I got on the treadmill beside hers, powered it up, and began at warm-up speed to loosen the stiffness in my knees. Tiffany gave me a businesslike nod. “Chambeaux.” She wasn’t even panting. The treadmill’s maximum setting seemed a stroll in the park for her. “Healthy body, healthy mind.”
I was proud of myself for working out three days a week. Tiffany, on the other hand, was one of those exercise addicts who never missed a night; nevertheless . . . I couldn’t argue with the obvious results. I gradually increased my treadmill’s speed as I got warmed up.
Our workout routines coincided often enough that Tiffany and I were cordial, but I didn’t know very much about her. Looking at her physique and her “you want a piece of me?” demeanor, I realized she might be a very good person to have on speed dial. I might need to hire extra muscle if this business with the Straight Edgers got ugly. “Tiffany, have you ever considered doing freelance security work?”
“Me, a security guard? When you mix monsters and security guards, it never ends well. Why do you ask?”
“Just a case I’m working on. A human-supremacist group is harassing a vampire client of mine.”
Tiffany looked as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of gangrene-tainted blood. “Straight Edge jerks.”
“Have they ever bothered you?”
She reacted as if I’d insulted her. “Bunch of pussies. They’re all about juvenile scare tactics, like throwing eggs at windows or toilet-papering houses. Show them a little fang, and they piss their pants and run away.” She chuckled. “They should piss holy water with all their self-righteousness, but it smells just like regular piss. Who’s the client?”
The treadmill program accelerated, and I had to work hard to keep up. “Sheldon Fennerman.”
Tiffany lit up. “I know him. He helped me with the interior design of my place. Sweet guy.” Her expression darkened. “Just the sort of person those bullies would pick on. A*sholes . . . but I wouldn’t worry about it too much. The Straight Edgers are about as dangerous as a dog turd on a jogging path.”
“You don’t think they’ll follow through on their threats?”
“Somebody needs to take them out behind the woodshed. If they ever caused real harm, it would be by accident. Don’t lose any sleep over them.”
I continued to run on the treadmill, keeping up a good pace now. “I don’t sleep much anyway.”
Chapter 19
The men’s locker room was empty, now that Ralph the Mayan mummy had finished his shower, and the werewolf was gone, although he had left drifts of long brown hairs on the floor, in the sink, and on the countertop. I took a quick rinse-off just to freshen up, dried myself gently so as not to slough off any skin, and dressed in my street clothes.
As a convenience to the All-Day/All-Nite patrons, a variety of JLPN shampoos, cream rinses, and body washes were provided in the showers. By the sinks and mirrors, I found spritzers of deodorant and small bottles of colorful colognes and aftershaves, each with a splashy sticker announcing Coming Soon: New Fresh Loam Scent! I declined to use any of it. Who was I trying to impress, anyway?
I had a long night ahead of me. I considered heading off to Harvey Jekyll’s mansion, where I could crawl into the bushes and keep an eye out for nefarious goings-on, but I doubted Jekyll would be so obvious. Or I could return to Basilisk, talk to the bartender and Ivory to ferret out more information about who had poisoned Sheyenne. Or who had shot me.
When I emerged onto the main thoroughfare in Little Transylvania, I immediately spotted the plaid sport jacket. Since I knew Brondon Morris went about his nightly rounds, it was no surprise to see him out here, but I didn’t expect him to be walking with another man of smaller build in a low-slouched hat and a trench coat with the collar turned up.
Instead of being his usual cheery self, handing out samples and greeting customers, Brondon was definitely sneaking around. The two men scuttled down the street, hugging the night shadows, which were plentiful. When they turned down a side alley, they acted like two lungfish crawling out of the mud, scurrying across dry land, then ducking into a brackish pool on the other side.
Very interesting.
After my workout, I was limbered up, and thanks to the shower and reasonably clean clothes, I had no particular smell about me, so I was able to follow them without being noticed. Halfway down a dark street, Brondon paused, holding up his hand, and his friend froze. I melted into the shadows beside a rusty drainpipe and an overflowing Dumpster. In the pale light of the waxing moon, I caught a glimpse of the mysterious man’s face between the slouched hat and the upturned collar.
Harvey Jekyll! I had struck the jackpot.
Though I prefer to achieve results through sheer detective prowess, I don’t complain when dumb luck takes a hand. This opportunity had fallen right on top of me like a drunken lap dancer in a strip club.
Brondon and Jekyll moved off again, and I followed at a discreet distance. The two men haunted the back streets, going to places I never would have ventured when I was still alive—empty buildings and warehouses, long rows of storage units, a lot filled with old delivery trucks. Other than a few bats flying overhead, nothing stirred out here. The street was like a ghost town, and I had to drop back.
Far from the crowded main avenues, Brondon moved with a jaunty step, and Harvey Jekyll strutted along, anxious to be somewhere. Ahead, I watched the pair of figures approach a large boarded-up warehouse with a flat asphalt roof and painted letters peeling off a cinder-block wall:
CHANEY & SON
BODY SNATCHERS FOR HIRE
At first glance the place looked as if it had gone out of business long before the Big Uneasy, but as I studied it with greater care, noted the precisely arranged old trash along the walls and the weeds that grew up between stones and chinks in the wall, I suspected that this ramshackle look was a cultivated appearance. It looked too pat, too staged.
When I edged closer, I accidentally kicked a dented beer can, making a clatter. (Have you ever seen a graceful zombie?) The two men whirled, and I melted into the shadows. I held my breath, metaphorically speaking. Where was an easily startled alley cat when you needed one? Eventually the men moved on.
Brondon Morris and Harvey Jekyll walked up to a rectangle of plywood hung on hinges, a makeshift door. Jekyll rapped on it with his knuckles, and the hinged plywood swung open, spilling yellow glow into the night. Both men shielded their eyes from the glare.
A large figure loomed in the doorway, a linebacker-sized human wearing a business suit. Behind the door guard, I spotted dozens of men inside the warehouse. I heard a buzz of conversation. A party where no one seemed to be having fun.