Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (14 page)

Beau’s third partner went up on the board. How had I ever managed to create this mess?

“Clara?” A man’s slurred voice came from the Fellowship’s front door. “Clara, r’you okay?”

“Bern—” I spun hopefully, but someone taller stood silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. “Aramis?”

Ned Aimsley, dressed in his Sears-catalog Sunday suit, staggered through the door.

I ran and took his hands. “Ned, what happened?”

“S’craziest thing!” One eye was swelling and turning black. “Thish guy came out of nowhere and s’arted punchin’ me. Kind of a little guy. Your size.” He blushed and pulled himself together. “I hated to knock him down,” Ned said more carefully, “but he wouldn’t stop flailing. And when he hit the ground, he tried to bite my ankle.”

Oh, no!
“Did he get you?”

“I think my sock stopped him.” Ned bent and tugged his slacks revealing unbroken skin. Then he lost his balance and tumbled into my arms.

One of the party-goers caught us as we staggered.

“Sorry.” Ned shook his head. “I think some men took him off to the hospital.”

I swallowed. “Well.” What was happening outside? “Well, let’s get Gladys to look at your eye.” Mind spinning, I led Ned down the hallway to the kitchen.

I’d have to talk to Beau, offer a bargain so he’d stop helping the other contestants qualify. I couldn’t order him to dance with Ruth—I’d promised not to—but surely we could make a deal.

I dashed out through the swinging kitchen door into the hall and dove head-first into a tall, impressive man. A tall, well-dressed older gentleman, reeking of Jacques.

George Umbridge, Senior. I staggered backward.
Holy cow!

“D-Dr. Umbridge,” I gasped, brushing blonde hairs off of his tailored jacket. “I’m s-so sorry! That was awfully clumsy—”

“Khlara.” The doctor grasped my shoulders. His skin was sickly gray. When I looked up I saw his normally intelligent brown eyes were rimmed with red and sunk deep into their sockets.

“Khlara.” Bloodless fingertips curled into my flesh. “Whhere’s. Gheorgh.”

XI: You Cannot Make Your Shimmy Shake On Tea

“Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.”
 —Emily Dickinson
(qtd. The Girl’s Guide to Demons)

Clara:

BEAU AND I didn’t come to terms for the simple reason that he refused to acknowledge my existence. And let me tell you, nobody knows how to pretend you’ve vanished into empty air like a motion picture star. Beau’s posture, his expression, seemed to erase me utterly from the face of the earth. If I’d been less busy, I might have wondered whether Dr. Umbridge had accidentally broken my neck. However, I was pretty sure a ghost’s feet wouldn’t hurt, and none of the people demanding fresh drinks had any trouble catching my eye for service.

Besides, Dr. Umbridge hadn’t been trying to kill me. He’d just been worried, confused and, like so many people this weekend apparently, extraordinarily drunk. He’d happily accepted my invitation to lurch after me, growling, up the back steps, and if he hadn’t precisely volunteered to lunge past my shoulder and get himself locked in with George, I figured he’d thank me later on.

By the time King Oliver’s band came back from their first break, the evening was shaping up as a total disaster. Beau Beauregard continued pig-headedly dancing with every female who caught his eye. Each time he partnered a contestant, she moved so beautifully that Miss Pinn immediately chalked the woman’s name up on the semi-finalist board behind the bar.

Ruth, meanwhile, clad in a stunning red-and-black beaded flapper gown, hopped uselessly from partner to partner. She’d worn a feathered headdress and sparkling rhinestone sautoir that dangled low on her bare back, intending, I figured, to distract the judges from her feet. That worked pretty well as far as Mrs. Lund and Mr. Aimsley were concerned. Unfortunately, Miss Pinn was made of sterner stuff and shook her head scornfully whenever the other judges pointed in Ruth’s direction.

I served drinks alongside Ned Aimsley, now wearing a piratical patch on his black eye, and fretted.

By seven o’clock, eight men and three women had vomited in the lavatories, making me seriously question my chosen career as a bar manager. I’d spent a lot of time around booze, growing up; I hadn’t spent very much time around drunks.

By 7:05, the kitchen had run completely out of food except for a freight car’s worth of oysters Gladys had scared up from the Atchison Topeka and Santa Fe. By 7:10, there were only four women’s spaces left on the semi-finalist board. On top of that, the place was filling up with what might…possibly…be zombies.

