Chapter Five
Cops and detectives have their own special watering holes, the darker and dingier the better. Ostensibly, they are strategic places where they can pick up intel and talk with confidential sources or undercover informants. In reality, ours was just a place where we liked to drink.
The Goblin Tavern was a fixture in the Unnatural Quarter, a friendly pub where unnaturals of all species, as well as curious and brave human visitors, could hang out, surrounded by a comforting pall of ancient cigarette smoke infused with the sour smell of spilled beer.
Francine, the hard-bitten human bartender, was tougher than most of the monsters who gave her trouble—and very few of them gave her trouble more than once. Francine had been divorced several times and would have been divorced more often, if she hadn’t run out of candidates. She had a salty disposition, a cigarette-ravaged voice, and a weathered face that needed more makeup than she could afford.
Previously, Francine had worked in any number of biker bars in seedy districts, and the Unnatural Quarter was just another job. She had worked at this tavern long enough that she practically owned it. I think she had a room in back, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing her leave the premises. Unnaturals being what they were, both nocturnal and diurnal, the Goblin Tavern never closed. Francine apparently slept very little, which would account for her haggard looks and grouchy disposition.
But she was our bartender, and when McGoo and I entered, she lit up like a ray of moonshine. “Hello, boys. Haven’t seen you in ages—not since last week. Or was it yesterday?”
“We were busy, Francine.” McGoo sidled up to his usual bar stool, and Francine quickly tossed him a rag before he could plant himself.
“Mind the seat! We had a slime family in here for dinner, and they took up that side of the bar. You know how their kids leak all over the place.”
McGoo swiped the smooth wooden seat, then tossed the now-sticky rag onto my stool, which had up until then been clean. I pinched the cloth with two fingers and draped it over the bar so Francine could disinfect it, burn it, or reuse it—her choice.
“We were hunting down a serial-killer demon, and we got him!” I said, feeling a flush of pride. “The streets are now safe for monsters of all kinds.”
“Saw it on the news.” She picked up the TV remote, clicking it on to see if our exploits were being broadcast at that exact moment, like on a typical cop show. She cracked her knuckles and stepped closer. “The first round’s on me—and you should have the good beer, not that swill you usually drink, Shamble.”
“It’s Chambeaux,” I said, without much enthusiasm. Francine knew my name, but everyone got it wrong on purpose. “The good stuff’s not necessary for my zombie palate. I can’t taste it anyway.”
“He’s right, Francine,” McGoo said, settling onto his now-dry barstool. “Give me two of the good ones, and I’ll buy a cheap beer for him.” He was good at negotiating, and accounting.
Francine yanked the tap like a hangman’s lever on a gallows, pouring our beers.
I shifted in my seat and gave McGoo the full, strange details about the vampire writer who had gone berserk at the blood bar. “When I got there, I was more worried about the protesters turning violent. The young vamp was sitting quietly with his laptop and his iced blood drink. He seemed like a snob, one of those wannabe writers who works on his great American movie script without ever finishing it.”
“Better than the Necronomicon study groups,” McGoo grumbled. “They take up all the tables and argue over chapter and verse, as if they had a personal relationship with the Mad Arab himself.”
I sipped my beer, then wiped foam from my gray lips. It tasted warm and bitter, pretty much like everything tasted. I couldn’t tell if the bartender had given me the microbrew or not. “Delicious, Francine. Noticeably different from the old beer, thanks.” I turned back to McGoo. “There was a trio of vampire brothers, or cousins, who called themselves the Suck Dynasty. They advocated attacking humans to drink fresh from the source.”
McGoo let out an angry sigh. “Yeah, I know those boys. They usually don’t cause trouble except when they play country-and-western music too loud. It makes the neighborhood werewolves howl.”
“I’m more worried about the sentiment, in case it spreads,” I said. “This long after the Big Uneasy, the world was just starting to settle down, but now with the Obadeus murders, and these hicks openly pushing to prey upon non-volunteer humans …”
As if on cue, the TV news inhuman-interest story about do-it-yourself mummification kits for friends and family ended, and a public-service announcement came on the bar television. “These are trying times,” said a man’s soft and gentle voice, “and we are trying. Believe me, at Monster Chow Industries we are trying!”
