desktop was covered with widemouthed jars, pump bottles, and squeeze tubes of skin creams and lotions. As I followed her into the office, Neffi picked up a bottle in one clawlike hand, squirted a dollop of a honeysuckle-scented cream, and rubbed it on the skin of her upper arms.
A four-drawer metal filing cabinet stood against the far wall. A dozen manila folders lay strewn on her desk, each with a name written on the tab. Clients? Or maybe the Full Moon customers put their names on a mailing list.
“Thank you for coming.” She let out a brief cackle. “That’s a line we use whenever satisfied clients leave: Thank you for coming! Not an original joke, but it goes with the territory. Have a seat.”
Unlike the plush bordello lounges in the lobby, Neffi’s private room had standard office chairs. I was glad the madam intended to treat this as a straightforward interview; Sheyenne was sure to question me about what happened there.
A fish tank filled with dead, floating goldfish sat on a waist-high credenza next to an antique grandfather clock that had stopped ticking long ago. Through an open door in the back of the office, I could see a dim private bedroom with several canopic jars and an Egyptian sarcophagus where Neffi no doubt slept. She also had an actual bed for the occasional discriminating customer, but banker’s boxes and stacks of paper were piled on the mattress.
I lowered myself onto the hard chair. My knees felt more stiff than usual today, the result of sitting on the damp cemetery grass during the previous night’s Shakespeare performance.
Neffi took a seat behind the desk and folded her clawlike hands together into a macramé of knuckles. On the floor were three small sarcophagi carved in the images of cats. Neffi set one of the ornate containers in her lap and began stroking the carved feline head. “These were my pets in ancient Egypt, mummified and placed in the tomb with me so they could be my companions through eternal life. Even though they weren’t restored to life in the Big Uneasy, they’re still my beloved cats.”
I wanted to get down to business. “Your request was rather vague, Madame Neffi. How can I help you?”
She pulled her chair closer to the desk. “At Full Moon, we’re in the pleasure business. It’s a necessary service, and unnaturals have needs just like anyone else. Those needs tend to be a bit different, but no less legitimate. We have an understanding with the police department.” She picked up several files, glanced at them, and not quite accidentally let me see the names on the tabs. One I recognized as McGoo’s watch commander.
“We also cater to human clients who like to take a walk on the dark side—it gives them a thrill, and the girls say humans tend to tip better anyway. You know, when a zombie tells you to keep the tip, you have to be careful what he really means. . . .” She waited for me to laugh, so I did. Just to be polite. It reminded me of McGoo’s jokes.
Neffi squirted another blob of lotion and rubbed her hands. “I may not look it now, Mr. Chambeaux, but I was quite a dish in my day. Cleopatra and Nefertiti had nothing on me. Wealthy patrons showered me with gifts, which allowed me to build myself a large tomb, designed by the best interior decorator on the Nile. Gold, lapis lazuli, pearls. When I came back, I had the stake I needed to open this business. I’m a competent businesswoman, and I know how to run the oldest profession—it’s been around even longer than I have.” She cackled again. “I thought I was all set.”
“So why do you require my services?”
“Because I’m being intimidated! The Full Moon has been the target of vandalism, attempted arson, threatening letters thrown through windows. Someone’s trying to drive us out of the Quarter, and I need to put a stop to it. Nervous clientele are often limp clientele.”
Remembering the pathetic lone demonstrator at the Shakespeare play—God Hates Unnaturals—I asked, “Does Senator Balfour have anything to do with it?”
Neffi’s expression shriveled up even further, though I hadn’t imagined that was possible. “No, not that dickhead. It’s organized crime moving in, Mr. Chambeaux. Wiseguys who think they can intimidate a five-thousand-year-old mummy. But they picked the wrong bitch to mess with!”
I was surprised I hadn’t heard of it. “Organized crime is trying to move into the necrophilia and prostitution racket?”