The men’s locker room was empty, now that Ralph the Mayan mummy had finished his shower, and the werewolf was gone, although he had left drifts of long brown hairs on the floor, in the sink, and on the countertop. I took a quick rinse-off just to freshen up, dried myself gently so as not to slough off any skin, and dressed in my street clothes.
As a convenience to the All-Day/All-Nite patrons, a variety of JLPN shampoos, cream rinses, and body washes were provided in the showers. By the sinks and mirrors, I found spritzers of deodorant and small bottles of colorful colognes and aftershaves, each with a splashy sticker announcing Coming Soon: New Fresh Loam Scent! I declined to use any of it. Who was I trying to impress, anyway?
I had a long night ahead of me. I considered heading off to Harvey Jekyll’s mansion, where I could crawl into the bushes and keep an eye out for nefarious goings-on, but I doubted Jekyll would be so obvious. Or I could return to Basilisk, talk to the bartender and Ivory to ferret out more information about who had poisoned Sheyenne. Or who had shot me.
When I emerged onto the main thoroughfare in Little Transyl-vania, I immediately spotted the plaid sport jacket. Since I knew Brondon Morris went about his nightly rounds, it was no surprise to see him out here, but I didn’t expect him to be walking with another man of smaller build in a low-slouched hat and a trench coat with the collar turned up.
Instead of being his usual cheery self, handing out samples and greeting customers, Brondon was definitely sneaking around. The two men scuttled down the street, hugging the night shadows, which were plentiful. When they turned down a side alley, they acted like two lungfish crawling out of the mud, scurrying across dry land, then ducking into a brackish pool on the other side.
Very interesting.
After my workout, I was limbered up, and thanks to the shower and reasonably clean clothes, I had no particular smell about me, so I was able to follow them without being noticed. Halfway down a dark street, Brondon paused, holding up his hand, and his friend froze. I melted into the shadows beside a rusty drainpipe and an overflowing Dumpster. In the pale light of the waxing moon, I caught a glimpse of the mysterious man’s face between the slouched hat and the upturned collar.
Harvey Jekyll! I had struck the jackpot.
Though I prefer to achieve results through sheer detective prowess, I don’t complain when dumb luck takes a hand. This opportunity had fallen right on top of me like a drunken lap dancer in a strip club.
Brondon and Jekyll moved off again, and I followed at a discreet distance. The two men haunted the back streets, going to places I never would have ventured when I was still alive—empty buildings and warehouses, long rows of storage units, a lot filled with old delivery trucks. Other than a few bats flying overhead, nothing stirred out here. The street was like a ghost town, and I had to drop back.
Far from the crowded main avenues, Brondon moved with a jaunty step, and Harvey Jekyll strutted along, anxious to be somewhere. Ahead, I watched the pair of figures approach a large boarded-up warehouse with a flat asphalt roof and painted letters peeling off a cinder-block wall:
Chaney & Son
Body Snatchers For Hire
At first glance the place looked as if it had gone out of business long before the Big Uneasy, but as I studied it with greater care, noted the precisely arranged old trash along the walls and the weeds that grew up between stones and chinks in the wall, I suspected that this ramshackle look was a cultivated appearance. It looked too pat, too staged.
When I edged closer, I accidentally kicked a dented beer can, making a clatter. (Have you ever seen a graceful zombie?) The two men whirled, and I melted into the shadows. I held my breath, metaphorically speaking. Where was an easily startled alley cat when you needed one? Eventually the men moved on.
Brondon Morris and Harvey Jekyll walked up to a rectangle of plywood hung on hinges, a makeshift door. Jekyll rapped on it with his knuckles, and the hinged plywood swung open, spilling yellow glow into the night. Both men shielded their eyes from the glare.
A large figure loomed in the doorway, a linebacker-sized human wearing a business suit. Behind the door guard, I spotted dozens of men inside the warehouse. I heard a buzz of conversation. A party where no one seemed to be having fun.
The door guard recognized the two new arrivals and stepped aside to let them into the warehouse. Before closing the plywood door, the big suit scanned the darkness, though he couldn’t possibly have seen anything with his eyes accustomed to the bright interior lights. He yanked the door shut.
I crept up to the Chaney & Son warehouse and discovered that the windows weren’t just boarded up: They had been packed with insulation, so that I could hear only faint muffled voices coming from within, no actual words. I approached the plywood door, hoping to discern words through the crack, but again no luck. So I melted back into the dark and waited for hours, watching, just to see what might happen.
Just before dawn, the door opened again and three disguised men emerged, scuttled around the corner, and disappeared down another street. I didn’t recognize them. Two more nondescript men left in a different direction, then another trio, and the rest came out by pairs. I counted twenty attendees at the mysterious meeting, but with all the hats and upturned collars, I had no idea which ones were Brondon and Jekyll when they left. The perfume salesman must have traded his loud plaid sports jacket for a trench coat.
The burly doorman was the last to leave. He turned off the lights, shoved the plywood door shut, then fixed two padlocks in place.
Miranda Jekyll would find this very interesting. I decided to dig into the background of the Chaney & Son building, see if I found any connections to Harvey Jekyll.
Preferably something illegal.