Life Among the Tombstones Read online

  Her persnickety tone irritated the snot out of me, but I was tired and had lost interest in annoying her, so I did as I was told. No post-it notes slapped to her computer, no coffee-stained mugs collecting dust, no water rings or scratches on her desk, and no donut crumbs in her keyboard. Downright unsettling for a police precinct.

  A barrel-shaped man, fiftyish and chrome-domed, rounded the corner and headed my way. His hawkish eyes narrowed with every step. “Miriam.” He nodded toward the shriveled desk Nazi and then disappeared into the Captain’s office without so much as a glance at me.

  “Ms. Nighthawk is here to see you, sir.”

  He leaned back through his door and motioned me to follow him. I rose from my chair and walked into his office before Miriam could escort me. She frowned, giving me a sense of accomplishment. I batted my eyes at her and instantly scored our first skirmish a draw.

  “Nice to meet you, Nighthawk. Captain Philip Dorsey,” he said, pointing to a visitor’s chair. “Call me Cap.”

  Once I sat, he leaned across his desk, elbows planted and fingers steepled beneath his chin. I recognized the body language. He was a man prepared to do battle. But why?

  “You may be wondering why I called you here.”

  Cheezus, I hate when people do that. It’s like they read the thought bubbles floating over my head.

  “The coroner confirmed that the man you knifed in the underpass was a zombie.”

  “You don’t say.” I leaned back, expecting an apology. The apology never came.

  “Is it true, what they say about you?” he asked.

  That depends.” I squirmed in my crappy red chair. “What do they say?”

  “That you raise the dead.”

  “Let me guess. You’re calling bullshit.”

  “Not at all. Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Nighthawk. I’ve studied your cases — read the reports. You’ve extracted invaluable data from the dead and solved some previously unsolvable cases. I’m impressed.”

  So, he did know who I was. I cocked my head and stared into his eyes, trying to figure out what he wanted. And why, if the coroner had confirmed my kill, I hadn’t simply been released.

  “Tell me where you’ve been,” he said. “What you’ve seen around the country. Are these…these creatures everywhere? Are they breeding? Is their population increasing?”

  Breeding? Holy hell. There was a disturbing visual. I didn’t even want to know how he thought that worked. “No. They can’t breed. They’re dead. But the Z-virus is spread through their saliva. I don’t know for sure, but I think they might be on the rise.”

  Maybe I was tired, or maybe I just knew where to look, but lately it did seem like there were more deadheads than usual. When I was a kid, the population seemed stagnant, punctuated by sporadic late night sightings. Zombies were just another bogeyman, dregs from the wrong side of the tracks. The general public, tucked safely in their beds, liked it that way.

  I didn’t clarify for Cap that when whisperers like me raise the dead, we are, in effect, creating zombies. I put all my risen rotters back down, so the status remains quo. But some others, with my particular set of skills, don’t give a rat’s ass if there’s another biter wandering the earth. For them, it’s all about money and power.

  Cap hadn’t taken his eyes off me. “Where are they concentrated?”

  “I don’t know where they are. I just got here. It’s not like they wear bells around their necks. Your guys are here. Have they seen any patterns to their activity?”

  “Our Z-population has been low and fairly static. We’ve never been able to isolate where they come from. They turn up in abandoned buildings and out of the way places. Usually by the time we stumble across them, they’re already in an advanced state of decay.”

  I shrugged. “That makes Cincinnati the typical host environment for biters.”

  “How can we keep their population down?”

  “There’s a scientific field devoted to the study of the virus: Carovescology. Until scientists figure out how the disease works and find a cure, the only thing we can do to keep the Z-population in check is protect ourselves against it.”

  Cap stared, silent as the sphinx, waiting for me to continue.

  “The first step in protecting ourselves is being able to identify a zombie and recognize the stage of its disease process. Sure, when they’re shambling around in a state of advanced decay, they’re easy to spot. But that biter last night was a freshie. It couldn’t have turned more than a day ago. And your officers couldn’t distinguish it from a homeless guy.”

  Cap gave a solemn nod and leaned back in his chair. “Fair enough. But what are they…eating? What are they living on? It’s not like we’re seeing an increase in missing persons cases.”

