Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (21 page)

“Oh, Beau.” I braced one hand against his chest and yanked out the long pick. “You’re ruining your clothes.” Gladys had starched and ironed him thoroughly, after we pulled him from the tub. But Beau’s beautifully cut eveningwear had not taken the soaking well. Now he was drenched again with ice water.

“Khlara.” Beau clutched me imploringly. “Khlara…cannot…keep…on.”

“It’s not much longer.” I felt him struggle through our connection, felt the effort it took just to be human. “You’ve got to wait. We’ve both got to wait until the semi-finals end at eight o’clock.”

“Why?”

“Because, um.” Because I hadn’t absolutely decided to give him my hellfire. So many things depended on that quarter-vial. My life, for one. A quarter-vial might not heal me completely, if I lost the bet with Hans, but it should keep me alive. And if I won the bet, then having hellfire gave me a stronger bargaining position in my next deal.

I squeezed the zombie’s hand. “We’ve got to see this through.”

“People…watch,” he said with difficulty. “Friends…pity.” His eyes were haunted. “I want to die.”

“I know.” His words were icepicks in my heart. “But I can’t let you go. Not yet. That demon’s pressuring us. He wants me to be helpless. I can’t give in.”

Beau stared down bleakly. Water dribbled off of the counter onto his slacks.

“Come on.” We went to the kitchen and collected one of Gladys’ fried oyster sandwiches. Then I led Beau up the back stairs. “Let’s get you dry.”

I left Beau baking in the warm attic and climbed the ladder to the widow’s walk. The sky was bright and cloudless. We’d been lucky, this week, not to have summer storms. I swung myself over the guardrail, unwrapped my sandwich, and sat down on the edge of the roof, feet dangling, watching the picnic across the street.

Beau’s actor friends were there, Marion Davies, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, along with starlets, singers, and politicians who were staying at the Hollywood Grand. My cousin was there among them, juggling, performing stunts, much petted and admired. Of the gangster, Stoneface Gibraltar, there wasn’t any sign.

Stoneface Gibraltar
. I crumpled half of my sandwich into an unforgiving ball.

The nuisance fires last night had been distractions set by gangsters so they could murder Bernie and sneak away with all the stolen booze. Each time that thought occurred, a dark pit seemed to open in my soul.

I swung my feet and watched two Vaudeville girls draw false eyebrows on Bernie’s face with kohl. The image of him, the memory of that awful, choking smell, engulfed me, while the sweet tones of Ukulele Ike drifted like unforgiving angels through the air.

Gee it would be great
If I could go to sleep and wake
Up where the lazy daisies grow.

Gladys, silent as always, wearing a long dress, full apron, and her new fox stole, sat down beside me on the roof. I blinked at the three-story drop, wondering if she’d come to push me off because of Bernie. Wondering if I deserved a push.

Life to me would always be a holiday
Down in the fields that I once knew.

“Can I fetch you anything, miss?” the golem asked. “A light sweater or parasol to block the sun?”

“No, thanks.”

Below, Bernie began organizing men into a tug-of-war across the hotel’s oblong sunken fountain.

“Thanks for the sandwich.” I hid the crumpled ball under my skirt. “It was great.”

The teams picked up their rope. A whistle blew. Bernie’s opponents flew forward and landed in the trough.

“My oysters,” Gladys grumbled, “were not poison.”

“I know.”

“No one would eat them. I had to throw good food away.”

The tug-of-war regrouped, swapping dry men for wet. They bent, grabbing the rope, and braced their feet.

“I’m sorry.” Not just about the oysters.

“It’s not your fault,” Gladys said calmly. “Your plate was full.”

Bernie’s team won again. Laughing men splashed and scrambled out of the fountain. Money changed hands. Ladies stood and waived their handkerchiefs. Five extra men joined the defeated team and were promptly soaked through.

Douglas Fairbanks rose from his seat. A cheer ran through the crowd as he stepped to the front of the line facing my cousin’s team.

The men on both sides braced their feet. Doug spit onto his palms and grabbed the rope. The whistle blew again.

Bernie, grandstanding shamelessly, took one hand off and waved to the crowd before clasping the rope to pull again. People hollered enthusiastically as each team inched forward and back.

