Tears began pouring down her face. “I’m touched. I kinda hoped you might have a little going-away party for me, but . . . I never expected this.” She sniffed, lowered her voice. “Do you think it’ll do any good?”
To be honest, I wasn’t sure Francine wanted her old job back, considering the corporate ownership, but she had worked for miserable bosses before. Ilgar the goblin had never been a model employer either.
Robin put an arm around the older woman’s bony shoulders. “We’re fighting for what’s right, Francine. There are laws against workplace discrimination.”
“Thank you, thank you all.” She sounded choked up. “I don’t know what else to say.”
Stu came back, his shoulders slumped in despair at having failed to bring the promised customers in. Robin decided to make him even more dejected. “Francine, now that you’re here to see this . . .” She marched up to the new manager of the Goblin Tavern. “Your bartender was fired without cause. Your no-humans-need-apply solicitation for replacement employees is blatantly discriminatory. On her behalf, I’m filing a wrongful termination suit against you, sir, as well as an antidiscrimination suit.”
When she handed him a folded legal document, he looked as if she had just placed a rattlesnake in his hands. “But . . . I’m not the owner—I can’t be sued!”
“You’re the manager, you’re named in the suit, so you’re served. Just to be fair, we’re also serving Missy Goodfellow and the entire Smile Syndicate board as co-defendants.”
Stu looked as if someone had told him his birthday was canceled. He shuffled back into the Tavern and closed the door. I didn’t doubt that he was going to pour himself a very large drink.
“I guess we’ll need to find a new place to have a beer, McGoo,” I said.
“Too bad. I really needed one tonight.” McGoo seemed unduly troubled. During the commotion, I had not noticed his reticent expression, but now it was plain as day. He hadn’t even tried to tell me a joke. Something was definitely wrong.
“Worse day than usual?”
“I might have to choose a new place for everything, Shamble. What would you think if I got transferred out of the Quarter? Promoted and sent to a new precinct, out among normal people?”
I blinked at him. “I’d say you were out of your mind. Who would ever promote you?” I meant it as a teasing comment, but it was also a stalling tactic while I tried to wrap my head around what he had said. “Are you serious?”
“Why is that so impossible? Think of all the recent successes I’ve had. My record’s looking pretty good.”
“Partly because we help each other. That’s what friends are for, right?” I said. “How did you manage to be considered for a transfer?”
“It’s Senator Balfour,” he said, glum again. “He wants me to talk with him, use my inside knowledge to point out any scandals that’ll make the Quarter look bad. Embarrassments, heinous crimes—anything that he can label an Unnatural Act. He wants to pick my brains.”
Next to me, a sunken-eyed and ripe-smelling shambler perked up. “I’ll pick your brains.”
“Hey, do you mind? It’s a private conversation!” The zombie shuffled off, and McGoo continued, “If he gets that law passed, Balfour wants to crack down like a giant hammer—and the vote’s coming right up. If I help the senator gain a big victory, he promised to see that I’m reassigned to a human area.”
The idea made me sick inside. I couldn’t believe my friend would cooperate with such a vile man, but I also knew McGoo had no other chance at being transferred out of the precinct. He had never been happy with his assignment here.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked, afraid of how he would answer.
“After that bank robbery nonsense this afternoon, I was sorely tempted. But after much thought, I’ve decided that I like Senator Balfour even less than I like being here. I’ll call the senator back and tell him to shove his offer up his ass—preferably with a wooden stake. He’s going to have to find himself another patsy.”
Chapter 33
At the All-Day/All-Nite Fitness Center, Tiffany had worked up a sweat—which was unusual for her. She wore a loose ash-gray sweat suit and a pink sweatband to push back her dark hair. She didn’t use the cardio monitor, which was useless for a vampire anyway, but I could tell she was straining hard.
In my trips to the gym, she frequently intimidated me with her offhanded physical feats: the number of reps she performed, the amount of weight she lifted, how she could make the elliptical hum like a jet engine. I never attempted to keep up with her, merely tried to do enough of a workout so I didn’t seem a complete wuss by comparison (and in that, too, I failed miserably).
I had a hard time maintaining a conversation while I was wheezing, though Tiffany never seemed out of breath. Tonight, she ran on the treadmill with the incline set to Everest mode, as fast as the motor would allow. She thundered along as if all the forces of Van Helsing were after her.
I took up the treadmill beside her. “Hi, Tiffany.”
“Chambeaux,” she acknowledged and then, as if to impress me for some reason, she started to run even harder, intent on her workout.
Minding my own business, I looked up at the row of television sets mounted on the wall, half of which were tuned to competing news channels; one showed a women’s gossip show that ran in the late hours (after the Big Uneasy, kaffeeklatsch chitchat programs were no longer the domain of early-morning TV). One set showed an old rerun of The Munsters, which seemed very quaint and nostalgic now. The good old days.
I selected a beginner’s program, and the treadmill moved at shamble speed. I shuffled my legs to keep up, loosening my muscles. I was lucky to have received a top-notch embalming job, unlike the botched and amateurish process Jekyll had undergone; nevertheless, aches and pains came with the territory. Per Robin’s suggestion, I had started taking glucosamine joint supplements, but I didn’t notice any improvement. Once I got warmed up, I could move with a speed and dexterity close to my normal pre-death rate, but warming up was the tough part.
With a loud gasp of achievement, Tiffany ended her program, dropped the treadmill speed to cool-down rate, and caught her breath. Now she was ready for conversation. She turned and flashed her fangs at me. “You know, Chambeaux, Bill is definitely bad for me.”
“What did he do?”
“Too much, far too much—and I don’t dare ask him to stop.” She patted her butt. “I’ve gained five pounds already. I’m not used to eating like that—I usually just grab a preserved blood pack from the fridge, but Bill plans some extravagant dinner every single day. My house is spotless, every dish is cleaned and put away within five minutes of when it hits the sink. He does the laundry daily, and he even irons my work shirts. Irons them, Shamble! I feel like a princess. He says it’s only right to help me out, for everything I’ve done for him.”