  It’s sad that most folks are so preoccupied with their well-fed, middle class lives they haven’t figured that out.

  “Think about it,” I said. “They live in the shadows. They come out at night and eat flesh. What’s their obvious food source? The homeless, the addicts, the drifters — people living on the fringe. Let’s face it. They’re walking-talking fast food for zombies. Lots of those folks are anonymous by choice. Who’s going to miss them?”

  Cap managed a small, sad smile. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  He hesitated before he spoke again, as if he had something more to say but wasn’t sure if he should.

  Finally, he blurted, “I knew your mother, back in the day.”

  I leaned in closer. “Say that again?”

  “Your mother Elena and I were friends. She helped me through a rough patch. Remarkable woman.”

  I couldn’t think of a response, and truthfully, if I had, the lump in my throat would have kept me from spitting it out.

  Cap stood to signal our discussion had come to an end. “I have a proposition for you, Nighthawk. I don’t need a full-time employee to tackle the few zombie-related crimes we have, but I could use you, from time to time, as a paid consultant. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”

  ‘Paid’ was all I needed to hear. Although, I’d have preferred benefits and a weekly paycheck. “Are we talking about putting Zs down or raising them? I can tell you right now, raising a corpse costs double.”

  Cap snorted. “I’m offering you work, and you’re shaking me down?”

  “Simple mathematics. Every corpse I raise needs to be put back down. Twice the work, twice the money.”

  “There’d be a few stipulations,” he said, as he walked me to the door. “You’ll have to keep track of your hours and expenses. And you’ll be responsible for your own ride. No cruisers or access to the city’s motor pool.” He blocked my exit and stared deep into my eyes. “You’ll have to carry your own liability coverage, of course.”

  Apparently, my reputation had proceeded me. I didn’t have a job. For God’s sake, I was living on Ramen noodles and ketchup soup. How the hell was I supposed to pay for liability insurance? Taking down deadheads wasn’t always as simple as shoving a knife into a brain stem. On occasion, my services have been known to inflict some…collateral damage. But there are always casualties of war, some in terms of life and some in terms of material goods.

  Suck it up, Cap, I thought. Get ready to pull out your checkbook and don’t be skimpy with the zeros. I reached back to his desk and snagged one of his business cards. “Of course, I have coverage. I’ll text you my number.”

  Little Allie almost swallowed her tongue. Liar, liar! Pants on fire! Shame! Shame! Shame!

  “Oh, shut your yap,” I mumbled.

  Cap frowned. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  “Just…thank you. And call when you need me.”

  That stupid brain bitch would be the death of me, yet.

  I left Cap’s office, winked at Miriam and graced her with a victory grin. But the moment lost its magic when my empty stomach growled like a wounded bear. Miriam scowled and returned to her work.

  “Hey,” I asked, as I sauntered past h
er desk. “You wouldn’t have any ketchup packets in your drawer?”

  I left the precinct thinking about my mother. I supposed it wasn’t impossible that she and Cap had been acquainted. They were roughly the same age, and she’d lived here her whole life until she died. I was eleven at the time, and I’d inherited my ‘gift’ from her. It sucked that I’d lost her before she could teach me how to control it.

  For the moment, more pressing matters demanded my attention. I had a roof over my head, and as of today, a new part-time gig consulting with the police. But nothing else had changed. I stopped at Ricardo’s Pizzeria, next to the precinct, and wandered inside — ostensibly to use the restroom. On the way out, I filched a handful of ketchup packets from the side-bar. Breakfast awaited. But zombie hunters don’t live on condiments alone. I needed food. And money.

  I texted Cap my number, then drove through the early morning streets, hoping to be struck by inspiration. Maybe my Lowrider knew where it was going, or maybe I subconsciously chose a route that would take me past The Blue Note Lounge. I remembered my conversation with the hooker in the holding cell. Something about them having an opening for a bartender.

