Every ten minutes or so, Stu came out to say hello to the customers, smiling to assure them that he appreciated their business. “Francine’s taking care of you all?” he asked no one in particular. “Isn’t she the best?”
“I agree,” I said. “You should give her a raise.”
Stu scuttled back into his office, pretending he hadn’t heard the comment. I knew he had been working with the Trove National Bank on a business loan and was trying to find investors so he could buy the Goblin Tavern himself. I thought he just might pull it off. McGoo and I were doing our best to help by contributing to the nightly take in the cash register.
On the bar television, we watched a news report that showed harried-looking Senator Rupert Balfour, head down and covered with a newspaper, being hurried into his car as reporters and angry former minions shouted after him. The Tavern regulars let out a chorus of boos and catcalls.
McGoo planted his elbows on the bar. “Everyone in the Quarter can rest easy now.”
“The senator won’t,” I said.
Despite his disgrace, Balfour had been defiant throughout the scandal. He had refused to resign as senator and vowed to fight on . . . but his colleagues removed him from office by unanimous vote. The senate rules stated explicitly that a senator was to be replaced upon his death. Even though no one had immediately noticed, Senator Rupert Balfour was indeed dead, and therefore could no longer serve in office.
The increasingly unpopular Unnatural Acts Act was repealed, not because of any deafening outcry among the citizens, but because of a minor legal loophole: Since Balfour had been dead when he proposed the Act, it should never have been brought to a vote.
Robin would have enjoyed fighting her challenges and striking repeated blows in the name of Justice, but Chambeaux & Deyer had other work to do. I convinced her to be satisfied with what we had accomplished.
That afternoon, I had gone to visit Hope Saldana and Jerry at the mission. She had baked a chocolate cake, and everyone from the mission had signed a homemade thank-you card for me. They gave me a round of embarrassing applause as Jerry presented the card himself, before going to the piano and playing a lively rendition of “Heart and Soul”—this time with the exuberance of a ragtime professional.
Yes, we had plenty to celebrate.
After McGoo and I had another beer, I made my way back to the office. Robin’s door was closed, the lights off, and I was glad to see that she’d taken the night off; maybe she would catch up on her sleep for a change. Balfour’s attorneys had quietly dropped the defamation and libel lawsuits against her, knowing they would never get a sympathetic jury. Besides, most of her contentions had been proved true.
I stood alone in our quiet, minimally decorated offices, just thinking, but at a loss. I looked at the potted ficus plant, Sheyenne’s reception desk, the file cabinets, my office, Robin’s office, the conference room, the kitchenette. Yes, this place felt like home, even though my actual one-room apartment was upstairs, rarely used.
Most of the cases were wrapped up for now; nothing seemed urgent. Having no desperate cases or clients in peril was a new situation for me. I didn’t know what to do with myself: back from the dead with no place to go.
Sheyenne appeared, looking beautiful as always. “Working late again, Beaux?”
“Just being here late. Want to hang out?”
She rummaged in the top drawer of her desk and held out an envelope with a blurred postmark. “This came for you.”
I looked at the return address and saw that Ruth had sent it. I felt a lump in my throat. Before I opened the envelope, I stepped closer to my girlfriend. “Read it with me,” I said.
It was a short note, the succubus letting us know that she was all right. I was happy to hear that she had found a job working in a shop that specialized in dried floral arrangements. I knew how much Ruth liked flowers, and the company considered her to be a miracle worker. Any plants and flowers dried up immediately upon her touch, and, with a succubus working there, the shop could process five times as many floral arrangements, wreaths, and bouquets as before.
“Sounds like she’s found her niche,” Sheyenne said. “I’m happy for her.”
The second part of the letter was even more surprising. Ruth told us that the ghost of Alphonse Wheeler had tracked her down after escaping prison. He had changed his identity, put on a spectral disguise, and pretended to live as an outlaw, although after the media uproar involving the Senator Balfour scandal, no one was really looking for him anymore.
“Why don’t you take some time off,” Sheyenne said to me. “Why don’t we take some time off, together?”
“Sounds perfect, Spooky. How about a Mediterranean cruise? Alice could give us a recommendation.”
“Let’s just start with tonight,” she said, with that tone in her voice, the one I could never resist . . . not when she’d been alive, not now that she was a ghost.
“Where would you like to go?”
She practically shimmered, and her blue eyes were intense. “How about upstairs? I got something for us, if you’re ready for a little adventure. Did you know the adult novelty shop is open again? They have some very interesting merchandise.”
I had no idea what a ghost and a zombie might actually do, since we could have no physical contact, but Sheyenne had my attention. All of it.
Upstairs, the door creaked open from long disuse. My room was dim and musty, with a distinct hint of mold. Some unnaturals preferred that for the ambience; in my case, it was strictly due to neglect. The dirty dishes in the sink had now become archaeological artifacts. The bed looked lonely and abandoned, and I realized that I should try to get rest more often. Even a zombie can’t keep going and going without a little shut-eye.
“Let me slip into something more comfortable,” Sheyenne said. “I want to make this a special night for us.”
She flitted out of the small bedroom and passed directly through the door of my closet. I could hear her rustling around inside.
I went to sit down on the bed and noticed a plastic wrapper that had been wadded up and stuffed behind the nightstand—a bright label, a small zippered bag. So Sheyenne must have been planning this.
I heard her bumping and moving among the clothes in my closet, and I picked up the package she had been trying to hide, something she’d bought from the Unnatural Acts novelty store: Inflatable Female Companion for the Lonely Gentleman. The description insisted it was 100% Vinyl, and So Lifelike!
“Spooky, I don’t—” I said, but then the closet door opened, and she emerged in flesh-colored plastic. Sheyenne’s ghostly image was superimposed upon it, and if I concentrated properly, I could see her and nothing else.