The Zombie Bathhouse did not hold a lot of fond memories for me, but if I avoided every place in the Quarter that left a bad taste in my mouth (even though I couldn’t taste much), I’d end up stuck in the office all day.
And Lurrm was sincerely trying his best to make the Recompose Spa a legitimate, family-friendly place.
Both Sheyenne and Robin expressed dismay over the Timmy-gun pellets embedded in my back, so I promised I would see the Wannovich sisters for my monthly body maintenance that afternoon. I had planned to talk with them about Stentor’s stolen voice anyway. But first, even a zombie detective has social obligations he can’t get out of.
Recompose had a humming new neon sign with intense blue lettering. Old moss had been scrubbed off the building’s brick exterior, but fresh tendrils were already working their way up the mortar. Big signs in the barred windows announced: Grand Re-Opening! Under New Management! and Families and Larvae Welcome!
Lurrm met us at the check-in counter after a similar-looking frog demon tried to charge us entry. Lurrm clasped his little hands together and belled out his throat. “These are friends, Carrl. I have comp tickets for them.”
Robin presented the worse-for-wear water lilies, which had a strong but pleasant scent that reminded me of the peonies that had grown in a hedge near my boyhood home.
Lurrm’s enormous smile broadened further. “Oh, how thoughtful of you! Just the right touch, ayup.”
He carried the flowers while Carrl the attendant gave Robin and me plastic wristbands, but he was discomfited over what to do with Sheyenne. “It’ll work.” She extended her insubstantial arm. “So long as it’s not organic.”
“Finest plastic,” said Lurrm.
We passed through the turnstile and went down a level to the main pools. I noted a remarkable difference from this place’s previous incarnation as the Zombie Bathhouse. The last time I’d been here, when the place was managed by a fat zombie gangster, the bathhouse had a seedy appearance with patterns of mildew creeping up the tiles as if some fungus fairy had taken up drunken finger painting. Now the tiles on the walls and floor were sparkling clean.
“It’s very sanitary,” Lurrm pointed out. “No risk of communicable diseases. Bathhouses have a bad reputation, but we insist that all patrons, regardless of species, take a shower before entering our pools.”
I looked around. “You have quite a crowd already for your first full day.”
Lurrm flicked out his long tongue and then reeled it back into his wide mouth. “We gave out a lot of coupons. I’m hoping for repeat business. Ayup.”
There were three dressing rooms marked “Male,” “Female,” and “Other.” Four zombies sat together in a bubbling hot-springs pool, their eyes closed in ecstasy, their slack mouths open and emitting a long string of vowels. Another gray-skinned undead shuffled past with a white towel wrapped around his waist, though it didn’t quite cover his wrinkled butt crack.
“We just opened a new set of pools with the proper chemical and marsh balance,” Lurrm said. “Recompose is an amphibian-friendly bathhouse. We even set up an egg-laying pond, but it’s currently for employees only.”
We heard squeals and splashing from a separate kiddie pool. When we were drawn to the sounds of mirth, I expected to see pint-sized zombies, but instead the shallow pool was full of black torpedo-shaped creatures with slick skin and broad sucker mouths.
Lurrm explained, “Zombie kids have priority if they want to use the pool, but for now it also doubles as a tadpole pond.”
Catering to all possible customers, a concession counter sold lemonade, electrolyte drinks, self-serve blood packets, and even embalming fluid, for both oral and intravenous consumption.
The mineral pools were at different temperatures, burbling up from deep aquifers with a sulfur smell. Runoff slopped onto the floor and flowed down into drains. Frog-demon attendants skimmed the floating scum from the pools.
“We plan to open up spa services, too, including manicures, claw restoration, facials—ayup, there’s a demand for that.” Lurrm’s throat belled in and out.
I said, “I’ve always advocated for zombies to take care of themselves. Look at me.” I touched my face, felt the firmness of the skin there. “Once you let yourself go, there’s no coming back.”
Robin inhaled deeply, and her forehead furrowed with questions. “The disinfectant is strong—and I’m used to the usual odor of zombies.” She glanced at me with an embarrassed look on her face. “No offense, Dan.”
“I’m a zombie, no denying it.”
“But there’s also an undertone of”—she sniffed again—“sewage?”
“Can’t be helped,” Lurrm said. “With the refurbishing and the expansion, we’re connected to the greater sewer network. But if we bring in large enough zombie crowds, no one will notice the smell.”
Lurrm placed the lily pads on the surface of one of the unoccupied pools, spreading out the fleshy green leaves as if he were laying out placemats. He stepped back to regard his work. “Charming! Ayup.”
Next, he showed us a set of wooden doors. “A bathhouse and day spa would be nothing without a sauna. We imported the wood from Finland for that authentic touch. There’s an automated water-dispensing system to maintain a high level of steam.” He yanked open the door, and we were greeted by an unpleasant ripe stench. A skeleton sat on one of the wooden benches, lounging back, with a towel wrapped around his pelvis. On the floor at his bony feet was a pile of sloughed-off flesh.
Lurrm groaned. “They’re supposed to limit their time in the sauna to fifteen minutes. I hate it when they stay in too long.” He closed the door.
Sheyenne let out a startled gasp, then chuckled. A disembodied hand scuttled across the floor, running on its fingers like a spider. It crawled to a damp towel that had been discarded on the tiles, held it between thumb and forefinger, then used the other three fingers to drag the towel toward a bin. The crawling hand deposited the towel where it belonged, then scuttled away. Prowling across the floor, it picked up another towel and continued its tedious work of cleaning up.
Lurrm was delighted. “That’s Crawling Hand, or C.H. for short. He’s very handy and eager to please, ayup. Does so many errands around here, I don’t know what I’d do without C.H. He’s my right-hand man—except he’s a leftie.” He called out, “C.H., come and meet our guests.”
The disembodied hand trotted over, bounced up and down on its fingers, then popped into the air. I reached out to catch it, and the hand seized my grip to shake it.
I swung my hand around, with C.H. still attached, and passed him on to Robin, who also shook the hand vigorously, while Sheyenne merely waved.
“Where did he come from?” I asked.
The frog demon shrugged. “Not quite sure. Somebody just left it here. You should see how much he helps in the massage rooms. C.H. can work stiff and sore muscles so you forget all about rigor mortis.”
Robin set C.H. on the floor, and he waggled his index finger at her, wanting something. She bent down. “I don’t understand. What is he asking?” She looked up at Lurrm.
“It’s just one of those pull-my-finger gags. Don’t fall for it. Go on, C.H., run along.” The frog demon shooed away the disembodied hand, who scuttled off and picked up a candy wrapper that someone had dropped. Crumpling it in the palm of his hand—clearly annoyed with sloppy and discourteous patrons—C.H. hopped over to a trash can and tossed the balled wrapper in, making an expert rim shot.
Lurrm insisted that Robin stay for a lemonade, which she sipped while we met in Lurrm’s private office. He was clearly proud to show us where he had hung the framed business license and sales tax certificate on his wall. Rubbing his soft hands together, he said, “Ms. Deyer, humans are welcome too. I know you have a stressful job—come down here for a soak. Relax a bit. I’d always be happy to have you and Mr. Shamble here.”
“I’ll think about it,” Robin said, which was her polite way of saying, No, thank you.
For myself, I couldn’t drive away the image of being forced to sit in a hot pool next to the obese crime lord with his perpetual and offensive outgassing. “Maybe another time,” I said.