Chapter Four
I didn’t expect the ghost of a legendary bank robber to come into our offices, and certainly not to ask for legal advice. But a client is a client.
Alphonse Wheeler had been famous in his day—about twenty years ago—for a series of daring bank robberies that were as much performances as they were crimes, and he’d won over the hearts of the public. Wearing his signature pencil mustache, checkered sport coat, and dapper hat, he arrived at every scene holding a bouquet of flowers. After finishing a robbery, but before dashing to his getaway car, Wheeler would hand a flower to each of the female bank tellers he had just robbed, give them a polite tip of his hat, and escape.
Banks wisely became leery of mustachioed customers wearing dapper hats, checkered sport coats, and carrying bouquets of flowers. As a delightful joke on the day before his last caper, Wheeler had paid twenty lookalikes to wander into different banks wearing his distinctive outfit. Twenty-one were arrested, and one turned out to be the real Alphonse Wheeler.
Although he was an independent robber, Wheeler had connections to organized crime. He paid a portion of the stolen money to his criminal masters—he wrote the money off as “membership dues” on his taxes, a deduction that was “disallowed with prejudice” when auditors went over his filings—and kept the rest for himself. After he was thrown in jail, Wheeler refused to turn against his mob accomplices, and he also refused to reveal where he’d hidden his stash of stolen money. He vowed to take the secret to his grave—which he did. Alphonse Wheeler died after two decades in prison.
And now his ghost had turned up at our office door, asking Robin for advice.
Though he had worn a prison uniform for twenty years, Wheeler’s ghost chose to manifest wearing his distinctive clothes again. He even brought a bouquet of daisies, which he presented to a delighted Sheyenne. “Beautiful flowers for the lady. I was in lockup for so many years, I’m out of touch with the outside world, but I assume flowers are still appropriate?”
“You assume correctly.” Sheyenne sounded like a giggly schoolgirl as she took the flowers. “I remember reading about your exploits when I was a girl—I had a crush on you.”
Alphonse stroked a finger along his pencil mustache. “Did you send me a marriage proposal while I was in prison? There were so many I couldn’t keep track.”
Sheyenne seemed embarrassed. “I was only ten years old.”
“And now you’ve grown into quite a ravishing—”
I cut him off by introducing myself. Robin also seemed immune to his charms, saying, “Mr. Wheeler, how may we be of service?”
He eyed Robin up and down with an intent grin. “That’s a wide-open question, my dear. I can think of many types of service a beautiful woman like yourself could—”
Robin remained cool. She preferred to devote her efforts to the innocent and downtrodden, not convicted bank robbers with mob connections. “And if I took you up on your implied offer, Mr. Wheeler, what do you think you could do? You’re a ghost—flirt all you want, but you can’t touch. Now, shall we get down to business?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” He cracked his spectral knuckles and drifted over to a seat. “I trust you’re aware of my famous career?”
“Your life of crime?” Robin asked.
“Of course we are!” Sheyenne said. “Robin, be nice to the client.”
Despite his insubstantialness, Alphonse Wheeler took a seat. “My robberies left me with a nice nest egg, for all the good it did me. I was true to my word, never revealed where I hid the loot, not even on my deathbed. But enough is enough. I’d like to retrieve my stash. After all this time, it’s my money, isn’t it?”
Robin frowned. “It’s money that you stole from a bank, Mr. Wheeler.”
“But that was a long time ago, and I’m dead now. Isn’t there a statute of limitations or something?”
Robin was trying hard to be patient. “The money never belonged to you, Mr. Wheeler, and you should turn it in. Clear your conscience—don’t be one of those restless ghosts. As an attorney, that’s what I advise.”
“But whose money is it? The insurance already paid the bank after the robberies. No depositor was harmed.”
“Then the money belongs to the insurance company,” Robin said. “I have an obligation to answer your question, but I also have an obligation to counsel you to avoid criminal activity.”
It wasn’t the answer Wheeler wanted to hear. He sank deeper into his chair, which rumpled his checkered ectoplasmic sportcoat. “What if I just don’t tell anybody?”
I had to interrupt. “Mr. Wheeler, your hidden stash is legendary. If you suddenly started waving money around, it wouldn’t take a private detective to put two and two together. Somebody would come after you.”
