Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (6 page)

Clara’s expression fell. “You’re going to cut it?”

“Sure,” Stoneface agreed. “We’ll save some for the swells, but this stuff’s too high quality for most people.”

“Cut it with processed embalming fluid?”

The mobster hardened. “We’ll process it real good,” he said. “No one will ever know.”

“We’ll know,” Clara protested. “You can’t!”

I saw her point. Cousin Priscilla would explode. And where Priscilla pops, hot burning lumps of ash rain down on me.

“Are you saying?” Stoneface swiveled menacingly in my direction. “We don’t have no deal?”

The man was twice my weight and half again my height.

Clara jumped up. “Darn right, no deal!” She stamped her foot. “You’ve got to promise to sell it straight!”

Stoneface gathered my linen jacket…and vest, and scarf, and shirt…in one big beefy hand. He squeezed his knuckles against my battered throat.

“Say that again,” he snarled.

“I didn’t.”
I wheezed in pain.

“And don’t think you can bully us!” Clara informed him. “We’re Woodsens! A Woodsen knows no fear!”

“But my name’s
—” The Benjamins are also traditionally fearless. This may explain why all the Benjamins, except for me, are dead.

I couldn’t breathe. Gray dots rushed from my brain and flew about the room.

“Don’t push your luck,” the gangster growled.

The arguing voices blurred.

Abruptly, his hand released me.

I slumped down, gasping, in my chair.

Gladys was standing behind Stoneface, who looked like somebody might be choking him.

“Don’t make a fuss, Mr. Gibraltar,” she said. “I would not care to ventilate such an attractive suit.” A golem’s finger, I’m told, feels remarkably like the muzzle of a gun. But while both gun and finger can drill holes through your kidney, only the golem can grab the kidney and rip it out your back.

Stoneface craned his neck, trying to see the very short woman behind him.

“Your hat?” Gladys passed Stoneface a white fedora.

Ruth sauntered over. “Is there trouble?” She stepped in close and fingered the man’s lapel. “I just love trouble.”

Clara frowned at the bar, looking, I presumed, for the missing Beauregard.

“Okay.” Stoneface growled. “Okay. No trouble. For now.” He pushed Ruthie away. “But youse kids better think twice about that deal.” He glared at me. “Or else!”

Gladys showed him the door.

My head throbbed. My neck ached.

I closed my eyes.

An instant later the genie was in my lap.

“Poor sweetie.” Ruth straightened and retied my scarf, tucking the ends into my linen vest. “That bully hurt you.”

“I’m fine.” I squirmed…which turns out not to be the wisest move when there’s a gorgeous, scantily-clad female sharing your seat.

Ruth giggled and cuddled against my chest. She really was astonishingly lovely.
Bright hair, smooth skin, soft curves
….

The genie nuzzled my cheek.

…semi-retractable claws.

I swallowed

“I’m tired of dancing.” Ruth kissed me. “Let’s you and me go upstairs.”

Those claws could be a problem. Also I knew better than to trust a genie.

I kissed her back, deciding trust was overrated.

“Enough, you cat!” Clara hauled the genie off of my lap. “Where’s Beau?” She held Ruth at arm’s length. “And don’t be cute. I ordered you to watch him.”

“I watched, mistress.” Ruth’s eyes rolled back in alarm. “Don’t be mad! I watched where he went.”

“And where was that?” Clara shoved Ruth away. “What the devil’s going on?”

“That’s what I came to tell you.” The genie pouted. “If you’ll give me a chance.” She stared sulkily at her painted shoes.

We waited. “Well?”

“Well.” Ruth took a moment to fuss over her dress. She fluffed her hair, straightened her shoulders, and then looked up with round and innocent eyes.

“He’s in the basement,” she said. “Eating the man who sweeps your floors.”

VI: Don’t Advertise Your Man

That which does not kill us, very often kills someone else.
—The Girl’s Guide to Demons

Clara:

FIRST, I WANT TO make it perfectly clear Beau Beauregard did not kill Mr. Vargas. We found the janitor at the bottom of the spiral staircase with the opera cape he always wore tangled around his legs and a half-empty bottle of Priscilla’s apple brandy in one hand, and it was obvious he’d tripped and fallen down the rickety wooden stairs, cracking his own skull open on the basement landing.

And Beau wasn’t eating the man. Only his brains! And only the part that had already spilled onto the floor.

