by Lori Perkins
The middle level consisted of the kitchen, dining room, and living room, all in an open-type floor plan. Nothing unusual except the amount of filth and garbage banked up in the corners. It looked like whatever food was consumed in this place didn’t need a cooking or refrigeration. All clear. One more level.
Shana and Alice finally made Mrs. Lassiter’s acquaintance as we reached the upstairs hallway. She charged out at us from the bathroom, but in the second between our guns going off and the bullets blowing through the back of her skull, Shana and I both registered that not only had she been moving at a pretty good clip, but she was armed with an axe and had been quite clearly cursing us out.
“Shit,” both of us said in unison.
“She was alive when we shot her, Ryan. Danielle was wrong. What if she was wrong about everything? What if she fucked us over just to get out of doing time? What if we just broke into a fucking law-abiding civilian’s house and gunned down a woman who was protecting herself from fucking intruders?”
“Calm down. Shit. Let’s just take a breath. Okay. First of all, law-abiding civilians don’t keep fucking zombies in a kennel out back. Second, Danielle told us she was only guessing about Mandy and her mother.”
“If that bitch is fucking us over, I’ll hunt her down and…”
BOOM.
The muffled gunshot echoed down the hall, followed by a scream and what sounded like furniture being thrown around. Shana, Alice. and I ran to the last door at the end of the hall. Alice alerted, so we were prepared for a Zom, but when we opened the door, no way in hell were we prepared for the scene playing out in front of us.
Lassiter lay sprawled on the floor, rifle on the rug next to him, blown-out lamp off to one side. Curled over him like a hungry vulture was a naked, bloody Mandy, ripping his torso to shreds with her bare hands. She was so intent on her prey she never even acknowledged our presence.
Shana recovered before I did, but instead of following protocol and firing off a kill shot, she dragged me backwards out of the room, slamming the door shut behind us.
We sat in the hallway listening to slurping and smacking noises for what seemed like a very long time, tears running down both of our faces.
“Do you want me to handle this?” Shana asked, breaking the silence.
“No, this is all mine.”
I got slowly to my feet and walked to the door. The feeding sounds had stopped.
Usually right after a good meal, they were a little slower and marginally easier to handle.
They never really slept, but temporarily fell into something like a post-Thanksgiving stupor.
I opened the door carefully. Mandy wasn’t near the body any longer. She was curled up in the corner on the far side of the room, about as far as possible from her father’s remains.
She must have seen me come in, but she didn’t move. She just sat there, her thin body slightly bloated by what was probably more food than she had ever been allowed to consume. I raised my arm and lined up the sight.
“I’m sorry about everything, Mandy. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
And I pulled the trigger.
When I finally stopped sobbing and went over to check Mandy’s body, I swear, the half of her face that was still intact was smiling.
My Partner the Zombie
by R.G. Hart
I sat behind my tan oak desk watching our new client drip on our carpet. The carpet was just dry cleaned yesterday.
My partner, Matt Butcher, sat opposite me behind his desk, his dark eyes watchful. I sensed he was waiting for my indignation to explode, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. The steady drone of traffic on Bleeker Street three floors below our office windows filled the silence. It was early in the day so delivery vans were busy making their rounds.
“Mr. Jens,” I began, keeping my tone even, “how is it you’re so wet?”
His round face and coal-black eyes turned from Matt to me. He was a small man.
Some would say he was a midget. Having seen every oddity this world can offer—and some of my best friends are midgets—I prefer the term little person.
“I require the services of a private investigator, but I’m not sure I came to the right place.” Jens’s eyes flitted to Matt, then back to me. “Is he gonna eat my brain?”
I laughed. “No, Mr. Jens. Matt’s a vegetarian. He only eats tofu brains.” I glanced at Matt. One side of his generous mouth curled in a half smile and the corners of his eyes crinkled. I confess I shiver every time he smiles. Truth is, I’d loved Matt since the day I met him. Too bad he didn’t share my feelings. Zombie and redheaded PI loving just wasn’t in the cards, I guessed.
I saw Jens scowl at me. He obviously didn’t appreciate my twisted sense of humor.
