by Mark Henry
“Oh no,” I shook my head. “That’s uncalled for. After all, I did provide you with your daughter’s killer. Maybe. Plus, you’ve had the best revenge ever. I mean, shark attack right in front of your eyes, that’s fucking amazing. Unforgettable.” The woman was clearly horrified.
Wendy chimed in, “Just desserts I say. I mean, except for the not being able to walk part. That’s pretty fucked up.” Her gaze descended on me. Judging. So much judgin.
Swinton hissed in Wendy’s direction.
Abuelita heaved the contents of her stomach into the store waste bin.
“Nice,” I said. “If you’re going to be an enforcer, you’re going to have to get used to this kind of shit, Jan from Bakersfield!”
I felt a tapping on my shoulder, and glancing back found Gil struggling to get my attention. Shrugging him off, I continued. “As far as I’m concerned. I’ve done you the greatest of kindnesses. And these books, the blood will wipe right off. So easy you’ll be kicking yourself that you ever worried.”
At that very moment, a drizzle of blood decorated Mrs. Swinton’s cheek like a bon bon. Reaching up to smear it, it became clear she wasn’t satisfied. She lunged at me, clawed fingers extended. Luckily, I’d never given her a single guarantee, not in writing anyway and had a decent enough defense in the form of a ratcheting jaw. Swinton took a few steps back to admire it…orr recoil from it, possibly.
“Amanda!” Gil snapped. “You need to shut your yapper and see this.”
“Jesus,” I turned only to be confronted with an author photo on the back of a book.
“Look familiar?”
I snatched the book out of his hand. The face was Mrs. Winterford’s but the life living beneath the skin was someone else entirely. This one had a spark of ambition that our Mrs. Winterford couldn’t ever.
And wouldn’t ever have.
I flipped the book over and read it aloud. “The Las Felicitas Murders by Gloria Winterford—bestselling author of the Lunchbox Lynchings. Charming.”
I scanned the first few pages, catching glimpses of actual talent in the prose and a New York publisher on the spine. Our hostess’s books had a suspiciously homemade ink stamp on the front page. But the titles at least were reminiscent of the book Mrs. Winterford had sold me at check-in. Death on the Dunes.
“Twins?” The question was directed to Gil and Mrs. Swinton. “Both authors?”
The bookseller’s mouth curled up like an old shoe as if Gil had produced nothing of consequence. He lifted a whole box of the books to show us. Various titles indicating local ties all by Gloria Winterford.
The Long Beach Lolita.
Avarice in Aberdeen.
The reigning Miss Sandflea had said that Mrs. Winterford had written such books. She had meant this Mrs. Winterford in the picture, not the one reduced to a dripping spinal cord in the wreckage of an electric wheelchair.
“Was the other sister…handicapped, too?”
Mrs. Swinton shook her head somberly.
That was a key piece of information, I had to admit. Damn Millenials you can’t trust them to offer anything beyond the simplest response.
I threw the book into the box with the rest. “This doesn’t lessen the damning secret admirer letter with its floating ‘s’ as evidence to our Mrs. Winterford’s handi-complicity in the crime.” I left out the part about having to overlook her twin sister lurking around the scene of the crime and the missing typewriter.
“Well fuck.” I tossed my hands in the air. “Then it’s the sister.”
“Obviously!” Mrs. Swinton pouted.
I didn’t appreciate her trying to make me feel bad, bookseller or not. I glanced around the store and couldn’t even lie to myself. The store was screwed. Even if the life insurance policy on the girl was huge, it wouldn’t bring this place back from the brink. It was over.
“So, you set up a completely innocent handicapped woman and had her executed via wereshark and I’m supposed to just ignore that and go after the real killer on my own.”
“Yes,” Wendy said. “Because we gotta motor.”
I nodded my agreement. Gil didn’t, he was already at the door. “Let’s go.”
Shrugging, I twisted about to follow him and then stopped dead, a realization popping into my head like the proverbial light bulb.
Mrs. Swinton was behaving in a very unusual way, for a human. But not for a supernatural. Throughout the entire melee, she had been horrified, certainly, but only in regards to the state of her store. She hadn’t even made mention of the fact that men and women had turned into sharks right in front of her. Odd since humans don’t typically know about us, ever. In fact, the sight of us can trigger particularly savvy reapers to pop in and clean up the mess. So far, no sign of the little bitches.
