“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Irwyn answered—by which I knew he meant no, the nurses are not very attractive—but he used this as a springboard to continue, “And you are all beautiful people, no matter how badly you may be falling apart, no matter which choices you made in life or death. You deserve a second chance, or a third chance. Nobody’s keeping score. This privately funded clinic will make you whole again so you can be productive citizens.”
Hope Saldana stood beside him and spoke into the microphone. “On behalf of the Monster Legal Defense Workers, we officially declare the Fresh Corpses facility open! It will help zombies with their physical needs.” The old woman’s voice cracked as she looked out at Jerry, who stood where she had propped him. Alas, restorative surgery would not help Jerry with his missing heart and soul.
Even with Snazz murdered, I hadn’t given up yet on discovering who had purchased the bundle pack from the pawnshop. McGoo would get back to me soon; a simple glance at the ledger book, and then I could go make the new owner an offer he couldn’t refuse, or at least we could start bargaining.
A wide red ribbon was stretched from one lintel post to the other. Mrs. Saldana offered a large and very sharp pair of silver scissors to Irwyn. “Would you like to do the honors, Mr. Goodfellow?”
He pushed them back toward Mrs. Saldana. “Please, after all the fine things you’ve accomplished in the Unnatural Quarter, you should be the one to do it.”
While she loved to help unfortunates, Mrs. Saldana did not like to be the center of attention—except when she was leading hymns or sermonizing to her patchwork congregation. Despite her obvious embarrassment, Goodfellow raised his voice. “Ladies, gentlemen, and genderless creatures—please give a round of applause to Mrs. Hope Saldana, acting director of the MLDW Society, who has worked tirelessly for years at her Hope and Salvation Mission.”
The gathered zombies moaned out a cheer and began applauding—some so vigorously that their wrists bent at unfortunate angles.
“Oh, all right.” She took the scissors and sliced the ribbon in half, as if she were snipping a particularly tough umbilical cord. The streamers fell to each side.
Irwyn opened the front door with an extravagant gesture. “Come inside for the reception, everyone.”
Sheyenne and I entered Fresh Corpses, along with the inexorable crowd of shambling undead. In the foyer of the restorative clinic, a piano had been set up. A vampire pianist cracked his knuckles, smiled at us all, and launched into a jaunty theme. He wore a white tuxedo jacket and pants encrusted with rhinestones and sequins. As he played, his fingers were a blur, his sharp nails tickling (and scratching) the ivories. The rhinestones and sequins caught the light from the chandeliers above in a dazzling display that blinded me.
As the crowds came in, Goodfellow welcomed them all. Servers—many of them newly hired golems—walked around carrying trays of drinks or hors d’oeuvres. The zombies sniffed at textured lumps of grayish white matter, then discreetly set the hors d’oeuvres aside when they discovered the snack was, in fact, shaped tofu instead of real brains. Goodfellow had declared the clinic to be a “brain-free zone.” One entire wing of the facility was a lockdown, closely monitored withdrawal ward for addicts, so that zombies could kick the habit.
The doctors and nurses acted as tour guides, taking potential donors as well as likely patients around the facility, showing the beds, the various leatherette selections for skin replacement, the putrefaction-freshening spa, embalming-fluid top-offs, and exercise room, where there would be weekly yoga and Pilates sessions to keep the zombies limber. The staff members were especially proud of their high-throughput ventilation and air-freshening system.
Sheyenne and I signed the guest book, picked up brochures that described how Fresh Corpses was funded by the benevolence of Irwyn Goodfellow (though private donations were cheerfully accepted). Irwyn shook my hand vigorously but was careful not to do any damage; my reattached arm still suffered a few twinges. He seemed to be in his element, thriving on the attention and adulation; doing kind deeds was like a jolt of endorphins to the man. Missy Goodfellow, on the other hand, was noticeably absent.
“Now that I’ve met your sister, Mr. Goodfellow, it’s obvious that generosity doesn’t run in the family,” I said. “Did some angel loan you a halo? How did you get bitten by the philanthropy bug?”
Sheyenne looked at me as if my questions were rude, but Irwyn took no offense. “I wasn’t bitten by a bug . . . rather, I was nearly crushed by a falling piano. I didn’t think people really used pulleys and winches to haul pianos up to fourth-story windows anymore, but there I was, walking down the street, when it came crashing down in one big discordant note. Missed me by only a few inches.”
“And you took that as a sign?” Sheyenne asked.
“No, I saw it as a threat. It wasn’t an accident, you see—I didn’t need to hire a private investigator to figure that out. My father, Oswald Goodfellow, was a high-ranking member of the mob, though more of a distant uncle than an actual godfather. He had plenty of blood on his hands, and money in the accounts, mostly illegal stuff, that formed the foundation of the Smile Syndicate.
“I was being raised to follow in his footsteps, a rotten apple falling not far from the tree. But when he tried to crush a rival’s church bingo racket, the other mobsters decided to send him a message by dropping a piano on the head of his heir apparent. Fortunately for me, it missed.
“My father insisted on getting revenge, but to me it was an epiphany, like a born-again conversion. Falling pianos can do that. From that point on, I wanted nothing to do with the syndicate money, the corruption, the violence. I vowed to do good things with the family fortune. Since my sister and I inherited all the money very shortly thereafter, I could do what I liked with my share.”
“How did your father die?” Sheyenne asked.
“Oh, he died quietly in bed—someone smothered him with a pillow. The killer was never caught . . . it might have been Missy.” He shrugged. “But since she’s family, who am I to point fingers?”
Sheyenne gestured around the zombie rehab facility. “So all this money originally came from criminal activity.”
“And now it’s being put to good use. All shady Smile Syndicate operations are out of my hands and off my conscience—and I am a better person for it. Sometimes it’s hard, but I’m a man dedicated to my charities and my good works. Missy, on the other hand . . . well, at least the company accountants are happy with her. She’s been reaping plenty of profits these days.”
My phone rang, and I excused myself, stepping aside while other visitors spoke to Mrs. Saldana and Irwyn Goodfellow. “Hey, Shamble,” McGoo said. “I had a look at that pawnshop ledger, but can’t find any mention of hearts or souls. Just a lot of junk.”
I blinked. “No record at all? But Snazz told me himself he had sold seven sets already, and we know for a fact that Jerry pawned his heart and soul there.”