Battle of the Network Zombies (9 page)

“Is there a chance this show could be cancelled? Because if there is, I’ve got a right to know on my client’s behalf. I don’t want her taking it up the ass on this one.”

Oh. My. God. Wendy’s lost her damn mind.

Mama’s mouth twisted into a grimace, but to her credit, she ignored the questions and just kept walking. There was really no need to respond, though I certainly shot Wendy an icy stare.

As we reached the top of the stairs, she led us through an arch in the wall and down a darkened hallway. As bright and grand as the stair hall was, this little hallway was its opposite. Shadows clung to the wall as though snagged on the jutting faux Tuscan plaster.

“Listen, little dead girl. Mama Montserrat been around the block long enough to know you’re playin’ somethin’ here. Now, nice Ms. Amanda—”

She dropped my bag in front of a door and turned on Wendy.

I stood behind Mama and mouthed her words in echo at Wendy, who stuck her tongue in her cheek and rolled her eyes.

“Ms. Amanda. She ain’t said different and I respect that, on account of she’s probably a good friend, but if you make another demand of me, girl, you’re gonna find some bad mojo crawlin’ up your ass. You hear me?”

Wendy literally gulped.

“I hear.”

The woman stomped off down the hall, turning as she neared the top of the stairs. “Ms. Amanda. You got some time to wander before we get started. Have a drink or something, but at 10:00, we’re filming the contestants arriving.”

“But they’re—”

“They’re already here, yes, sure enough that’s true. But this is entertainment and things don’t always go in the order you expect. You just gotta flow with it. Chill da fuck out.”

“Chill the fuck out,” I repeated and waved as Mama Montserrat turned to leave.

“See—” Wendy started, but I slapped her back, before she could finish agitating, and dragged her into the bedroom.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She pulled her arm away and settled onto a floral matellasse bedspread. “Please. How could I not try to check this out? It’s kind of awesome.”

I sat down next to her. I wasn’t nearly as thrilled. Being in advertising and monitoring commercial shoots and such takes the excitement out of the process. “I suppose it is. And I am glad to have someone to chat with that’s not completely freakish.”

“Speaking of. Did you see those two bitches downstairs? What the fuck? Like a couple of skanks from the corner. And to think they’re contestants.”

“Well, I am already judging them.”

“Nice skin though. Tender.” She shed her fitted but ill-fitting jacket with a shiver. It fell to the floor and stood on its seams, stiff as cardboard; the horror of poorly constructed synthetic fibers. She dropped back on a bed large enough to hold both of us and our choice of twelve suitors and slipped off the skirt, lounging there a moment in the silken chemise she wore underneath—it would have been sexy were it not for the deep blue veins peeking out just above her thigh-high makeup line. Wendy’s eyes widened like she’d remembered something and she jumped to her feet and rushed over to her attaché. “I just remembered.”

“Hmm?” I sunk into an overstuffed side chair that wrapped me in downy comfort. “Holy crap, this is cushy.”

A large console separated the sleeping area from a small receiving room. Atop it were crystal lamps and a bowl of fruit—clearly they didn’t know us at all, or it would have been decent and chilled organ meat—and a stuffed polar bear cub (the toy kind, not taxidermy, that would have been wrong). No hooch to speak of—it’s like they didn’t know me at all.

“Gil gave me something for you. It’s from your mother.”

A chill coursed through my less-than-warm bones. “Oh yeah? What is it, a bottle of diet pills? An etiquette quiz? Or did she cut out the middleman and go straight for the vague and blurry pictures of my father with his new wife and children?”

Wendy withdrew a paper lunch sack and sat it on the nightstand like some important artifact. “I don’t suppose it’s a sandwich?” she asked, backing away.

“Who knows?” I dug through my purse for some breath spray—you never can tell when you’ll need it and with zombies, a good rule of thumb is every two hours to keep the dank stench of death at bay. Also, it’s minty.

“Seriously, you’re not interested in what’s in that bag?” Wendy stabbed her finger at the crinkled brown lump. “Seriously?”

“Not a bit.” Well, okay, a little bit, but I couldn’t let Wendy know that. She’d take it the same way Gil does, as an admission that I wanted some sort of relationship with the leeching hag. And I don’t.

I so don’t.