Six possible zombies, no, seven, I realized, as one of the contestants began to thrash and growl. Three nearby couples, suspecting a dance craze, copied his movements and groaned and flapped their way around the room.

“Now, Mr. Pepperfinkel!” I grabbed the man’s arm and signaled to Ruth. “Looks like you’ve had enough to drink.” The genie gripped his other side, and we quick-marched the man toward the back staircase.

“Khlaah.” Mr. Pepperfinkel’s mouth opened and closed. “Khlaah.”

A chorus of imitating growls sounded behind us.

We wrestled poor Mr. Pepperfinkel up the stairs and shoved him in with the others. Six men were there already, standing, groaning, walking into walls, their sunken eye-sockets staring hopelessly into space. Worst off was poor George Junior, sitting on the floor, legs straight, arms stiff at his side, his once fashionable pink suit flecked with spittle. His father, George Senior, lay on the bed, apparently asleep.

“Khlara.” The smell of sweat and ginger Jacques was overpowering. “Khlara.” George Junior struggled to his feet.

I slammed the door and locked it, breathing hard.

Ruth smoothed her shimmering gown. “They don’t look any better.”

“Not better, exactly,” I admitted. “But on the bright side, they don’t look any worse.”

We headed to the spiral staircase and walked down slowly while I debated what to do. I could send for a doctor. The men might be sick. But if they were drunk—not likely, maybe, but still possible considering the rotgut Jacques people were drinking—they’d all be horribly embarrassed tomorrow. And if they were zombies, they’d eat the doctor alive.

Priscilla might be able to figure out if the men were zombies or not. But it would kill my sister to find out I’d stolen hellfire. And would it make any difference? Whether the men were monsters or only monstrously drunk, we’d have to lock them up, either way.

Hans could tell me if zombie bites were contagious. Had Beau and I unleashed a plague, starting with Mr. Vargas? But Hans would make me pay for the information. And I had barely enough hellfire to survive our bet as things stood.

Gladys…? Well, the golem possessed all sorts of useful knowledge. But, outside of housekeeping, it was hard to guess how she’d react. She might know what to do about zombies, and she could certainly handle any number of drunk and violent men. But there was a chance Gladys might go off the deep end when she realized I’d lost the Benjamin family scion. And if she did, I’d rather be someplace else.

“
You
don’t know what’s going on, do you?” I challenged Ruth as we reached the ground floor. “Do you swear? Will you promise you can’t explain what’s happening?”

“About the zombies?” She shook her feathered headdress. “I’ve no idea. I swear.”

“The
possible
zombies,” I corrected. “And you don’t know what happened to Bernie or where Mr. Vargas went?”

“Like I said.” Ruth shrugged. “There’s no report.”

We reached the first floor. The top step to the basement looked empty and accusing without the janitor in his familiar place. Was Mr. Vargas wandering the town, right now? Attacking people? Lost and alone?

“Oh, Ruth!” I tugged my hair. I needed Bernie here to panic for both of us so I could stay calm. “What am I supposed to do?”

We started for the dance contest. Hans was there on his barstool, sipping whiskey, looking like a cross between a deadly spider and a magazine illustration for gentlemen’s opera clothes. He raised his glass in salute as Ruth and I entered the bar.

I sighed. Mr. Vargas was dead. I couldn’t help him. Luella was taking care of Bernie, so he’d be all right. But the men upstairs in that locked bedroom were not all right. I couldn’t let them keep suffering because of me.

“I better get Priscilla.” I turned back to the spiral staircase. I’d have to confess everything. She’d cancel my dance contest, close the bar, and probably skin me alive after Hans finished draining my blood.

But Priscilla might be able to do something about those poor men.

“Good idea.” Ruth slapped my back. “Go get your sister, and let her bargain with Hans.”

“Do what?”

“Well, that’s what will happen.” The genie shrugged. “It’s going to take a demon to sort all this out. You might as well let your half-sister pay the price.”

“She’ll pay?” I frowned. But Ruth was right. Priscilla was a strict disciplinarian. Her rules and punishments had often made my life a living hell. Sometimes I hated her. Sometimes I heard her crying at night and hated myself.

But disciplinarian or not, I knew she’d try to protect me from a demon.

“No.” I swung back to the bar. “No, we’ll wait a little longer and see what happens. If I have to, I’ll make my own deal with Hans later.”