“You’re all a bunch of spoilsports,” Wheeler said, no longer sounding flirtatious. “What happened to the law of finders keepers? Or possession is nine-tenths of the law?” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I lived in prison for so many years, I don’t know what to do with myself on the outside. And being a ghost, there’s not much fun anymore at all—as Ms. Deyer so pointedly reminded me. And now you’re telling me I can’t even spend the money I stole.” He lifted himself out of the chair and tipped his hat to Robin. “Thanks for your help, pretty lady—even though I wish you had offered counsel that was more favorable to me.”
“Come back if you need further assistance,” Robin called, and the ghost left through the door without bothering to open it.
I went back to my office to review outstanding cases. I made a call to Tiffany to check on Bill. Now that all of the golems had been freed, he had no reason to remain in hiding, but the buff vamp seemed satisfied with her houseguest. “He’s going to stay with me for awhile. He’s pleasant enough company, and useful around the house. He insists on cooking and cleaning and doing housework and yardwork, says he owes it to me, even though I told him that’s nonsense. He doesn’t leave any chores for me to do.”
“Glad to hear it. Want to hire a hundred more golems?”
“No, thanks, Chambeaux. That exceeds my needs at this time.”
Bill had been ecstatic that his people were liberated, although it left them jobless and homeless for the moment. I tried to think of some way I could help all those liberated golems, and then I had an excellent idea (yes, I do have excellent ideas occasionally).
I pulled on my stitched-up jacket, took my fedora, and told Sheyenne, “I’m going to the mission. I’ve got a favor to ask Mrs. Saldana.” I could have used the phone, but I wanted to stretch my legs to keep the stiffness from setting in. Besides, I preferred face-to-face meetings.
Mrs. Hope Saldana, a kindly old woman with unmatched generosity for downtrodden people (or former-people), had established the Unnatural Quarter’s first soup kitchen and shelter in an effort to improve the lives of unfortunate souls, and even those who didn’t have souls. Even though the Hope & Salvation Mission had always operated on a shoestring budget, most of the Quarter’s denizens applauded the good work she was doing. I had been her friend, both as a human detective and now as a zombie.
“Mr. Chambeaux, always a pleasure to see you!” She made me think of grandmothers every time she smiled. She offered me a cookie, which I accepted, because one does not turn down gifts from Mrs. Saldana. “What brings you here?”
“Somebody needs help,” I said. “In fact, a lot of somebodies.”
“Why, that’s exactly the reason I’m here—to help.”
Rescuing a hundred golems would strain the limits of Hope & Salvation’s resources, however. “This is bigger than the usual hard-luck case.”
As I described the plight of Bill’s friends, Mrs. Saldana’s zombie assistant Jerry shuffled into the room, leaning on the handle of a push-broom that he nudged around the floor. He was a shambler, one of the zombies less-fortunate than me—an addict with a taste for brains. Mrs. Saldana had rescued Jerry, and he was a recovering brain-eater, one of her greatest success stories. He had stayed by her side for years, working in the shelter.
Jerry seemed more listless and sluggish than I had ever seen him, however. Without even looking at us, he pushed the broom over to the wobbly old piano Mrs. Saldana used for her church services; she had tried to train Jerry to be her pianist, but he didn’t have the aptitude or dexterity to play more than a dirge. Now, seeming mournful, Jerry began a slow and painstaking tapping of the keys. At first, it sounded like random notes, but I managed to identify the melody, “Heart and Soul.” At least he had graduated from “Chopsticks.”
Before I could ask if Jerry was sick—I had no idea whether zombies could get sick, although I hadn’t had so much as a sniffle in the months since I returned to life—Mrs. Saldana held up an extended finger like a school teacher. “Oh, I have just the thing for those poor golems! Would you and Ms. Deyer be my guests tomorrow night at a charity banquet? I’m presenting a Humanitarian of the Year award to Irwyn Goodfellow for all the marvelous work he’s done in the Unnatural Quarter. It’s an evening to benefit MLDW.”
While I had heard of the philanthropist Irwyn Goodfellow, the organization was new to me. “What’s Mildew?”
“MLDW—Monster Legal Defense Workers. I’m deputy administrator and member of the board. We might have just the thing for those poor golems.”
“Robin and I will be there,” I said.
It was an excellent idea. A man like Irwyn Goodfellow might indeed be able to integrate the hundred golems into society. Satisfied to have found a possible solution, I finished my cookie and waved farewell to Mrs. Saldana and her zombie helper.
Jerry just leaned against the push broom, looked up, and let out a low moan.