“I should have found him,” I said. “I shouldn’t have trusted Ruth.”

“It’s never wise to put your faith in a genie.”

“I should have searched the wreckage of the fire and dug him out.”

“The ashes were very hot,” Gladys replied. “You would have burned your hands.”

A yell went up as Bernie’s team dragged Doug Fairbanks over the edge. At the last moment, the actor used the rope to vault across and land safely beside my cousin. Behind him, his teammates toppled, one by one, into the drink.

Women screamed out congratulations. Flowers were thrown. Men clustered around to shake Bernie’s hand.

I sighed. Guilt wasn’t going to win my bet with Hans.

My cousin glanced up, spotted us, and dashed off a salute. A moment later, the crowd lifted Bernie and Fairbanks onto their shoulders and flowed into the street. Priscilla, walking beside George Umbridge, Junior, looked up at us and actually waved.

A catbird fluttered to our perch and changed into a girl. I filed away the fact that Ruth could fly.

“I brought you something.” She pulled a charm off of a jangling bracelet and waved her hand, producing a slightly melted Eskimo Pie. “They’re real delicious.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I go to the station?” Ruth asked. “That actor fellow and Bernie are going to show the crowd the way to jump between two moving trains.”

“Bernie is?” Even with hellfire, that seemed ambitious for my cousin.

“Please? Please? I promise I’ll come right back.”

“All right.” I sighed. “But don’t stay long. Bring Bernie back so you two can practice before the judging starts.”

The genie threw her arms around my neck. “Thank you!” An instant later, she fluttered away.

“Stay out of trouble,” I yelled. “I mean it!”

The picnickers halted outside the railroad station. Photographers began setting up cameras along the track. A cloud of smoke puffed in the distance.

Oh well
. I shook my head.
Better get moving
. I stood, leaving the Eskimo Pie to melt, and started for the widow’s walk. Gladys followed in silence, lifting me over the railing as easily as my zombie had done the day before.

We found Beau standing in the attic on an old, three-legged kitchen chair. He’d tied a length of clothesline to the rafters and knotted the other end around his neck. But he’d forgotten to kick the chair away.

“Oh, Beau,” I sighed.

Gladys untied the noose and set the zombie on the floor. We started down the narrow attic stairs. Far off, a train whistled, and then, much closer, an answering engine spoke.

I frowned. What if Bernie killed himself doing that stupid stunt? I’d have wasted a quarter vial of hellfire, that’s what. Then Ruth would have no one to dance with, I’d lose my bet, and Hans would keep his promise and end my life.

And then
, I thought,
my ghost will find his ghost and smack its idiot head
.

“Do you love him?” I looked back up the steps at Gladys. She was so even tempered all the time. “I mean, do you love Bernie?”

What would happen to her if the last Benjamin died?

“When I was created,” Gladys replied, “human lives were very short, much shorter than today. Love was not considered a useful emotion.” She followed us downstairs. “No such instructions were written into my soul.”

“What does that mean?”

The golem touched my shoulder. “It means,” she said, squeezing gently, “sometimes we have to write ourselves.”

XVI: Give Your Little Baby Lots of Lovin’

It’s always darkest before you drown.
—The Boy’s Book of Boggarts

Bernard:

IT TURNS OUT THE SECRET to jumping between two moving trains is to position yourself atop one of the cars, match your motion exactly to the rocking of the rails, compute the distance and then, as screaming winds and bits of insect pound your face, lie flat and whimper while Douglas Fairbanks does the jumping.

No movie offers, please. Doug’s got a wife and children to support.

After that triumph, once the train had stopped and I’d crept from my perch, the afternoon passed quickly between practicing with Ruth, washing, dressing, consuming more oysters than can be reasonably expected even to soothe the feelings of a beloved family retainer and, to my relief, securing a necessary shave.

I had to admit, Clara had done the Fellowship proud. Not only was all trace of last night’s chaos gone, but she and Gladys had decorated the building in stunning black and white with gleaming linens, glittering crystal, and table settings suitable for a visit from the Prince of Wales, should he decide to pop across the pond ahead of September’s scheduled polo meet. The fact that many of these items had been scavenged from my dead mother’s trousseau did not upset me. I like to imagine she’d have been fond of Clara, if they’d met. I like to imagine she’d have been fond of me.

