Even as the dam was breaking and the flood of my memories with Rothering came back, I was still more comfortable with the idea of carousing with a girl than a boy. It seemed as though when I was alive, I was only half a queenie anyway—if there was such a thing—and mostly I had gone with whoever could give me the most money. Whatever else he may or may not have been to me, Rothering had always had the most money.
“I’m going out,” I yelled, hoping to get past the honor guard of robots before it came together. Of course, I had one foot out the door when a crushing metallic vise got hold of the other foot. Being as it was the one the dog had already severed and was held on with sewing thread, I considered just leaving my left leg behind. I didn’t envy making the walk down to the cathouse as a unipod though.
“What do you want?” I said, rolling my eyes back into my rotting skull.
The ’bot on the floor had what passed for a plaintive look on his non-face. I call him Shiny. He must have dived, literally dived, to catch me before I was out the door. His catch had given the other clankers time to swarm out and surround me in a veritable orchard of tin and nickel.
“Look, guys,” I said, “I need to work. A, I don’t get much work. B, what gigs actually do come my way, I’ve got to finish; otherwise, I get a bad rep. And a private dick with a bad rep is the same thing as unemployed. And C, I need moolah to keep liquor on the table. You get me?”
Faceless and expressionless as they were, I couldn’t help but feel as if I was looking at a pack of cartoon puppy dogs, all begging for my affection. I reached down and, as affectionately as possible, disentangled myself from the junior shortstop who had caught me out at home.
“You cats oughta start a baseball club,” I chuckled.
That got them exchanging faceless glances. Confused? Intrigued? Who knows.
“Look,” I said, getting a little more down to brass tacks, “I promised I would help integrate you back into our society, and I will. I promise. But Rome wasn’t built in an hour, and getting jumbees and robots to get along will take a little time. But I can’t do anything if we can’t wet our whistles. So let me get some face time down at the brothel and…”
That didn’t come out right.
“That didn’t come out right. That’s not what I meant. It’s a case, okay? When I come back tonight, I’ll teach you how to play baseball.” I looked around the little dump I called my office. And home. Not much sense wrecking what was left. “Only not here.”
I was halfway out the wrecked door when a pounding like a baby throwing a tantrum drew my attention. Sure enough, Shiny was kicking and screaming—or whatever passes for screaming in a brain ’bot. I held up my hands. What more was there?
“What?” I said.
One of Shiny’s buddies, one I call Clanky, handed him an ashtray off my desk. Painstakingly, Shiny used the ash to scrawl four letters on the floor.
NAME
They didn’t know my name? What had the Old Man called me? Or didn’t that matter? I opened my mouth to answer and looked at the door. B. I. That was all their evidence of my old life. My first life. My second life, really. What was I now?
Bill. Bill Hinzman. That was my name.
“My given name is Jones,” I said, “but they call me Braineater.”
I slipped out in the street. Finally.
My little friends need work. I feel like a mother hen trying to herd a pack of jungle cats. Am I mixing my metaphors again? Tough. This is my journal, and I’ll mix whatever I damn well please. Ideally an extra dry martini. Gotta pay for it first. That’s what the brothel gig is for.
There wasn’t much there, but Mighty had a couple of clues and pointed me in the right direction. A hundred clams, plus expenses. Not bad for getting a hooker’s heart of gold back, eh?
So I’ve got a case, I’ve got a lead, and I’ve got an apartment full of needy jumbee brains with robot shells.
It’s a start.
Acknowledgments
I think it was Paul Simon who once said, “Art always needs somebody else’s help to be any good.” With that in mind, let’s take a moment to thank the BJ boosters.
First and foremost, to my Dad (also Steve): Sorry about the joke in the foreword. If it wasn’t for that computer you bought in 1992, I never would’ve become a writer. Oh, and I guess the whole siring me thing was helpful, too.
I guess I’ll do the whole family thing up front here, so to my sister, Kate: Seriously, when are we doing the Philly taco thing? Lorenzo’s is back up and running now, isn’t it?
And my stepmother, Terry Spevak: If this book is a success, it’ll be because of you. Also, I’ll blame you if it’s a failure, so that’s kind of a two-edged thing.
To my beta readers, Ken Lewin and Mac Carlson: You think you could try a little harder next time? You have only yourselves to blame for the shoddiness of this final product.
