my heart melt. Let’s have a round of applause for Irwyn Goodfellow and all of the Monster Legal Defense Workers.”
Everyone clapped, except for Alphonse Wheeler himself, whose hands were full.
“What’s he up to now?” I asked Robin, suspicious already. When Wheeler was alive and robbing banks, he had been quite an attention-getter. This was just the sort of thing the bored and restless ghost would do before causing trouble.
“I’d like to give the MLDW Society my personal support, put my money where my mouth is. I’ve just come into quite a large stash.” He shrugged. “I found it, couldn’t say where it was from.” He handed Robin the bunch of flowers, then unzipped the duffel to display wads and wads of cash.
“That’s your stash of stolen money, Mr. Wheeler,” Robin said. “I already told you, the cash doesn’t belong to you.”
“Who can say where I got the money? Maybe it fell off a truck. But instead of using it for my own selfish needs, I want to donate it all to the Monster Legal Defense Workers.”
Everybody cheered and whistled. Hope Saldana looked especially delighted.
“I’m happy to accept the donation, Mr. Wheeler,” said Irwyn Goodfellow. “We can place it in our holding accounts to continue our good work. In fact, it will go a long way to help pay for my new zombie rehabilitation clinic that opens in a few days.”
Wheeler was beaming. “By all means, use it for that purpose!”
Robin cautioned in a low voice so as not to dampen the buzz of excitement, “The insurance companies will come after this, claiming it’s theirs.”
“Maybe,” I whispered back to her, “but they’ll look like fools if they try to take it from a charity.”
Instigated by Bill and Tiffany, the hundred golems let out three cheers, in an eerie, perfect unison, for Alphonse Wheeler and Irwyn Goodfellow. Then, although I’m not sure they realized the humor or the pun, they sang a boisterous chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
CHAPTER 18
In order to help Jerry the zombie, I decided to keep an eye on Timeworn Treasures. Actually, two eyes, since both of mine still remained firmly attached in their sockets.
I had asked McGoo for a favor, to make up some reason to flash his badge and demand a look at the pawnshop ledger book while I happened to be standing next to him. But favors only went so far—unless I could provide evidence that some kind of crime had been committed, McGoo had no basis for a warrant. Jerry had voluntarily pawned his heart and soul, and Snazz could sell it to anyone he liked. He was under no legal obligation to reveal the purchaser no matter how nicely I asked.
But I could still watch the store.
At an outdoor café conveniently located across from the pawnshop’s shadowy alley, I bought a cup of coffee, the special extra-bitter blend, took a seat, and watched the pedestrians go by. The café had introduced a new two-sided menu—one for unnatural tastes and one for human tourists.
At the table next to mine, three tourists chattered about the everyday sights in the Quarter; the woman took photos of every werewolf, vampire, or zombie that wandered by, while her two companions studied the cartoony chamber-of-commerce map and a guidebook as if it were one of those star maps to the homes of Hollywood celebrities. The photographer waved at me and took several photos; her camera was enormous, far larger than was practical or necessary. She encouraged her two companions—husband and brother, presumably—to stand next to me and have their photos taken. Enough of that, and I shooed them away. I was in the middle of a discreet stakeout.
Across the street, a new adult novelty boutique had opened up, featuring items for natural, unnatural, and combined tastes. The shop was named Unnatural Acts, a deliberate jab at Senator Balfour’s crusade. Safe, Fun, Unusual.
For the grand opening, the adult-shop owners had strung black crepe paper around the door, filled black helium balloons, and set out colorful reflective pinwheels that remained motionless in the forlorn hope of a breeze. A blackboard advertised the daily specials, toys that sounded like torture devices, the usual assortment of whips, spiked collars, and manacles that you would find in any traditional adult novelty shop, as well as a list of items that, I had to admit with some embarrassment, were complete mysteries to me.
Now, I’m well preserved and still capable—at least judging by my morning stiffness in the usual place, as well as a