Chapter Five
Private investigators don’t usually make house calls for initial consultations, but when the madam asked me to come to the Full Moon brothel on an urgent matter, I decided to make an exception. Strictly business, of course.
The Full Moon was a big row house with a full porch, dusty blue siding, and fake shutters on the windows. The two adjacent houses had been condemned and sat empty and available, in case Full Moon decided to expand their operations.
Once I stepped into the parlor, I found myself facing the receptionist who was all teeth—pointed ones—in a professional smile. She was a slender, slinky wolf-woman who wore only a black negligee and panties that didn’t cover much. With a wide hairbrush, she languidly stroked the reddish fur on her arms and thighs. According to the nametag on the reception desk, her name was Cinnamon.
She licked her muzzle. “Girls, we’ve got a live one—or a dead one. At any rate, it’s a customer.”
“Not a customer,” I corrected her. “I’m here to see a Miss … Neffi?”
“Ooh, he wants the madam! Starting right at the top.”
“You think he wants to be laid to rest?”
Two vampire princesses, a strawberry blonde and a brunette, came out to regard me with their large hypnotic eyes, followed by a pair of pallid and long-haired zombie girls who would have delighted a Tim Burton casting director. The zombie girls introduced themselves as Savannah and Aubrey; the vampire princesses had more flowery names, Nightshade and Hemlock.
The Full Moon was appointed in lavish—or gaudy, depending on your point of view—bordello décor, with an abundance of blood-colored velvet, chaise lounges strategically placed so the girls could lie back and look sexy, overstuffed chairs where clients would relax and have a cigar or sip a glass of their favorite intoxicating beverage. A curving grand staircase led upstairs to a series of rooms. Three of the doors were closed, behind which I heard what might have been sounds of pleasure, of one form or another. Everything about the place suggested “ill repute.”
One other girl remained in the downstairs hall, endearingly shy. She was small and waifish with bobbed red hair in a tight perm; her emerald-green eyes showed not the slightest hint of a reptilian slit. She had elfin features, a pointed chin, and her whole demeanor had a little orphan “please hold me and take care of me” vibe that brought out the full-fledged paternal instinct even in a guy like me, who had no paternal instinct whatsoever.
It took me a moment to realize that this was the brothel’s resident succubus. Her name was Ruth.
One of the vampire princesses interrupted my thoughts. “You sure you want to see the old lady?” Hemlock was a buxom, ebony-haired beauty in a white nightgown that wasn’t much more than a tangle of cobwebs. “A man like you needs someone with youth and vigor, not a dried-up, ancient—”
“Maybe he prefers someone with experience,” said a husky voice as a door opened from a main office adjacent to the main sitting room. “Lots of experience.” I turned around to see the Full Moon’s madam, Neffi, standing there in all her (theoretical) splendor.
I removed my fedora. “I’m Dan Chambeaux, ma’am. You called me here for an appointment?”
“We have plenty to discuss, Mr. Chambeaux.” She gestured me toward her office. “This is business, girls.”
“I thought it was all business,” said one of the pretty corpse girls.
“When’s the last time you had an actual client, Neffi?” huffed the werewolf receptionist, which elicited a chorus of good-natured chuckles from the ladies.
“Don’t mind them, Mr. Chambeaux,” Neffi purred. “Come into my parlor.”
The madam was an unwrapped, well-preserved Egyptian mummy with leathery brown skin stretched tightly over stick-like bones. Her breasts looked as hard as knots on an old log of firewood. Her lips were pulled back to show yellowed teeth in what might have been a smile or just a dessicated rictus. Her eyes were like black lumps of burned-out coal.
Her gray-metal business desk was similar to what might be found in any Cold War-era government office; in addition to the In box and a telephone, the desktop was covered with wide-mouthed jars, pump bottles, and squeeze-tubes of skin creams and lotions. As I followed her into the office, Neffi picked up a bottle in one claw-like hand, squirted a dollop of a honeysuckle-scented cream, and rubbed it on the skin of her upper arms.
A four-drawer metal filing cabinet stood against the far wall. A dozen manila folders lay strewn on her desk, each with a name written on the tab. Clients? Or maybe the Full Moon customers put their names on a mailing list.