  I parked at the curb and walked to the door, fully believing that at this early hour the place would be closed. To my surprise, the door swung open and I was instantly greeted by the stinky ghost of cigarettes past. It was dark inside. My eyes adjusted and found walls that were covered in 1950’s wood paneling and flickering neon beer signs. Back-to-back red vinyl booths lined the center of the room. The bar top ran the entire width of the far wall.

  A vacuum cleaner droned somewhere out of sight, letting me know I wasn’t alone. I ventured in, strolled over to the bar, and ran my hand along its varnished wooden top. It was solid grain, not veneer. Burled walnut. The building was a ramshackle dump, but the bar itself was a thing of beauty. I pictured myself working behind it, and it suited me.

  “Sorry, we’re closed. Don’t open ’til eleven.”

  I whirled around to find an old fart, seventy if he was a day, with long gray hair and a scraggly beard that swallowed his face whole. Nice eyes though. You can tell a lot about a man by his eyes.

  “Hope I didn’t startle you,” I said. “Word on the street is you’re down a bartender.”

  “That so?” He eyed me cautiously. “Mind telling me where you heard that?”

  “One of your patrons. Tiffany…” What the hell was her name? “Tiffany Swarovski. I bumped into her yesterday and she happened to mention you might be hiring.”

  “Could be. Let’s sit down and have us a chat.”

  He motioned me to the closest booth.

  The padding whooshed beneath my butt as I slid across the duct-taped vinyl seat.

  “You know how to open cans and bottles?”

  I grinned enthusiastically.

  “Can you spray water and pop out of a tap? Pour the occasional glass of wine?”

  “I can handle that.” My mind raced. Please don’t ask if I know how to make a Harvey Wallbanger.

  “And what if he does?” the brain bitch screamed. “How many lies can you tell in one day?”

  Honest to God, sometimes I want to reach inside my head and bitch slap the crap out of that head hag. My stomach rumbled again, loudly reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in forever. I closed my eyes and hoped that he hadn’t heard it, but there was little doubt.

  “Name’s Dallas,” he said. “Dallas Monroe.”

  I told him my name and instantly regretted it.

  “Well, Allie Cat. If you can show up on time, put your nose to the grindstone, and keep your fingers out of my till, you got yourself a job. Ten bucks an hour. It’s only part-time, you understand, but it’s better than nothing. Come back around three this afternoon. I’ll show you what’s what.”

  Wow. We’d have to work on that nickname.

  “Thank you, sir.” I stood up to leave and a wave of dizziness washed over me. “You won’t regret this.” My knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of the table, thinking I was going down. Dallas reached for my arm, but I pulled away. No way I needed some gum-grinder propping me up.

  His old, crinkly eyes softened. “There is one thing you could do for me now, if you wouldn’t mind. I was about to fix breakfast, eggs, bacon, toast and some hash browns. Care to join me? I hate to eat alone.”

  3

  Turn Right at the South Pacific

  Dallas produced bottomless skillets of scrambled eggs and even threw some pancakes into the mix. I thanked him profusely, told him I’d be back at three, and headed home, stomach full and spirits high. In town just over a day, I’d already been hauled in for homicide and found two part-time jobs — without even making it to my house. Say what you will. My life is never boring.

  I pulled into the driveway, mouthing a silent thank you that I’d remembered to call ahead to have the utilities turned back on. No sooner had I taken my keys from the Harley’s ignition, than a ghost from my past charged across the lawn. The blue-haired specter was five-feet-two, weighed close to two hundred pounds, and wore support hose that billowed around her cankles. The ghost’s name was Nonnie Nussbaum. She’d lived in the house next door since before I was born.

  “Who are you? So noisy, with the vroom-vroom-vroom.” She glared at my Lowrider. “What your business here?”

  “I live here.”

  “Is lie. No one live here long time.”

  “I’m Allie, Mrs. Nussbaum. Charlie and Elena’s daughter.”

  She studied me over the top of her wire-rims, lips pursed, a single eyebrow raised. “Where you been all this time?”

  “Away.” I wasn’t about to discuss my life of zombie hunting and raising the dead with a near stranger.

  She jutted out her chin. “Why you come back now?”

  Nosy old biddy. I shot her my best stink eye (better known as my Allie eye). “I came back because I can, Mrs. Nussbaum. My father died and left me the house.”

