Chapter Eight
I’m not the sort of person who regularly attends swanky banquets or black-tie affairs. Even when I was alive I couldn’t tell the difference between wine from a $200 bottle or a $20 box. I simply don’t frequent those social circles.
So, I had good reason to be both excited and intimidated by going to such a glitzy soiree to raise money for MLDW. I wondered if I’d meet the rich philanthropist in person, and if I did, I wondered if I’d say something stupid.…
On my way back to the office, I stopped by Heinrich and Bruno’s Embalming Parlor, hoping for a quick touch-up before the gala event. Bruno immediately rose to the occasion. “Ooh, big night, Mr. Chambeaux?” He topped off my fluids, powdered my face, and added a bit of color to give the skin a more life-like appearance; he smoothed over the putty that covered the bullet hole in my forehead and even trimmed my cuticles, buffed my nails, and did a complete executive manicure.
“We must use heavy moisturizers to maintain external hydration. Zombie skin is delicate and damages easily,” Bruno said, rubbing lotion on my hands. I thought of Neffi and all her lotions. “Our work is never done. Would you like a foot massage tonight with a pedicure?”
“No time, Bruno.” I doubted I would ever find time for a pedicure.
I arrived back at the office, as “freshened up” as I was going to get. Sheyenne had rented a tux for me, and I felt as if I was ready for my own funeral all over again (in fact, the tuxedo was much nicer than the old suit I’d been buried in). After I put the strange penguin-suit components together, Sheyenne inspected my appearance and insisted I looked damn fine. She was probably just saying that, but I felt puffed up regardless.
Robin wore an understated pearl necklace and earrings, a sapphire chiffon cocktail dress that looked like a love spell on her, and a smile that, if she had been the one requesting charitable donations, no benefactor could have resisted.
We took Robin’s rusty old Maverick, affectionately named the Pro-Bono Mobile, and puttered along the streets until we reached the library, where the humanitarian banquet was to be served. Robin self-consciously parked four blocks away so no one would associate us with the battered car. We were, after all, dressed in our finest clothes.
Robin slid her arm through mine and we walked up the steps, moving at my pace. Two red scaly demons stood at the door with the guest list; they wore crimson frock coats, as if they were part of a royal guard. I announced, “Dan Chambeaux and Robin Deyer, guests of Mrs. Hope Saldana.”
The demon on the left, with pointy ears and forehead horns, flipped through pages on his clipboard and found our names. He gestured us inside and said in a voice that growled through phlegm, “Pick up your nametags and meal tickets at the reception table.”
People and monsters milled about inside the library’s main hall, drinking blood, champagne, or sparkling water from fluted glasses. A stack of programs rested on a polished table next to rows of hand-written nametags. After Robin and I chose our meal selections from chicken, vegetarian, or unnatural, I found my nametag, fumbled with my fingers to peel off the adhesive backing, and pressed the “HELLO MY NAME IS: Dan Chambeaux” sticker to my jacket collar.
Sequined gowns, enameled nails and claws, glittering diamonds—it was a heady experience. Thanks to the high bar set by Bela Lugosi, vampires were quite comfortable in evening formal wear, but I had never seen a full-furred werewolf in a tux and tails before. Despite my rented outfit, I felt woefully underdressed.
Mrs. Saldana waved us over. She wore a flower-print church dress and a string of obviously artificial pearls around her throat. “Mr. Chambeaux, Ms. Deyer! I’m so glad you came.” We were relieved to have someone to talk to, but she was already bustling away. “Follow me—there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Even with my deadened senses I could tell she wore a lot of perfume.
Irwyn Goodfellow was chatting politely with two well-dressed zombies and a troll. Mrs. Saldana came up to him, touched his arm. “Irwyn, sorry to interrupt, but these are the people I was telling you about.”
Goodfellow was a big, solidly made man with broad shoulders above a broad chest above a broad but rock-hard waist. His face was square; if anything, his jaw was wider than the top of his head. Bristly light-brown hair stood out in a lavish flat-top that made his head look like a thistle. His smile was infectious, his grip warm and dripping with sincerity as he took my hand and folded his other hand atop it, giving a firm squeeze.
“Dan Chambeaux, private investigator! My good friend Mrs. Saldana tells me that you and Ms. Deyer have been a great help to her.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Goodfellow,” I said. “I understand you’ve been quite helpful to her yourself.”
He gave a hearty laugh. “Mrs. Saldana said you and I would get along—we have a lot in common.” Goodfellow turned to Robin and graciously gave her a warm handshake as well. “We may have to recruit you to help with the Mildew Society, Ms. Deyer. We can always use volunteers, especially ones with legal experience.”
“Always happy to join a good cause,” Robin said.
“Good deeds make you feel all warm and tingly inside, don’t they?” Goodfellow touched his chest. “I’m thrilled to have a chance to use my family’s wealth for benevolent means. So many people and monsters need help. Being named the year’s greatest humanitarian—no pun intended—is gratifying, but that’s not why I do it. I’m the white sheep of a family with a, shall we say, checkered history.”