“Poor Mr. Vargas.” I squinted up past Ruth and Bernie into the bar. There’s a
deterrent
spell on the Fellowship’s front and back stairs that keeps unescorted strangers from wandering off the first floor. But that wouldn’t affect Priscilla.

“Is that…?” Bernie asked faintly. “Is he?”

“Dead as a doornail,” Ruth agreed.

Beau scraped his hand along the stone floor. He licked his palm and then shoved his fingers between a torn flap of scalp and broken bone and pulled out a steaming chunk of brains.

My cousin moaned. An instant later, he somersaulted past me down the steps. Luckily, he had a nice fresh corpse to faint on instead of the floor.

Ruth dragged Bernie off of the janitor and wedged him under the wooden staircase. The basement landing was small, with one door leading to the coven, the secret door to Priscilla’s lab, and a dumbwaiter that could hoist barrels up to the bar.

Beau chewed delicately and then thrust his hand inside Mr. Vargas’ head for another helping. He looked so happy; I didn’t have the heart to stop him.

Ruth wafted smelling salts beneath my cousin’s nose.

“Not guilty!” He sat up fast, cracking his head on the underside of the stairs. “I plead the fifth!”

“No one’s going to miss the poor guy,” I mused. “That is, no family.” Mr. Vargas was a Hungarian refugee. He’d lost his wife and children during the war. “No one will notice he’s gone except Priscilla, who” —
will probably call off the dance contest and make me lose my bet with Hans— “
I think it’s best not to disturb.”

Bernie meeped in agreement.

“Can you dispose of the body?” I asked Ruth. “Secretly?”

Beau swallowed another mouthful. He picked up Mr. Vargas’ bottle and washed brains down with apple brandy.

“I could eat him,” the genie offered.

My cousin meeped again.

“That is, what’s left after your zombie’s done. But we’d have to chop him into pieces. And I gotta warn you, mutilating human corpses is bad karma.”

“Bad karma.” I bit my lip. Bad karma for me, since Ruth was under my command.

Karma’s a sort of supernatural account book, according to the
Girl’s Guide to Demons
. It measures good vs. evil for creatures like zombies, genies, demons, and the human warlocks who make deals with them. If I lost too much karma, Hans might end up owning my soul. Then I’d become a genie slave, like Ruth, after I died.

Besides, poor Mr. Vargas deserved better treatment.

“No mutilating,” I said, trying to think. “Wait.” My best friend’s family owned a funeral parlor. She’d even promised me free funerals for life. “We’ll stash him in the icehouse behind Umbridge Emporium. They’re closed for a big party at the Hollywood Grand.” Luella Umbridge had talked of nothing else for weeks. “I’ll let Luella know. And then later, after it’s dark, we’ll get the body and give him a proper burial.”

“There must be sixty or seventy people upstairs.” Bernie objected. “How are you going to get a corpse out of the Fellowship building?”

I opened the dumbwaiter and peered inside. Mr. Vargas would fit, all right, but then he’d just wind up inside the bar.

“I know.” I snapped my fingers. “We’ll use the coal chute.”

My cousin stared.

“It worked for us last night. It’s still unlocked. Come on!”

Ruth and I hauled Bernie to his feet. His bungalow was just six blocks away. “Run home and get your car and some old blankets.” I shoved him onto the bottom step. “Meet us out back in a few minutes.”

He climbed slowly, shaking his head.

“Hurry!”

Bernie moved faster.

“Act casual!”

He took the last steps at a run.

“And whatever else,” I yelled as Bernie reached the top, “don’t tell Priscilla!”

My cousin’s outline vanished. It was replaced immediately by a larger, darker, and much bossier one.

You know how people say that naming something makes it appear? That’s applesauce. But if something appears right
as
you’re naming it, you really get its attention.

“Don’t tell Priscilla” —my half-sister’s voice boomed— “
what?
”

“The light!” I cried.

Ruth yanked the chain plunging the basement into shadow. I dashed up stairs, two at a time, and rammed my shoulder into Priscilla, coming down.

“
Umph.
” My hand whipped out and caught her eyeglasses as they fell. A trick, perfected in girlhood, that cut her spying-distance in half. “Sorry!”

Dim light shone from the bar. I hid the glasses behind my back.

