Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals)

by Vicky Loebel

  Women screamed out congratulations. Flowers were thrown. Men clustered around to shake Bernie’s hand.

  I sighed. Guilt wasn’t going to win my bet with Hans.

  My cousin glanced up, spotted us, and dashed off a salute. A moment later, the crowd lifted Bernie and Fairbanks onto their shoulders and flowed into the street. Priscilla, walking beside George Umbridge, Junior, looked up at us and actually waved.

  A catbird fluttered to our perch and changed into a girl. I filed away the fact that Ruth could fly.

  “I brought you something.” She pulled a charm off of a jangling bracelet and waved her hand, producing a slightly melted Eskimo Pie. “They’re real delicious.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I go to the station?” Ruth asked. “That actor fellow and Bernie are going to show the crowd the way to jump between two moving trains.”

  “Bernie is?” Even with hellfire, that seemed ambitious for my cousin.

  “Please? Please? I promise I’ll come right back.”

  “All right.” I sighed. “But don’t stay long. Bring Bernie back so you two can practice before the judging starts.”

  The genie threw her arms around my neck. “Thank you!” An instant later, she fluttered away.

  “Stay out of trouble,” I yelled. “I mean it!”

  The picnickers halted outside the railroad station. Photographers began setting up cameras along the track. A cloud of smoke puffed in the distance.

  Oh well. I shook my head. Better get moving. I stood, leaving the Eskimo Pie to melt, and started for the widow’s walk. Gladys followed in silence, lifting me over the railing as easily as my zombie had done the day before.

  We found Beau standing in the attic on an old, three-legged kitchen chair. He’d tied a length of clothesline to the rafters and knotted the other end around his neck. But he’d forgotten to kick the chair away.

  “Oh, Beau,” I sighed.

  Gladys untied the noose and set the zombie on the floor. We started down the narrow attic stairs. Far off, a train whistled, and then, much closer, an answering engine spoke.

  I frowned. What if Bernie killed himself doing that stupid stunt? I’d have wasted a quarter vial of hellfire, that’s what. Then Ruth would have no one to dance with, I’d lose my bet, and Hans would keep his promise and end my life.

  And then, I thought, my ghost will find his ghost and smack its idiot head.

  “Do you love him?” I looked back up the steps at Gladys. She was so even tempered all the time. “I mean, do you love Bernie?”

  What would happen to her if the last Benjamin died?

  “When I was created,” Gladys replied, “human lives were very short, much shorter than today. Love was not considered a useful emotion.” She followed us downstairs. “No such instructions were written into my soul.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The golem touched my shoulder. “It means,” she said, squeezing gently, “sometimes we have to write ourselves.”

  XVI: Give Your Little Baby Lots of Lovin’

  It’s always darkest before you drown.

  —The Boy’s Book of Boggarts

  Bernard:

  IT TURNS OUT THE SECRET to jumping between two moving trains is to position yourself atop one of the cars, match your motion exactly to the rocking of the rails, compute the distance and then, as screaming winds and bits of insect pound your face, lie flat and whimper while Douglas Fairbanks does the jumping.

  No movie offers, please. Doug’s got a wife and children to support.

  After that triumph, once the train had stopped and I’d crept from my perch, the afternoon passed quickly between practicing with Ruth, washing, dressing, consuming more oysters than can be reasonably expected even to soothe the feelings of a beloved family retainer and, to my relief, securing a necessary shave.

  I had to admit, Clara had done the Fellowship proud. Not only was all trace of last night’s chaos gone, but she and Gladys had decorated the building in stunning black and white with gleaming linens, glittering crystal, and table settings suitable for a visit from the Prince of Wales, should he decide to pop across the pond ahead of September’s scheduled polo meet. The fact that many of these items had been scavenged from my dead mother’s trousseau did not upset me. I like to imagine she’d have been fond of Clara, if they’d met. I like to imagine she’d have been fond of me.

  By the time the semi-finals judging began at six o’clock, my hellfire-induced confidence had recovered enough to let me think there might still be hope of winning my cousin’s wretched bet.

