The Unnatural Quarter is a dark, convoluted place that has bad parts of town and worse parts of town. Even after my years here, there were still plenty of backstreets and byways with which I was unfamiliar, eccentric shops to peruse, restaurants to try, nightclubs to visit, alleys to avoid entirely.
Cralo’s Spare Parts Emporium had not even been on my list, and now I visited the place with a certain amount of trepidation as well as—I admit it—curiosity. Good thing Sheyenne accompanied me, not so much as a bodyguard, but as a companion. There are worse things than being haunted by a beautiful blond ghost.
The Emporium—which I now realized was just a fancy name for “warehouse”—seemed like a typical chop shop, providing used, currently unused, and unusual body parts to the entire Quarter. For ambience, the warehouse was near an abandoned skeletal railroad bridge. The location was definitely toward the latter end of the bad-to-worse part of town.
Seeing the place, Sheyenne said, “I’m not surprised Dr. Victor prefers to do his shopping online.”
The corrugated Quonset hut looked like a dead caterpillar in the middle of a gravel parking lot that was dotted with oil-stained brown puddles. A billboard rode on top of the curved roof, lit by a row of bent spotlights: Tony Cralo’s Spare Parts Emporium—Walk-Ins Welcome. Another sign leaned against the open front door: Yes, we sell direct to the public! Showroom now open!
“It says all parts are one hundred percent organic,” Sheyenne said. “That can’t be all bad.”
“I can think of ways it would be all bad.”
We moved forward. A few cars and pickup trucks were parked haphazardly outside the Emporium. We saw two men wrestling with a lumpy rolled-up Persian rug, which they carried through a back door marked “Deliveries.”
Several furtive customers emerged from the front door carrying wrapped packages. An older human couple, both bespectacled, wandered inside; like a gentleman, the man held the door for his wife. They looked like a pair going antiquing on a weekend.
“I’m surprised to see so many customers,” I said. “Who would have guessed there’s such a demand for the spare-parts trade?”
“Body building must be a more popular hobby than we thought, Beaux. Probably mad scientists window-shopping.”
I figured there must be other legitimate uses—medical research, morticians needing to fill out or fix up a client, maybe even high-end gourmet flesh-processing plants for discriminating cannibalistic customers.
The foot traffic made our job easier; we didn’t have to call attention to ourselves. Sheyenne and I blended in, and entered just behind the elderly couple.
Inside, the Emporium was an amazing place, well lit, with row upon row of fully stocked shelves. A color-coded map on the wall segregated the warehouse by species (Cralo catered to humans as well as most known unnaturals).
“It’s like an IKEA for body parts,” I said.
“You should take me to IKEA,” Sheyenne said. “We could furnish your apartment.”
I picked up a small wire basket for impulse buys, so we could maintain our cover as we walked up and down the aisles. There were severed hands and claws of all types, replacement lungs and hearts. A showcase area had framed samples of flayed skin and fur “For All Uses,” without specifying any of the aforementioned uses.
Aisles were labeled: Skeletal Replacement, Soft Tissue Sundries, Kidneys (Two-for-One Special); one whole alcove was devoted to eyeballs. A rack of hardware store drawers contained teeth, separated and labeled. Fingers and toes were in the bargain bins.
Sheyenne flitted ahead, fascinated. “Reminds me of my med school classes. I wish I’d known about this place when I was in school.” She stopped in front of rolls labeled “Bulk Muscle, Guaranteed Steroid-Free.”
There were bins of bones sorted by size, as well as a grinder and a bread-making machine. A Home Fashion section advertised decorative tumors, intestines dyed various colors (sold by the foot). Feet were also sold by the foot.
Jars and cans held cranial fluid under several brand labels; spray bottles had multipurpose mucus. Self-service plasma dispensers stood next to a large aquarium in which floated glands, ducts, and small organs, kept moist and fresh. It reminded me of forlorn lobsters in a tank at a seafood restaurant.
Thinking of the eviscerated vampire corpse in the Motel Six Feet Under, I wondered if the Vampire Parts section had any new arrivals. “We should tell McGoo about this place.”
“You think he wants to take up body building?” Sheyenne asked.
“I think he might be curious as to where all these body parts come from.”
A floor salesman was explaining to an older necromancer, “Our specimens are of the highest quality. Flash-frozen or vacuum-sealed in bags to preserve freshness.”
“But where do they all come from?” the necromancer asked, his eyes sparkling with wonder. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a selection like this.”
“Some come from murder victims, some from executed murderers, unclaimed bodies in the morgue, maybe an indigent or two. A few fell off the truck.” The salesman chuckled. “Some were run over by a truck. We buy in quantity so we can keep the prices down. The titles are free and clear on everything we sell.”
With a sober nod, the necromancer tapped his chin. “I’d hate to have someone come shambling by asking for their pieces back.”
“That’s never happened, I assure you, sir!” the salesman said, bustling off with the necromancer. “We have a complete customer satisfaction policy.”