“The light b-bulb,” I lied. “The bulb went out. Bernie’s fetching a new one.”

“But what
shouldn’t he tell me?
” Priscilla marched downward, sweeping me ahead. Something rustled below us in the darkness.

My sister squinted past the railing.

“He shouldn’t t-tell you,” I stammered, “to come down here. Because if Bernie
did
tell you. To come. When there’s no light. You might get hurt.”

“What nonsense.”

We’d nearly reached the bottom. I grabbed the railing and braced my feet.

My sister forged around me like an iceberg passing the Titanic. Lead-lined boots rapped on the granite floor.

“Wait. I can explain!”

The light-chain clicked. Nothing happened.

“Ah hah!” Priscilla’s cry of triumph covered a soft scraping noise. “I have you now!” The stairwell light flashed on.

We were alone. I sat down hard on the stairs.
No Beau, no Ruthie, no Mr. Vargas
. Not even a trace of brains.

“The bulb was loose, you foolish girl. It only needed—for heaven’s sake, what is the matter?” Priscilla caught me as I swayed.

“N-nothing.” The door to Priscilla’s lab was open. I pinched myself through my crepe dress. “Thank you.”

“Well, since you’re here, come help—why is my lab unlocked?”

“I was…just going in.” I dove forward and grabbed the sliding door. “That is,
we
were. Bernie and me. To get more brandy.”

Priscilla brushed me aside.

“The bottled brandy,” I yelled. “You know. From
crates
stacked near the
back wall
by the
coal room door
.”

Priscilla turned to face me. Behind her, two figures rose in darkness, hefted a body between them, scurried sideways, and ducked for cover behind a copper still.

Priscilla frowned. “I know where we keep the brandy.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “Sorry, sorry. I guess I’ve got the jitters.” The figures popped up again and scuttled out of sight. “You know. On account of the contest.”

“
Because
of the contest,” Priscilla corrected. “And you
should
have jitters. This weekend represents a dramatic increase in your responsibilities.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Eyeglasses?”

I stalled, pretending to search the floor, and then passed the glasses over. She slipped them into her skirt pocket and entered the lab, stopping to light a gas lamp by the door. Priscilla’s lab is not electrified. She claims the emanations curdle the gin.

The door slid shut, muffling the music upstairs. Something rustled at the back of the lab.

Priscilla pulled an apron over her dress. “Come help me, child.”

I followed obediently from still to still, taking temperatures, adjusting clamps. Every few seconds, the sound of clinking bottles or scraping boxes carried faintly from the direction of the coal room. Fortunately, two decades of alchemy explosions have all but ruined my half-sister’s hearing.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Clara.” She turned a dial and vented steam out of a narrow pipe. “About this new hotel.”

“The Hollywood Grand? It’s pretty swell, isn’t it? But once I’m done rebuilding our bar….” It would be fabulous: chrome curves, black and white tile, glass counters atop a slash of neon light. The Grand might be a golden French symphony of smoke and glass. But we’d be slim and lean and modern. We’d be
jazz
. “I just know we’ll get customers.”

“That’s not the issue. Hold this.” She lit a table lamp, opened a highboy cabinet and passed me a stack of tins, each labeled, I knew, with something completely different from what it actually contained.

I carried the tins to the big worktable in the center of the room.

Wood creaked loudly somewhere nearby.

“Do you realize,” Priscilla asked, “the Hollywood Grand is doing business with gangsters?” She dumped ingredients into a large mortar and began crushing.

I breathed in juniper and anise. “Yes, ma’am. I figured that out.”

“Real gangsters. Chicago gangsters, not local bootleggers.”

I considered telling her about Stoneface and promptly quashed the idea. The safest policy where my half-sisters are concerned has always been
volunteer nothing
.

Bottles rattled. Whispering voices rose and fell.
Voices?
Who was Ruth talking to? I spun one of the tins nervously between my hands.

Priscilla added more herbs to her mixture. “I fear the Treasury Department may send agents to Falstaff.”

“So what?” I shrugged. “Everyone knows Prohies are goons.”

“And that those agents,” Priscilla said, pounding her pestle, “will not attempt to close the Hollywood Grand. It has too much political interest, too many wealthy investors.”

The whispers were getting louder. I plinked my tins into a noisy stack.

“Prohibition agents will be looking for smaller, more vulnerable targets to put out of business. Targets like us.”