Erica Lucke Dean: You’re the lamest.
But not as lame as Amy Drye, a.k.a. Lamey Drye, a.k.a. Lame Amy.
Rudy Torres-Negron: Not sure what you did, but here you go.
Mike Lerman, Scott Dubin, Stephen Rudman: Thanks for all your close-order swanning about.
Greg Lynn: Sorry about the cover. You can illustrate the graphic novel, though.
John Waxler: You know this book wouldn’t be here without you, partially because of your years of unparalleled support, even though your dad ate my creamed chipped beef that one time, but also because you introduced me to:
Elizabeth Corrigan: Sorry. You’re probably getting acknowledged in everything I do from now on.
To my inimitable and sometimes astonishing editing crew, Michelle Rever and Cassie Cox: You’re both still wrong about that joke on page seven. That joke was gold! Solid fucking gold!
Lynn McNamee: Thanks for believing in me and making my dream finally come true. Also, I know you didn’t really make those dumplings from scratch, and now everyone who read this book does, too.
To my little kotchkas, Nibbler and Felix: You light up my days and fill my nights with SO much excrement to clean up.
And finally, to my wife, Lina: Legally, I can’t quote the song I want to right now. But you know the one I mean. I make the DJ play it at every wedding so we can dance to it just like we did the day we got married.
About the Author
Stephen Kozeniewski lives with his wife of 9 years and cat of 22 pounds in Pennsylvania, the birthplace of the modern zombie. He was born to the soothing strains of “Boogie With Stu” even though The Who are far superior to Zep, for reasons that he doesn’t even really want to get into right now.
During his time as a Field Artillery officer, he served for three years in Oklahoma and one in Iraq, where due to what he assumes was a clerical error, he was awarded the Bronze Star. The depiction of addiction in his fiction is strongly informed by the three years he spent working at a substance abuse clinic, an experience which also ensures that he employs strict moderation when enjoying the occasional highball of Old Crow.
He is also a classically trained linguist, which sounds much more impressive than saying his bachelor’s degree is in German.
Glossary
alderman: A beer gut.
bean-shooter: A gun. See also piece.
beat it: To leave, usually an exhortation. See also blow, bum’s rush, vamoose.
bindle: A rag tied around a stick. A hobo uses it to carry his possessions.
blat: A newspaper or a section or page of a newspaper.
blow: To leave. See also beat it, vamoose, bum’s rush
Bohunk: A derogatory term for Eastern Europeans.
bootleg: To illegally make or move alcohol, especially during Prohibition.
brain drain: The tendency of zombies to lose their memories after being brought across for a length of time that varies by individual.
braineater: A derogatory term for all zombies, but used more specifically in the zombie community to mean a zombie sobering up or nearing the five-year mark where their mind
s collapse and they become mindless creatures. Compare bub.
breather: A non-zombie, a living human being.
bring across: The process by which a zombie comes back from the dead. See also turn.
bub: Thinking zombies, of the type most of the characters are, prior to brain collapse brought on by insufficient alcohol use or the passage of time. Compare braineater.
bump off: To kill.
bum’s rush: To get asked to leave, typically in a rude or brusque fashion. See also beat it, blow, vamoose.
burn powder: To discharge a firearm, thus burning gunpowder.
cabbage: Money.
chizz: To chisel or swindle.
clam: A dollar. See also smacker.
clip-joint: A bar charging exorbitant prices, essentially a legal speakeasy in the post-Prohibition era.
curtains: A nasty fate, especially death, as in “It’s curtains for me.”
dago: A derogatory term for an Italian. See also: garlic eater, ginzo, wop.
dame: A woman. See also skirt, twist.
deadhead: Most common term for a zombie, as “zombie” was not in common usage until the 1960s, sometimes considered derogatory and less commonly used in the zombie community. Compare our kind, unliving.
dick: A detective, especially a P.I., but also sometimes a police detective. See also flatfoot, gumshoe, private dick.
dickbeater: Somewhat vulgar term for a hand, as in that with which one masturbates.
double dog dead: Term used mostly by Braineater Jones to refer to a zombie’s destruction. Compare put down.
drugstore cowboy: A pretty boy, especially one who hangs around soda shops trying to pick up girls.
egg: A guy, especially a wealthy or well-off guy.
