Sheyenne responded with an impish grin. “Good idea, Beaux.”
Tiffany was the buffest—and butchest—vampire I’d ever met. She had a gruff demeanor and treated her life with the utmost seriousness the second time around. But she had more of a sense of humor than I originally thought. Earlier that afternoon, Tiffany had dropped in, wearing a grin that showed her white fangs; she waved a pack of tickets and asked if we’d come see her for open-mic night at the Laughing Skull, a comedy club down in Little Transylvania. Maybe we could trade favors....
I knew Tiffany from the All-Day/All-Nite Fitness Center, where I tried to keep myself in shape. Zombies don’t have to worry about cholesterol levels or love handles, but it’s important to maintain muscle tone and flexibility. The aftereffects of death can substantially impact one’s quality of life. I worked out regularly, but Tiffany was downright obsessive about it. She said she could bench-press a coffin filled with lead bricks (though why she would want to, I couldn’t say).
Like many vampires, Tiffany had invested well and didn’t need a regular job, but due to her intimidating physique, I kept her in mind in case I ever needed extra muscle. I’d never tried to call in a favor before, but Sheyenne was very persuasive.
Tiffany the vampire walked through the door wearing a denim work shirt and jeans. She had narrow hips, square shoulders, no waist, all muscle. She looked as if she’d been assembled from solid concrete blocks; if any foolish vampire slayer had tried to pound a stake through her heart, it would have splintered into toothpicks.
Tiffany said gruffly, “Tell me what you got, Chambeaux.” When Bill emerged from the conference room, she eyed him up and down. “You’re a big boy.”
“I was made that way. Mr. Chambeaux said you can keep me safe.”
After I explained the situation, she said, “Sure, I’ll give you a place to stay. Hang out at my house for a few days until this blows over.” Tiffany glanced at me, raised her eyebrows. “A few days—right, Chambeaux?”
Robin answered for me. “That should be all we need to start the legal proceedings.”
Bill’s clay lips rolled upward in a genuine smile now. “My people and I are indebted to you, Miss Tiffany.”
“No debt involved. Actually, I could use a hand if you don’t mind pitching in. I’m doing some remodeling at home, installing shelves, flooring, and a workbench in the garage, plus dark paneling and a wet bar in the basement den. I also need help setting up some heavy tools I ordered—circular saw and drill press, that kind of thing.”
“I would be happy to help,” Bill agreed.
“Thanks for the favor, Tiffany,” I said.
The vampire gave me a brusque nod. “Don’t worry, he’ll be putty in my hands.”
Chapter 2
Eager to shut down the illegal golem sweatshop, I went to find Officer Toby McGoohan. McGoo was my BHF, my best human friend, and our lives were closely related, but not in lockstep. Back in college, we’d both wanted to be cops, but my life didn’t turn out as I had planned. After a lackluster career on the outside, I set up my private detective business in the Quarter, and I did all right for myself (my own murder notwithstanding).
McGoo stuck with his law enforcement and criminal justice training, became a police officer. And his life hadn’t turned out as planned, either. He had never been a rising star. His sense of humor and lack of political correctness had gotten him transferred from a dead-end career on the outside to an even deader-end career here in the Quarter.
McGoo didn’t like the assignment, but he made do. As a cop, he believed his job was to enforce the law and keep the peace. “If I was in a quiet, affluent district with a low crime rate, what would I do with myself all day long? Hang out at the doughnut shop and get fat?” Victims were victims, and scumbags were scumbags; it didn’t matter that they had fangs or claws. McGoo knew he wasn’t going to be promoted to a better job, regardless of how many gold stars he got on his record. He was always going to be a beat cop. So be it.
He made sure I understood the irony. “Who would have guessed it, Shamble? You were the one who dropped out of the curriculum, and you’re the one who made detective!” It was a joke, but not a very funny one. Most of McGoo’s jokes weren’t funny.
Where do you find a zombie that’s lost its arms and legs?
Exactly where you left it.
His monster jokes were a safe bet. These days, a guy could get in trouble for picking on ethnic minorities, but it was perfectly all right to disparage unnaturals (though it wasn’t smart to insult a werewolf in full-moon heat).
McGoo and I often helped each other. He could use department channels off the books to get me details I needed on cases; for my own part, since I didn’t wear a badge, I could use unorthodox means to dig up information that he needed. It was a good partnership. We were also drinking buddies.
Our friendship had changed fundamentally once I became a zombie. No surprise there: A lot of things changed after I came back from the dead. It was only natural . . . or unnatural.
Around McGoo, I would try to pretend that nothing had happened, for old times’ sake. I drank the same brand of beer and sat on the same bar stool, and McGoo did his best to ignore the differences. But when we sat together in the Goblin Tavern, sometimes he couldn’t look me in the eyes; instead, he focused on the neat round bullet hole in the center of my forehead (makeup notwithstanding).
Right now, I found McGoo leaving the Transfusion coffee shop, where I knew he’d be this time of day. As a service to the customers, Transfusion had opaque windows so that insomniac vampires could hang out during daylight hours, have a cup of coffee, read a book or work on a laptop. McGoo just liked their coffee. From his gruff exterior, McGoo seemed like the type of person to order coffee strong and black, but he preferred cinnamon lattes (and was ready to deliver a punch in the nose to anyone who called him a sissy for it).
Carrying his latte as if it were a live hand grenade, McGoo saw me coming toward him down the street. “Hey, Shamble!”
“I need a favor, McGoo.”
His grin turned into a frown. “Never a good way to start a conversation.”
“Consider it job security, some excitement in your life. A good deed for the day.”
“I just try to get through the day, Shamble. Wanna hear a joke?”
I cut him off. “I’d rather tell you about an illegal sweatshop, enslaved and abused golems, a black-market souvenir racket. I need you to call in a raid. You’ll be glad you did.”
For all his curmudgeonly exterior, McGoo took his job seriously. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”
“When have I ever lied to you?”