I looked at Robin, narrowed my eyes. I had heard about this kind of harassment of unnaturals. “My first guess would be Straight Edge.”
The purist blowhard group wanted all the monsters to go away. Straight Edge made no distinction among vampires, zombies, werewolves, witches, liches, necromancers, sewer dwellers, ghouls, or anything else. Just another group of bigots, the type who can’t feel superior unless they manage to define someone else as less than human. In this case, at least the “less than human” label was accurate.
“If they’ve targeted you, personally,” I asked, “why did they spray-paint on the windows across the street?”
Sheldon fidgeted. “It’s Little Transylvania. A lot of my neighbors are vampires. It’s not hard to find us on the block, especially with the window glass blacked out. The landlord offers good terms, and sometimes he even sublets the rooms during the day when we’re asleep in our coffins. They’re zoned as dual-use properties.”
He rustled in his overcoat pocket and withdrew a rumpled piece of paper. “I found this graffiti in the alley just behind my brownstone.” He pointed to the phrases with a trembling finger. Eat Wood and Feel My Shaft. “More threats against vampires.”
“Well, that’s not the only possible interpretation.” I considered the stake and set it back down on the table, careful to turn the point away from the vampire. “If it’s any consolation, Sheldon, the Straight Edgers are mostly talk. Bullies, but cowards.”
The vampire was still jumpy. “But I know they’ve already succeeded! Six vampires around my neighborhood have vanished without a trace. Six of my friends. I can give you a list of names. We were very close, but they’re all gone now! Someone must have driven a stake through their hearts.”
“Have you seen any of the bodies?” I asked.
“If they turned to dust, who would ever find the bodies? It’s a perfect crime.”
“Not all vampires turn to dust,” Robin pointed out. “Only the ancient ones, from long before the Big Uneasy.”
“But they left their coffins behind!” Sheldon insisted. “Why would any vampire do that? Either my friends left in a hurry, or they’re dead. Those haters are going to kill us all—and I’m next! But why me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just an interior designer. I’m no threat to anyone.”
“Well, you are a vampire,” Robin said.
“Not much of one. I was a vegan before the transformation, and now I only drink soy blood.” His face wrinkled in an expression of disgust. “Nasty stuff . . . then again, so was tofu turkey. But a person with strong convictions is willing to put up with things like that. I don’t drink human blood. The very idea curdles my stomach.”
Even though Sheldon Fennerman may have been a hypochondriac when he was alive, I took his concerns seriously. “Some people have an irrational hatred for what they don’t understand. It’s best to be cautious.”
“You can offer me protection?”
I looked up, raised my voice. “Sheyenne? How is my schedule for the afternoon?”
She appeared at the conference table. “Just your appointment at Bruno and Heinrich’s. I can clear it for you.”
“I’ll still take the appointment,” I said. “Sheldon, why don’t we go to your place, right now? I’ll assess your home security situation, make sure you’re safe for the time being. Then I’ll gather information and try to track down who’s been harassing you.”
Robin said with a smile, “My services are available, too, if you need legal help.”
“I’ll open a new case file,” Sheyenne said. “And we have to work out the financial arrangements.”
I lifted my sport jacket and fedora from the coat rack and tucked my .38 in its holster. “All right, Sheldon. Let’s hit the streets.”
He reached out to pump my hand. “Thank you, thank you!” After applying extra sunscreen from a squeeze bottle in his pocket, he pulled on his gloves and floppy hat, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and adjusted the wraparound sunglasses. “I’ll feel safe with you, Mr. Chambeaux.”
Chapter 4
Every unnatural should have a Best Human Friend, someone to rely on, someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t take any crap from you or give you any crap in return.
My BHF is a rough-around-the-edges beat cop, Officer Toby McGoohan. We’ve known each other since college, well before the Big Uneasy, well before I got killed. After only a month, McGoo was still getting used to the changed situation with me. To his credit, he was trying.
Three blocks away from our offices, while Sheldon scampered to keep up with me, I spotted McGoo in his blue uniform, surrounded by a crowd of curious bystanders. Most of them were zombies, mingled with a few human deliverymen, day workers, and just plain curiosity-seekers. They had gathered around a wrecked storefront whose large plate-glass windows were smashed.
Seeing the commotion, Sheldon hunched down in his overcoat. “Maybe we should cross the street. I don’t want to get mixed up in anything.”
“That cop is a friend of mine, don’t worry.” In fact, this was a good chance for me to introduce him to McGoo. “I can call in a favor, ask him to keep an eye on your place.”
“All right, I suppose . . . if you think it’s a good idea.”
In the middle of the gawkers near the vandalized business, Officer McGoohan waved his hands and shouted at the top of his voice. “Back off! Give me room to breathe here—some of us still require oxygen in our lungs!”
When he walked his beat, McGoo tried to be prepared for everything. He carried a service revolver loaded with regular bullets on his left hip, and one with silver-jacketed bullets on the right. He had a spray can of Mace and a spray can of holy water, along with a bandolier with wooden stakes, both blunted and sharpened.
Right then, though, I could tell McGoo needed a little help with crowd control. When too many zombies gather in one place, people tend to get nervous Night of the Living Dead flashbacks. Nobody needs that kind of mob mentality.
I could lend a hand a lot faster than official backup would ever arrive. The police force was stretched thin in the Quarter, and not many of the beat cops wanted to be there; it was a bottom-of-your-career assignment.
McGoo never had a bright future on the force, and he was his own worst enemy. Neither a tactful nor an overly sensitive man, he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. His biggest mistake was in thinking that everyone shared his rough sense of humor. Years ago he had told a series of inappropriate, non-politically-correct jokes, pissed off the wrong person, and got himself transferred to the Unnatural Quarter (a “punitive promotion”) not long before Robin and I set up shop.