I propped my suitcase atop a heavily carved chest and unzipped it. “Now act like an agent and come help me pick out something fantastic to accessorize my gown for the big entrance.”

“Can I at least peek?”

“Could I stop you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, then.”

Wendy tore open the top of the bag. Her eyes fluttered back in her head, while her mouth lolled open like someone had slipped her a magic vibrator. I caught the scent shortly thereafter. It was an organ.

Another whiff and I was certain it was a heart.

Wendy sagged on the bed and pouted. She looked over sheepishly.

“Jesus Christ on a cracker, feel free.” I gestured for her to eat up.

Giggling as she withdrew the Ziploc baggy full of gory musculature, Wendy made quick work of it, snapping it clean in two with her already-recovering jaw line. She offered me the other half with all the daintiness of a longshoreman, spattering the carpet with clotted blood.

“Try some. It’s delicious.”

“I don’t want any.” I could only imagine the poor soul Ethel had torn it out of probably had to wipe the vomit off the thing on whatever fabric grungy bums prefer for clothing. Flannel, maybe.

“Come on.”

“I said no.”

“It’s not like I shit on it.”

“Well, obviously, it would have smelled like chocolate in here.”

She squeezed the remaining heart into her maw and swallowed it in two bites, clearly frustrated.

Wendy shrugged and dug in her own suitcase, pulling on a vintage Pucci mini-dress and a wide plastic headband. “Zip me and then we’ll figure out your ensemble.”

My first appearance on a supernatural-wide broadcast show called for the big guns. Not just my favorite dress, something truly memorable. I opted for a frock by my favorite designer of the moment, Alexander McQueen. He recently wowed a London crowd of bon vivants or fashion victims or the poor or whoever goes to shows in London with a line of avant-garde gowns and separates I simply couldn’t resist selling off a bauble for.

The one I chose to unload was a gift.

I’d only known Tom Buchwald—I know, I know, with a name like that, it’s amazing I even considered letting him stick anything near me, let alone
in
me—for a few days. It was one of those conference hook-ups. San Diego, I think, and focused on marketing alcohol to kids and under-targeted ethnic groups, also tobacco, oh…and weight loss surgery to those merely bordering on overweight.
³⁹

The usual.

Tom could banter, wasn’t entirely disgusting to look at and as it turned out, knew how to work his hips into a frenzy. He was also good at shoplifting, as a brief jaunt to the local mall proved. But, when the cops stormed the afternoon “What Your Average Ethiopian Doesn’t Know Won’t Hurt Him” seminar, Buchwald must have slipped the tennis bracelet into my briefcase. I didn’t find it until I was back in Seattle.

Now
that’s
thoughtful.

I hated to let such a memento go—and I know I could have paid for a few more months of upkeep on the condo—but really, if you think about it, it’s an investment in my future.

I pulled the Alexander McQueen smoke print gown out of its envelope of archival tissue and draped it across the club chair.

“Look at it in wonder,” I said, reverently, my fingers playing across the satin, the ghostly tendrils of smoke that snaked across the hips in a mottled gray and purple and even a once-vibrant fuchsia, now faded as an old photograph. “Oh, Alex.”

“Wonder what? How much you paid?” Wendy was busy squeezing the last of the “
jus
” from the paper bag the heart came in. A few drips lit on her dry thrusting tongue and spread like fractures.

“It is gorgeous, isn’t it? Only a little over four grand and worth every penny.” I didn’t need to turn around to know Wendy was shaking her head, as though her habits weren’t just as costly. At least mine didn’t strip my bowels out like a bottle of Drano.

The Louis Vuitton heels came out next. Strappy, and violently unreasonable, with more belts and closures than is necessary and high enough to have me looking down at Johnny Birch all night—as if I wouldn’t be anyway. I propped them between the asymmetrical drifts of satin and stood back to admire the choice.

“That is definitely a look.”

“Right?”

I slipped out of my clothes and stepped into the gown, the satin cascading over my curves and hollows, embracing my form like a desperate lover. I found myself mumbling about the other outfits I snapped up—another from McQueen in a brilliant green was a showstopper. Oh Alex, how do you know me so well?

I worked over my jewelry bag, opting for a pair of pink sapphire and diamond drop earrings to bring out the fuchsia and offset my baby blues (which were, if I’m to be honest, bordering on the color of cumulus clouds, these days), before I even realized Wendy wasn’t helping or even responding with polite uhhuhs.

