After I got back to my desk, I had barely started investigating various underworld laboratory subdivisions managed by Ah’Chulhu Underground Realty when a smiling McGoo entered the offices. “Just walking my beat and decided to stop by to see my favorite lawyer and zombie detective.” When Sheyenne flitted in front of him, he quickly added, “And ghost. Any crimes you need to report?” He sniffed several times, looking around. “What’s that smell?”
“Evergreen Fresh?” Sheyenne suggested.
McGoo sniffed again. “No, nothing with the word fresh in it. Have you started decomposing again, Shamble?”
He’s my best friend, but never seems to get tired of the same old joke. We were very close as humans, and McGoo did his best to cope with the fact that I’m a zombie, and that often involved off-color humor. He wasn’t inclined to learn from his mistakes, and he never passed up an opportunity. “Hey, Shamble—what do you call a zombie without arms or legs hanging on a wall?”
“Art,” I said. I had heard that one before.
“Okay, what do you call just an arm hanging on a wall?” He waited a beat. “A piece of Art.”
We all groaned as expected, but not enough to encourage him to tell another one. I tried to distract him, “Any luck catching that lawn gnome gang?”
“They’re still on the Quarter’s Most Wanted list,” McGoo said. “We don’t have any leads as to their hideout, but we know they’ll strike again.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. I’m working several cases right now, but there’s no telling what I might hear on the streets.”
Our cases often intersected. I helped McGoo with my unofficial investigations, using contacts that didn’t require department approval, and McGoo could pull in the resources of the UQPD when I needed a favor. We had cracked down on the golem sweatshops together and the rumble among werewolf gangs; he had rescued me from the back of a semi truck when I was coffin-swapped with a vampire entering the witness protection program, and he’d helped me arrest two kleptomaniac gremlins terrorizing a vampire circus. We weren’t keeping score anymore, and sometimes he even managed to kick loose a consultant’s fee when we did particularly good work for the department.
He wasn’t usually so obvious when he came in asking for a favor—unless it was something personal. “So what’s up, McGoo?”
“Oh, just wanted to check if you’d be at the Goblin Tavern tonight.”
“That’s a safe assumption. Got something on your mind?”
“If I do, will that make you want to eat my brains?”
“Very funny. With you, that would just be empty calories.”
He groaned. “And you say my jokes are bad. See you at the Tavern—first round’s on you.”
It usually was.
“Sure, see you there.” I smiled and waved, but I felt troubled as he left. Something was definitely bothering him.
I had no particular interest in the weather wizards’ campaign, except for how the rapid pace of climate change affected us all. Then the campaign landed right on our doorstep when Thunder Dick entered our office.
The weather wizard entered our offices accompanied by a gusty breeze. His tie-dyed wizard robes rippled around him, and his long brown hair and beard were windblown, probably an occupational hazard. He had a small portable sundial hanging on a thin chain at his neck.
The annoyed-looking tuxedo cat walked at his feet, always on the verge of being trampled, always a half step away from tripping his master—on purpose, it seemed.
“I am Thunder Dick,” the weathermancer said, as if expecting cheers at a campaign rally. “The Quarter needs my services as best weather wizard, and I have my heart set on public service.” He brushed down wiry strands of his beard, which sprang back out. “Can I count on your support?”
He withdrew a campaign poster from one of his voluminous multicolored sleeves and unrolled it. He showed off his picture with the bold campaign slogan, “Be a Dick Supporter!”
Sheyenne said, “We don’t endorse candidates. I’m afraid we can’t let you hang your poster here.”
Robin came out of her office. “It’s against our policy to take sides. For legal reasons.”
“And good business practices,” Sheyenne added.
The weather wizard was surprised, and he fumbled with the poster, trying to roll it back up again. “Oh, that’s not why I’m here! I want to hire you to investigate nefarious shenanigans that my opponent is perpetrating upon my reputation.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” I said, still not knowing what he meant. “We specialize in the investigation of the perpetration of nefarious shenanigans.”
Relieved, Thunder Dick unrolled his colorful flyer again. “The Quarter needs a good Dick. This is one of my intact campaign posters, but malicious vandals—no doubt hired by my opponent—have been defacing them all around the Quarter, tearing off the bottom word.” He was indignant. “Instead of saying, ‘Be a Dick Supporter,’ the poster just reads, ‘Be a Dick,’ which is much, much worse.”
I said, “Well, not much worse.” Having seen their previous skywriting duel, I assumed the vandalism was just the usual campaign rivalry. “Do you have any proof that Alastair Cumulus the Third is involved? Would you like me to go to your opponent’s campaign headquarters and have a talk with him?”
“Campaign headquarters? Ha!” Thunder Dick snorted. “He’s so stubborn and arrogant, no one would work for him. He’s running his campaign all by himself—unlike me.”
“So you have your own campaign headquarters?” Robin asked. “And staff?”
“I have my cat.” He reached toward the cat at his feet and tried to scratch his head, but the animal deftly avoided his touch. “This is my familiar, Morris.”
In a disdainful voice, the cat said, “It’s Maurice.”
Embarrassed, Thunder Dick chuckled and explained to us, “That’s just an affectation. He fancies himself an artist.”
“I am an artist, whether you can see it or not,” the cat said. “Just another reason why I loathe you.”
The weather wizard seemed embarrassed. “We’re bonded, but sometimes being in such close proximity day after day, especially with the high-pressure campaign … well, you can understand how he might get testy. I don’t know what I’d do without Morris.”
