mummy madam, very much wanting to help the poor succubus. “Give me a few days to figure out something for her.”
“All right, Mr. Chambeaux—I owe you a favor,” Neffi said. “A small one.”
I retrieved my fedora from Mike the golem hat rack, and left, already putting my detective skills to good use.
CHAPTER 28
Irwyn Goodfellow never seemed to tire of doing good deeds, and I couldn’t keep track of all his charitable projects. Fortunately, Chambeaux & Deyer received a high-end engraved invitation for his gala ribbon-cutting ceremony at his new zombie rehab clinic, Fresh Corpses. Sheyenne and I attended, although Robin stayed in the office, swamped with casework for the Pattersons.
The plastic-and-leather surgery facility specialized in restorative operations for zombies who had lost body parts, articulated joints, or large sections of musculature or skin. A team of skilled surgeons, morticians, seamstresses, and upholsterers offered community service work for the free clinic. Zombies could shamble in with no questions asked. Skilled wood-carvers and animatronics specialists who were laid off from Hollywood (when studios could simply hire a real monster, why spend a large budget on special effects?) provided prosthetic limbs and replacements for the less fortunate undead.
In front of the whitewashed clinic, an engraved granite block read: ALL WELCOME. Irwyn Goodfellow stood behind a podium at the entry. “It brings me such great joy to do this. Zombies need no longer be afraid to come out in the daylight. Fresh Corpses has fifty beds and a complete staff to take care of your needs.”
“Cute nurses, too?” yelled one of the zombies in the audience.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Irwyn answered—by which I knew he meant no, the nurses are not very attractive—but he used this as a springboard to continue, “And you are all beautiful people, no matter how badly you may be falling apart, no matter which choices you made in life or death. You deserve a second chance, or a third chance. Nobody’s keeping score. This privately funded clinic will make you whole again so you can be productive citizens.”
Hope Saldana stood beside him and spoke into the microphone. “On behalf of the Monster Legal Defense Workers, we officially declare the Fresh Corpses facility open! It will help zombies with their physical needs.” The old woman’s voice cracked as she looked out at Jerry, who stood where she had propped him. Alas, restorative surgery would not help Jerry with his missing heart and soul.
Even with Snazz murdered, I hadn’t given up yet on discovering who had purchased the bundle pack from the pawnshop. McGoo would get back to me soon; a simple glance at the ledger book, and then I could go make the new owner an offer he couldn’t refuse, or at least we could start bargaining.
A wide red ribbon was stretched from one lintel post to the other. Mrs. Saldana offered a large and very sharp pair of silver scissors to Irwyn. “Would you like to do the honors, Mr. Goodfellow?”
He pushed them back toward Mrs. Saldana. “Please, after all the fine things you’ve accomplished in the Unnatural Quarter, you should be the one to do it.”
While she loved to help unfortunates, Mrs. Saldana did not like to be the center of attention—except when she was leading hymns or sermonizing to her patchwork congregation. Despite her obvious embarrassment, Goodfellow raised his voice. “Ladies, gentlemen, and genderless creatures—please give a round of applause to Mrs. Hope Saldana, acting director of the MLDW Society, who has worked tirelessly for years at her Hope and Salvation Mission.”
The gathered zombies moaned out a cheer and began applauding—some so vigorously that their wrists bent at unfortunate angles.
“Oh, all right.” She took the scissors and sliced the ribbon in half, as if she were snipping a particularly tough umbilical cord. The streamers fell to each side.
Irwyn opened the front door with an extravagant gesture. “Come inside for the reception, everyone.”
Sheyenne and I entered Fresh Corpses, along with the inexorable crowd of shambling undead. In the foyer of the restorative clinic, a piano had been set up. A vampire pianist cracked his knuckles, smiled at us all, and launched into a jaunty theme. He wore a white tuxedo jacket and pants encrusted with rhinestones and sequins. As he played, his fingers were a blur, his sharp nails tickling (and scratching) the ivories. The rhinestones and sequins caught the light from the chandeliers above in a dazzling display that blinded me.
As the crowds came in, Goodfellow welcomed them all. Servers—many of them newly