She lifted a small polished marble slab, like a miniature tombstone, on which Goodfellow’s name had been engraved. The audience applauded as the big man rose from his seat. Bowing and nodding to the people at his banquet table, grinning benevolently, he sauntered up to the podium.
“Thank you, thank you all. I don’t do this for the awards or the recognition.” He lifted the marble slab to admire it. “I am grateful to receive this wonderful plaque, but I see no reason to stop there. Tonight, when talking with the Unnatural Quarter’s own private investigator, Dan Chambeaux, I learned of the terrible plight being faced by one hundred formerly enslaved golems. Whenever I hear about monsters or people in need, I just have to do something about it. I was touched by their situation, and I hope you will be, too.”
He leaned forward on the podium. “We each have to make at least one small improvement so that the world can be a better place for everyone. I have decided to create an Adopt-a-Golem program with the goal of finding gainful employment for those clay souls. It’ll be a charitable and tax-exempt program, and we’ll start accepting donations tonight. Ms. Deyer?” He looked around the audience until he spotted Robin. “Would you be willing to do the legal paperwork to set up the project?”
“Of course I would,” she said. “Pro bono, of course.”
Chapter 9
Some news was just too good for a phone call.
On the morning after the charity banquet, I drove Robin’s car to the residential area of town, where I found Tiffany’s house, a fixer-upper that would always be a fixer-upper no matter how much work she put into it. The shingles were bright and black, recently replaced; Tiffany had probably done the work herself (at night).
The garage door was open, and Tiffany stood inside out of direct sunlight as she balanced sheets of dark wood paneling on two sawhorses. Using a circular saw, she cut the sheets to the proper length. She wore overalls and a tool belt. Bill stood next to her with a stack of two-by-fours balanced on his clay shoulder and a dozen nails in his mouth. Tiffany plucked one of the nails from his lips, snatched a hammer from her tool belt, and with swift sure strokes pounded the paneling onto a support beam.
Because the Pro Bono Mobile’s muffler was so loud, they heard me arrive (probably from miles away). As I shuffled up the driveway, Bill grinned at me and two of the nails fell out of his mouth. While the two-by-fours teetered on his shoulder, he bent down to pick up the nails.
I made my announcement. “Good news for you and your golem friends, Bill—we found you all a benefactor.”
Bill looked giddy as I described the Adopt-a-Golem program and how Irwyn Goodfellow had promised to help. “And Maximus Max has been slapped with a mountain of permit violations and fines. He’ll have to find a new line of work, and he won’t bother you anymore.”
“Need to find someone to rewrite all those animation spells, Chambeaux,” Tiffany said. “Old mimeograph paper fades fast, and I don’t want my friend Bill here to crumble into a pile of dirt in the middle of my garage.”
“I apologize in advance for the mess,” Bill said.
“Not the point, Bill. What did I tell you before?”
The golem was sheepish. “That I’m a person, just like everyone else.”
I could see they were getting along well. “Thanks for taking care of him, Tiffany.”
“Goodfellow’s not the only one who can do good deeds,” she said. “Besides, Bill’s the perfect houseguest, kind of useful in his own way. He insists on doing the laundry, he cooks, he cleans—and he doesn’t get in the way. He puts the toilet seat down, he doesn’t make a mess, doesn’t play loud music of a kind that I don’t like, and he even makes himself useful with my home-improvement projects.”
Bill beamed at the compliment. “She calls it a win-win situation. I’ve never won anything before.” He kept smiling, and this time he managed to keep the nails in his mouth when he talked. “Doing a few chores for room and board is a lot better than slaving to make souvenirs. I hope my comrades can find a good situation, too.”
“Glad to hear it’s working out for both of you. Still, we’ll find him a real job and get him out of your hair as soon as possible.”
“No hurry on that, Chambeaux. You’ve got a hundred other golems to worry about. Meanwhile, happy to have him here.”
“Tiffany, I’d like to return the favor,” I said. “I’ve got a client, the madam of the Full Moon. She’s been having some trouble, needs to hire private security, and I thought of you.”
“Rowdy clients?” she asked.
“Outside troublemakers, although I doubt she’d turn down the services of a good bouncer. You’d be a natural for it.” I eyed her solid build. “If you’re interested, I’ll introduce you to Neffi.”
As a private investigator, I knew plenty of unsavory types—both monsters and humans with a natural knack for being unpleasant and intimidating. In other words, good candidates to work private security. But if I recommended someone to work the brothel, I was putting my own reputation on the line. I couldn’t suggest just any scumbag who liked to growl at suspicious customers; Neffi wouldn’t want to scare away potential clients. Tiffany seemed a good choice.
She looked down at the paneling and circular saw. “Although nobody enjoys knocking heads together more than I do, I’m in the middle of remodeling the basement to make it a nice lightproof den. And once I finish that, I’ve been wanting to take up gourd crafting, unlock my inner creative spirit. I read an informational brochure at the gym, and it sounded interesting to me.”
“Could I be a security guard?” Bill asked.
I eyed his big frame. “I bet you’d be good at it.”
“Would I get to wear a uniform?”
Tiffany said, “I thought you wanted to make sure your friends got situated first. Besides, I could use your help on some handyman projects.”
Bill looked embarrassed. “Yes, my friends should come first. And I will help in any way necessary, Tiffany.”
“No pressure,” I said. “You know how to find me if you change your mind.”
I stopped at the Transfusion coffee shop to pick up a bitter coffee for myself and a cappuccino for Robin. She usually drank tea, but she enjoyed a special treat now and then. Considering our caseload, it never hurt to have a caffeinated partner.
As always, the guy ahead of me in line was rattling off an incredibly complex frou-frou order of something no sane person would drink. What’s wrong with just plain coffee? He was a big, bristling werewolf with hunched shoulders and powerful muscles, and in his clawed hands he held a piece of scrap paper; someone with a spidery hand had written down a long and involved order that made the poor teenaged barista’s head spin. I rolled my eyes (gently, so they stayed firmly in their sockets).
After he finished his order and paid, the furry guy turned around, and I was startled to recognize Larry, the werewolf hit man who had hunted me during a stolen-painting case not long ago.
“Shamble,” Larry growled. “Good to see ya.”