“Maurice,” the cat corrected again, dodging his master’s hand as the wizard tried to pet him. “And someday, Richard, you will find out what you’d do without me. Every afternoon when I nap in the sun, I dream about a life in which I’m not stuck with you!”
Thunder Dick let out his nervous chuckle again. “Morris likes to act out.”
“Definitely,” the cat said with a barely concealed hiss. “You don’t know half the places I pee in your apartment, or the secret little gifts I leave for you when you don’t clean out the litter box often enough.” The cat looked up at us. “Why couldn’t I have had an intelligent master? Or even an interesting one? Bad karma. I must have done something miserable in a previous life.”
Thunder Dick’s continued laughter had an edge of embarrassment. “Oh, Morris, you’re so silly!”
Disturbed, Sheyenne bent down to the cat. “But if you’re his familiar, why do you dislike him so much?”
The cat answered, “Because familiarity breeds contempt.”
We all nodded in sudden understanding. “Aah,” I said.
The weathermancer commanded our attention again. “Now, now, we don’t have to worry about my personal squabbles. Morris is on my side, no matter what he says. I need you to investigate the nefarious shenanigans being perpetrated by Alastair Cumulus. It’s not fair!”
With the competing snow, fog, rain, and wind—not to mention the nonstop and tedious coverage that filled all of the competing weather networks, twenty-four hours a day—I was more than a little jaded about the election so far. I had to ask, “And what about your own campaign tactics, Mr. Dick? Would your opponent make the same charges against you? Each side seems to have its share of mudslinging.”
Robin added, “‘He did it, too’ is not a valid defense—it’s been challenged in court.”
Thunder Dick lifted his chin and sniffed. “I assure you I’ve done nothing untoward whatsoever.”
“He’s done nothing noteworthy whatsoever,” snorted the cat.
I said, “We’ll look into your case, Mr. Dick. Is that what we should call you?” I couldn’t imagine it was his real name.
“It’s a long story.”
The cat impressed us with an extravagant yawn. “And if his name is a long story, you can see the challenge he has getting his message across.”
Robin had retrieved her special legal pad, and the magic pencil was poised to take notes. She said, “As a client, you benefit from our full nondisclosure agreement. Whatever you say to us will be kept in strictest confidence. Your identity will remain a secret.”
“Oh, I didn’t say it was secret. Just that it’s a long story. My real name is Richard Thudner, and when I became interested in weathermancy I needed an impressive stage name. All the good ones were taken, though, like Stormin’ Norman and Misty Weathers. At first I tried Lightning Dick.”
The cat interrupted, “I told him that was a bad idea.”
The wizard grinned. “I even had a catchphrase about the speed of my weathermancy, ‘Nobody comes faster than Lightning Dick!’”
I winced. “Not a good slogan.”
The weather wizard sounded defensive. “It’s supposed to mean when you need a weather wizard to come to the rescue—you know, drought, tornadoes, what have you—nobody comes faster than—”
I shook my head. “Still not good.”
“That’s what I said,” the cat repeated, “but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Thunder Dick is better anyway. A play on my own name. Thudner—Thunder. Get it?”
“Right away,” I said.
“Would you like to sign up for my newsletter?” he asked, sounding too hopeful. “The Dick Insider.”
Robin cleared her throat and somehow maintained her professionalism. “If we’re going to work on your case, Mr. Thudner, maybe we need more general information about the entire election.”
I agreed. “As in … what is the election all about? What are the two of you even running for? Most of us don’t have a clue.”
Thunder Dick looked dismayed. “People are so disinterested in politics these days. Surely you’ve seen the campaign? Aren’t you aware of the issues?”
“We know that you and Alastair Cumulus are running against each other, but I don’t think we’re even allowed to vote in the election.”
Thunder Dick blinked. “Of course not—it’s for members only. You aren’t weather wizards.”
Sheyenne said, “That’s why we haven’t paid much attention. It’s not relevant to us.”
“Not relevant? But weather affects everyone’s daily life.”
“Especially lately,” I added. “Thanks to your campaign.”
Thunder Dick explained, “Every four years there’s an election to pick who will be the next leader of Wuwufo.”
“Sounds like a head cold,” I said.
“It’s a very respectable organization. The WWFO—the Weather Wizards Fraternal Order. Very influential. Meteorologists and weather forecasters all over the world look to our guidance, but only active members of Wuwufo are allowed to vote. And choosing the most powerful weather wizard is a heavy responsibility. I’m the right candidate to lead Wuwufo, obviously.”
“Obviously,” said the cat, then yawned.
“I suppose Alastair Cumulus the Third has a different opinion?” Robin asked.
“My opponent lies! That’s why he has to resort to nefarious shenanigans. Once you prove that he’s cheating, I’ll have the election all sewn up.”
Robin’s magic pencil, apparently bored, began to doodle on the yellow paper of the legal pad. “We agree that elections should be untainted and that a campaign should be run cleanly. Fair and square. We’ll take your case, Mr. Thudner, and look into the purported shenanigans.”
The client is the client, and I don’t make judgments. I had surreptitiously tailed Harvey Jekyll to get evidence for his wife Miranda’s divorce settlement, I had exposed a Shakespeare ghost as an arsonist, and even solved a case of accidental embezzlement in an illegal cockatrice-fighting ring.
Exposing dirty campaign tricks shouldn’t be too hard.