“Wait a minute. Wait one damn minute.”
“What?” Swinton snapped, her hands clamped firmly to her hips.
“You didn’t seem at all shocked that shapeshifters were flouncing around your store, being generally, to a human…” I emphasized this point. “Terrifying.”
“What are you getting at?” Wendy asked, eyes narrowed shrewdly.
“She’s one of us.”
“A zombie?” Gil asked and then lit up, moving swiftly past us and into the back of the store like he’d forgotten something.
“No clue,” I called after him. “But she’s something. What are you doing?”
“Just checking something!”
The woman clammed up, looking around nervously. Spritzing cleanser and wiping down her countertops. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where are the reapers?” Wendy rushed toward the front window of the store, smearing a clear spot in the blood spatter. “Even if this bitch is a supe, those two old bats saw the whole thing."
“Those old gargoyles?” Mrs. Swinton rolled her eyes. “They could smell the blood on this scene from a mile away. They just pretend to be human, it's an act. Las Felicitas is an enclave of retired supernaturals....and what’s worse? They’re as cheap as the day is long.”
“Duh!” Wendy cried, slapping her thigh. “Of course, Amanda. Do you remember what they were doing during the melee?”
“I was kind of busy.”
“They were rolling in the guts. Playing in it.” She skipped around in a circle, pretending to toss the gore into the air like confetti. “It was so gross.”
“And utterly inhuman,” Mrs. Swinton added.
Gil returned, fangs twinkling out of a proud smile. He snapped a fresh piece of paper out before him. “Mrs. Swinton had a typewriter in the back.”
I snatched it from his hand. Two words were printed dead center:
Shit Show.
I gulped.
Gil continued, “She had it stashed in a closet next to several empty buckets of chum.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You people and your chum. It’s like the fucking truffle oil of Las Felicitas. Drizzle it on a crostini or your worst enemy.”
“Or your own daughter,” Gil pointed out the elephant in the room.
We all turned to Mrs. Swinton, her eyes downcast and rightly so. “She was adopted.”
“Oh, well then, perfectly understandable.”
Mrs. Swinton nodded, but it wasn’t shame that kept her eyes from mine. The woman was slyly reaching behind the counter. Wendy snatched the murdering mom’s hand, breaking it at the wrist followed by a loud thunk as something hit the floor. She screamed and cradled it in her other arm, whimpering.
Wendy crouched to retrieve a black pistol, which she brandished in the direction of the bookseller.
“Listen, Swinton,” I said. “You’ve about stretched the limit of my fleeting empathy. There’s very little stopping us from devouring you, beyond that leathery flesh you’ve cultivated. I normally avoid the chewy, but I could be pressed to make an exception.”
The woman nodded feebly. “I’ll come clean. I’m of the sea, as well.”
“How poetic.”
&
nbsp; “I’m a mako. Distant relative to those lunkheads that ruined the shop. The bookstore has been struggling for years and so I concocted this scheme to adopt and then dispose of some retched human teenagers. The insurance money is fantastic.”
“Better than internet porn money?” I whispered to Gil.
He shook his head, no.
“How many have there been?” Wendy wondered aloud.
Mrs. Swinton fluttered her hand about nonchalantly. “Three? Four? At this location.”
“Well,” I sighed. “That settles it.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Swinton nodded, solemnly. “I’ll not say a word to the police.”
“Especially since we know your secret. Thad Chumley is not at all happy about being used as your pawn.”
“You wouldn’t tell him, would you?”
I shrieked with laughter. “Yeah. Yeah I would. I mean, I won’t, but you better find a way to make it up to him. Or I’ll send him back over here and it’ll be shark thunderdome.”
“I will.” She nodded, clutching her palms together. “I promise I will.”
“Whatever,” Wendy said. “Let’s roll!”
Wendy and Gil darted from the store, leaving me to take in the aftermath of my decisions. All in all, it felt like a successful conclusion to the case. An old lady died, sure, but that was going to happen no matter what and her prose was terribly purple so I’d rid the world of that blight. Mrs. Swinton was free to continue perpetrating insurance fraud, a risky business but certainly no more morally suspect than feeding on the homeless.
Who was I to judge?
