Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance (12 page)

We soon came to the line of trailers just as described by the old woman. What she’d failed to tell us about was their elaborate paint jobs. Each trailer was painted in a different theme. Some had grey-skinned elephants with their trunks curled back, others 105

had pretty girls in elaborate Las Vegas showgirl costumes astride pure white horses, while others bore images of smiling clowns and balloons. They were truly works of art.

There had to be at least forty trailers standing side by side. Matt counted to the fifth trailer from the left and motioned for me to follow him. We approached Quiet’s trailer with Matt in the lead. I love a man who takes charge. Even if he’s an undead man.

In contrast to the other trailers with circus-related images, Max Quiet’s trailer was covered in rainbows and unicorns. Strange. Why the difference?

Matt rapped his grey knuckles on the door. Silence returned as the echo of Matt’s knock died from inside the trailer. Matt frowned, then pounded on the door with his fist.

Finally a foghorn-like voice responded, “Who goes there?” This is Quiet? I don’t think so.

“It’s Aloha Armstrong and Matt Butcher, Mr. Quiet. We’re with Abby-Normal Investigations, sir. We—” Before I could say anything more, the aluminium door flew open to slap hard against the side of the trailer. The door missed Matt with inches to spare.

My jaw hung open at the sight of him. Like Jens, Maxmillian Q. Quiet was a little person.

* * * *

Quiet invited us into his trailer after I explained why we were here. He seemed genuinely surprised concerning an allegation of attempted murder. We didn’t mention Jerry Jens’s name yet.

Matt and I each took a seat on one of two grey-green overstuffed chairs across from a matching sofa. Quiet sat on the sofa.

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We’d caught him with his pants down. Literally. He was still dressed in boxer shorts—I was so thankful he didn’t wear briefs—and a ratty sleeveless undershirt.

His beady eyes shifted between us. His child-sized feet fidgeted like he had to pee and his chipmunk cheeks were flushed. I nodded to Matt, indicting he should lead the questioning. He shrugged, took off his fedora, and placed it in his lap. He then cleared his throat. Matt was a man of few words. I liked that about him. Being questioned by a zombie had to be at least a hundred and forty-two on the intimidation meter.

“Mr. Quiet,” Matt stopped to pull out his notebook from his inside pocket, then flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. So
Star Trek
. So cool. His brow wrinkled as he studied the page. “A Mr. Jerry Jens visited our office this morning.” He glanced up from the page to look at Quiet. “Do you know Mr. Jens?”

Quiet fidgeted, then said, “Yes. But I don’t know anything about any murder.”

Matt’s eyebrows arched in sync.
You go, guy
. “Who said anything about murder?”

“You said…” His hazel eyes shifted to me. “
She
said Jerry said someone tried to murder him.”

Matt nodded. “But if the victim isn’t dead, then it’s attempted murder. A fine point to be sure, but Mr. Jens has engaged us to find the person responsible for the
accident
this morning.”

Quiet frowned. Uh-oh. The intimidation meter had just slipped a few notches.

“Say. Who are you people, anyway? Are you cops?” Quiet rose from the sofa and crossed the room to stand in front of me. I can tell you a little person wearing only boxer shorts and an undershirt reeking of stale beer and cigarettes is not a pleasant experience.

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I smiled as sweetly as I was able, hoping my charming side, such as it is, would quell the tiger in his tank. “No, Mr. Quiet, we’re not cops. As Matt explained, we came because Mr. Jens hired us to find out who tried to kill him.” I shrugged my shoulders slightly. “We’re hoping you’ll cooperate with us.”

His eyes became like black beads in a snow bank. “Why didn’t he go to the cops?”

“He did,” said Matt. “They didn’t believe him.”

Quiet snorted, then padded across the seventies’ era forest green shag carpet toward the small kitchen. “Coffee?” he offered.

I looked at Matt, then back at Quiet. Matt frowned at me and slapped his notebook closed. I leaned toward him and whispered, “Patience.” We locked eyes. His shoulders relaxed and he nodded. Matt’s one serious flaw was his lack of patience. Not a good thing in the PI business.

“Sure.” I shifted my gaze to Quiet and grinned. “We would.”

Building a bridge of trust between us and Maxie Quiet was going to take time.

Problem was, my instincts were screaming that time was growing short. And my instincts are never wrong.