  To start with, I’d grown an inch, thanks to young C.’s demonic doctoring, and while I’d never be the tallest in any group of more than six or seven, it made a cheering change. Then again, Ruth and I seemed to have found our stride. The genie’s lessons at Clara’s catch-and-kill college of choreography had given our partnership a certain flair, a sense of urgency nobody else could touch. Add the fact that so many people were suffering from crippling Jacques hangovers, and I honestly didn’t see how Ruth could fail to final.

  This hadn’t happened by six thirty-five, when the band took their first break, but four of the five female finalist spots were open on the board, and I was confident the judges had taken note. My only sorrow, as I paused at the bar to collect a quick restorative, was that I hadn’t had a cigarette all day. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to strike a match.

  “Bernard B.” A lovely lady caressed the peach fuzz on my scalp. “That haircut c’est awfully chic!”

  In the sense of infant poultry, struck by mange, she was correct.

  “Marvelous Mabel.” I clasped the woman’s fingers and felt her pulse increase. “Merci.”

  A glittering beauty, draped in a scalloped shawl that fastened along her arms like butterfly wings, flapped up and leaned onto my shoulder. A third creature batted caked eyelashes across the room, and it occurred to me that putty would be as nothing compared to these women in the Benjamin hands, should I choose to enfold them.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” The butterfly licked its lips. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Certainly not.” I beckoned to the zombie. “Allow me.”

  Of course, it wasn’t I who held these ladies spellbound. It was hellfire dressed in a Bernie suit of clothes. Before long, the charm would vaporize, and I’d be back to courting caterpillars and watching films instead of dazzling damsels and beating film stars at tugs of war.

  “A little bird tells me,” Butterfly breath tickled my ear, “you live nearby.”

  I smiled mysteriously.

  And yet, the thought nagged that my new charisma didn’t have to end. I was as much a Woodsen as my cousins. I could become a warlock, summon demons, and arrange my own hellfire supply. Then butterfly ladies and film star pals would be the rule, not the exception. I might even, if I proceeded carefully, have all these things without losing my soul.

  I ran a finger along the butterfly’s gauzy wing. Tempting. This day had been more vibrant, more sensual, more fun, than my entire twenty years. Why live as a half-empty Bernie shell?

  Beau Beauregard arrived with a bottle, two glasses, and an extremely knowing look. And in a flash of insight, I saw exactly where a life of bargaining with demons might lead.

  The butterfly fitted a cigarette into her holder. “Light?”

  “Ah. Um.” I reached into a pocket and gripped my handkerchief. “Sorry, I don’t seem to….”

  The zombie lifted a table lighter off of the bar. I looked away, enduring the flare of heat across my cheek, as Beau provided the necessary service. In memory, red flames leapt up; I heard the icehouse roar.

  Then it was over, along with any remaining wish to fill my life with demons.

  I mopped my brow. “Two orange blossoms.” This day could not end fast enough. “Hold the strychnine.”

  “Bernie.” Luella Umbridge pushed through the throng around the bar. She’d dressed for the big party at the Hollywood Grand in a blue-beaded gown on which the color gra
duated from netted pink along the top to deep, sparkling lavender between the pleated panels of the hem. A sequined mermaid headdress adorned her hair, and she wore just enough lip rouge to damage a fellow’s intellect.

  “Bernie,” she repeated, “we’ve got to talk.”

  “Do we?” I must confess I viewed my lifelong love as patrons of certain clubs must view a rack of whips and fuzzy chains. Part with longing, partly repelled.

  “Please, Bernie.”

  This would be about Gaspar. I knew that losing her spirit guide had struck the girl a staggering blow. If I’d been less juiced up with hellfire, I’d have staggered, myself.

  “It’s urgent.” Narcisse Noir perfume added its plea.

  The band was just about to start again. “All right. Five minutes.” I checked my watch and let Luella take my hand. We walked together into the crowded hallway between the bar and bowling alley and then down past the kitchen, toward the mudroom by the back door. At the last minute, Luella pulled me aside into the stairway alcove.

  King Oliver played a low, sensual tune. Luella gazed down earnestly, thanks to the added height of her dancing shoes, while I wondered if hellfire could change her into putty in my hands.

