I pulled on my stitched-up jacket, took my fedora, and told Sheyenne, “I’m going to the mission. I’ve got a favor to ask Mrs. Saldana.” I could have used the phone, but I wanted to stretch my legs to keep the stiffness from setting in. Besides, I preferred face-to-face meetings.
Mrs. Hope Saldana, a kindly old woman with unmatched generosity for downtrodden people (or former people), had established the Unnatural Quarter’s first soup kitchen and shelter in an effort to improve the lives of unfortunate souls, and even those who didn’t have souls. Even though the Hope & Salvation Mission had always operated on a shoestring budget, most of the Quarter’s denizens applauded the good work she was doing. I had been her friend, both as a human detective and now as a zombie.
“Mr. Chambeaux, always a pleasure to see you!” She made me think of grandmothers every time she smiled. She offered me a cookie, which I accepted, because one does not turn down gifts from Mrs. Saldana. “What brings you here?”
“Somebody needs help,” I said. “In fact, a lot of somebodies.”
“Why, that’s exactly the reason I’m here—to help.”
Rescuing a hundred golems would strain the limits of Hope & Salvation’s resources, however. “This is bigger than the usual hard-luck case.”
As I described the plight of Bill’s friends, Mrs. Saldana’s zombie assistant, Jerry, shuffled into the room, leaning on the handle of a push broom that he nudged around the floor. He was a shambler, one of the zombies less fortunate than me—an addict with a taste for brains. Mrs. Saldana had rescued Jerry, and he was a recovering brain-eater, one of her greatest success stories. He had stayed by her side for years, working in the shelter.
Jerry seemed more listless and sluggish than I had ever seen him, however. Without even looking at us, he pushed the broom over to the wobbly old piano Mrs. Saldana used for her church services; she had tried to train Jerry to be her pianist, but he didn’t have the aptitude or dexterity to play more than a dirge. Now, seeming mournful, Jerry began a slow and painstaking tapping of the keys. At first, it sounded like random notes, but I managed to identify the melody, “Heart and Soul.” At least he had graduated from “Chopsticks.”
Before I could ask if Jerry was sick—I had no idea whether zombies could get sick, although I hadn’t had so much as a sniffle in the months since I returned to life—Mrs. Saldana held up an extended finger like a schoolteacher. “Oh, I have just the thing for those poor golems! Would you and Ms. Deyer be my guests tomorrow night at a charity banquet? I’m presenting a Humanitarian of the Year award to Irwyn Goodfellow for all the marvelous work he’s done in the Unnatural Quarter. It’s an evening to benefit MLDW.”
While I had heard of the philanthropist Irwyn Goodfellow, the organization was new to me. “What’s Mildew?”
“MLDW—Monster Legal Defense Workers. I’m acting director and member of the board. We might have just the thing for those poor golems.”
“Robin and I will be there,” I said.
It was an excellent idea. A man like Irwyn Goodfellow might indeed be able to integrate the hundred golems into society. Satisfied to have found a possible solution, I finished my cookie and waved farewell to Mrs. Saldana and her zombie helper.
Jerry just leaned against the push broom, looked up, and let out a low moan.
Chapter 5
Private investigators don’t usually make house calls for initial consultations, but when the madam asked me to come to the Full Moon brothel on an urgent matter, I decided to make an exception. Strictly business, of course.
The Full Moon was a big row house with a full porch, dusty blue siding, and fake shutters on the windows. The two adjacent houses had been condemned and sat empty and available, in case Full Moon decided to expand their operations.
Once I stepped into the parlor, I found myself facing the receptionist, who was all teeth—pointed ones—in a professional smile. She was a slender, slinky wolf-woman who wore only a black negligee and panties that didn’t cover much. With a wide hairbrush, she languidly stroked the reddish fur on her arms and thighs. According to the name tag on the reception desk, her name was Cinnamon.
She licked her muzzle. “Girls, we’ve got a live one—or a dead one. At any rate, it’s a customer.”
“Not a customer,” I corrected her. “I’m here to see a Miss . . . Neffi?”
“Ooh, he wants the madam! Starting right at the top.”
“You think he wants to be laid to rest?”
Two vampire princesses, a strawberry blonde and a brunette, came out to regard me with their large hypnotic eyes, followed by a pair of pallid and long-haired zombie girls who would have delighted a Tim Burton casting director. The zombie girls introduced themselves as Savannah and Aubrey; the vampire princesses had more flowery names, Nightshade and Hemlock.
The Full Moon was appointed in lavish—or gaudy, depending on your point of view—bordello décor, with an abundance of blood-colored velvet, chaise lounges strategically placed so the girls could lie back and look sexy, overstuffed chairs where clients would relax and have a cigar or sip a glass of their favorite intoxicating beverage. A curving grand staircase led upstairs to a series of rooms. Three of the doors were closed, behind which I heard what might have been sounds of pleasure, of one form or another. Everything about the place suggested “ill repute.”
One other girl remained in the downstairs hall, endearingly shy. She was small and waifish with bobbed red hair in a tight perm; her emerald-green eyes showed not the slightest hint of a reptilian slit. She had elfin features and a pointed chin, and her whole demeanor had a little orphan “please hold me and take care of me” vibe that brought out the full-fledged paternal instinct even in a guy like me, who had no paternal instinct whatsoever.
It took me a moment to realize that this was the brothel’s resident succubus. Her name was Ruth.
One of the vampire princesses interrupted my thoughts. “You sure you want to see the old lady?” Hemlock was a buxom, ebony-haired beauty in a white nightgown that wasn’t much more than a tangle of cobwebs. “A man like you needs someone with youth and vigor, not a dried-up, ancient—”
“Maybe he prefers someone with experience,” said a husky voice as a door opened from a main office adjacent to the main sitting room. “Lots of experience.” I turned around to see the Full Moon’s madam, Neffi, standing there in all her (theoretical) splendor.
I removed my fedora. “I’m Dan Chambeaux, ma’am. You called me here for an appointment?”
“We have plenty to discuss, Mr. Chambeaux.” She gestured me toward her office. “This is business, girls.”
“I thought it was all business,” said one of the pretty corpse girls.
“When’s the last time you had an actual client, Neffi?” huffed the werewolf receptionist, which elicited a chorus of good-natured chuckles from the ladies.