It was an excellent idea. A man like Irwyn Goodfellow might indeed be able to integrate the hundred golems into society. Satisfied to have found a possible solution, I finished my cookie and waved farewell to Mrs. Saldana and her zombie helper.
Jerry just leaned against the push broom, looked up, and let out a low moan.
CHAPTER 5
Private investigators don’t usually make house calls for initial consultations, but when the madam asked me to come to the Full Moon brothel on an urgent matter, I decided to make an exception. Strictly business, of course.
The Full Moon was a big row house with a full porch, dusty blue siding, and fake shutters on the windows. The two adjacent houses had been condemned and sat empty and available, in case Full Moon decided to expand their operations.
Once I stepped into the parlor, I found myself facing the receptionist, who was all teeth—pointed ones—in a professional smile. She was a slender, slinky wolf-woman who wore only a black negligee and panties that didn’t cover much. With a wide hairbrush, she languidly stroked the reddish fur on her arms and thighs. According to the name tag on the reception desk, her name was Cinnamon.
She licked her muzzle. “Girls, we’ve got a live one—or a dead one. At any rate, it’s a customer.”
“Not a customer,” I corrected her. “I’m here to see a Miss . . . Neffi?”
“Ooh, he wants the madam! Starting right at the top.”
“You think he wants to be laid to rest?”
Two vampire princesses, a strawberry blonde and a brunette, came out to regard me with their large hypnotic eyes, followed by a pair of pallid and long-haired zombie girls who would have delighted a Tim Burton casting director. The zombie girls introduced themselves as Savannah and Aubrey; the vampire princesses had more flowery names, Nightshade and Hemlock.
The Full Moon was appointed in lavish—or gaudy, depending on your point of view—bordello décor, with an abundance of blood-colored velvet, chaise lounges strategically placed so the girls could lie back and look sexy, overstuffed chairs where clients would relax and have a cigar or sip a glass of their favorite intoxicating beverage. A curving grand staircase led upstairs to a series of rooms. Three of the doors were closed, behind which I heard what might have been sounds of pleasure, of one form or another. Everything about the place suggested “ill repute.”
One other girl remained in the downstairs hall, endearingly shy. She was small and waifish with bobbed red hair in a tight perm; her emerald-green eyes showed not the slightest hint of a reptilian slit. She had elfin features and a pointed chin, and her whole demeanor had a little orphan “please hold me and take care of me” vibe that brought out the full-fledged paternal instinct even in a guy like me, who had no paternal instinct whatsoever.
It took me a moment to realize that this was the brothel’s resident succubus. Her name was Ruth.
One of the vampire princesses interrupted my thoughts. “You sure you want to see the old lady?” Hemlock was a buxom, ebony-haired beauty in a white nightgown that wasn’t much more than a tangle of cobwebs. “A man like you needs someone with youth and vigor, not a dried-up, ancient—”
“Maybe he prefers someone with experience,” said a husky voice as a door opened from a main office adjacent to the main sitting room. “Lots of experience.” I turned around to see the Full Moon’s madam, Neffi, standing there in all her (theoretical) splendor.
I removed my fedora. “I’m Dan Chambeaux, ma’am. You called me here for an appointment?”
“We have plenty to discuss, Mr. Chambeaux.” She gestured me toward her office. “This is business, girls.”
“I thought it was all business,” said one of the pretty corpse girls.
“When’s the last time you had an actual client, Neffi?” huffed the werewolf receptionist, which elicited a chorus of good-natured chuckles from the ladies.
“Don’t mind them, Mr. Chambeaux,” Neffi purred. “Come into my parlor.”
The madam was an unwrapped, well-preserved Egyptian mummy with leathery brown skin stretched tightly over sticklike bones. Her breasts looked as hard as knots on an old log of firewood. Her lips were pulled back to show yellowed teeth in what might have been a smile or just a desiccated rictus. Her eyes were like black lumps of burned-out coal.
Her gray metal business desk was similar to what might be found in any Cold War–era government office; in addition to the in-box and a telephone, the