Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,22

law—Egyptian case law. Look at this clause here, under paragraph six, subclause B.” He pointed to drawings that showed a sphinx, a bird, and squiggly lines that might have been water. “Right there, as plain as day: Shall I read it aloud? Bird, foot, round thing, another bird. How can opposing counsel argue? You need only show this to a qualified judge, and I shall be freed from captivity within the week.”

“That might be a tad optimistic, Mr. Ho-Tep,” Robin said. “The Metropolitan Museum will oppose the emancipation petition. They’ll question your status as a human being, or they might claim that you’re not capable of taking care of yourself. Or they could bring in an expert from the Health Department to testify that your moldy old bandages are a public health hazard, and therefore you can’t be allowed to roam free.” She gave him a look of great concern. “They’ll try to humiliate you in front of a jury.”

The mummy was furious. “This is not possible! I was Pharaoh of all Egypt!”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” I interrupted, “but it won’t necessarily impress a judge.” In general, I prefer to give my clients a realistic view of their cases.

Robin chimed in, still optimistic. “Don’t worry, we’ll do everything legally possible to ensure your emancipation.”

“Please hurry,” the mummy said. “I’ve waited thousands of years. I simply can’t bear it anymore.”

After Ramen Ho-Tep shuffled back to the museum, Robin used a small hand vacuum to clean up the dust and debris he had left behind on the conference table, while I pitched in with a carpet sweeper to get rid of the larger pieces on the floor.

“I think I’ll call it a day,” I said. “I’m going to stop by the Goblin Tavern.”

“I’ll put in a few more hours here before I go upstairs,” Robin said. No surprise. We both spent more time working than in our individual apartments above the office.

Sometimes I worried about her. She worked herself to the bone, gave 110 percent to her clients, felt every ounce of their pain, reflected their righteous indignation. She was always optimistic, utterly convinced that Justice would prevail and Truth would win in the end. How could I not love her for it? But I worried about her.

Robin and I—and Sheyenne—were a good team. Most of the cases were satisfying . . . except for the one that had killed me.

CHAPTER 10

Half of a private detective’s job is simply keeping your eyes and ears open and going to places where people are willing to let their guard down and talk. That’s why you see so many PIs frequenting bars and nightclubs. It’s work-related. Really.

The Goblin Tavern is the sort of hangout you’d expect, a homey and dingy place where everybody knows your name, but they don’t hold it against you. A long wooden bar lined with stools, some of them wide and reinforced for the larger customers; a handful of dark tables with splintered wooden chairs; an array of liquor bottles on the top and bottom shelves; three taps for beer; a medical-grade refrigerator for donated blood packs, soy blood, and a special stainless-steel locker for the good stuff.

Cobwebs were carefully cultivated along the rafters and in the corners; one big glass jar held pickled eggs in a murky fluid, right next to a nearly identical jar filled with preserved eyeballs; the two jars had different-colored screw lids, so customers wouldn’t get confused. Shrink-wrapped packets of jerky, made from a wide variety of flesh, filled a cardboard box next to the cash register.

Ilgar, the goblin owner, hated the place and hated the customers. In his lair in the back room, you might catch a glimpse of him, hear the clack and chatter of his adding machine, maybe a muttered curse when the ledgers didn’t add up to his satisfaction. He was rarely seen working the bar.

Because it’s my business to collect information, I knew a secret about Ilgar and his tavern, but I kept it to myself. He was in very serious negotiations with an outside food-and-drink conglomerate, the Smile Syndicate, that wanted to franchise the Goblin Tavern—a great relief for Ilgar, no doubt. The guys-in-ties were exploring the possibility of opening a chain of duplicate Goblin Taverns across the country, catering to curious humans who wanted a safe taste of the Unnatural Quarter, something like the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland, except with plenty of alcohol available.

Many humans are morbidly fascinated by the dark side of the city. Large, secure tour buses