“Thank you for coming.” She let out a brief cackle. “That’s a line we use whenever satisfied clients leave: Thank you for coming! Not an original joke, but it goes with the territory. Have a seat.”
Unlike the plush bordello lounges in the lobby, Neffi’s private room had standard office chairs. I was glad the madam intended to treat this as a straightforward interview; Sheyenne was sure to question me about what happened there.
A fish tank filled with dead, floating goldfish sat on a waist-high credenza next to an antique grandfather clock that had stopped ticking long ago. Through an open door in back of the office, I could see a dim private bedroom with several canopic jars and an Egyptian sarcophagus where Neffi no doubt slept. She also had an actual bed for the occasional discriminating customer, but bankers’ boxes and stacks of paper were piled on the mattress.
I lowered myself into the hard chair. My knees felt more stiff than usual today, the result of sitting on the damp cemetery grass during the previous night’s Shakespeare performance.
Neffi took a seat behind the desk and folded her claw-like hands together into a macramé of knuckles. On the floor were three small sarcophagi carved in the images of cats. Neffi set one of the ornate containers in her lap and began stroking the carved feline head. “These were my pets in ancient Egypt, mummified and placed in the tomb with me so they could be my companions through eternal life. Even though they weren’t restored to life in the Big Uneasy, they’re still my beloved pets.”
I wanted to get down to business. “Your request was rather vague, Madame Neffi. How can I help you?”
She pulled her chair closer to the desk. “At Full Moon, we’re in the pleasure business. It’s a necessary service, and unnaturals have needs just like anyone else. Those needs tend to be a bit different, but no less legitimate. We have an understanding with the police department.” She picked up several files, glanced at them, and not quite accidentally let me see the names on the tabs. One I recognized as McGoo’s watch commander.
“We also cater to human clients who like to take a walk on the dark side—it gives them a thrill, and the girls say humans tend to tip better anyway. You know, when a zombie tells you to keep the tip, you have to be careful what he really means.…” She waited for me to laugh, so I did. Just to be polite. It reminded me of McGoo’s jokes.
Neffi squirted another blob of lotion and rubbed her hands. “I may not look it now, Mr. Chambeaux, but I was quite a dish in my day. Cleopatra and Nefertiti had nothing on me. Wealthy patrons showered me with gifts, which allowed me to build myself a large tomb, designed by the best interior decorator on the Nile. Gold, lapis lazuli, pearls. When I came back, I had the stake I needed to open this business. I’m a competent businesswoman, and I know how to run the oldest profession—it’s been around even longer than I have.” She cackled again. “I thought I was all set.”
“So why do you require my services?”
“Because I’m being intimidated! The Full Moon has been the target of vandalism, attempted arson, threatening letters thrown through windows. Someone’s trying to drive us out of the Quarter, and I need to put a stop to it. Nervous clientele are often limp clientele.”
Remembering the pathetic lone demonstrator at the Shakespeare play—God Hates Unnaturals—I asked, “Does Senator Balfour have anything to do with it?”
Neffi’s expression shriveled up even further, though I hadn’t imagined that was possible. “No, not that dickhead. It’s organized crime moving in, Mr. Chambeaux. Wiseguys who think they can intimidate a five-thousand-year-old mummy. But they picked the wrong bitch to mess with!”
I was surprised I hadn’t heard of it. “Organized crime is trying to move into the necrophilia and prostitution racket?”
“I run a good clean business here, a family business, and I don’t want to see it corrupted.” She made an angry sound, her vocal cords vibrating until I feared they would snap like frayed cello strings. “This town might belong to monsters, but I’ll be damned if I surrender to a bunch of thugs.” She calmed herself by stroking the cat sarcophagus. “That’s why I need private security, around-the-clock. Does your company have rent-a-goons? I need someone big, ferocious, and intimidating.”
I looked down at my average physique, my rumpled and stitched-up jacket. “Chambeaux and Deyer is just me, my lawyer partner, and our receptionist. And as you can see”—I held up my hands—“I’m not all that intimidating.”
The old Egyptian mummy considered. “No, you wouldn’t project a very frightening presence, unless you were willing to let yourself rot a little.”
I don’t give up on a client so easily. “Let me ask around. I know people.” I rose from the chair, placing the fedora back on my head. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chambeaux. And please … feel free to stop by anytime. For any reason.”