Mrs. Saldana rarely visited our offices, and so when she walked in, accompanied by her more-lethargic-than-usual zombie helper, Jerry, I couldn’t help but notice her deeply troubled expression. “Mrs. Saldana, what’s wrong?”
“I’m looking for help, and I don’t know where else to turn.”
I tried to sound brave and reassuring. “Of course you know where to turn—how can we help?” Sheyenne flitted off to make Mrs. Saldana a cup of tea in the microwave, since our coffeepot was broken.
“It’s Jerry.” She turned her frown toward the listless zombie. “My poor, dear Jerry. Bless his heart and bless his soul—unfortunately, he doesn’t have either anymore.”
The zombie just stood there, showing very little reaction. He straightened as if recalling where he was, then he seemed to run out of steam.
Robin joined us. “What happened to him? How can you lose your heart and soul?”
It was a matter of some theological, or maybe nonsensical, debate as to whether unnaturals had souls at all. Zombies did have hearts, though, no matter how withered or nonfunctional they might be.
“He didn’t exactly lose them,” Mrs. Saldana explained. “He pawned them to get money for the mission. We had a rough patch, and I didn’t know how we would pay the bills. Dear Jerry managed to get enough cash so we could stay open for business. The pawnbroker paid him extra for an outright sale rather than a loan.”
The zombie slurred, “There’s good money for a heart-and-soul combo pack.”
Deeply troubled, Mrs. Saldana patted Jerry’s grimy shirt sleeve. “I didn’t realize what he had done—I just thought he was being more sluggish than usual, maybe because of the damp weather. But now that Mr. Goodfellow has given us such generous patronage, the Hope and Salvation Mission has all the money we need. Jerry wants to restore his heart and soul.”
“If they’re in a pawnshop, you should be able to buy them back,” I said.
“We’ve tried, Mr. Chambeaux, but the gremlin proprietor—a very unpleasant fellow, I must say, and I rarely speak ill of people—has already sold the bundle to another customer. Too late.”
I could feel her urgency, but I had to shake my head. “Sorry to say, Mrs. Saldana, but that’s the way pawnshops work.”
“Then I want to find the customer and offer to buy back the heart and soul, at a premium if necessary. Jerry’s worth it to me.” She patted his arm again. “But the pawnbroker won’t tell us who bought them.” Jerry let out a low, phlegmy moan, as decrepit zombies often do. “You can see he’s just miserable.”
Now I understood why she had come to us. “So you want me to track down who really purchased Jerry’s heart and soul and see if I can get them back?”
Mrs. Saldana nodded, but Robin was troubled. “If Jerry pawned the items and understood the terms of the agreement, and if another customer legitimately purchased them, we don’t have any legal recourse.”
“I’ll have a little talk with the gremlin pawnbroker anyway,” I said. “That’s the best place to start.”
Don’t get me wrong, I like Shakespeare well enough. I’d read Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet in high school, got passing grades, but never felt any need to go beyond the “to be or not to be” stage. The main reason I enjoyed Macbeth the other night was for the opportunity to be close to Sheyenne, and thanks to the nice glove, we actually got to hold hands. I know that sounds like something a pimply teenager would say, but when it’s all you’ve got, it makes an impression. Apart from that, I wasn’t all starstruck by the Bard.
So, to me, Shakespeare’s ghost was just another potential client when he came in for a consultation. The ghost stood there in his full ridiculous outfit, complete with stockings, poofy pants, and silly hairstyle. “I am William Shakespeare,” he said in the stentorian voice he had demonstrated during the play, enunciating clearly and projecting his words out into the crowd.
“No, you’re not,” I said.
That startled him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re not William Shakespeare.”
He lifted his chin. “Very well. I am the ghost of William Shakespeare.” He seemed to think I would be impressed.
“No, you’re not,” I said again. “The Big Uneasy happened only ten years ago. We don’t have ghosts from medieval times running around the Unnatural Quarter.”
“Not medieval times. It was the Elizabethan Era, the Golden Age,” Shakespeare insisted. “And how do you know I wasn’t a natural ghost before that? Surely they existed. Vampires and werewolves did.”
“Because your performance isn’t convincing. A person who lived in the Elizabethan Era or the Golden Age wouldn’t ever call it that.”
“Perchance I learned the term afterward, Mr. Chambeaux.” He sounded defensive. “Why are you treating me like a criminal? I want to be your client.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” I said. “Look, you are not the actual ghost of William Shakespeare, and if you don’t start telling me the truth, how do you expect me to help you?”
He seemed flustered, then discouraged. “Oh, very well. It’s just a stage name, I admit, but I did have my name legally changed. I am William Shakespeare. It says so on my driver’s license.”
“You have a driver’s license?”
Robin joined us for the consultation. “Let’s just take him at his word, Dan. How can we help you, Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Someone burned down our stage last night. A very expensive set.”
“We saw the fire,” I said. “Somebody meant business.”
“We’re just entertainers, Mr. Chambeaux. My troupe tries to put on a good play for a good cause, bringing culture to the Unnatural Quarter. Shakespeare’s plays are eternal. All the more reason for us to bring them to an undead segment of the public. With our Shakespeare in the Dark program, we are doing exactly what the Bard wanted, delivering his works to a much larger audience.
“Our company has applied for grants, cultural subsidies, local sponsors. Alas, the arts foundations tell us they don’t have enough money to fund living actors and flesh-and-blood theater companies, let alone ours. Their goal, one of them said, is to keep starving artists from genuinely starving and becoming destitute ghost performers like us.” Shakespeare frowned in disgust. “But that was nothing compared to the vandals, the arsonists. How could anyone burn down our set, destroy all our props and costumes? We lost everything! That stage was a remarkable replica of the Globe Theatre!”
Robin said, “We enjoyed the performance of the Scottish Play very much.”
Shakespeare beamed. “Why, thank you, fair lady. I knew I came to the right place to seek restitution. I’m glad to be in the presence of such a perceptive attorney.”
“Wasn’t Shakespeare the one who wrote ‘First, kill all the lawyers . . .’?” I asked.
“Dan enjoyed the performance as much as I did,” Robin interjected. “And that Shakespeare quote is always taken out of context. He never actually advocated killing lawyers.”