In the end, I had to admit, it was kind of fun getting my head back in the game.
***
We drove in silence past the city limits, back fender thudding periodically against the tire, the shattered window making night driving slightly difficult. The graffitied car drew more than a little attention when we passed under the columns of street lights, but luckily the Pacific Coast Highway wasn’t all that well lit in the middle of nowhere.
Wendy reached over and patted me on my thigh. “I’ll give you this, Amanda. That shit was fun.”
I smiled. “Did it take your mind off your troubles? I hope.”
She nodded. “I don’t care what people say about you, Amanda. You’re kind and generous. And a pretty decent detective.”
“Yeah,” Gil agreed. “You’re the tits.”
“Aw.” I lit up a cigarette. “You two have always been really stupid. Thanks.”
“Would you actually call the wereshark and tell him?”
“Uh…duh. Totally. If for no other reason than to keep that door open.”
Nods all around. We were in agreement. Hot boys ranked over desperate daughter-killers.
And for a little while, Ethel Ellen Frazier’s words quieted in my memory. My mother was wrong, at least today. We were the best of friends again. Laughing. Reminiscing. Leaving a trail of blood and carnage in our wake.
Best friends.
Except for the secrets, a stolen shipment of drugs, and the looming threat of hot pants-clad tea-bagging strippers. But whatevs. A tiger can’t change its stripes without a qualude and a patient colorist .
Gird your loins!
Amanda and the gang will be back on the road to catch that cruise in…
A NIGHT TO DISMEMBER
(Coming August 2014)
Appendix
GUTS’ Totally Fucking Hipster DJ Set
*****
Other People • Beach House
Good Mistake • Mr. Little Jeans
Cupid’s Head • The Field
Our Deal • Best Coast
Gun • Chvrches
The Red Wing • Fuck Buttons
Excavation Pt. 2 • The Haxan Cloak
The Keepers • Santigold
Fear of Love • Noosa
*****
Note: The Haxan Cloak, Ricardo? Really? I could have thrown a wrench down the stairs if that was the sound you were looking for. Additionally, the intestinal tract doesn’t have many hard surfaces that clink, so I just don’t get it. At. All.
Other Books by Mark Henry
Happy Hour of the Damned
Road Trip of the Living Dead
Battle of the Network Zombies
Velveteen (as Daniel Marks)
Parts & Wreck
Carniepunk: The Sweeter the Juice (story)
Kiss Me Deadly: Vermillion (story, as Daniel Marks)
Erotica
Stocking Full of Coal (story, as Amanda Feral)
Balustrade (forthcoming)
Acknowledgments
For the longest time, I was certain Amanda Feral was dead and buried. Had things worked out differently, her story might have ended in that coffee shop at the end of BATTLE OF THE NETWORK ZOMBIES. But things have a funny way of surprising you. When I decided to strike out in the world of indie publishing, I couldn’t very well go with a stranger. I needed my anti-heroine, as much as the fans missed her acid-tongued loyalty. So BEACH BLANKET BLOODBATH was born.
I have the fans to thank for her resurrection. You never let me forget that she was the cold dead bitch of my heart and so I dedicated this one to you guys with my warmest thanks. The Glamazombies, my street team, have worked tirelessly to see that this book made it to print, helping with crucial cover design decisions and promotion.
But there are a few that must be singled out.
First, my wife, Caroline Henry, as always my first reader and biggest support. Her pen is as dangerous as Amanda’s teeth. Todd Thomas, Kathryn Casterline and Caryl Wilson for your brilliant catches on some pretty ridiculous errors.
Finally, to Amanda Feral, herself, for coming back to me. It was a struggle. I created her at a time where I felt like I couldn’t lose—I refused—and I’d become downtrodden. It was hard for me to find her again. But having done so changed me, gave me some much needed venom.
And for that, I’m grateful.
Biography
Mark Henry traded a career in the helping profession to scar minds with his fiction. He attributes his ideas to premature exposure to horror movies, and/or witnessing adult cocktail parties in the '70s. His development has been further skewed by surviving earthquakes, typhoons, and two volcanic eruptions. Despite being disaster prone, he somehow continues to live and breathe. Residing in the oft maligned, yet not nearly as soggy as you'd think, Pacific Northwest, with his wife and two furry monsters that think they're children.
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