Chapter Three
I intended to celebrate by going on a genuine, long-postponed date with Sheyenne. Unfortunately, Robin overheard me ask her. “Oh, I love Shakespeare in the Park!” Robin flashed me that big bright smile that could always soften my heart, even if it wasn’t beating anymore.
“It’s Shakespeare in the Dark,” I corrected her, but the detail didn’t matter to her. “The theater troupe is composed mostly of ghosts, with other unnaturals as guest stars.”
“They’re doing MacBeth!” The troupe had originally announced a performance of the comedies, Taming of the Shrew and The Merchant of Venice, but the bloody and murderous tragedies were bigger crowd pleasers in the Unnatural Quarter.
Robin’s excitement continued to grow. “Would it be all right if I tagged along? I’ll pay for my own ticket, and I’ll be no trouble—I promise.”
So much for the quiet, romantic date with my ghost girlfriend …
I saw the flicker of disappointment on Sheyenne’s face, knowing she would have preferred a semi-normal evening with me, but she smiled. “Sure, Robin. We wouldn’t expect you to go by yourself, especially at night to the Greenlawn Cemetery.”
Robin looked as happy as I’d seen her in a long time, and I appreciated Sheyenne for being so flexible. Robin is a partner and a friend, and all-around good company—not your typical fifth wheel. Besides, it wasn’t as if she would put a damper on any hanky panky, since Sheyenne and I could have no physical contact anyway. It would just be a nice night out for the three of us.
Sheyenne showed her genius at innovation, adding spice to our date. Although I couldn’t touch her, and she couldn’t touch me, she could touch inanimate objects. (Don’t think about it too much—I didn’t make up the rules.) As we passed through the cemetery gates, she slipped a tan polyester glove over one spectral hand and reached out to me. “It takes a fair amount of poltergeist concentration to do this, Beaux, and it won’t feel exactly the same, but at least we can hold hands. Sort of.”
When I slipped my hand around the fingers of the glove and squeezed, I felt a firm hand inside. It was Sheyenne! “We’re like a couple of teenagers.”
She batted her spectral eyelashes. “Holding hands isn’t enough, but at least it’s contact.”
“Best I’ve had in a long time,” I said. “This may be a good date, after all.” She squeezed her fingers, lacing them in mine, and I squeezed back.
Hand-in-hand, we walked through the wrought-iron cemetery gates, which had a welcome mat on either side.
We arrived just before midnight, still hoping to get good seats. It proved easier than expected, since only a small crowd had gathered for the show. Previously, the Shakespeare troupe had held a matinee performance at 10:00 p.m. for families and children, but they discontinued it due to lack of attendance.
Every time I returned to Greenlawn Cemetery, I had mixed feelings—how could I not? There’s no place like home. This was where I’d been buried after my murder, where Robin, McGoo, kindly old Mrs. Saldana—and not many others—had come to pay their last respects. Private detectives had clients, but few friends; some unsuccessful PIs didn’t have many clients, either.
After the Big Uneasy, one in seventy-five dead people came back as a zombie, while one in thirty returned as a ghost. Even from six feet under, I had beaten the odds. It was one of the first lucky breaks I’d had in my life; I just wish it’d happened in my life.
I’d come out of the ground nicely embalmed but caked with dirt, my funereal suit ruined. (I almost never wore it anyway.) One other guy had risen up the same evening, Steve something-or-other. As I’d stood there on the dew-damp grass, trying to gain my bearings, I had heard the sound of sod tearing from a nearby grave, saw the dirt move and a questing hand reach up and out, fingers crooked. By now, you’d think gravediggers would have figured out a quick-release exit from the plot. I lurched over like a drunk arthritic, still trying to loosen up my own joints. I reached down to grab my undead comrade by the hand and helped him clamber out of the ground.
We brushed each other off as best we could, until we were somewhat presentable. I looked around at all the tombstones and crypts, saw the wrought-iron gates, and pointed. “I think that’s the way out.”
Still disoriented, we shambled out of the cemetery, getting our bearings. Steve and I shook hands, wished each other better luck the second time around, and I made my way back to the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer to a still-grieving Robin and the ghost of Sheyenne.…
Greenlawn Cemetery had changed quite a lot in the months since. As Robin went off to buy her own ticket for the evening’s Shakespeare performance, Sheyenne and I followed other theater fans into the graveyard. Just inside the gate, we passed a small card table manned by a plump woman with catseye glasses. Her fangs were so small it took me a moment to realize she was a vampire. She greeted everyone coming in: “Hello, welcome to the cemetery. Hello, I hope you have a good time.”
With all the zombies, ghosts, vampires, and whatnot coming back from the dead, well-meaning volunteers had established a Welcome Back Wagon. I stopped to take a look at their packets and complimented the plump vampire. “Thanks for doing this. I sure could have used a friendly face after I came out of the grave.”
The vampire volunteer made a tsking sound. “So sorry you had to face that yourself, dear. You didn’t get a welcome packet, then?”
“Afraid not.”
“Here you go, dear. You deserve one. It’s been hard to find sponsors, so the goodie bag has an eclectic mix of useful and, well, interesting items. But we’re growing every day.”
I accepted the packet and thanked her. Drifting beside me, Sheyenne thought aloud, “Maybe we should include Chambeaux and Deyer refrigerator magnets—to let the newcomers know about the services we offer.” She was always looking for new business. “New unnaturals often come back with mysteries to solve, or probate and legal issues.”
“But, refrigerator magnets?” I didn’t want to dismiss Sheyenne’s suggestion outright, but the recent raid on the golem sweatshop and all those ridiculous black-market souvenirs had given me a jaded view toward commercialization. “Let’s think about it. Maybe we can find something classy.”