By the time the semi-finals judging began at six o’clock, my hellfire-induced confidence had recovered enough to let me think there might still be hope of winning my cousin’s wretched bet.

To start with, I’d grown an inch, thanks to young C.’s demonic doctoring, and while I’d never be the tallest in any group of more than six or seven, it made a cheering change. Then again, Ruth and I seemed to have found our stride. The genie’s lessons at Clara’s catch-and-kill college of choreography had given our partnership a certain flair, a sense of urgency nobody else could touch. Add the fact that so many people were suffering from crippling Jacques hangovers, and I honestly didn’t see how Ruth could fail to final.

This hadn’t happened by six thirty-five, when the band took their first break, but four of the five female finalist spots were open on the board, and I was confident the judges had taken note. My only sorrow, as I paused at the bar to collect a quick restorative, was that I hadn’t had a cigarette all day. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to strike a match.

“Bernard B.” A lovely lady caressed the peach fuzz on my scalp. “That haircut
c’est
awfully chic!”

In the sense of infant poultry, struck by mange, she was correct.

“Marvelous Mabel.” I clasped the woman’s fingers and felt her pulse increase. “Merci.”

A glittering beauty, draped in a scalloped shawl that fastened along her arms like butterfly wings, flapped up and leaned onto my shoulder. A third creature batted caked eyelashes across the room, and it occurred to me that putty would be as nothing compared to these women in the Benjamin hands, should I choose to enfold them.

“Hello, gorgeous.” The butterfly licked its lips. “Buy you a drink?”

“Certainly not.” I beckoned to the zombie. “Allow me.”

Of course, it wasn’t I who held these ladies spellbound. It was hellfire dressed in a Bernie suit of clothes. Before long, the charm would vaporize, and I’d be back to courting caterpillars and watching films instead of dazzling damsels and beating film stars at tugs of war.

“A little bird tells me,” Butterfly breath tickled my ear, “you live nearby.”

I smiled mysteriously.

And yet, the thought nagged that my new charisma didn’t have to end. I was as much a Woodsen as my cousins. I could become a warlock, summon demons, and arrange my own hellfire supply. Then butterfly ladies and film star pals would be the rule, not the exception. I might even, if I proceeded carefully, have all these things without losing my soul.

I ran a finger along the butterfly’s gauzy wing.
Tempting
. This day had been more vibrant, more sensual, more fun, than my entire twenty years. Why live as a half-empty Bernie shell?

Beau Beauregard arrived with a bottle, two glasses, and an extremely knowing look. And in a flash of insight, I saw exactly where a life of bargaining with demons might lead.

The butterfly fitted a cigarette into her holder. “Light?”

“Ah. Um.” I reached into a pocket and gripped my handkerchief. “Sorry, I don’t seem to….”

The zombie lifted a table lighter off of the bar. I looked away, enduring the flare of heat across my cheek, as Beau provided the necessary service. In memory, red flames leapt up; I heard the icehouse roar.

Then it was over, along with any remaining wish to fill my life with demons.

I mopped my brow. “Two orange blossoms.” This day could not end fast enough. “Hold the strychnine.”

“Bernie.” Luella Umbridge pushed through the throng around the bar. She’d dressed for the big party at the Hollywood Grand in a blue-beaded gown on which the color graduated from netted pink along the top to deep, sparkling lavender between the pleated panels of the hem. A sequined mermaid headdress adorned her hair, and she wore just enough lip rouge to damage a fellow’s intellect.

“Bernie,” she repeated, “we’ve got to talk.”

“Do we?” I must confess I viewed my lifelong love as patrons of certain clubs must view a rack of whips and fuzzy chains. Part with longing, partly repelled.

“Please, Bernie.”

This would be about Gaspar. I knew that losing her spirit guide had struck the girl a staggering blow. If I’d been less juiced up with hellfire, I’d have staggered, myself.

“It’s urgent.”
Narcisse Noir
perfume added its plea.

The band was just about to start again. “All right. Five minutes.” I checked my watch and let Luella take my hand. We walked together into the crowded hallway between the bar and bowling alley and then down past the kitchen, toward the mudroom by the back door. At the last minute, Luella pulled me aside into the stairway alcove.