eye-tie: Italian, especially the language.
fence: A pawnshop or the pawnbroker, especially one that deals in stolen goods.
fer Chrissakes: “For Christ’s sake,” a moderate profanity.
fin: Five dollars, especially a five-dollar bill.
five and dime: A store that sells cheap goods, often with a lunch counter, sort of a precursor to modern department stores.
flatfoot: A detective or policeman. See also dick, gumshoe, private dick.
flophouse: A dingy, rundown hotel or boarding house.
gams: Legs, typically a woman’s. See also getaway sticks.
garlic eater: Mildly derogatory term for an Italian. See also dago, ginzo, wop.
getaway sticks: Legs, typically a woman’s. See also gams.
ginchy: Cool, groovy, sexy.
ginzo: Derogatory term for an Italian. See also dago, garlic eater, wop.
gorilla: A thug, especially a big guy. See also mook.
gumshoe: A detective, especially but not always a P.I. See also dick, flatfoot, private dick.
harp: A derogatory term for an Irish person. See also Mick.
hatchet man: A hit man or hired killer.
heater: A gun. See also piece.
hiney: A butt.
hot: Stolen.
jake: Cool, okay, as in “Everything’s jake.”
jakes: A lavatory, especially an outhouse.
jalopy: A junky old car.
jaw: As a verb, to talk, as in to move one’s jaws up and down.
Jeeves: A fictional character known as the perfect valet; one who buttles well.
lid: A hat.
Mick: A derogatory term for an Irish person. See also harp.
mickey: A drink that’s been spiked or drugged, especially with knockout drops. An old-fashioned term for a roofie.
mook: A goon or dummy. See also gorilla.
mootah: Marijuana. See also tea.
morgue mates: Zombies killed or resurrected at the same time, sometimes considered to have fraternal or sexual relationships.
mungo: A dumpster diver or ragman.
nelly: A derogatory term for a homosexual. See also queenie.
nerts to that: To heck with that, kind of a corrupted form of “nuts to that.”
nickelodeon: An old-timey device that showed movies for a nickel.
our kind, our community, and variations: Euphemisms used within the zombie community akin to “cosa nostra” in the mafia. Compare: deadhead, unliving.
phonus balonus: Dog Latin form of “phony baloney,” that is, fake.
piece: A gun. See also bean-shooter.
plug: To shoot, as with a gun.
private dick: A P.I. See also dick, flatfoot, gumshoe.
prosty: A prostitute.
put down: More common parlance for destroying a zombie. Compare double dog dead.
put on the Ritz: To do something in a high-society style, for instance, to go out on the town well dressed.
queenie: A derogatory term for a homosexual, usually used in address, as in “Hey, queenie.” See also nelly.
schnoz: A nose.
scratcher: A forger or faker; in this case, a fake doctor.
skirt: A woman. See also: dame, twist.
slug: As a verb, to punch; as a noun, a drink or a shot. See also zozzle. Compare telephone slug.
smacker or smackeroo: A dollar. See also clam.
speako: A speakeasy, that is, a place where alcohol is sold illegally, especially during Prohibition.
spook: a derogatory term for a black person.
squirt metal: To fire bullets out of a gun.
stewbum: An alcoholic vagrant, especially one whose homelessness is caused by or exacerbated by alcoholism.
stretch: A tall person, or, used ironically, a short person, usually used as a form of address, for example, “Hey, stretch!”
swacked: Drunk.
tea: Marijuana. See also mootah.
telephone slug or just slug: A metal token for use in old-fashioned pay phones. Compare slug.
tombstone: A common type of radio, usually wooden and shaped like a tombstone.
trouble boy: A gangster.
turn: The process by which a zombie comes back from the dead. See also bring across.
twist: Mildly derogatory term for a woman. See also dame, skirt.
unbirth: The process of being turned, sometimes treated as a holiday in the zombie community, as in “unbirthday.”
unliving: Collective term for zombies, relatively rare in the actual zombie community. See also deadhead, our kind.
vamoose: Leave. See also beat it, blow, bum’s rush.
Victrola: A brand name of phonographs often used interchangeably to mean phonograph.
wearing iron: To be armed.
wop: A derogatory term for an Italian. See also dago, garlic eater, ginzo.
zozzle: A shot or a drink of alcohol. See also slug.
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