  Probably not. She’d probably boss me around, the same as always.

  I stepped onto the bottom stair, putting us eye-to-eye. “What’s up?”

  “Bernie.” Luella squeezed my hand. “Bernie, you said Gaspar was gone.”

  “He burned.” I didn’t want to think about it. “His ankh was in my fist when my hand burned. There’s nothing left.”

  “There’s this.” She turned my left palm upward and touched the ankh tattoo.

  I shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s just a mark.”

  “The spirits say he hasn’t left our plane.”

  “He hasn’t? How?” I knew nothing about the subject. “Did he…go somewhere?” It would be nice to think I hadn’t killed her ghost.

  “The spirits say” —she stroked my palm— “he’s still right here.”

  A shiver, horror with a side order of gosh-she’s-a-lovely-girl, slid up my arm. “He’s what?”

  “They say he’s trapped.” Luella whispered a word. The tattoo tingled. “They say you stole him.”

  My body vibrated. “Of course I didn’t!”

  She whispered again. The tingle became a sting.

  “Stop it!” I tried to back away, tripped on the stairs, and landed on a step. “Ouch! Hey!”

  The mark glowed faintly. Luella murmured a string of words I didn’t understand. Wisps of gray-green ectoplasm began rising from my palm.

  “Luella!” It burned. “Ow! Can’t we discuss—”

  Phantom flames flickered to life around me. I shrank from memories of falling beams and crackling heat.

  “Luella! Please!” I cringed. “Enough!”

  Green, choking smoke rose in my throat. Panic bubbled inside me. Even on hellfire, even knowing it wasn’t real, I couldn’t face that blaze again.

  “Dammit!” My right hand balled into a fist. “Enough!”

  Stoneface Gibraltar saved me from slugging a girl.

  “I got to agree with you.” He stepped into the alcove, revolver drawn, and all at once, ghost flames seemed less important. “I’ve had about enough of both of youse.”

  “Er…glorp?” I asked.

  Three thugs ran past the alcove in the direction of the kitchen.

  “That goes for you too, doll. You and that spooky stuff.” He shoved Luella. She landed, murmuring under her breath, clutching my burning hand.

  “We thought” —I stopped to wheeze on spectral smoke— “you’d gone.”

  “What, ditch this gold mine?” He laughed. “Not hardly. Besides, five of my boys vanished last night. I can’t just let that slide.”

  “You would if you had any sense.”

  Stoneface slapped me. “Shut your gob, baldy!” He grabbed both my lapels in one big hand and shoved the gun between my eyes.

  Ghostly blisters bubbled along my skin. Green fog oozed out and rose to hover around my head.

  “Let’s go.” Stoneface pulled me along the hall into the kitchen. Luella followed, chanting under her breath, clutching my hand. Through heavy haze I saw the thugs with Tommy guns, each threatening one of my relatives—Gladys, Clara, and Priscilla—against a different wall. Gladys’ two kitchen maids sat at the table, eyes downcast, staring at their laps.

  “Bernard,” Priscilla asked, “are you all right?”

  I gagged on ghostly goo. “Top notch,” I gasped. So far, hellfire had kept me awake beyond my usual fainting point. But it was getting hard to breathe.

  “Bernie!” Clara exclaimed. “You let him go, you oaf!” She sprang forward. The thug in front of her swung his gun and clubbed her to the ground.

  Clara did not get up.

  “Now listen.” Stoneface thumped his revolver against my skull. “Because I’m only sayin’ this one last time. You Woodsen dames is gonna sell me booze.”

  “Mr. Gibraltar.” Priscilla’s voice buzzed distantly. “I’m very willing—”

  Black and red colors began to swirl inside the fog. The kitchen spun. I sank down to my knees.

  “I know you’re willing,” Stoneface growled. “Cause one, you’re not a dope, and two, as long as you do what I say, your sister lives. But shorty here” —he pulled me to my feet— “gives me a pain. And I lost five good men. Me and that Swedish meatball is gonna settle up.”

  Luella finally finished her chant. “Gaspar!”