The demon glanced my way and smiled. Behind him, the semi-finalist board had only three spots left for women.

Three spots!
The regulator clock beside the chalkboard read 7:35. The quarter-finals were going to end in twenty-five minutes.

“Forget zombies!” I grabbed Ruth’s arm. “Forget everything but the contest. Get out there, start dancing, and try your damndest to qualify. That’s an order!”

Ruth’s pretty face went blank. “Yes, ma’am.” She stalked forward, jerked a middle-aged man into her arms, and began hopping around like a shimmering black-and-red bird on hot pavement. The contest judges watched her, appalled.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I could almost hear Bernie’s sarcastic comment.

But then I stopped and stared. Something…something other than Ruthie’s dancing…seemed wrong. The music was slow, had been slowing gradually, I realized, for quite some time as King Oliver’s band matched their playing to the mood of the crowd. Some of the dancers looked tired, as if they’d been on their feet as long as I had. Where people earlier had kicked up heels in the Charleston, most of what I saw now were listless, old-fashioned foxtrots.

That wasn’t all. Groups at tables seemed to be sluggish too. People were laughing and drinking, but not so merrily as before. Here and there, someone had leaned against a wall or hat-rack and gone to sleep. Still others stared blankly or mumbled, jaws working open and shut.

I clenched my fists. They couldn’t all be zombies. Not
all
of them.

How about
, my imaginary cousin suggested,
half?

A man flung both arms sideways and slumped in his seat. His companion, a fashionable lady in pink, kept speaking as if she hadn’t noticed. Flecks of white froth adorned her painted mouth.

What could I do? The upstairs bedrooms would never hold them all.

“Clara,” Luella Umbridge spoke behind me. “Clara, we’ve got to talk.”

“Well, it’s about darn time.” I turned to see my best friend, dressed in her special party gown, imported from France: a shimmering
Callot Soeurs
lamé in turquoise and gold with geometric pink-and-turquoise beaded roses along the neckline and hem. Her thick black hair was wound up under a looping headband, draped in pearls, and she wore gold dancing shoes, etched in reverse with flowers.

“Wow!” All thoughts of zombies vanished from my head. “Wow, you look gorgeous!”

My eyes moved from Luella to her companion, the seven-foot-tall Harry Gibraltar, dressed in black tie. Behind them stood Luella’s younger brother, Stephen Umbridge, arm-in-arm with one of the Vaudeville dancers imported by the Hollywood Grand. I wracked my mind, pretty sure she was somebody famous.

Then I remembered: Gilda Gray. I’d seen her name on our stack of entry forms and assumed it was one of my cousin’s jokes.

Gilda Gray was here to qualify for our semi-finals? I glanced at Ruth. Her latest partner had just collapsed onto a chair, sending her prowling toward a nervous-looking group of men.

“Clara,” Luella said. But I couldn’t take my eyes off of Gilda.

“C’mon, Stevie.” Gilda looped a feathered boa around the young man’s neck. “Let’s show these yokels how to cut a rug!” She plucked a gin cocktail from a nearby table and guzzled it down, staring around her at the listless crowd.

“Say, what is this? A funeral?” Gilda tossed her bobbed head. The feathered tiara she wore was even more eye-catching than Ruth’s. “C’mon, fellahs. How about some jazz!”

King Oliver’s men grinned broadly. They put their heads together, counted off, and launched into a riotous Charleston.

Twenty minutes left in the contest. Three ladies’ spaces on the board.

“Clara.” Luella touched my arm.

“All right.” I collected glasses and a bottle of Brandy from the bar, wondering how much I dared admit to Luella about her brother and father. Not one word. Not until both Umbridges were healthy again.

Not until Bernie had returned.

We sat at the corner table that Gladys kept reserved for my cousin. I offered the mobster a drink while watching the contest out of one horrified eye. “Brandy?”

“Glad to.” He gulped it down. “Join me, please.” Stoneface poured for all three of us. “It’ll put hair on your chest!”

“Why, Mr. Gibraltar.” I dragged my attention to the table. “That’s exactly what I’ve always wanted.” Truth is, I’m not crazy about liquor. I’d rather have a Coca-Cola. But growing up in Priscilla’s lab, I’d had plenty of practice sampling the wares, and
no one
outside the Woodsen family gets to intimidate me. I stared the gangster in the eye and drained my glass without blinking.

“To
family
,” Luella offered, sipping brandy, looking concerned.