While guards rushed the stage, Larry the werewolf bounded up next to the podium and protected his boss, muscles bulging, fur bristling, fangs bared. Jekyll needed only a moment to say what he had come to say. His voice carried over the crowd.
“Senator Balfour claims he hates unnaturals, but he is, himself. . . a zombie! And I am sick and tired of keeping his secret.”
A simultaneous gasp of indrawn breath from the audience sucked all the oxygen from the immediate vicinity. Robin, Sheyenne, and I stared at the stage. Senator Balfour was a gaunt and cadaverous man, humorless, loveless. “I should have seen the signs before,” I said.
“If it’s true,” Robin added, “he gives zombies a bad name.”
In the immediate uproar, Larry managed to push past the guards and angry crowd members and whisk his boss to safety. Most of the howling masses, though, were charging the stage to demand answers from the senator.
Over the course of the afternoon, the rest of the story came out. The senator holed up and refused to answer questions, but soon enough his wife turned on him. Two of Balfour’s personal doctors, as well as his illicit mortician, gave interviews with their sides of the story. They also hinted that they were currently shopping tell-all books to various publishers.
Senator Rupert Balfour, whom Robin had so aptly labeled an “ambulatory wad of phlegm,” was a bitter, grim man who had died one night of a heart attack, alone in bed. He came back to life, thanks to the aftereffects of the Big Uneasy.
And nobody noticed the difference. Even his wife, an equally bitter and grim woman, had not remarked on the change for two weeks.
Since he was a man of considerable power and means, Balfour covered up his death and resurrection. No wonder his wife looked perpetually sour, although it was clear to most observers that she hadn’t been satisfied—in any sense of the term—for some time, before or after her husband’s death.
Upon hearing the news, Senator Balfour’s minions, once so vehement and supportive, turned on him like a pack of rabid lemmings. All efforts to enforce the Unnatural Acts Act were “halted, pending review,” and an emergency session was scheduled to repeal the Act, based on the highly unusual circumstances.
For a man once so outspoken against his philosophical rivals, Balfour limited himself to statements comprising only two words: “No comment.”
Chapter 53
It isn’t easy to tell when a mummy is nervous, but I knew Ramen Ho-Tep well enough that I could detect subtle indications of anxiety. He talked too quickly, fidgeted, and avoided what was obviously the point.
He shuffled into our offices on the pretext of “just stopping in to say hello”—which is never the real reason for a visit.
“You look spruced up,” I said, remembering the first time he had dragged himself in to see Robin. His bandages had been brown, frayed, and loose, and he dribbled dust and moths everywhere. Now he had taken extra care to make himself presentable, with a few golden scarab baubles and one of those rubber support-the-cause bracelets for some charity or other. “What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, nothing special, Mr. Chambeaux. I just like to look nice in case . . . well, you never know whom you might bump into,” he said in his erudite British accent. “I am the Pharaoh of all Egypt. You might say I’m a trendsetter of mummy fashion everywhere. By the way, I wonder if you might be a good chap? Do me a favor?”
As I said, stopping by just to say hello is never the real reason. “Always happy to help our friends and former clients, Mr. Ho-Tep. What can I do for you?”
“I am in possession of a certain VIP ticket to my presentation at the museum tomorrow, and I’d like to hand it to you.”
“We’ve got other plans on Saturday, Mr. Ho-Tep. Sorry.” We were committed to going to Tiffany’s comedy routine.
“Oh, you have already seen the show, Mr. Chambeaux. The ticket is not intended for you. I hoped you might consider delivering the invitation to Madam Neffi over at the Full Moon brothel?”
Now it made sense. “You could just deliver it yourself. Neffi would be happy to see you.”
“I hope so.” He shuffled his bandaged feet. “But I’m a tad nervous.”
I was surprised. “The Pharaoh of all Egypt, who commanded great armies, who built gigantic pyramids, who ruled countless slaves . . . is nervous?”
He swallowed in a very, very dry throat. “This is Neffi we’re talking about.”
“I see what you mean.” I reached out my hand. “I’ll be heading over there to wrap up some matters on a case, and I’ll deliver it to her in person.” I had to bring our final bill, close out the account, and maintain goodwill; I had no doubt that Full Moon would need the services of Chambeaux & Deyer at some time in the future.
“Thank you very much. I hope . . . I do hope she’s willing to see me again.”
That afternoon, when I presented the special invitation to the mummy madam, a look of delight crossed the shriveled old face. “Why, Ramen Ho-Tep, that rascal! He sends you to do his dirty work? That man doesn’t know how to perform the simplest actions without his minions.”
“He’d be very grateful if you’d attend his presentation,” I said. “He’s proud of the work he does, and I think it’s interesting.”
“Oh, I’ll go and see him, although I think it might rattle the poor man.” She giggled. “It’s funny when a great pharaoh stammers too much to complete a sentence. If nothing else, I’ll be there to correct any misperceptions he gives the audience. As a pharaoh, Ramen never knew how real Egyptians lived. He had his brain removed with a silver spoon up his nose.”
She drew a deep breath and heaved a long, dusty sigh. “Oh, it’ll be good to see him again.” She took the invitation and tucked it into her bodice, where I knew for certain that it would be safe.
It was a night for celebration on many levels, and Robin, Sheyenne, McGoo, and I got together for a drink and a laugh. Yes, we had promised to see Tiffany’s routine at the comedy club, but this was no mere duty dance. I was actually pleased to be at the Laughing Skull.
Tiffany made sure we had seats at one of the front tables near the stage. While there was no ticket charge for the open-mic night, the Laughing Skull did institute a two-drink minimum for all clientele, natural or unnatural. Since Sheyenne could nurse a drink but not actually enjoy it, McGoo and I manfully helped to meet her beverage obligations as well as our own.
Bill was already seated at the table, the big clay guy facing the still-empty stage with a broad grin on his face. He had been moistened and smoothed over for the evening, and he looked freshly molded. He did not wear his security watchman uniform; rather, he had donned a bright Hawaiian shirt.
“Are you done with your job at the storage complex?” I asked.