“Sorry, Mr. Jens. A little joke.” I eased back in my tan oak captain’s chair and shifted my weight. I’d been sitting too long and my gluteus maximus was sore. The concord grape-colored chair cushion had long ago been mashed into uselessness.
“Truth is, my partner is a fifty-fifty zombie.”
Jens blinked. He didn’t get it. Not surprising, considering that in my line of work I didn’t believe half of what I was told either. “He wasn’t fully zombie when he escaped from the undead factory.” Yeah. Right. More like the island where the Mambo created her zombies.
“Ever hear of Zombie Away?” he said sarcastically.
I shook my head. “Allergies.”
Jens humprfed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I was told, Miss Armstrong, your agency was the best. Now I’m not so sure.” He waved a dismissive hand at me. “A zombie and a model? I mean, really, how would anyone ever take you seriously?”
I narrowed my eyes and rose from behind my desk. I was pleased when he took a step back, but winced when his runners squished more water onto the carpet. I rounded the desk and went to the coffee maker we kept on top of an army-green filing cabinet. I poured myself a mug.
“Mr. Jens, I have not, nor have I ever been, a model. I used to be a federal agent with the Legal Investigative Protection Service and have brought many criminals to justice. Surely you’ve heard of the Zero case.”
Jen’s brow creased, his eyes skeptical. “Yeah. I’ve heard of it.”
I walked back behind my desk with my mug in my hand. “Well, Matt and I were heavily involved in that case.” Of course I didn’t tell him I left the L.I.P.S. because of that case. It was need-to-know information, and that he didn’t need to know.
“Okay.” He paused, then suddenly his words spat out machine-gun style. “I’m soaked because I was pushed into a tank of water from forty feet up. Someone’s trying to murder me.”
Jerry Jens is a circus midget. At least that’s the billboard next to the ticket booth screamed in large red and purple letters. I glanced at Matt and grunted. He was wearing my favorite grey pinstriped double-breasted suit and grey felt fedora. Man, did he look like a professional private dick right out of a Raymond Chandler novel. Cool.
I was wearing my usual uniform of black spandex leggings, four-inch spiked heels, and billowy cotton sweater. I wore a bulky sweater because I hated it when men talked to my breasts as if they were microphones. A thirty-eight C cup could be a real detriment in my business.
Jerry had gone home to change, but he’d given me a card for Maxmillian Q.
Quiet. Quiet was the general manager and ringmaster of the Dingaling Brothers Circus.
The much traveled circus was camped on the edge of town.
We approached the ticket booth to find the oldest woman I had ever seen seated on a stool behind a wall of dirt-smudged Plexiglas. There was a half moon-shaped opening just above the counter for the exchange of money for tickets. Her weathered face was a perfect representation of the Grand Canyon. “That’ll be seventeen fifty,” she said in a gravel-crunching voice.
She didn’t look up when I handed her Quiet’s card. “We’re here to see Mr.
Quiet.”
The old woman’s sky blue eyes
finally lifted from the Racing Form she’d been reading to peer at the card, then at us. Her world-weary, unemotional eyes flitted between Matt and me. “Staff entrance is round back.”
I smiled. “We’re private investigators. We really need to speak with Mr. Quiet.
It’s a matter of life and death.” Yeah, I know, a little dramatic, but sometimes theatrics can take you a long way. Especially when you’re dealing with theatrical people.
“Why didn’t you say so?” she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm. “Once you’re inside, turn left, then make a right at the second tent. Follow the tent until you come to a row of trailers. In the fifth trailer from the left you’ll find Maxie.”
“Thanks.”
She nodded, then turned her attention back to the paper. I retrieved Quiet’s card and we started to walk away when she called me back. I went back and leaned toward the window as the woman motioned me closer with one crooked finger. “Yes?”
“Don’t tell Maxie I sent ya.”
I glanced at Matt. He shrugged. I looked back into the old woman’s blood-webbed eyes. “Yes, certainly.”
Once inside the entrance we were greeted by the smells of fresh cut grass and sour hay.