* * * *

Max—he told us to call him Max—brought us steaming pastel mugs filled with freshly brewed coffee. Mine was dark, like my men. I eyed Matt. Well, tall, grey, and handsome, actually.

Max handed Matt his, with the two milks and five sugars, since he has a bit of sweet tooth. Zombies don’t have to worry about their figures.

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Max finally returned from the kitchen carrying a mug as colorful as ours. He took a generous sip and closed his eyes, smiled, then eased back into the embrace of the thick sofa cushions with a sigh. “Sorry if I was rude before, Aloha. It’s just that we run this place on a very tight budget. Even a hint of bad publicity is going to hurt our bottom line.”

“I understand, Max.” I frowned. “Who would want to hurt Jerry?”

Max didn’t hesitate. He blurted, “Uno.” There were no doubts in this guy’s mind.

Matt scooted forward in his chair. “Uno who?”

A mischievous smile crossed Max’s thin lips. “Not who. What.”

Matt and I shared a puzzled look.

Max sighed. “You mentioned Zero earlier.”

I nodded. “What about him? He’s serving his time on the American Prisons reality show.” I grunted and shook my head. “It’s the last place I would wish on anyone.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Terrible.” He paused, then said, “Anyway, Zero’s oldest son is Uno. He’s as much of a megalomaniac as his father and just a reclusive.”

“So?” said Matt, a trace of impatience in his voice, “what has Uno got to do with Jerry Jens?”

Max eyed Matt dryly. “Jerry and Uno are brothers.”

* * * *

We found Jerry in his apartment on Syler Street. The building was sixteen stories with no elevator. Jerry lived on the fifteen floor.

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Still huffing, puffing, and gasping for breath, we arrived at his front door. Matt was bent forward at the waist breathing hard. We both smelled of sour sweat.

“We…gotta…get clients…who…live…on the first…floor,” he gasped.

My heart pounding in my ears, unable to speak, I nodded. I looked up as the apartment door opened. Jerry. He was dry and clean-shaven, dressed in a purple track suit minus shoes. “Hey, guys. What took you so long?”

I’d called ahead saying we’d be here in ten minutes. That was before I knew about the Olympic walk-up competition.

Jerry stepped back. “Come on in.”

I puffed my cheeks, then entered the apartment with as much dignity as my trembling legs allowed. Muscles I didn’t know I possessed ached.

The apartment’s floors were hardwood and the walls were painted pale blue. The air smelled of peaches. Matt shuffled in behind me. Great. I rolled my eyes. Just when Jerry was convinced Matt wasn’t going to eat his brain, he shuffles like a zombie.

The door clicked closed behind us. “Let’s go into the living room,” Jerry said with a sweep of his hand.

I grunted my agreement. We followed him into the living room. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. The window was tinted to diffuse the sunlight so the apartment didn’t get overheated.

“Nice place,” I said, my voice harsh.

We sat on the brown leather sectional facing the windows. My heart rate finally normalized and I was tempted to think I
might even live.

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“I call it home.” Jerry sat on another section of the sofa. The sofa sighed as I sank into the soft leather. Boy, did it feel good to sit down.

“The circus must pay pretty good,” said Matt.

I shot him an angry glare. As far as I’m concerned, it’s rude to talk about how much someone makes—or in my case, doesn’t make. I frowned. I nailed Matt with my we’re-gonna-talk-later-dude look. He ignored me.

Jerry laughed when he recognized the annoyance in my eyes. “No. Not at all. I receive royalties from Zombie Away.”

Uh-oh. Not that again. I looked at Matt, uncertain how he’d react. Sure Matt had used Zombie Away, but since in his case it needed fifty-four treatments to work and he was allergic, it just wasn’t gonna happen. “I’m happy the way I am. Live with it,” he had said when I mistakenly made Zombie Away my last-stand ultimatum for any shot at a relationship between us. This was before I knew he was allergic. I’d planted my foot firmly in my mouth and I learned shoe leather leaves a bitter aftertaste. It was the darkest day of my life.

Jerry frowned. “Matt, maybe after this case is over I can arrange some free treatments for you. What do you say?”

I held my breath. “No. Thank you,” Matt said.

His words put the final nails in the coffin of my hopes and dreams. Jerry shrugged. “Okay. It’s your loss.” Yeah,
his
loss.

Matt retrieved his notebook and a pen from his suit pocket as before. “Tell us about your brother, Uno.” His pen was poised over an empty page.