His voice was molasses sweet like everyone’s favorite uncle, the one with the perfect haircut, the V-neck argyle sweater, the penny loafers. That exact man appeared on the TV screen, smiling. “My name is Cyrus Redfarb, the newly appointed spokesman for the Monster Chow line of textured flesh substitutes and palatable, humanely-sourced blood alternatives. You’ll be seeing a lot of me in the coming weeks.” He sat down in an overstuffed leather chair next to a crackling fireplace. He crossed one slender leg over the other, revealing his argyle socks. His movements were just a little awkward and jerky, as if he had practiced too much.
“I’m coming to you from the Monster Chow studios in our lovely factory with this important message. Unnaturals must blend in with society, and our company gives them the means to do that.” He laced his fingers together, holding one knee. “This new world of ours is full of wonders as well as fears. We all have to get along. I want to be your friend. Monster Chow Industries wants to be your friend.”
“I’m getting diabetes from all that sugar,” McGoo muttered.
The primary Monster Chow factory had opened up not long after the Big Uneasy. It was a powerful statement, showing that unnaturals were willing to put aside their predatory ways, that they would accept substitutes for the real thing, that humans didn’t need to fear.
Redfarb’s bright blue eyes were intense. “There’s no such thing as predator and prey. Right now, we’re all just people—of whatever color, belief system, or flavor, natural or unnatural. Wolves and rabbits can live together in peace, so long as there’s enough Monster Chow to go around. Your grocery stores and eating establishments will soon feature an expanded line of our products, not just Werewolf Chow and Ghoul Chow, but also Mummy Chow, Witch Chow, Gargoyle Chow, and Zombie Chow. Even Vampire Chow packaged in flavorful single-serving shakes. All with delicious new recipes.” When he smiled, his shoulders twitched oddly, as if all the parts of his body weren’t connected properly.
Redfarb unfolded himself from the overstuffed chair and stood in front of the fireplace. He walked over to a silver tea set and poured himself a cup, then took a dainty sip and looked back toward the camera. “I just started my position, and I have a lot of work to do. Because we want to calm everyone’s fears in light of certain violent incidents, I will usher in a new era of transparency for Monster Chow Industries.
“Our factory has never been a tourist attraction, but as of today, we will give unprecedented access, tours to any groups who want to see the humane and innovative ways our chow brands are created. I myself will make numerous public appearances to help spread the word.”
He set his teacup down and folded his hands together before leaning very close to the camera. His bright blue eyes seemed glassy. “Monsters don’t have to eat people. Our chow brands taste just like human! We believe that if you just try one of the numerous free samples we will distribute throughout the Quarter, you’ll agree that it’s better than ever with our new secret ingredients. And happy monsters make for happy humans. One world, a big friendly neighborhood. Thank you, and have a very nice day, or night—your preference.”
“That certainly didn’t whet my appetite,” McGoo said.
“I wasn’t hungry to start with.” I drank more of my beer.
McGoo savored his second expensive microbrew, and we had a moment of quiet in which neither of us needed to say anything. Then my cell phone rang, Sheyenne calling from the office.
McGoo’s phone rang at the same time, and both of us answered, leaning in opposite directions so we could talk. Sheyenne said, “Beaux, I just got an odd call, some woman insisting that you go down to the Hellhound bus station and meet the 10:13 arrival. She sounded angry and hysterical, and she told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘She’s your problem now.’”
“Who’s my problem? I have enough problems. I didn’t order any more.”
“She said her name was Rhonda,” Sheyenne said. “Wasn’t Rhonda the name of your …?”
I suddenly felt deader inside. “I’m on it, Spooky.” I hung up and looked over at McGoo as he ended his own call. His face was so white his freckles stood out like blackheads.
“It was Rhonda,” he said. “She says I have to go to the bus station.”
Of all the terrifying and unpleasant things I’d encountered in the Unnatural Quarter, including the bloodthirsty demon we had just shattered several nights before, nothing is quite as frightening as a call from an ex-wife.