“What else is in the bag?” Sheyenne said.
Rooting around, I found a packet of breath mints (a newly reanimated corpse could certainly use those), a stale granola bar past its expiration date, a packet of antacids from the Ghoul’s Diner, a coupon for a free drink from the Basilisk nightclub (“Premium alcohol and specialty blood types excluded”). I also found the cartoony chamber-of-commerce map of the Unnatural Quarter, and a flyer for Full Moon Escort Services. “Our Ladies Cater to Discriminating Unnatural Clientele. All species accepted.” In fine print, it said, “Succubus available upon request.”
The Quarter had rough edges and a tendency to ignore gray areas of the law. Prostitution seemed the lesser of many evils in the changed world, and nobody minded letting ferocious monsters blow off a little steam.
Sheyenne’s gloved hand squeezed mine. “Why are you studying that brothel flyer so closely, Beaux?” I quickly put it at the back of the stack.
The next page was even more startling, declaring in bold capital letters: “YOU ARE DAMNED!” Below that was a campaign picture of stern, cadaverous-looking Senator Rupert Balfour.
“I represent the normal natural humans in this Senate district. Monsters might be contained, but they are not forgiven! You creatures may think you can interact with normal society, but sooner or later your true blood will show itself. Good, decent citizens are watching, and we are ready!” In tiny letters at the bottom of the page, a sentence read: “Paid for by the Re-elect Senator Rupert Balfour Committee.”
“He’s not going to make many friends in the Quarter,” I said. Since unnaturals were not allowed to vote, they were not a constituency that politicians bothered to pander to.
I had heard of the man, a grim and humorless blowhard, an ultra-conservative senator who demanded enforcement of laws that prohibited “unnatural acts,” which he defined as any form of sex among vampires, werewolves, zombies, and the like. The Senator looked as if he himself had not had sex of any kind, natural or otherwise, in many years, despite the fact that he was married (to an equally grim, humorless, and unattractive woman). He also looked as if he suffered from persistent hemorrhoids. Or maybe I was making assumptions.…
Balfour had garnered publicity on far-fringe radio talk shows, whose hosts called for UFOs to abduct the unnaturals and take them away for medical experimentation (don’t forget the anal probes). It was the sort of thing that made most people roll their eyes and regard the man as a joke; the Senator’s supporters, however, came out of the woodwork and made so much noise that Balfour’s proposed “Unnatural Acts Act” had actually gained some traction.
With our tickets for the festival seating area, Sheyenne and I found a comfortable spot on the green among the tombstones. We managed to get close to the stage, since only about thirty others had come to see the play. I guess there isn’t much call for highbrow entertainment in the Unnatural Quarter.
The acting troupe, run by a man who claimed to be the actual ghost of William Shakespeare, struggled valiantly to bring culture to the monsters, though with mixed results. The troupe had built an elaborate stage set that evoked the original Globe Theatre in London, the venue where Shakespeare’s plays had initially been performed (probably to larger audiences than this, and with fewer ghosts). The ambitious set was constructed of whitewashed plywood with painted half-timbers and clumps of straw to simulate a thatched roof. By special arrangement with the Greenlawn Cemetery outreach committee, the troupe was allowed to leave the stage in place over the summer months.
Robin joined us with her ticket in hand and a stormy expression on her face. “One of those intolerant Neanderthals who works for Senator Balfour is standing there with a sign that says ‘God Hates Unnaturals.’”
“Only one supporter?” Sheyenne asked. “Not a whole demonstration?”
“Just the one man, and he’s being heckled by a bunch of goblins. Normally I’d call them hooligans, but right now I’m tempted to applaud them.”
“If it’s just one person,” I said, “then he looks silly instead of threatening.”
Robin allowed herself a smile. “He does look rather silly, at that.”
For the start of the performance, a ghost flitted onto the stage, and he was the cliched image of William Shakespeare from all the history books. He wore a velvet cap, a stuffed doublet, a heavily laced and embroidered shirt, and trunkhose padded to an impressive girth. His face was as painted as any woman’s I’d ever seen. All in all, he looked like an overstuffed jeweled-velvet sausage.
“Good ladies and gentle sirs,” said Shakespeare’s ghost. “Tonight we put before you a play, whose name no living actor dare speak. Now dead, we no longer fear such a curse, and so this band of humble players presents the Immortal Bard’s Macbeth—a tale of witches, curses, and bloodstained hands … a story to which every gentleperson here can relate! For this performance, we are also pleased to have as our special guests, three genuine witches to portray the Weird Sisters.”
From the ticket booth, the lone protester yelled, “God Hates Unnaturals!” which set up an angry grumbling among the audience. Claws and fangs were bared; hulking shapes rose up and began to loom toward the man who held his sign like a pathetically small shield.
Shakespeare’s ghost defused the situation by calling from the stage, “We thank you for your opinion, sir, and for your amusing performance. All the world’s a stage, but this one does not belong to you. If you have not purchased a ticket, I shall ask you to leave.”
Two hunchbacked bouncers advanced toward the ticket booth, and the man seemed to shrink into himself. Senator Balfour’s support quickly vanished as the man dashed through the cemetery gates and fled into the night.
“Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow …” Shakespeare’s ghost said with comical regret, and the audience tittered. He continued to strut across the stage. “’Tis a sad reminder. Back in my day, religious zealots labeled all plays the work of the Devil, and my Globe Theatre was burned down. The world has changed overmuch since the Big Uneasy, but alas not in every way.” He cleared his throat. “For tonight, the show must go on. Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, zombies, and unnaturals everywhere, we present … the Scottish Play!”
Robin heaved a contented sigh. I clasped Sheyenne’s glove, and we leaned back against a comfortable tombstone to watch the performance.