  The tiny fossil harrumphed and threw up her hands. “Welcome home. Watch noise, all that vroom-vroom-vroom. And no parties. I like quiet.”

  She marched back into her house, mumbling in her own bizarre dialect, a mishmash of Yiddish Italian, or was it Italian Yiddish? Twenty seconds later, her hawk-like eyes peered out from between her living room curtains, tracking my every movement.

  Flashbacks of living next to Mrs. Nussbaum invaded my brain.

  “Please, God,” I prayed. “Enough with the memories.” But no dice. God has a wicked sense of humor and a very long memory. It wasn’t like He owed me.

  The house didn’t look bad for having stood vacant the last three years. I’d set aside money from my dad’s estate to pay for maintenance and lawn care. I opened the front door and a wave of musty air wafted out. January wasn’t exactly the time of year to throw open your windows and blow out the stink. I opened them a crack and turned on the exhaust fans. Once I could afford it, I’d buy some Febreze.

  The inside was the same as it had been when Dad died. I opened the hall closet and pulled out a set of sheets for my bed. My bed. I smiled at the thought. Memories of sweet dreams, snuggling with my mom and feeling safe flooded my mind.

  I plopped on the bed and kicked off my shoes, with every intention of putting on the sheets after I rested my eyes for a few minutes. A half-hour later, Three Men and a Truck pulled into the driveway with my supply of ‘golf clubs.’ Twenty-two cartons worth — and a fifty-gallon drum of napalm ‘golf balls.’ Mrs. Nussbaum, nose smashed against her living room window, surveilled the delivery as if she were on a stakeout.

  I’d prepaid to have the guys bring the delivery inside and stack the stuff in my basement and a spare bedroom, where I would lock it up for safe keeping. By the time they finished and drove away, it was nearly two o’clock. I jumped in the shower, changed my clothes, and headed back to The Blue Note.

  I walked inside and Dallas met me with a smile. “Son of a bitch. You showed up. And five minutes early, to boot. Let’s get started.”

&nb
sp; He walked me back to his office and showed me where to hang my coat. I took off my duster, and wiggled out of my shoulder holster, giving Dallas an eyeful of my gun.

  “You got a concealed carry for that, Allie Cat?”

  “Sure do. A girl’s got to be careful these days.”

  No use telling him why I really needed fire power — yet. Maybe later, after he saw how indispensable I was. He’d be less likely to fire me. I slid my seven-inch Ka-Bar knife into the center drawer of his desk.

  Dallas whistled. “That’s a whole lot of careful for such a little girl. Your weapons stay locked in my office while you’re working. Capiche?”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  He showed me how to stock the bar, ice it down and run the register. He gave me a copy of the price sheet and told me to memorize it. My heart sank when he handed me a bucket and a mop. The barroom floor and rest rooms had to be cleaned twice a day.

  I’d mopped the bathroom and was heading out to clean the bar area when Dallas, working a crossword puzzle, asked, “How much for a Bud?”

  “Tap, bottle or can?”

  “Good girl. Tap.”

  “Two-seventy-five. A bottle’s three-fifty, and a can’s three even.”

  “You’re going to work out fine,” he said. “Be nice to the customers. Smile. It’ll help with the tips. We get hookers here from time to time. You’ll know ’em when you see ’em. Long as they don’t hassle the customers, I don’t care who they leave with or what they do when they’re gone. Got it?”

  I pictured Tiffany Swarovski and smiled.

  Around three-thirty, two guys walked in. Dallas glanced up from his crossword puzzle and filled me in. “The tall one on the left is Jimmy McQueen. Nice enough, ’til he starts in on the whiskey. Don’t be afraid to cut him off if you need to. The guy on the right’s Hank Bowers. Quiet, keeps to himself. Likely won’t say three words to you. He’s a regular. Keep his Miller coming and you’ll be fine.”

  Customers drifted in and out, and the hours flew by. Dallas got off his keister when the crowd got thick. I held my own, and I could tell by the way Dallas flashed me a grin or two that I’d exceeded his expectations.