Battle of the Network Zombies (15 page)

“Gorgeousness!” He clapped his hands rapidly then stopped short. “But I’m still gonna need a fitty to take you in. It’s my fee.”

“Isn’t there a password or something we can try for?” Wendy pouted.

“You could try, but since there isn’t one, it would really just be for my entertainment.”

I slipped onto the bench next to him. “What if I could offer you a guarantee that you’d be on TV?”

Maxey’s face brightened, and I do mean actually glowed. “Keep talkin’.”

“We could film the entire exchange once we’re inside. You take us to Ricardo and we all talk about what a sensation you are.”

“Okay. But I’m still gonna need my fifty dollars.”

“What if we owed you?” Wendy asked.

“Are you serious?” He grinned. “You want to be beholden to me?” He shrugged. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Maxey bounded from his spot between the grump and me and reached out his hand to Wendy. “Just say, I’m beholden to you and we’ll be good as gold.”

The blonde frowned then, looked at his delicately constructed hand like it might hold a trick buzzer, then to me. I heaved my shoulders, probably not the best person to seek advice from, since I only cared about getting in. She took his hand and spoke the words.

A visible shiver passed over the fairy’s frame and he chuckled like Wendy just let loose with an inappropriate joke. He skipped a short distance away and planted his hands on his hips. “Well. Come on then.”

Tuesday
10:00–11:00
P.M.
Supernature’s Top Ten Hotspots

Maxey flitted to a nearby concrete planter—despite his lack of wings, his ability to rock some airtime was quite impressive—and motioned for us to follow. Wendy boosted me up and stuck close as we balanced the thin ledge behind the fairy, his hips swiveling carelessly as a hula skirt.
⁶⁶

The gap between the buildings gave way to steep stairs carved into the hillside and running at least a hundred feet down to Western Avenue, where most of the supernatural clubs hid amidst the warehouses of home furnishing stores. I held on to a maple branch, as we peered out over the Seattle harbor. A massive cruise ship churned in the distance.

“So where is it?” I asked.

Maxey pointed toward the horizon. He squinted a bit and our eyes followed his. “See that?”

Literally, it was a dot of light, as difficult to find as a white guy at a Blood or Crip function.

“What are we looking at, exactly?” Wendy asked.

“That’s the keyhole.”

I looked at Wendy, who was clearly as confused as I.

“So…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maxey said. “It just looks far. That’s why you need a guide to get to it. Can’t just put out a doormat for any Tom, Dick or Normal to wander through, now can we. Besides, if not for this, where would I get to use my fantastic people skills?”

“Well, there is your side job.” I tossed a thumb at the alley where we’d first seen Maxey appear.

“Oh that.” He snickered. “I don’t think of it as work.”

Wendy and I just stared.

“Now just follow me and watch your feet. There’s a walkway here, you just can’t see it and it changes weekly so don’t think you can just walk on in for free next time. Got it?”

Maxey stepped off the concrete and onto either some really clean glass or a bridge of some sort. His steps were measured and accompanied by a verbal count. We shuffled behind him.

“Try not to look down,” I suggested to Wendy, who glanced back thoroughly unconcerned.

Sure. I might have been projecting a little, but you try traversing an invisible bridge in the middle of the night with a bum leg and see how you do.

A couple of sidesteps and a near-fall and we all but fell into Ether.

The door swung open into a wide arcing hall filled with the usual suspects of the club scene, like Gretchen de Bellefour in a fur they must have stripped off a mammoth to cloak her in—the reapers have their magic, but they can’t change eating habits.

Ricardo stood at his usual spot, behind the bar, shining glasses and smiling like he knew the person on the other side. Ricardo Amandine was good at making people feel comfortable, a compelling trait in a bartender and a deadly one in a flesh-eating zombie. He waved us over.

I shifted my weight to Maxey, and motioned for Wendy to get to taping. I waited for the little red light before heading over.

“Ready for your close-up?” I whispered to the fairy, who blushed a bit, more out of excitement than any nervousness, I imagined.

“Mr. Amandine. These, um…ladies, have some questions or something.” Maxey’s delivery was stiff, measured, like he’d been rehearsing it in his head during the walk.

“Thank you, Maxey. I’ll take them from here.”

The fairy bowed a little, winked at Wendy and then swished off toward the dance floor, where people moped to the sounds of My Bloody Valentine and could quite possibly commit suicide at any moment. To call it music was an exaggeration—the vibrating and/or swirling guitar strains and muted vocal gibberish were best suited to shifting your weight and hanging your head in shame than to anything resembling real dancing. Why Ricardo enjoyed the music was beyond me. At least he’d given the brooding dancers something to look at while they shambled like a horde of mistakes fresh from death—the floor was made of Lucite, clear as day—or night—and hovering, unbelievably, hundreds of feet over Western Avenue. The perfect vantage point to watch zombies, vampires, werewolves, hell, even, lizard people if you watch long enough, spill out of clubs like the Well of Souls and Convent and onto the street, falling down drunk or looking for some swollen shadow to plow a conquest.

“Are you loving the place?”

I took a moment to scan the predominantly white room. It had a Grecian feel—blessedly lacking the pretentiousness of columns—white, but not in a glossy, new-house kind of way. It was as though every surface was smudged with a lack of color, dusted in a light powder. Even the couches and chairs were barely delineated, edges fuzzy as peaches. Panels of sheer fabric drifted inward from arched windows, undulating gossamer tents beneath a cloud of ceiling that could have actually been clouds for all my understanding of the place.

It really is fantastic, Ricardo. You’ve outdone yourself, though—”

“Though?” he asked, concern arcing his dark brow and sliding a Hendricks in front of me.

I sipped at it, stirred the concoction with a thin polished bone. “Where is everybody? Your clubs are normally packed at this hour.”

A fat smile spread across those fit lips.

I’ll take a moment here to admire the majesty that is Ricardo, the only zombie I know able to maintain a naturally blemish-free olive complexion seemingly without several layers of makeup. Crotch achingly hot, the entrepreneur is at the top of his game and stalked by nearly every female he comes into contact with (and several males). Wendy drools for the guy—I’d certainly give him a go, if it weren’t for Scott—but he somehow allowed himself to be ensnared by Marithé, whose intentions were about as wholesome as a Tijuana donkey show. I happen to know—and this is totally between us—that my assistant, Ricardo’s loving partner, talked him into an experimental virility treatment at great cost, physically and financially.
⁶⁷

“The vast majority of the guests are otherwise preoccupied in the anesthesia lounges.”

The gin blew out of my nose like liquid fire. “Anesthesia?” I managed, glancing at Wendy, who, of course, nailed that shot at what would prove to be the most unflattering angle imaginable.

Bitch.

“It’s the latest in supernatural party favors—when alcohol just won’t get you there. When was the last time you even caught a buzz, Amanda?”

I drained the gin and set the glass on the bar. “Long time, lover. Are you telling me, you’ve got some gas that’ll reach beyond the grave up in here?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Good stuff, too. I even have to have it professionally administered.”

My heart would have skipped a beat. As it was my stomach clinched up tighter than a clergy coffer, or an altar boy’s ass, for that matter.
⁶⁸
It was the word “administered” that frightened me, sounding very much like a job for a certain evil Girl Scout troop. I started looking for the exit.

“Relax.” Ricardo sensed my fear somehow. I didn’t have to think on it very long to figure out Marithé had some loose lips when it came to our relationship (probably hers with Ricardo too, but that’s not what I’m talking about). “I had to contract some people to watch the amounts. Apparently, abovegrounders have a tendency to lose consciousness…permanently, if they take too much.”

“Jesus,” Wendy whispered.

“We’ve got it under control. Now it’s just an easy comfortable trip.”