“Are you listening?” I spun around to find her staring intently at her iPhone.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“No, you’re not.”

She looked up, jumped a bit and grinned. “Damn, girl. You’re gonna be a star. But not without bigger hair. We gotta rat that shit out.”

“I don’t want to be a star.”

“Please. Like hell you don’t. Everyone wants to be a star, Amanda, even if they don’t know it yet. But we’re not talking about them, we’re talking about you and I’ve yet to see you shy away from a photo op.” Her eyes drifted back to the little black slick of plastic in her palm.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothin’.”

I crossed the room and snatched the phone. Abuelita paced Wendy’s living room on the small screen. “Abuelita’s a webcam girl?”

“Of course not.” Wendy stood up and tore the phone from my hand. Her eyes narrowed, daring me to make a judgment. “I’m monitoring her activities with a nanny cam. You can never be too careful with your employees.”

“So you’re paying her then? I wondered.”

She shrugged. “Not exactly, but if Skids hits like I think it will, then I’ll share some profits.”

“Really?”

“Uh…yeah. Whaddya think, I’m some kind of monster?” she asked and then quickly added, “Don’t answer that.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and one leg up under her ass as she slunk into the chair, glued to the image.

Her interest sparked my own. I wondered what Scott was doing, whether he was thinking about me. Thinking about that kiss, I hoped. But I feared it was just unrealistic. I couldn’t imagine him mourning, either. He was probably leaning against a wall somewhere, looking excruciatingly hot and fending off slutty advances. Or maybe not. Maybe he was hooking up in the alley outside of one of Ethel’s clubs. Probably found some girl that’d let him stick it in her ass. Those kind of girls seemed to be Ethel’s bread and butter.

Stop it
, I told myself.
You’ll go crazy thinking like that
. It was really a godsend that Wendy showed up to distract me from a complete mental breakdown.

“What’s she doing now?” I nestled against the curved back of the chair and watched Abuelita shuffle across the living room and answer the door. Outside stood a swarthy man in a brown shirt and shorts, one hand hanging onto the top of the doorframe, the other offering a package, like a chocolate on a silver tray. The woman took it to the coffee table. Behind her back, the deliveryman smoothed a bushy Magnum, P.I. ’stache, adjusted his junk with a twitch and struck another seductive pose. Abuelita turned toward him, her hips swiveling as she approached. When she got to the door, she seemed to be talking and then she slammed the door in the guy’s face.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Wendy said. “Now that’s going to drive me crazy. I mean seriously. She didn’t even shake it.”

“Well, she shook her ass. And he looked like he’d been there before. Did you recognize the guy?”

“Nope. And I would have remembered if I’d ordered something.”

“Like a case of Twix?”

“Shut up. She’s working an angle. Those people always have an angle.” I’m pretty sure she meant immigrants, but I wasn’t going to press her on it.

“I think everyone has an angle. It’s not the most optimistic theory, but it’s how I roll. You know what’d help?”

“Booze?”

“Exactly. Let’s go find some.”

Shadows seemed to be the principal design aesthetic of the upstairs halls. Where you or I might opt for a sexy little sconce, or even a barrel-shaded lamp on a bureau, whoever had gotten ahold of the place saved money on lighting any space that didn’t show up on a camera. Super-convenient, particularly in ankle-breaking heels.

Good call.

I ended up carrying around a lit candle like some pathetic Victorian governess just to maneuver the maze of halls and antechambers that made up Harcourt Manor. Wendy crept behind me muttering on about Abuelita and secret conspiracies. The way I figured it, the woman needed to do something to better herself and anything would be an improvement over slave labor for a self-centered zombie. Had to be. In Wendy’s defense, who doesn’t shake a package?

Who?

The strains of something vaguely musical floated up a stair landing, not the one we’d come up, of course, that’d be too convenient—and lighted. I looked back at Wendy, who urged me on with a nod. The stairwell was steep and led to a bayed landing that overlooked over a vast and formal garden. Strings of lights formed a grid over a patio area where groups of people lounged, drinking, staring absently, chatting.

“Sweet oblivion.” Wendy beamed, the light glinting from her teeth and slipping like an aurora across the pale death of her skin.