“Larry does,” I said, “and he’s none too happy about it.”
Jekyll was a maniacal, murderous madman, and even in the Unnatural Quarter that wasn’t always a good thing. As a human, he had concocted a nefarious scheme to exterminate unnaturals with a line of deadly hygiene items, but we had foiled him. Jekyll was sentenced to death by electric chair, and then, in an irony appreciated by no one (least of all Harvey Jekyll), he came back as an unnatural himself and hated every minute of it. The ride on Sparky, Jr. had not improved his disposition. Even my untrained eye could tell that he needed a better embalming job, but he probably could not afford one after losing his entire fortune to his ex-wife Miranda.
I looked around the room, avoiding my nemesis. “Come on, I want to hire some of these guys for Neffi before Jekyll gets to them.”
Even though golems are made from the same general mold—especially the ones mass-produced by Maximus Max—Robin and I signed up the five most intimidating clay figures to work as bodyguards, bouncers, and doormen for the Full Moon. With five never-sleeping, ever-vigilant goons positioned around the building, I doubted Senator Balfour’s troublemakers would bother the brothel anymore. Even organized-crime wiseguys would think twice.
After we filled out the paperwork, a simple employment agreement that Robin had drawn up for the job fair, each golem’s mimeographed animation spell was transcribed onto more permanent paper, and we sent their employment forms over to Madam Neffi.
Smiling with satisfaction, Irwyn Goodfellow walked among the golem candidates and prospective employers—all smiles, laughing, in his element. He said hello to us and thanked Robin for her legal help in setting up the Adopt-a-Golem program.
Since Irwyn was in a good mood, I took the opportunity to fish for more information. “I appreciate that you’re helping these liberated golems, Mr. Goodfellow. It helps to atone for how they were forced to make souvenirs for the Smile Syndicate.”
He frowned. “It’s a full-time job to atone for all the bad work Missy does. I wish she would soften her heart.”
“I had the pleasure . . . well, let’s just say I met Missy yesterday,” I said. “She disavows any responsibility for the items they sell in their gift shops, claims to know nothing about it.”
“Oh, she knows where the souvenirs came from, but you’ll never prove it,” Irwyn said. “She’s set her sights on expanding into the Unnatural Quarter. She’s a lot like our father, Oswald Goodfellow.” He let out a concerned sigh. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my sister eventually wanted to own the whole town.”
“Looks that way, with the line of gift shops. She’s already purchased the Goblin Tavern and intends to open up a nationwide chain.”
Irwyn’s expression fell into a frown. “Now do you see why I have little to do with my family? There’s so much good work to be done, so many people in need. With my share of the inheritance, I do have a lot of money, but it only goes so far. Nevertheless, my name is Goodfellow, and I’m trying to live up to the literal definition of the word, rather than my family history.”
Now that I had met his sister, I wondered how Irwyn had fallen so far from the tree.
Accompanied by her listless zombie, Mrs. Saldana joined us. She carried a clipboard, pleased with how many golems had already been hired during the reception. Her expression was worried, though, and she held Jerry’s arm possessively. “Mr. Chambeaux, I’m on tenterhooks. Have you made any progress in Jerry’s case?”
“Oh, dear,” Goodfellow asked. “Is something the matter?”
“I’m looking into it.” I turned back to Mrs. Saldana. “I went to Timeworn Treasures and talked with the gremlin pawnbroker. He’s not much of a businessman—he loves his possessions so much that he doesn’t want to part with any of them. But he did sell Jerry’s combo pack, as well as quite a few others. Someone’s been buying them up, but he won’t tell me who.”
“What would anybody do with extra hearts and souls?” Robin asked.
“People will collect anything.” I still regretted getting rid of my collectible superhero action figures for a few bucks at a garage sale.
Jerry let out a low, bubbling moan, and Mrs. Saldana put a hand to her mouth in dismay. “I wish we could do something.”
“I’ll keep pressing, don’t you worry—I’ll find out something,” I said. “Snazz keeps his records in a big ledger book, and I assume the information is in there. Maybe if I tempt him with a few shiny things, he’ll let me have a quick look at that ledger. Don’t give up hope yet.”
“Oh, I never do, Mr. Chambeaux.”
We were all interrupted when the ghost of the famed bank robber Alphonse Wheeler appeared with great fanfare, wearing his checkered jacket and stylish hat. He carried a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an overstuffed duffel in the other hand.
“Hello, hello!” Alphonse said. “The MLDW Society is doing wonderful work here—what a worthy organization! It makes my heart melt. Let’s have a round of applause for Irwyn Goodfellow and all of the Monster Legal Defense Workers.”
Everyone clapped, except for Alphonse Wheeler himself, whose hands were full.
“What’s he up to now?” I asked Robin, suspicious already. When Wheeler was alive and robbing banks, he had been quite an attention-getter. This was just the sort of thing the bored and restless ghost would do before causing trouble.
“I’d like to give the MLDW Society my personal support, put my money where my mouth is. I’ve just come into quite a large stash.” He shrugged. “I found it, couldn’t say where it was from.” He handed Robin the bunch of flowers, then unzipped the duffel to display wads and wads of cash.
“That’s your stash of stolen money, Mr. Wheeler,” Robin said. “I already told you, the cash doesn’t belong to you.”
“Who can say where I got the money? Maybe it fell off a truck. But instead of using it for my own selfish needs, I want to donate it all to the Monster Legal Defense Workers.”
Everybody cheered and whistled. Hope Saldana looked especially delighted.
“I’m happy to accept the donation, Mr. Wheeler,” said Irwyn Goodfellow. “We can place it in our holding accounts to continue our good work. In fact, it will go a long way to help pay for my new zombie rehabilitation clinic that opens in a few days.”
Wheeler was beaming. “By all means, use it for that purpose!”
Robin cautioned in a low voice so as not to dampen the buzz of excitement, “The insurance companies will come after this, claiming it’s theirs.”
“Maybe,” I whispered back to her, “but they’ll look like fools if they try to take it from a charity.”
Instigated by Bill and Tiffany, the hundred golems let out three cheers, in an eerie, perfect unison, for Alphonse Wheeler and Irwyn Goodfellow. Then, although I’m not sure they realized the humor or the pun, they sang a boisterous chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
Chapter 18