I know he doesn’t mean anything by his off-color comments. McGoo wants to be the life of the party, but has no idea how to do it. To an outsider, especially a sensitive and politically correct outsider, he comes across as abrasive and insensitive. But even though his jokes are in poor taste, I’ve never seen McGoo treat anybody with less respect because of their gender, ethnicity, or unnatural type. He knows it goes both ways and would have been perfectly open to dumb cop jokes or stupid Irishman jokes. Not many people tell those anymore; to be honest, I think Officer McGoohan misses it.
He and I met in college. We both got degrees in criminal justice. Afterward, I decided to go into private investigating, while McGoo went into the police force. I thought I was going to have it made with a big-ticket freelance job—the potential for lots of money, be my own boss, have all the freedom in the world.
McGoo wanted the prestige of the uniform, the respect of the public, being an important guy who stopped criminals and kept the streets safe. The satisfaction of a job well done was all he needed. Unfortunately, both of us were wrong, but by then we were stuck.
Early on, we each married a woman named Rhonda. We were too young, and both of us still considered the marriage to be one of the worst mistakes of our lives (although there was always room for us to make even bigger mistakes). One Rhonda was a strawberry blonde—mine—and the other a brunette—McGoo’s; both were beautiful, both were bitchy. He and I spent a lot of time commiserating with each other, wondering if we had picked the wrong Rhonda. But either way, we would have ended up just as miserable. Both marriages broke up after less than three years, but our friendship had lasted for decades. Through life and death, you might say.
The door opened, and three cadaverous women shuffled in, dressed in gaudy clothes, their faces painted, their hair done up. I recognized Cindy, Victoria, and Sharon from the embalming parlor. Their body movements did not have the seductive grace they imagined; in fact, they looked like a trio of skeletal marionettes with tangled strings and an inept puppeteer.
“Oh, God, let’s hope I’m never that desperate.” McGoo took a long swallow of his beer. The three women regarded, then dismissed us as prospective prey and took seats at the far end of the bar. Francine went to take their orders.
“Any word on who smashed up the Hope and Salvation Mission?” I asked. “You sure Mrs. Saldana’s all right?”
“She’ll start patching up the place in the morning. No clues. We got some skin scrapings from the broken glass, but there were so many shamblers around—including a couple of ripe ones that dripped all over the crime scene—I doubt any of the tissue samples are uncontaminated.” He looked over at me. “How about you? Your vampire client still afraid for his life?”
“I’m working up a supplemental security plan for him, but I think he may be overreacting. I’ll talk with the landlord about the missing neighbors.”
McGoo grew more serious. “Made any progress on your own case, or Sheyenne’s? I really feel sorry for you, man. Scout’s honor. If I can do anything to help, I will.”
“I’ll take you up on that, as soon as I figure out what to ask. I just gotta poke around. In the meantime, I’m turning up the heat on Harvey Jekyll for the divorce case. His wife is convinced he’s up to something, and if I can find a little leverage . . .”
Back in my younger years, I didn’t think of myself as a nosy person, but I fit in with lots of different people. I kept quiet, but within earshot of gossipy types who dished out juicy stories like rumor-mongering Typhoid Marys. I collected these details, thinking of them as tools for future use, rather than hand grenades to lob indiscriminately. If the information doesn’t help me solve a case, then I do nothing with it. People—whether natural or unnatural—are entitled to their privacy, so long as they don’t hurt anybody.
Being a detective isn’t a fantasy profession like astronaut or pro football player or movie star, not something I had dreamed of doing since I was a kid. But I’m good at investigating, and the only way I can stay good is to maintain my personal social network of contacts, friends, even a few paid informants.
In order to have someone owe you a favor, you have to do them a favor first—earn the goodwill before you can spend it. I pay for McGoo’s drinks most of the time, but that’s just a minor gesture. After all, he’s my Best Human Friend, and it gives him the opportunity to grouse about his minuscule cop’s salary, although my earnings as a private detective, dead or undead, are just as minuscule.
As Francine delivered our second round, the door opened, and I saw the plaid suit jacket coming first, with Brondon Morris arriving half a second later.
The trio of zombie ladies at the bar perked up. “Brondon! We hoped you would come,” cooed Sharon.
“I can help him come more than once,” cackled Victoria.
Cindy patted the empty bar stool at her side.
Without the least bit of embarrassment, Brondon sauntered up to the bar and stood behind the women so he didn’t have to choose one over the others. “Oh, barkeep!” He raised his hand. “I’d like a Scotch and soda, please.”
He acted as if he didn’t know Francine’s name and she didn’t know damn well that he drank Scotch and soda. I’d seen the sales rep in the Goblin Tavern several times, and I found it odd that he treated the human bartender with less respect than he gave the undead clientele. “And another round of drinks for these lovely ladies.” He leaned closer to the cackling cadavers. “What’s your poison? Lemon drops?”
“Margaritas tonight.” Cindy lowered her voice to a raspy whisper that everyone in the bar could hear anyway. “Tequila makes me horny.”
Based on that, I thought it might be best if she steered clear of the tequila, but that wasn’t my call.
“You three look ravishing tonight.” Brondon set his sample case up on the bar and opened it, removing tiny sachets. “I’d like you to try this. A towelette for just a sniff, not enough to give it away, but these are the first samples of our Fresh Loam scent.”
The three women fawned over him. Over the course of the conversation, I watched Brondon “accidentally” trace his fingers over Sharon’s shoulders and give Victoria’s arm a playful touch. He flirtatiously brushed against Cindy’s back.
Next to me, McGoo shuddered and concentrated deeply on his second beer. “Guess the guy likes cold fish. I don’t even want to think about what they might do together.”
“You’re being prejudiced, McGoo. Even unnaturals want love.”
“Well, that guy’s looking for love in all the wrong places, as the song goes. Hey, Shamble, do ghouls eat popcorn with their fingers?”
I was distracted by the interplay at the other side of the bar. “What?”
“No, they eat the fingers separately!”
I doubted Brondon had ever actually slept with any of the ladies, but he treated them as something special. It was all a game, which they seemed to enjoy as much as he did. They went home with perfume and toiletry samples, and he inspired goodwill with the core customers of Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals.