My BHF may be rough around the edges, but when you boil it down, McGoo is a decent cop who does a good job and actually likes walking the beat. He has no aspirations of becoming a high-and-mighty detective or putting up with the political garbage of the top brass. He considers administrative meetings to be more grueling than a shootout. I’m glad to have him around.
Basic law enforcement is problematic in a city where even the laws of science don’t always hold true. Police work and the justice system don’t function quite the same around here. Worse, the laws themselves aren’t always defined—which is why Robin based her career on solving problems and setting precedents.
Even though the Unnatural Quarter has its rough parts, like any inner city, most citizens, natural and unnatural, try to color within the lines. We don’t have to put up with anarchy just because all Hell has broken loose. The vast majority just wants a normal existence and struggles to live within a shaky framework of laws, abstaining from outrageous behavior and doing their best to get along.
Businesses sprang up that catered to the specialized clientele: Commercial blood drives commissioned fresh supplies for vampire customers; processing plants developed seasonings and treatments to make chicken “taste just like human”; restaurants and bars served the proper food choices.
It’s an odd sort of détente, but in the worldwide uproar after the Big Uneasy, the unnaturals realized that if they didn’t settle down and behave themselves, the rest of humanity would go on a full-blown crusade to wipe them out. The worst characters were arrested, tried, and sentenced, and the real man-eaters were executed (by whatever means appropriate for their type). But daily life, etc., went on.
Even so, not everybody behaves.
While Sheldon kept his distance from the crowd of spectators, I yanked on a few stiff shoulders and pulled the unnatural bystanders back. “Hey, give the officer some space to work! He’s trying to do his job.” I hustled them out of the way. “Move along, nothing to see!” I hadn’t gotten close enough yet to know whether there was anything to see.
Recognizing me, McGoo looked relieved. “Thanks, Shamble.”
When the crowd dispersed, I saw that the wrecked place was the Hope & Salvation Mission, a charity operation run by a kind old woman who wanted to save the undead. The windows were smashed, the door ripped off its hinges, the siding splintered. Even some of the bricks had been crushed to powder. Somebody, or something, had made a mess of things. Something huge.
I groaned. “Who would want to do a thing like this?” Hope Saldana was a sweet, good-intentioned lady, and everybody liked her, both naturals and unnaturals. But not all unnaturals could resist their urges, and I was worried about what might have happened to her. “Was anybody hurt?”
“Mrs. Saldana is shaken up, but not harmed,” McGoo said. “Got her in protective custody until we figure out what happened here. It’s like a tornado hit the place!” He shook his head. “Imagine the strength of the guy who did this.”
“Or woman,” I said.
“If a lady did this, I wouldn’t want to be her blind date.”
I ran my eyes over McGoo’s face, his square jaw, rounded nose, bristly brown hair, and five-o’clock shadow that hit by noon every day. “You’re assuming she’d want to date you.”
“I always assume that, until I learn otherwise.” He put his thumbs in his waistband and regarded the scene. “I responded to a call about a disturbance, but the damage was done by the time I got here. Witnesses saw a huge, hulking monster, all hairy and warty, with glowing eyes, long fangs, and a cranky disposition.” With his foot, McGoo scuffed some of the broken glass on the sidewalk. “Around here, that doesn’t narrow the field of suspects by much.” McGoo looked hard at me. “You’re my inside man now, Shamble. Any clue what the perp might be or where I should start looking?”
By now, the crowd had dispersed like a puff of smoke from an amateur wizard’s spell; Sheldon Fennerman hung back under an awning for shelter. I stepped up to the mission’s broken window, looked inside, and saw minimal damage to the interior of the building. “Can’t imagine why anyone, or anything, would want to do this to a Good Samaritan who’s trying to help down-and-out unnaturals. Could be just a random act of vandalism.”
McGoo gave me the same expression of scorn and skepticism he’d used when I told him I dated a centerfold model once. “Random act of vandalism? Riiight. I’ll put that in my report—case closed. Let’s go have a drink.”
“I’ll see you at the Goblin Tavern later.” I gestured Sheldon forward, and the vampire shuffled toward us with great reluctance, pulling his hat down. I said, “I’ve got a favor to ask—new case.”
McGoo was not impressed. He made a rude sound. “Sure, add more duties to my job description. I’ve got nothing else to do here.”
I ignored his sarcasm. “This is my client Sheldon Fennerman. He’s been receiving death threats, and I’m assisting him with personal security.”
McGoo became more businesslike. “What kind of death threats? Credible ones?” He talked as if Sheldon wasn’t right there listening to every word.
“Mr. Fennerman says other vampires in his neighborhood have disappeared, and he suspects they’ve been murdered. Heard of any troubles down in Little Transylvania? Missing persons reports?”
“Not that I know of. Why does he think he’s a specific target?”
“Inflammatory graffiti on the walls, sharpened wooden stakes left on his doorstep.” I noticed that Sheldon was shivering. “Could be Straight Edgers.”
“Straight Edgers?” McGoo rolled his eyes, made a skeptical assessment of Sheldon, and finally addressed him directly. “So, you’re an undead guy who can turn into a bat, has the strength of ten men . . . and you need Dan Shamble to protect you from a bunch of juvenile delinquents? Can’t you just do the evil eye?” He raised the first two fingers of his left hand, crooked them, and toyed with the air. “Use your Bela Lugosi thing and glamour them?”
“I’m, uh, not very good at that,” Sheldon said. “Never was.”
“I believe Mr. Fennerman has good reason to be nervous, so I’m looking into the matter. I’d consider it a personal favor if you kept your eyes and ears open. For old times’ sake.”
That sparked a smile. “Will do, Shamble. Scout’s honor.” His smile became a sneaky little grin. “And I’ve got something for you—for old times’ sake. What goes ‘Ha-ha-ha . . . plop’?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “A shambler laughing his head off!”
“You’re not funny,” I told him, although that one was better than most of his jokes.
He cinched up his lips. “You don’t appreciate deadpan humor.”
Lately, McGoo had adapted his off-color jokes so that various unnaturals were the butt of the humor. In his early career, he had been reprimanded for his clueless non-PC ethnic jokes; nobody in regular human society took offense if a zombie felt insulted, however. Not so long ago, when I was still human myself, McGoo’s jokes had seemed hilarious. And now I was one of his targets.