A waiter walked by carrying a tray of drinks. Goodfellow and Mrs. Saldana chose sparkling water. I avoided the blood, considered the champagne, then decided on water myself, too. Bruno had suggested I keep myself hydrated.
Mrs. Saldana was beaming. “I didn’t tell you my good news, Mr. Chambeaux. Irwyn has just given the Hope and Salvation Mission a very generous endowment, enough operational funding to carry us through the next five years. It changes everything for us.”
Goodfellow looked giddy with his own sense of satisfaction. “You do good work, Mrs. Saldana, and good deeds should be rewarded—that’s always been my mantra.” When he turned to me, I felt that he was focusing his entire attention, his complete being, on me and Robin. “Now tell me about these golems who need help. The situation sounds dreadful—their plight simply must be addressed.”
After Robin explained, Goodfellow shook his head in deep concern. “It’s a damn shame, that’s what it is. Let me think about how I can apply my money and resources, but I’m a man who acts quickly. I won’t drag my feet, and there won’t be any bureaucratic problems. We’ll help those golems, I promise.”
I lowered my voice and got serious. “I’m sorry to mention this, Mr. Goodfellow, but you might have a conflict of interest. Those slave golems were manufacturing souvenirs for the Smile Syndicate’s new line of gift shops.”
Goodfellow looked deeply troubled. “Smile Syndicate work is all Missy’s doing. She’s my sister, and I have to love her, but sometimes I’m ashamed of how my family wastes its wealth on selfish gain. Missy and I used to be close, but when I had my epiphany and decided to devote my life to kindness and charity, we had a … falling out. She calls me Goody-Two-Shoes, as if it’s an insult! She just doesn’t understand the joy that fills the heart and soul simply from being a good person.”
As the reception continued, Goodfellow excused himself to continue his duty dance, talking with other rich investors or industrialists. Envelopes containing donation checks piled up in offering trays around the hall.
When we were summoned to the banquet by a loud gong, Robin and I found our assigned table, which we shared with two loquacious witches who knew far too much about celebrity gossip, two brothers—full-moon-only werewolves—who bickered and snarled at each other throughout the meal, and an uncomfortable-looking human businessman who said barely a word.
Robin did her best to maintain the conversation through the salad, main course, and dessert. I didn’t have much appetite, but I politely moved my food around on the plate. In the back of my mind, I pondered whom I might recruit as private security for the Full Moon, and I also worried about Francine being let go from the Goblin Tavern.
At the end of the meal, we were all treated (if that was the proper word) to a musical performance by a banshee solo artist who recently had a top-forty single. As she sang, numerous glasses shattered, and audience members squeezed their eyes shut and covered their ears; at least a dozen lost the meals they had just consumed. Then everyone applauded, the banshee took a bow, and the award ceremony began.
Mrs. Saldana looked confident as she stepped up to the microphone, adjusted it to her height, and thumped it with her finger to gain everyone’s attention. “Ladies, gentlemen, and others, tonight we are pleased to present an award to a most deserving individual, a man who has selflessly given his time, energy, and, most importantly, his wealth”—she paused for a quick chuckle from the audience—“to help underprivileged unnaturals. He founded the Monster Legal Defense Workers Society, of which I am now the proud chairperson of the board. He gave a generous donation to my Hope and Salvation Mission. He instituted numerous rehabilitation programs and sponsored clothing drives for those newly risen from the grave.
“Not only has Irwyn Goodfellow done many good things, he is also a wonderful human being—and I hope you unnaturals won’t hold that against him!” She paused for another chuckle. “One of these days, we’ll name a street after him in the Quarter, but for tonight, I am proud to present this plaque.”
She lifted a small polished marble slab, like a miniature tombstone, on which Goodfellow’s name had been engraved. The audience applauded as the big man rose from his seat. Bowing and nodding to the people at his banquet table, grinning benevolently, he sauntered up to the podium.
“Thank you, thank you all. I don’t do this for the awards or the recognition.” He lifted the marble slab to admire it. “I am grateful to receive this wonderful plaque, but I see no reason to stop there. Tonight, when talking with the Unnatural Quarter’s own private investigator, Dan Chambeaux, I learned of the terrible plight being faced by one-hundred formerly enslaved golems. Whenever I hear about monsters or people in need, I just have to do something about it. I was touched by their situation, and I hope you will be, too.”
He leaned forward on the podium. “We each have to make at least one small improvement so that the world can be a better place for everyone. I have decided to create an Adopt-a-Golem program with the goal of finding gainful employment for those clay souls. It’ll be a charitable and tax-exempt program, and we’ll start accepting donations tonight. Ms. Deyer?” He looked around the audience until he spotted Robin. “Would you be willing to do the legal paperwork to set up the project?”
“Of course I would,” she said. “Pro bono, of course.”