Wheeler grew a little more transparent. “Really? But I wasn’t going to hurt anybody. I just needed to make sure that I can still rob a bank.”
“All right, consider the bank robbed,” I said, pointing around at the lobby. “You proved you can do it. Now hand me the gun, and we can let these people go. Don’t you have a bouquet to hand out?”
He brightened. “Why, yes I do! It’s my trademark.”
I plucked the gun from Wheeler’s spectral hand, and he, didn’t even seem to notice. He was much more interested in passing out flowers to the tellers and, for good measure, he gave one to each of the hostages as well. Finally, he let out a miserable sigh and addressed his victims with a forlorn expression. “Sorry, everybody.”
Then I opened the bank’s front door and led him out to the waiting police.
Chapter 32
The Quarter has restless spirits, vengeful members of the undead, hormone-juiced and short-tempered werewolves, and vampire family feuds that have lasted for centuries. Even so, I sensed even more unrest than usual around here—it seemed there was something in the air.
I knew about the protest at the Goblin Tavern ahead of time, since Robin had cooked it up herself. Hard-bitten Francine was too proud and her feelings too hurt to beg for any intervention, but after I grumbled to Robin about how unfairly the Smile Syndicate was treating our favorite bartender, she took the crusade to heart. (Maybe subconsciously I had hoped she’d do exactly that.)
Since Francine was due to stop by the Tavern that night to pick up her last paycheck, her regular customers had gathered there to show our support. I found it heartwarming to see how many turned out. What a crowd!
Robin had arrived half an hour earlier to organize the protest. Following the incident at the bank, Sheyenne and Robin had spent the afternoon making picket signs to be passed out among the zombie, vampire, and werewolf customers who frequented the Goblin Tavern. Normally, the customers just came to the Tavern to rehydrate themselves and socialize, to grumble about their common problems, or to reminisce about old times. They weren’t a rabble-rousing bunch, but Robin had whipped them up with the slogans on her signs.
BOYCOTT THE GOBLIN TAVERN!
FRANCINE IS THE TAVERN’S ♥ AND SOUL!
Another said SHAME ON YOU, SMILE SYNDICATE with a frowny face drawn below the words.
McGoo arrived at the Tavern at the usual time, expecting to meet me for our usual beer, but when he saw the growing mob, he tipped back his cap and said, “What is all this, Shamble?”
“A lot of us want Francine back. Care to join the movement?”
McGoo didn’t hesitate. “Give me one of those signs.” Robin handed him one that said WE CAN DRINK SOMEWHERE ELSE.
Stu, the corpulent and too-good-natured new manager of the Tavern, came out, looking surprised and distraught. “What is this? Why are you all here? I don’t deserve this—what did I do?”
“You fired Francine,” a once-a-month werewolf growled.
“But you’ll have to take it up with Missy Goodfellow,” Stu said. “That was part of the corporate restructuring—a management decision.”
“You’re the Tavern’s manager,” I pointed out. “Bad decision.”
Stu was so flustered he looked as if he might burst into tears. “Please, let me make it up to you all—a gesture of good faith. Free pretzels for everyone!”
“Francine always put out free pretzels,” said a zombie. “And other snacks.”
“All right, other snacks, then. I want the Goblin Tavern to be a friendly place where you can all feel at home.”
“Most of us hang out at the Tavern because we don’t want to be reminded of home,” a vampire said, eliciting a chorus of snickers. “We want it to feel like the Goblin Tavern, and it isn’t the Tavern without Francine.”
“Bring back the real cobwebs while you’re at it,” said a ghoul, puffing on a long cigarette.
Stu turned to uniformed McGoo for help, but my BHF just gave him a stony expression and pumped his WE CAN DRINK SOMEWHERE ELSE sign up and down.
“I don’t know what the Smile Syndicate will do to me if sales go down,” Stu said. “If monsters don’t hang out here, the whole charm of the place is gone. Please, how about . . .” He reached deep within himself and dredged up a last resort. “How about a free round of drinks for everyone?”
The monsters muttered, looked at one another, growled and sniffed. Many were tempted. Two zombies began to shamble toward the door of the tavern, but Robin said in a sharp voice, “Stand firm, all of you! Hold the line!”
“Could you serve us drinks out here, so it doesn’t interrupt our protest?” asked the ghoul, finishing his cigarette. Stu seemed to consider the idea.
Then a large bus drove up with a rumbling engine, coughing fumes of gray-blue exhaust, even though it looked like a sleek modern coach. A bright logo on the sign said U. Q. TOURS, SEE THE BEST OF THE WORST IN THE UNNATURAL QUARTER.
Humans filled the seats, a bunch of rube tourists wearing golf hats or bright scarves and sunglasses, even though it was nearly dark. Their faces pressed against the windows, gaping at the unexpected scene.
“Oh, no!” Stu wailed. “It’s our first tour bus—not now!”
A few bus routes carried sightseers around in luxury air-conditioned coaches so they could watch the monsters in their unnatural element. The big player was the Gray Skin Line, but U. Q. Tours had just begun a special twilight tour, on which all patrons would stop at the Goblin Tavern and have a complimentary drink (price included in the cost of the package).
Stu had been ecstatic about all the new business. Personally, I thought it was another death knell for the real character of the Goblin Tavern, and I intended to get a copy of the bus schedule just to make sure I was scarce whenever a busload of tourists was due to come in. According to the advertised route, the buses would also stop at strategically placed Kreepsakes gift shops, where the guests would have the opportunity to buy special mementos of their tour.
Now, however, as the passengers saw the ferocious-looking protesters boycotting the establishment, the driver chose the better part of valor. He slowed enough to let the tourists take photos through the windows, then the bus roared off.
Stu ran after it, waving his hands. “Wait, wait! This is just part of the show—a slice of real life in the Unnatural Quarter!” He kept running. “Please!”
Then the guest of honor herself showed up, astonished to see her regulars there in a show of support. Francine put a hand up to her mouth as she read the signs. “All this, for me?”
“Just making our feelings known, Francine,” I said. “The Goblin Tavern can’t replace you.”