Now that we’d talked with Max the necromancer that afternoon, I realized that the Smile Syndicate’s acquisition of the Goblin Tavern was perfectly in line with their chain of Kreepsakes gift shops: expanding their presence in the Quarter, mainstreaming the monster business. Robin probably saw it as celebrating monster diversity, but something about it didn’t sit well with me.
Francine still had her back to me, head bowed as if she were staring at the pickled eyeballs that looked back up at her. “Don’t forget about my beer, Francine,” I called and turned back to McGoo. “I can only stay for one tonight. I have to get freshened up for a big charity banquet Robin and I are attending.”
“Freshened up?” McGoo said with a sniff. “You need a lot of freshening.”
“Ha ha.”
“What’s the big occasion?”
“Awards dinner for the Monster Legal Defense Workers. Mrs. Saldana thinks we might find benefactors for those golems we just freed. Irwyn Goodfellow himself is going to be there.”
I looked up, furrowing my brow. Francine was usually more attentive than this, and the Tavern wasn’t even busy. She was the best and most longstanding bartender the Goblin Tavern had ever had—a hard-bitten human in her late fifties, though chain smoking and a couple of divorces had added at least ten years to her appearance. She was well liked among the regulars. She chatted with unnaturals, listened to their problems, sympathized with their sob stories, and ladled out advice from her personal store of experiences. Since Francine had made enough of her own bad choices, she liked to say, “I made a lot of mistakes, so you don’t have to.”
McGoo had finished half of his beer by the time Francine finally turned to me. She hadn’t been filling the pickled eyeball jar at all—she was crying. “Sorry, Dan. I’ll be with you in a minute.” She wiped her eyes, picked up a mug, and went over to the tap. “The usual?”
I had seen Francine pissed off at unruly customers, and she had no tolerance for rudeness, but I’d never imagined her to be an emotional basket case. “What’s wrong, Francine?”
“Just not having a good day,” she said with a loud sniffle.
McGoo was also concerned. “Francine, we’ve been coming in here for years. When was the last time you had a good day?”
“Not like this. I should have seen it coming.” She handed me my beer, and some of it sloshed onto the coaster. “Got my pink slip today. The new owners are letting me go.”
“What?” I said. “The Tavern won’t be the same without you.”
“Tell that to the Smile Syndicate. They’ve decided that I don’t fit their new company profile, that I’m too old and too human to match their demographic.” She snorted. “They even had the nerve to be cutesy—they called it their ‘demongraphic.’ ”
I thought of the conglomerate wanting to open similar “fun with monsters” taverns around the country, featuring fake cobwebs, wait staff dressed up as cartoon vampires or werewolves, cheesy items on the menu that made puns on traditional favorites. It would be nauseating.
And one-of-a-kind Francine, with her salty sense of humor and acerbic advice, would never fit in an amusement-park version of the Goblin Tavern.
“New management is advertising for replacements, and they quite clearly say no humans need apply.” She faced me, placed her hands on her breasts, and pushed them up. “I can pad these, if that’s what they want.”
“I don’t think that’s what they want.”
She sniffed again and composed herself as three more regulars plodded in. Francine had a lot of regulars, and once word got around, I doubted any of them would be happy.
“Beer’s on the house tonight for my old friends,” she said to us. “If the new owners don’t like it, I’ve got a few unnatural suggestions for them.”
After that, McGoo and I had little to say to each other, both disturbed by the news. The beer was free, and my taste buds were generally deadened, but even so, it tasted bitter.
Chapter 8
I’m not the sort of person who regularly attends swanky banquets or black-tie affairs. Even when I was alive I couldn’t tell the difference between wine from a $200 bottle or a $20 box. I simply don’t frequent those social circles.
So I had good reason to be both excited and intimidated by going to such a glitzy soiree to raise money for MLDW. I wondered if I’d meet the rich philanthropist in person, and if I did, I wondered if I’d say something stupid....
On my way back to the office, I stopped by Bruno and Heinrich’s Embalming Parlor, hoping for a quick touch-up before the gala event. Bruno immediately rose to the occasion. “Ooh, big night, Mr. Chambeaux?” He topped off my fluids, powdered my face, and added a bit of color to give the skin a more lifelike appearance; he smoothed over the putty that covered the bullet hole in my forehead and even trimmed my cuticles, buffed my nails, and did a complete executive manicure.
“We must use heavy moisturizers to maintain external hydration. Zombie skin is delicate and damages easily,” Bruno said, rubbing lotion on my hands. I thought of Neffi and all her lotions. “Our work is never done. Would you like a foot massage tonight with a pedicure?”
“No time, Bruno.” I doubted I would ever find time for a pedicure. On purpose.
I arrived back at the office, as “freshened up” as I was going to get. Sheyenne had rented a tux for me, and I felt as if I were ready for my own funeral all over again (in fact, the tuxedo was much nicer than the old suit I’d been buried in). After I put the strange penguin-suit components together, Sheyenne inspected my appearance and insisted I looked damn fine. She was probably just saying that, but I felt puffed up regardless.
Robin wore an understated pearl necklace and earrings, a sapphire chiffon cocktail dress that looked like a love spell on her, and a smile that, if she had been the one requesting charitable donations, no benefactor could have resisted.
We took Robin’s rusty old Maverick, affectionately named the Pro Bono Mobile, and puttered along the streets until we reached the library, where the humanitarian banquet was to be served. Robin self-consciously parked four blocks away so no one would associate us with the battered car. We were, after all, dressed in our finest clothes.
Robin slid her arm through mine and we walked up the steps, moving at my pace. Two red scaly demons stood at the door with the guest list; they wore crimson frock coats, as if they were part of a royal guard. I announced, “Dan Chambeaux and Robin Deyer, guests of Mrs. Hope Saldana.”
The demon on the left, with pointy ears and forehead horns, flipped through pages on his clipboard and found our names. He gestured us inside and said in a voice that growled through phlegm, “Pick up your name tags and meal tickets at the reception table.”