We soon came to the line of trailers just as described by the old woman. What she’d failed to tell us about was their elaborate paint jobs. Each trailer was painted in a different theme. Some had grey-skinned elephants with their trunks curled back, others had pretty girls in elaborate Las Vegas showgirl costumes astride pure white horses, while others bore images of smiling clowns and balloons. They were truly works of art.
There had to be at least forty trailers standing side by side. Matt counted to the fifth trailer from the left and motioned for me to follow him. We approached Quiet’s trailer with Matt in the lead. I love a man who takes charge. Even if he’s an undead man.
In contrast to the other trailers with circus-related images, Max Quiet’s trailer was covered in rainbows and unicorns. Strange. Why the difference?
Matt rapped his grey knuckles on the door. Silence returned as the echo of Matt’s knock died from inside the trailer. Matt frowned, then pounded on the door with his fist.
Finally a foghorn-like voice responded, “Who goes there?” This is Quiet? I don’t think so.
“It’s Aloha Armstrong and Matt Butcher, Mr. Quiet. We’re with Abby-Normal Investigations, sir. We—” Before I could say anything more, the aluminium door flew open to slap hard against the side of the trailer. The door missed Matt with inches to spare.
My jaw hung open at the sight of him. Like Jens, Maxmillian Q. Quiet was a little person.
Quiet invited us into his trailer after I explained why we were here. He seemed genuinely surprised concerning an allegation of attempted murder. We didn’t mention Jerry Jens’s name yet.
Matt and I each took a seat on one of two grey-green overstuffed chairs across from a matching sofa. Quiet sat on the sofa.
We’d caught him with his pants down. Literally. He was still dressed in boxer shorts—I was so thankful he didn’t wear briefs—and a ratty sleeveless undershirt.
His beady eyes shifted between us. His child-sized feet fidgeted like he had to pee and his chipmunk cheeks were flushed. I nodded to Matt, indicting he should lead the questioning. He shrugged, took off his fedora, and placed it in his lap. He then cleared his throat. Matt was a man of few words. I liked that about him. Being questioned by a zombie had to be at least a hundred and forty-two on the intimidation meter.
“Mr. Quiet,” Matt stopped to pull out his notebook from his inside pocket, then flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. So Star Trek. So cool. His brow wrinkled as he studied the page. “A Mr. Jerry Jens visited our office this morning.” He glanced up from the page to look at Quiet. “Do you know Mr. Jens?”
Quiet fidgeted, then said, “Yes. But I don’t know anything about any murder.”
Matt’s eyebrows arched in sync. You go, guy. “Who said anything about murder?”
“You said…” His hazel eyes shifted to me. “She said Jerry said someone tried to murder him.”
Matt nodded. “But if the victim isn’t dead, then it’s attempted murder. A fine point to be sure, but Mr. Jens has engaged us to find the person responsible for the accident this morning.”
Quiet frowned. Uh-oh. The intimidation meter had just slipped a few notches.
“Say. Who are you people, anyway? Are you cops?” Quiet rose from the sofa and crossed the room to stand in front of me. I can tell you a little person wearing only boxer shorts and an undershirt reeking of stale beer and cigarettes is not a pleasant experience.
I smiled as sweetly as I was able, hoping my charming side, such as it is, would quell the tiger in his tank. “No, Mr. Quiet, we’re not cops. As Matt explained, we came because Mr. Jens hired us to find out who tried to kill him.” I shrugged my shoulders slightly. “We’re hoping you’ll cooperate with us.”
His eyes became like black beads in a snow bank. “Why didn’t he go to the cops?”
“He did,” said Matt. “They didn’t believe him.”
Quiet snorted, then padded across the seventies’ era forest green shag carpet toward the small kitchen. “Coffee?” he offered.
I looked at Matt, then back at Quiet. Matt frowned at me and slapped his notebook closed. I leaned toward him and whispered, “Patience.” We locked eyes. His shoulders relaxed and he nodded. Matt’s one serious flaw was his lack of patience. Not a good thing in the PI business.
“Sure.” I shifted my gaze to Quiet and grinned. “We would.”
Building a bridge of trust between us and Maxie Quiet was going to take time.