Back to the situation at hand—there was no telling how long the camera battery would last
⁶⁹
—I said, “Is one of tonight’s trippers a certain zaftig Jamaican voodoo woman?”

“Mama Montserrat? Of course! She loves a little hit. Been coming religiously since we opened. Made us a little protection charm. Very sweet. She gets our mildest dose, being technically human and all.”

I told him about the murder and to keep it quiet for now. Ricardo, luckily, could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. I suspected the news wouldn’t even reach Marithé.

We followed Ricardo from room to room—the place was cavernous—scanning the intoxicated faces of both wealthy and influential figures of supernatural society. Ricardo led us to one on the right. Inside, Mama Montserrat reclined in a state of drizzled intoxication, her head lolling atop a thick fold of chin fat wrangled loose from the neck of her sweater, revealing a small tattoo of a rooster like a label on her fleshy travel pillow. A thin stream of spit stretched to a wet spot on her shoulder.

Ricardo knelt beside the prone figure and shook her gently by the shoulder, while he dabbed the corner of her mouth with a tissue. “Mama? Mama? It’s time to wake up.”

She groaned, her eyes creeping open over a lopsided grin. “Nom?”

“No. We don’t have any food.” I took Ricardo’s place and motioned for Wendy to get a close up. “We’re here to ask you questions about you and Johnny.”

“Dad,” she muttered, her lids fluttering.

“He was your father?” Wendy gasped.

I spun so she could see me rolling my eyes.
⁷⁰
“She said ‘dead,’ not ‘dad.’ Jesus.” I turned back to Mama, pressed the back of my hand against her cheek. “We just need to know about your relationship with Johnny.”

She batted her eyes.

“Your
sexual
relationship with Johnny.”

“Noneya.” She slapped at my hand. “Cold,” she spat, pouting.

Wendy nudged me. “She’s so wasted. You should ask her the big question. Quick. Before she comes out of it.”

“Or maybe we could just order up another round, or twilight dose, or whatever. Right, Ricardo?”

Ricardo smiled, dropped onto the lounge and settling into a casual slouch. “That’s funny.”

“What is?” Over my shoulder, Wendy had a needy looking snarl plastered on her mouth, like she’d bite into the guy if she got another chance.
⁷¹

“Twilight
is
what it’s called, because it’s kind of light and ineffectual, perfect for the undecided and easily swayed. Pretty benign stuff, though, I’m not going to test a second dose, just in case it has an adverse reaction, so you better ask your questions quick.”

Mama eyed me curiously, a lazy finger stretching toward my cheek when I looked back at her. “Cheek,” she said poking.

I pulled away. “Now Mama. You didn’t kill Johnny did you?”

“What?”

“Did you kill Johnny?”

“Course not. Ask that bitch.”

“What?”

“The bitch he been fuckin’.”

“Who?”

Mama’s head lolled on her shoulders, drifting out of consciousness. “Hairy!” she barked and then she was gone.

I looked into the camera. “Hairy, ladies and gentlemen. I think we all know who she’s just fingered.”

Wendy giggled, followed shortly thereafter by the unfettered guffaws of Ricardo. He pointed at me and then to my cheek.

“Oh shit,” I said. “There’s a dent, isn’t there?”

As we arrived back at the Minions Mansion, a brawl of epically coiffed proportions spilled into the grand hall from, presumably, the bar, as so many brawls do. Of course, the nature of the melee was far more dangerous than a paltry busted bottle fight outside your local dive. I mean, it’s not like a flying Filipino vampire head shows up because some jerk insults your friend. Just doesn’t happen.

At the center of the dispute stood a haggard Hairy Sue, her usually stringy hair a matted ball atop her pale head. She spun around, fending off aerial attacks from the disgustingly tentacled Angie, her intestines spattering the floor like a maniacal, and decidedly monochrome, Jackson Pollock, and ground assaults from Absinthe, her jaw snapping with the conviction. The stripper held the ghoul at bay with a garbage can lid she wielded like a shield.