  The fog left me and swirled away. I sucked in air as Zorro made his entrance. He wore, as he had done before, the mask, the Andalusian hat, the sash, in black and red, but there was something different. This ghost was smaller, more wiry than the one I’d met, with a sardonic tilt about his mouth.

  “Oh, no!” Luella cried.

  “Well, this is awkward.” Gaspar glanced back and forth between the two of us. His eyebrows arched into the mask. “My ankh appears to have” —he coughed delicately— “changed hands.”

  Luella’s fist exploded against my cheek. “You bastard!” She hit me again. “You bastard! You can’t have him!”

  Stoneface Gibraltar pushed Luella aside and pressed his gun against my skull. “So long, pipsqueak.” His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Go left,” Gaspar advised.

  I dove hard to the right. The épée swished past my left ear, catching the gun. The hammer clicked, failing to send a bullet through my brain.

  Gaspar’s backstroke cut through the gangster’s neck.

  “Ow! Hey” He slapped his skin. “What’s that?” Green goo oozed in a line across his throat. He didn’t react—not obviously—but a dazed look began to spread across his features.

  “Hey,” he repeated blankly. “What gives?”

  I took his revolver and looked around the room. In the last seconds, things had changed. Gladys’ thug lay limp, neck broken, on the floor. Priscilla’s guard was trying desperately to rub yellow powder out of his eyes. The thug who’d clobbered Clara was dangling, groaning, from the golem’s fist. Since he was a good two feet taller than Gladys, she had to kick his ankles, repeatedly, to make him hang.

  The kitchen maids leapt from their chairs and darted past me out the swinging door.

  “Be quiet.” Gladys released her thug. He curled into a ball, clutching his scalp. The golem swiveled, eyes flickering, toward Luella. “I would advise you, miss, not to pick up that weapon.”

  Luella raised her hands and backed away from the dead gangster’s Tommy gun.

  Young C. sat up rubbing her head. “What happened?” She looked around. “Dammit! I missed the action.”

  “Clara, language,” Priscilla scolded.

  My cousin stood and gave her thug a vicious kick. “There.” She dusted her hands. “We’re even.” She spotted me. “Bernie, you ass! How many times do you expect me to save your life?”

  “Once less,” I said with some asperity, “than it takes you to get me
killed.”

  “Baloney. If you’d just—” she hesitated. “Oh, hi, Gaspar.”

  “Miss Clara Woodsen.” He swept into a bow. “Gaspar the Great, at your service. I’m deeply honored that we should meet at last.”

  “Um, charmed.” My cousin curtseyed. Priscilla offered the ghost a cordial nod.

  All this short while, our favorite mobster had stood, contemplating nothing. Now he sprang into action, reaching toward me with one gigantic paw.

  “Hey, pal.” He tugged my sleeve. “Is this the Drake Hotel?”

  Priscilla took a steak out of the icebox and fussed over Clara’s head.

  Gaspar wrapped one arm, chummily, around Stoneface’s back. “You’ve had a long day,” he suggested. “Why not sit down?” He led the gangster to a chair.

  I watched them, wondering how the ghost made himself heard.

  “Kids.” Gaspar pulled his épée. “Don’t try this trick at home.” He slashed a Z into the forehead of each remaining thug and then popped them, like puppies, into the other kitchen chairs.

  “Repeat these words,” the ghost intoned hypnotically. “Every day in every way, I’m getting better and better.”

  “Every day,” Stoneface began, “I’m…huh?”

  “…better and better,” his friends chorused.

  I left them to it and went to check on my cousin. She had a goose egg beneath the strawberry tresses, sure enough. “I bet that hurts.”

  “Only when I laugh,” she said.

  I smiled.

  “Bernie.” Luella tapped my shoulder. “We aren’t done. This isn’t settled. I’m not just letting you take my spirit guide.”

  I turned, crossing my arms. “Agreed. Not permanently settled. But for tonight, it is.”

  “But—”

  “Tomorrow.” I used her brother’s commanding look. “Next week, a month from now, I’ll try my best to help you sort this out. But not tonight.” I checked my wristwatch. It was already seven o’clock. “Go home.”

  “But—”

  “Every day, in every way,” the gangsters chanted, “I’m getting better and better.”

  “But—” Luella tried again.