Problem was, my instincts were screaming that time was growing short. And my instincts are never wrong.
Max—he told us to call him Max—brought us steaming pastel mugs filled with freshly brewed coffee. Mine was dark, like my men. I eyed Matt. Well, tall, grey, and handsome, actually.
Max handed Matt his, with the two milks and five sugars, since he has a bit of sweet tooth. Zombies don’t have to worry about their figures.
Max finally returned from the kitchen carrying a mug as colorful as ours. He took a generous sip and closed his eyes, smiled, then eased back into the embrace of the thick sofa cushions with a sigh. “Sorry if I was rude before, Aloha. It’s just that we run this place on a very tight budget. Even a hint of bad publicity is going to hurt our bottom line.”
“I understand, Max.” I frowned. “Who would want to hurt Jerry?”
Max didn’t hesitate. He blurted, “Uno.” There were no doubts in this guy’s mind.
Matt scooted forward in his chair. “Uno who?”
A mischievous smile crossed Max’s thin lips. “Not who. What.”
Matt and I shared a puzzled look.
Max sighed. “You mentioned Zero earlier.”
I nodded. “What about him? He’s serving his time on the American Prisons reality show.” I grunted and shook my head. “It’s the last place I would wish on anyone.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Terrible.” He paused, then said, “Anyway, Zero’s oldest son is Uno. He’s as much of a megalomaniac as his father and just a reclusive.”
“So?” said Matt, a trace of impatience in his voice, “what has Uno got to do with Jerry Jens?”
Max eyed Matt dryly. “Jerry and Uno are brothers.”
We found Jerry in his apartment on Syler Street. The building was sixteen stories with no elevator. Jerry lived on the fifteen floor.
Still huffing, puffing, and gasping for breath, we arrived at his front door. Matt was bent forward at the waist breathing hard. We both smelled of sour sweat.
“We…gotta…get clients…who…live…on the first…floor,” he gasped.
My heart pounding in my ears, unable to speak, I nodded. I looked up as the apartment door opened. Jerry. He was dry and clean-shaven, dressed in a purple track suit minus shoes. “Hey, guys. What took you so long?”
I’d called ahead saying
we’d be here in ten minutes. That was before I knew about the Olympic walk-up competition.
Jerry stepped back. “Come on in.”
I puffed my cheeks, then entered the apartment with as much dignity as my trembling legs allowed. Muscles I didn’t know I possessed ached.
The apartment’s floors were hardwood and the walls were painted pale blue. The air smelled of peaches. Matt shuffled in behind me. Great. I rolled my eyes. Just when Jerry was convinced Matt wasn’t going to eat his brain, he shuffles like a zombie.
The door clicked closed behind us. “Let’s go into the living room,” Jerry said with a sweep of his hand.
I grunted my agreement. We followed him into the living room. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. The window was tinted to diffuse the sunlight so the apartment didn’t get overheated.
“Nice place,” I said, my voice harsh.
We sat on the brown leather sectional facing the windows. My heart rate finally normalized and I was tempted to think I might even live.
“I call it home.” Jerry sat on another section of the sofa. The sofa sighed as I sank into the soft leather. Boy, did it feel good to sit down.
“The circus must pay pretty good,” said Matt.
I shot him an angry glare. As far as I’m concerned, it’s rude to talk about how much someone makes—or in my case, doesn’t make. I frowned. I nailed Matt with my we’re-gonna-talk-later-dude look. He ignored me.
Jerry laughed when he recognized the annoyance in my eyes. “No. Not at all. I receive royalties from Zombie Away.”
Uh-oh. Not that again. I looked at Matt, uncertain how he’d react. Sure Matt had used Zombie Away, but since in his case it needed fifty-four treatments to work and he was allergic, it just wasn’t gonna happen. “I’m happy the way I am. Live with it,” he had said when I mistakenly made Zombie Away my last-stand ultimatum for any shot at a relationship between us. This was before I knew he was allergic. I’d planted my foot firmly in my mouth and I learned shoe leather leaves a bitter aftertaste. It was the darkest day of my life.