At the head of the procession was the man himself—tall, with a pale face, lantern jaw, and permanent scowl, as if it had been chiseled onto his visage by a gravestone artist. Balfour’s appearance reminded me of photos I had seen of H. P. Lovecraft, except this guy wasn’t nearly so handsome—and Lovecraft was by no means a handsome man. A frumpy and equally unattractive woman whose facial muscles seemed incapable of performing the complex act of smiling accompanied the senator—his wife, presumably. If they had been scuffed up and their clothes moldered, Senator and Mrs. Balfour could easily have passed for a pair of zombies.
The procession came forward, causing quite a spectacle, and stopped on the street in front of the café, turning their ire toward the adult novelty boutique. They blocked my view of the alley, and I could no longer see the pawnshop. The ever-increasing crowd of unnatural hecklers made it even more difficult to see, but since the senator’s minions were likely responsible for the arson at the cemetery, I decided to pay attention to them as well. I liked working on multiple cases at once. Senator Balfour’s intolerance, coupled with his incitement to violence, was something to watch.
The drums and vuvuzela continued to make a racket until the group faced the front of the adult shop. Senator Balfour raised his head, looking proud and arrogant. The alleged music fell silent. “This place is an abomination!” he called. “I should have it burned to the ground.”
Like the Shakespeare set? I found the threat interesting.
Two of Balfour’s minions popped the black balloons and yanked down the black crepe paper while a third paused to not-too-subtly read the specials listed on the blackboard sign. The camera-happy tourists took numerous photos of the proceedings.
The boutique proprietor came out, looking indignant. “Here now, this is my place of business! Buy something or move on.”
She was a mousy, overweight woman—apparently human, but you never could tell. She looked to be in her early forties, not the type you would expect to own an adult novelty store, but people led all sorts of double lives.
One of Balfour’s followers tried to hand her a leaflet. She responded by handing him a catalog.
“Your pandering to base instincts disgusts me,” Balfour said.
The woman sized him up, then spoke directly to his wife in a loud but conspiratorial whisper. “I can help, truly. We have instructional videos, special oils, role-playing gear. I have an Elvira costume that will fit you . . . or your husband.”
Senator Balfour looked flustered. The horned demon had emerged from the electronics store, assessed the situation, then indignantly vomited out a steaming glob of phlegm that burst into flame upon contact with the air. He had excellent aim: The tumbling glob struck the open mouth of the vuvuzela and tunneled inside with a glurp of greenish smoke. The player yelped and dropped it on the street.
“You are damned!” Senator Balfour called. “That goes without saying.”
“Then why bother saying it?” howled a werewolf, to much tittering and chuckling.
Sheyenne’s brother had come out of the pawnshop, empty-handed now, and he accepted one of the leaflets from a protester. He read the inflammatory words with great interest and stopped to listen to the senator. One of the protesters came up to the outdoor tables of the café and set leaflets at every place. I pocketed one to put in the file.
Balfour continued his rant. “The Unnatural Acts Act has garnered much support in the senate, and we’re going to pass it soon. Then everything will change.” Balfour raised his fist. “You thought the Big Uneasy was a dramatic shift? This’ll be the Big Crackdown.”
A ghost called, “Boo!”
“Go back to the rock you crawled out from under!” shouted a vampire.
Senator Balfour pointed his finger at the vampire heckler. “You’re the one who crawled out from under a rock.” Not the snappiest comeback I’d ever heard.
The vampire was baffled. “I didn’t crawl out from under a rock.”
Next to him, a zombie said, “I did.”
“This is a free country,” Balfour said. “We have every right to let it be known that we do not approve of unnaturals.”
“We have our right to free speech, too,” slurred a ghoul. Next to him, a decrepit and fragrant shambler zombie pulled off an ear and threw it at the senator, striking him in the face to peals of laughter.
Balfour reacted with disgust, and other zombies began hurling body parts. One even sacrificed a hand, which struck Balfour’s wife in the chest and, through reflexive action, clamped down on her left breast. She screamed and slapped at it.
McGoo and two other cops showed up then. “Here, now, Senator, maybe you should protest somewhere else. How about finding a neighborhood where people want to hear what you have to say?”
“We’re perfectly within our rights,” Balfour said to McGoo. “Officer . . . ?”
“McGoohan, sir. Toby McGoohan. I’m just trying to keep the peace in the Quarter.”
“You’re a human, and you serve in this cesspit?” The senator still had a mark of ooze on his cheek from where the orphaned ear had struck him.
“At least until I get a promotion, Senator. Now, please move along. You made your point, and you’re not going to win any converts here.” McGoo pointed down to the vuvuzela that had been ruined by demon spit. “And pick that up. I’ll cite you for littering if you leave it there.” Greenish steam from the volatile demon phlegm continued to bubble up from the instrument’s opening, and I doubted it would be playing any more “music.”
As the crowd broke up and the hecklers realized the show was over, I lounged back in my seat at the café. Travis had already disappeared down the street. In the commotion, however, I’d missed another customer who slipped into Timeworn Treasures—now, as she left the shop, I recognized Angela Drake, Missy Goodfellow’s anorexic assistant.
Unlike Travis, Angela looked furtive as she hurried out of the alley. She wore sunglasses and a scarf over her mouse-brown hair. I knew who she was, but I couldn’t tell whether she carried anything. I stood up to get a better look, but Angela vanished in the crowd of protesters and tourists.
Missy Goodfellow’s assistant at the pawnshop? That raised another set of questions entirely.
Chapter 19
Although Chambeaux & Deyer does good work and tries to make sure every client is satisfied with our services, we don’t have many repeat customers. Who needs a private eye more than once? Still, we maintain a close relationship with our former clients, and sometimes they come back to visit. Just because.