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I exchanged an oh-brother look with Jerry. “Doesn’t believe in foreplay, huh?” I offered him a weak smile. Jerry sighed, then launched into his story.

* * * *

Jerry and Uno were twins raised by different mothers. Their early years were spent on a dude ranch near El Paso. Zero used the ranch as a cover for his plans to take over the world.

When Jerry was ten, like every boy his age, he dreamed of running away and joining the circus. Which he did. When I asked him how Zero never found him, he said he changed his name to Jerry Jens. His birth name was Dos. With a handle like that I’d change my name too.

Uno found him six months ago when he came to the circus looking for mindless security guards who would follow orders without question. They argued and Uno threatened to him kill him unless he signed over the Zombie Away royalties.

I understood what Uno was up to. With Jerry gone, the profits from Zombie Away would finance the takeover of the world. While Uno embraced his father’s mad dreams, Jerry rejected them. But Jerry never believed his brother would really kill him—until yesterday, when he was thrown off the high dive platform.

After we’d left Jerry’s apartment behind, we headed south on I-16 toward Wallenberg.

“I’ve been thinking,” Matt said after several minutes of quiet between us. I could almost see the smoke coming from his ears. Secretly I hoped it wasn’t spontaneous combustion. “Strange Uno would only try to kill his brother. Why didn’t he just shoot 112

him? Why throw him from a diving platform?” He paused and his grey features formed a scowl. “Seems a little less than foolproof to me.”

My ’75 Mustang squeaked and popped as I steered it into the left lane and stomped on the accelerator. The four cylinders screamed as we slowly crawled past the Franken-Goo Reclamation tanker truck.

I nodded. “Yeah. That is odd.” I glanced at Matt. His fedora was tipped at an angle and the last rays of the setting sun gave his skin a slightly golden tinge. Way cool.

“Who did he say grabbed him?”

Matt pulled out his notebook and scanned his notes. “He didn’t know. Whoever it was threw a sack over his head. He did say he smelled bananas, though,” Matt winced and wrinkled his nose. “Then all he smelled was used jock straps.”

“Uggg. Gross!” I chuckled.

Matt looked thoughtful. “Don’t fresh zombies smell like bananas?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I steered back into the slow lane in front of the tanker truck to let a Smart Car speed by us. The driver of the Smart Car gave us the one-fingered salute as he passed. Nice.

* * * *

It was dark when we arrived at the turn off to Wallenberg. As we came to the stop sign where the off ramp met the main road into town, we found a police roadblock. Three state police cruisers and one Wallenberg sheriff’s car were parked in the middle of the road. Their rollers made the surrounding grasslands shine alternately blue and green.

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I steered us to the side of the road and parked on the gravel shoulder. I shut the engine off and pocketed my keys. I’d brought along a jean jacket to wear over my sweater. The evenings can get cool this time of year.

I pressed the button on the side of my Timex and the round watch face lit up. Nine fifteen and seven seconds.

“Hey, Aloha,” Matt called. “Look at this.” He was standing in front of a dark green road sign. In white block letters were the words
Wallenberg 2 Miles
and an arrow pointing to the right. Only “Wallen” had been crossed out with red felt pen and the word

“Zombie” inserted. Wallenberg was now Zombieberg. This couldn’t be good.

I looked around and saw a group of cops standing next to a police cruiser parked farthest from where we stood. I saw one of them had enough gold bars on her epaulets to be a rear admiral, so I knew she must be in charge.

As I approached the gaggle of law enforcement officers, she looked at me, her hazel eyes intent and questioning. She looked familiar.

“Aloha Armstrong?” Her pale face broke into a toothpaste-model smile. She took off her peaked cap and shook her hair loose. Her dark curls cascaded about her shoulders.

“Perky Peters? Is that you?” I ran up to her and wrapped her in a bear hug. “It’s been too long.” The Perkster and I were roommates at The L.I.P.S. Academy. It was old home week.

I released her and we stepped back to scan each other up and down. “You look well,” I said. I probably looked like something the dog left behind, but Perky was a cop, a
real
cop. Who woulda thought?

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“I’m great.” She nodded at the bars on her right shoulder. “I’m the chief of police.

Me. Can you believe?”

The four male cops standing in a group near the bumper of the cruiser snorted.

Perky ignored their sarcasm. “So what you been up to?” she asked.