In order to help Jerry the zombie, I decided to keep an eye on Timeworn Treasures. Actually, two eyes, since both of mine still remained firmly attached in their sockets.
I had asked McGoo for a favor, to make up some reason to flash his badge and demand a look at the pawnshop ledger book while I happened to be standing next to him. But favors only went so far—unless I could provide evidence that some kind of crime had been committed, McGoo had no basis for a warrant. Jerry had voluntarily pawned his heart and soul, and Snazz could sell it to anyone he liked. He was under no legal obligation to reveal the purchaser no matter how nicely I asked.
But I could still watch the store.
At an outdoor café conveniently located across from the pawnshop’s shadowy alley, I bought a cup of coffee, the special extra-bitter blend, took a seat, and watched the pedestrians go by. The café had introduced a new two-sided menu—one for unnatural tastes and one for human tourists.
At the table next to mine, three tourists chattered about the everyday sights in the Quarter; the woman took photos of every werewolf, vampire, or zombie that wandered by, while her two companions studied the cartoony chamber-of-commerce map and a guidebook as if it were one of those star maps to the homes of Hollywood celebrities. The photographer waved at me and took several photos; her camera was enormous, far larger than was practical or necessary. She encouraged her two companions—husband and brother, presumably—to stand next to me and have their photos taken. Enough of that, and I shooed them away. I was in the middle of a discreet stakeout.
Across the street, a new adult novelty boutique had opened up, featuring items for natural, unnatural, and combined tastes. The shop was named Unnatural Acts, a deliberate jab at Senator Balfour’s crusade. Safe, Fun, Unusual.
For the grand opening, the adult-shop owners had strung black crepe paper around the door, filled black helium balloons, and set out colorful reflective pinwheels that remained motionless in the forlorn hope of a breeze. A blackboard advertised the daily specials, toys that sounded like torture devices, the usual assortment of whips, spiked collars, and manacles that you would find in any traditional adult novelty shop, as well as a list of items that, I had to admit with some embarrassment, were complete mysteries to me.
Now, I’m well preserved and still capable—at least judging by my morning stiffness in the usual place, as well as a lot of additional places—but since I can’t even touch my ghost girlfriend, I don’t have much opportunity anymore. I wasn’t the target audience for the Unnatural Acts boutique....
The coffee was terrible, as advertised. I finished it and ordered a second cup. The nosy tourists dashed off to chase after a tall horned demon who strolled past and entered an electronics store.
I kept my eyes on the pawnshop alley, and I didn’t have long to wait. Unfortunately, Travis Carey was not the one I’d expected to see on my stakeout.
Sheyenne’s brother came by with a bounce in his step and a grin on his face, still wearing the same natty jacket, without a care in the world. He ducked down the alley carrying a small paper sack and entered the pawnshop without a hint of hesitation, as if he’d been there before and knew exactly what he was doing.
I was disappointed, saddened, and angry on Sheyenne’s behalf, but not particularly surprised. I had no doubt that the sack contained the gold necklaces, rings, and other jewelry she had given him as family keepsakes. Travis said he had gambling debts and people were after him for money. I wondered if he had retreated to the Quarter to get away from brass-knuckled debt collectors.
As I sat there stewing, I debated whether or not to tell Sheyenne. If Travis did pawn the jewelry, maybe I’d dip into the Chambeaux & Deyer petty cash fund and buy the items back for her—if Snazz was willing to part with them.
All of this nonsense was a mystery to me. I didn’t have any brothers and sisters. My dad left us when I was eight years old, my mom worked two jobs just to make ends meet, so I rarely saw her. All the stress, and all the smoking, had put her into an early grave. And those were the days when there wasn’t even a chance that someone might come back.
After years of warm-sentiment greeting cards, heart-aching holiday specials, and sappy songs, I’d been brainwashed into believing in the joys of having close family ties, but I’d never understood them, not really. Now, knowing everything that Travis had done to Sheyenne and how she felt about it, I couldn’t understand why people got completely irrational when it came to idiocy committed by family members. People will roll their eyes and sigh, tolerating stupidity from a relative that they would never accept from a stranger or business partner. Supposedly, you have to put up with it because they’re family; you have to love them unconditionally.
That sort of sentiment might sound great on a greeting card, but it didn’t make any sense to me now. Travis was a jerk by any possible definition.
Suddenly I heard a commotion up the street, drums banging and a squawking brassy noise—a vuvuzela? Not a peppy sound like a parade, but more like a funeral procession (although in the Unnatural Quarter, funeral processions and parades often served dual purposes). A group of normal humans who looked passionate, yet entirely humorless, marched along like an old-fashioned temperance rally, holding up signs that said GOD HATES UNNATURALS, each one hand-lettered and featuring a variety of misspellings. Other signs in the procession proclaimed PASS THEE UNATURAL ACTS ACT NOW!
They handed out leaflets—or tried to. Occasionally, human tourists accepted the flyers; very few unnaturals did. Grumbling complaints and raucous catcalls followed the protesters as they came down the street. Their target, the Unnatural Acts adult novelty boutique, must have been a sharp stick in the senator’s eye. How could he resist bringing his minions here?