“We’ll see about that,” I muttered. When Archibald Victor had tried to lodge a complaint, he couldn’t reach their customer service department. No one had answered the phone or responded to his written complaints.
As was typical for a large store, when I tried to find a salesperson to help us, they were entirely invisible. Finally, at the back of the warehouse Sheyenne found an office marked “Floor Manager, Xandy Huff,” and she guided me there.
The door was partly closed, and before I could knock, I heard shouts from the office. “We shouldn’t have kept you on after the first time, Francis—you’re fired! Give me your badge!”
“B-but Mr. Huff—I need this job!” It was a nasal phlegmy voice, not entirely human. “How am I going to eat?”
“Eating’s what got you into trouble in the first place—this isn’t a restaurant! How can I justify this to Mr. Cralo?”
“Please don’t tell him!” The voice quavered, palpably frightened. “Just give me my paycheck, and I’ll leave.”
“Mr. Cralo decides whether you even get your last paycheck. We’d be within our rights to deduct the lost materials from your wages. Come back tomorrow after I’ve discussed it with him. For now, I want you out of here!”
The door flung open, and a sick-looking, greasy-skinned ghoul tottered out, panicked and uncoordinated. He had lank, lumpy hair; his face was emaciated. His crooked and broken teeth looked like random glass chips. Sniffling and sniveling, he careened into me, then walked directly through Sheyenne’s incorporeal form. “Excuse me. Sorry!”
He reeled away, and Sheyenne remarked on the oily smear the ghoul’s residue had left on my sport jacket. “I suppose it needed cleaning anyway.”
I pushed into the floor manager’s office, taking advantage of the man’s emotional state. Better to spring my problem while Huff was in a huff, when his guard might be down. “Excuse me, Mr. Floor Manager …”
The man behind the desk had a bald pate surrounded by a fringe of dark hair, and his jowly face was punctuated by a thick black mustache. He did not look like the sort to give encouraging talks to his employees, even when he wasn’t having a bad day.
“Damn ghouls, eating on the job.” He stuffed an employee badge (presumably from the freshly fired ghoul) into an envelope and slid it into a metal rack of time cards on the wall behind him. “What do you want?” He ran his gaze up and down my form. “You need a job? We just had an opening. You look like you’re used to handling dead things.”
“I’m here for a customer.”
“A customer?” Xandy Huff changed his entire demeanor; he even managed a half smile. “How can I help you? Please call me Xandy—short for Alexander, but not quite Andy.”
“I’m Dan Chambeaux, private investigator, and this is my associate Sheyenne. One of our clients, a Mr. Archibald Victor, asked me to help him pursue a complaint and investigate your operations. He showed us evidence of substandard parts, damaged goods, and mislabeled items that he’s ordered from your catalog.”
Xandy looked uncomfortable. “I don’t see how that could happen. Why didn’t he contact us directly instead of hiring a detective?”
“He’s called numerous times and sent several letters.”
“Oh. Our complaint line has been disconnected to better serve our customers, and all complaint letters are carefully looked into, on a regular basis.”
“How regular?” Sheyenne asked.
“At least every six months.”
“That explains a lot,” I said. “Before pursuing legal action, our client wants to invoke your complete customer satisfaction guarantee.”
“Certainly!” The man seemed very solicitous. “We believe in customer satisfaction.”
I took out a folded piece of paper from my jacket pocket. “This is a list of items and order numbers, primarily a brain and a spleen, both of which were damaged. Dr. Victor would like to receive appropriate replacement organs or get his money back.”
“We also think he’s entitled to an extra set of lungs, to make up for the inconvenience,” Sheyenne added.
Annoyed, Xandy Huff took the list and skimmed it. “The spleen is no problem, got plenty of those, if you have his receipt and his original purchase order. But the brain, that’s difficult. There’s always a shortage of brains around here. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Cralo himself.”
“What about one hundred percent customer satisfaction?” Sheyenne asked.
“You’ll be satisfied. Mr. Cralo prefers to deal with complainers face-to-face. He makes them an offer they can’t refuse. So far, we’ve had no repeat complaints.” Huff glowered at us both, as if he thought we would be intimidated, but I’m not a zombie who gives up easily.
“And where can I find Mr. Cralo?” I asked. “I’ll go speak with him right now.”
Xandy seemed alarmed. “Really? Do you have any idea—?”
“No idea whatsoever, but I do need to get this resolved.”
Sheyenne added, “Dr. Victor is our client, and at Chambeaux and Deyer we also have a customer satisfaction guarantee.”
“Suit yourselves. It’s your funeral.”
“Already had one,” I said.
“Me, too,” Sheyenne said.
Xandy gave me an address. “Mr. Cralo spends most of his time at the Zombie Bathhouse. You can find him there.”
“Zombie … Bathhouse?” Sheyenne’s ghostly form shuddered. “I’m afraid you’re on your own for this part, Beaux.”