mouthful of gangrene-tainted blood. “Straight Edge jerks.”
“Have they ever bothered you?”
She reacted as if I’d insulted her. “Bunch of pussies. They’re all about juvenile scare tactics, like throwing eggs at windows or toilet-papering houses. Show them a little fang, and they piss their pants and run away.” She chuckled. “They should piss holy water with all their self-righteousness, but it smells just like regular piss. Who’s the client?”
The treadmill program accelerated, and I had to work hard to keep up. “Sheldon Fennerman.”
Tiffany lit up. “I know him. He helped me with the interior design of my place. Sweet guy.” Her expression darkened. “Just the sort of person those bullies would pick on. Assholes . . . but I wouldn’t worry about it too much. The Straight Edgers are about as dangerous as a dog turd on a jogging path.”
“You don’t think they’ll follow through on their threats?”
“Somebody needs to take them out behind the woodshed. If they ever caused real harm, it would be by accident. Don’t lose any sleep over them.”
I continued to run on the treadmill, keeping up a good pace now. “I don’t sleep much anyway.”
CHAPTER 19
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 Transylvania, 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