that’s not what I’m talking about). “I had to contract some people to watch the amounts. Apparently, abovegrounders have a tendency to lose consciousness…permanently, if they take too much.”
“Jesus,” Wendy whispered.
“We’ve got it under control. Now it’s just an easy comfortable trip.”
Back to the situation at hand—there was no telling how long the camera battery would last69—I said, “Is one of tonight’s trippers a certain zaftig Jamaican voodoo woman?”
“Mama Montserrat? Of course! She loves a little hit. Been coming religiously since we opened. Made us a little protection charm. Very sweet. She gets our mildest dose, being technically human and all.”
I told him about the murder and to keep it quiet for now. Ricardo, luckily, could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. I suspect
ed the news wouldn’t even reach Marithé.
We followed Ricardo from room to room—the place was cavernous—scanning the intoxicated faces of both wealthy and influential figures of supernatural society. Ricardo led us to one on the right. Inside, Mama Montserrat reclined in a state of drizzled intoxication, her head lolling atop a thick fold of chin fat wrangled loose from the neck of her sweater, revealing a small tattoo of a rooster like a label on her fleshy travel pillow. A thin stream of spit stretched to a wet spot on her shoulder.
Ricardo knelt beside the prone figure and shook her gently by the shoulder, while he dabbed the corner of her mouth with a tissue. “Mama? Mama? It’s time to wake up.”
She groaned, her eyes creeping open over a lopsided grin. “Nom?”
“No. We don’t have any food.” I took Ricardo’s place and motioned for Wendy to get a close up. “We’re here to ask you questions about you and Johnny.”
“Dad,” she muttered, her lids fluttering.
“He was your father?” Wendy gasped.
I spun so she could see me rolling my eyes.70 “She said ‘dead,’ not ‘dad.’ Jesus.” I turned back to Mama, pressed the back of my hand against her cheek. “We just need to know about your relationship with Johnny.”
She batted her eyes.
“Your sexual relationship with Johnny.”
“Noneya.” She slapped at my hand. “Cold,” she spat, pouting.
Wendy nudged me. “She’s so wasted. You should ask her the big question. Quick. Before she comes out of it.”
“Or maybe we could just order up another round, or twilight dose, or whatever. Right, Ricardo?”