Robin and I had helped Ramen Ho-Tep in his suit to be emancipated from the museum, on the basis that he was a person, not property. Since Mr. Ho-Tep, the Pharaoh of all Egypt, was a significant draw in their Ancient Egypt wing, the museum resisted letting him go his own way. Eventually, we reached a resolution, and now, with his regular dramatic readings, Ramen Ho-Tep had become something of a star, and his weekly performances of “Egypt through the Eye Sockets of Someone Who Was Really There” had even been featured on a national news program.
When I went into his dressing room, the mummy rose to his feet, glad to see me. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Jellied larks’ tongues? I shall summon my slaves.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Ho-Tep. Just a quick question—I’m hoping you can shed some light on one of my cases.”
Ramen Ho-Tep was looking well. His laundered and bleached bandages had a stiff clean-linen appearance, and his dust-dry sinews and skin had plumped up again (just like any other ramen when soaked in water).
“The wealth of my knowledge is yours for the asking, Mr. Chambeaux. I was the Pharaoh of all Egypt, and I am generous to my friends.”
“I’ve been hired by another Egyptian, with whom you may be acquainted. She’s experiencing some trouble.”
“I am concerned for all of my subjects,” Ho-Tep said. “Who is this person and how may I help?”
“She’s another mummy, maybe from a different dynasty. Her name is Neffi. She runs the Full Moon.”
Even behind all those bandages, I could see Ho-Tep’s expression pull into a pinched grimace of distaste. “She’s most definitely a slut, Mr. Chambeaux. No two ways about it. There was nothing between us whatsoever. Just gossip.”
Playing it cool, I said, “You know her, then?”
“Knew her—a long time ago. She used to think she was the scarab’s knees. Had quite a reputation, that one. But she wasn’t as lovely as she wanted to think. She painted herself up more than my sarcophagus, and she always used too much myrrh.”
“So . . . ,” I ventured, sensing a lot more there than mere hostility, “you two had a little thing going?”
“Not much of a thing,” Ramen Ho-Tep said. “Not at the rates she charged! She wanted me to build a pyramid for her, just to show my appreciation, but I wasn’t her honey daddy. Plenty of other fish in the Nile.”
“Somebody’s been harassing her,” I told him, “apparently trying to drive the Full Moon out of business.”
“Neffi?” He sounded alarmed, and he didn’t even try to hide his concern. “Is she all right?”
“Unharmed, but worried. Someone smashed two of the jars where she kept her mummified pet cats.”
“Oh, no! Not poor Socks, Whiskers, and Blackie!”
Ramen Ho-Tep had been a cat lover himself. His own pet, Fluffy, was preserved and on display in the museum.
“I shall have to send her my condolences, uh, as a professional matter,” he said. “If there is anything that I, as pharaoh, can do to help you solve this case, Mr. Chambeaux, I’ll do it. A fiend who would commit such a heinous crime must be punished.”
“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know, Mr. Ho-Tep. Thanks for the background information.”
The mummy seemed rattled, but not so much that he forgot to give me two free passes to Saturday’s show. I thanked him and left.
Chapter 17
As a man who devoted his wealth to charitable causes, Irwyn Goodfellow did not scrimp when it came to his grand openings. To launch his program to help the rescued golems, Goodfellow hosted a lavish reception and job fair in the Unnatural Quarter community center.
Gratified that the pieces had fallen so smoothly into place, Robin and I wouldn’t have missed it. I intended to do my part by contracting four or five of the burliest golems for security work at the Full Moon.
Mrs. Saldana busied herself at various tables where the golems could meet prospective employers. At the reception desk she set out clipboards so that any interested inhuman-resources staff could request golems with specific skill sets (to the best of my knowledge, golems started out as blank clay slates, but they were easily trained).
The homeless golems milled about, fully hydrated now, so that they shed no dust on the furnishings. They gathered the courage to walk up to likely patrons or employers, introduced themselves, struck up conversations. Each golem had his name etched at the base of his neck, and by now Irwyn Goodfellow’s volunteer staff had told them who they really were.
Some wore elegant tuxedoes and carried trays of drinks or hors d’oeuvres to audition for jobs in the service industry; some wore chauffeur’s uniforms, while others offered to be rented out for straightforward manual labor. Golems weren’t picky and tended to be model employees.
Tiffany was there in a clean work shirt and jeans, standing next to Bill, who rarely left her side. His face flexed into a smile when he saw us. “Isn’t this wonderful? My people have a chance now for worthwhile lives, an opportunity to be productive in a meaningful way. And we don’t have to work for an employer who treats us like dirt!”
I didn’t point out that golems, by definition, were made out of dirt.
Tiffany said, “We’re here to offer moral support. Bill’s going to stay with me for a while, and he’s been . . . generally useful.” She smiled at him, showing her fangs; if a golem could have blushed, Bill would have been scarlet.
I said, “With a recommendation from you, Tiffany, I’m sure Bill will find an employer who’d be happy to have him. And we’ll get all of the other golems taken care of. In fact, I’m hiring some golems for the brothel security job I told you about.”
Bill said, “Security would be a good profession for me, and I can heartily recommend any of my friends.”
The job fair had a happy buzz of optimism, and I was sure that by the end of the event, many of the downtrodden golems would have decent jobs. Golems continued to talk to potential employers, extolling their skills and interests, but soon heads turned and conversation stopped. An uncomfortable hush rippled through the room.
At first, I saw Larry the werewolf bodyguard. He entered with shoulders squared, his hirsute chest puffed up, and walked with an awkwardly feigned “I’m tough, I’m bad, and don’t mess with me” attitude. In his wake came Harvey Jekyll, completely bald, with simian features and a scowl indelibly stamped on his face, which made him look as if he ate too much mustard.
I looked at him, and he looked at me and Robin. There was no love lost between us. I muttered, “What the hell is he doing here?”
Robin does occasionally hold a grudge—despite the way I paint her, she isn’t a complete saint—but she also has a pragmatic streak that goes over my head. “He’s probably trying to hire some household staff. I doubt anyone else would work for him.”