“Hey,” said Norden. “Which one’s which?” The signs on the doors, recently added by Axel to amuse the norms, said BOOS and GHOULS. Norden scratched his head for a second and then said, “Oh. I get it.” He pushed open the door marked BOOS and went into the men’s room, one hand on his gun.
The way Sykes glared at the closed men’s room door, I expected the wood to start smoldering. The big zombie turned toward GHOULS and tapped on the door, opening it a crack. “Anyone in there?”
No one answered, so he pushed the door fully open and disappeared inside. After about a minute, both Goons were back in the hallway.
“You find anything?” Norden demanded.
“Yeah.” Sykes nodded, and Norden leaned forward. “The ladies’ room is out of paper towels.”
Norden swore, clenching a fist like he wanted to take a swing at his partner—which would’ve been about as smart as using a bull elephant for a punching bag. After a second, Norden seemed to realize that. He turned and disappeared into the rear storeroom. Sykes cast a longing glance at the table where Carlos and his friends sat, then followed Norden.
I finished my beer and ordered a glass of club soda. More flavor.
T.J. slid onto a bar stool beside me. Most of the customers had drifted out. “Man, what’s that blood bag’s problem?” he asked me. “He’s costing me some serious tip money.”
“Just his charming personality, I guess. I’ve run into him before, and he was the same then. He really hates PAs—makes you wonder why he ever wanted to be a Goon.”
“Why would anybody want to be a Goon?” He drummed on the bar, restless, his gold ring flashing. “Do you know what time it is?”
I pulled up my sleeve to read my watch. “A little past five thirty.”
“Might as well start cleaning up. Hey, that’s a cool watch. Can I see it?”
“Okay, but be careful.” I unfastened the black leather strap and handed him the watch. As he studied it, I explained. It was a new watch, and I enjoyed showing it off. “Besides the two dials, it’s got a built-in compass and temperature sensor. But the really great thing about this watch is that this dial”—I pointed to the upper one—“keeps accurate time in other people’s dreamscapes. When I go in to exterminate a pod of Drudes—those are dream-demons—I need to keep track of how time is passing outside. If the client wakes up while I’m still inside the dream, I can get stuck there.” Being trapped in someone else’s dreams was not my idea of fun. It was like endlessly watching a stranger’s home movies, only freakier. “I give the client a sleeping pill, so I’ll know how much time I’ve got. But time passes differently in dreams, and most watches get screwed up. So far, this one hasn’t.” I knocked on the wooden bar for luck. I’d never had a watch last more than a couple of dreams before it died. This one had kept on ticking through a dozen Drude exterminations. I knocked on the bar again, just in case the good-luck gods hadn’t heard me the first time.
T.J. laid my watch on the bar and picked up his tray, then went off to clean tables. Norden and Sykes were coming back down the hallway from the storeroom. From the look on Norden’s face, they hadn’t found anything more interesting than some kegs and cartons of bar snacks.
Norden stopped. Across from the restrooms was a metal door with a NO ENTRY sign. And the door seemed to mean it: Three deadbolt locks lined up above the doorknob. Norden tried the knob, then shook it. Even if the knob had turned, I don’t know how he thought he’d get through those deadbolts.
“Bartender!” he shouted. Axel leaned out just far enough to see down the hallway. “What’s in there?” Norden pointed at the locked door.
“Nothing.” Axel started to go back to his station.
“Nothing? It’s locked up like freaking Fort Knox.” He rattled the doorknob again. “Open it.”
“That’s my apartment.” Axel spoke as though everyone knew that. Well, everyone did—everyone who hung out at Creature Comforts, anyway. And the other thing everyone knew was that you never, ever violated Axel’s privacy.
Apparently, Norden didn’t think he was everyone. “I said open it.”
The remaining customers turned to stare as Axel came all the way out from behind the bar. The angle of his head, the tightness of his shoulders broadcast a warning.
“What’re you waiting for,” Norden said, “a warrant? We don’t need one. Not in the Zone.”
“You’re not going through that door.” Axel stood in front of it, his arms crossed. The warning in his posture morphed into a threat. Subtle, but definite.
Norden didn’t do subtle. He stepped back and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. He stood that way for three or four long seconds. Then he gestured to his partner. “Okay, Sykes, break it down.”
Sykes planted himself in front of Axel. It was like watching one of the Rocky Mountains saunter over to the Sierra Nevadas to compare size. They faced each other, tension pouring off them. Everyone watched; Carlos half-rose from his chair. The bar was silent, waiting for the explosion that would come when one of these two made his move.
Then Sykes stepped back and shook his head. “No.”
“No?” Norden’s face invented a whole new shade of purple. “Whaddaya mean, ‘no’?”
“There’s no need. I’ve heard about this place. The bartender’s right: Nobody goes through that door. And that means no illegal vampire activity is happening in there.”
“That door could be hiding anything, damn it!”
“Then you break it down.” Sykes moved aside, giving Norden room for a clear run at Axel. The idea of the short, wiry norm shoving Axel out of the way, let alone knocking down the solid door, was ludicrous. Down the bar from me, someone sniggered.
Norden looked ready to pop. If he’d been a cartoon character, he’d have steam shooting out both ears. But he said, “Aw, the hell with it”—loudly, so everyone in the bar could hear—like he’d changed his mind himself.
“C’mon, Sykes. We’re outta here.” Norden stormed through the room. T.J. walked toward the bar carrying a tray of empty glasses. Norden stuck his foot out and tripped the zombie. Glasses flew everywhere, shattering as they hit the ground. T.J. sprawled facedown on the floor.
He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and, from there, reared up into a kneeling position. “Hey,” he said to Norden, looking genuinely puzzled, “what’d you do that for?”
Norden laughed nastily and went outside. Sykes helped T.J. up, gave a “What can I say?” shrug, and followed his partner. He didn’t look at Carlos or his other friends on the way out.
T.J. fetched a broom to sweep up the broken glass. I got down from my stool and retrieved his tray, then picked up a couple of intact glasses and empty bottles. T.J. was pushing the broom near the front door when it opened. Norden came in, his head twisting over his shoulder as he said something to his partner outside.
I don’t think T.J. tripped him on purpose. The kid didn’t seem like the vindictive type, and Norden wasn’t watching where he was going. But somehow the broom got tangled up with Norden’s feet. Norden took three faltering steps and nearly went down. But he caught himself, and when he straightened, his gun was in his hand. Pointed at T.J.
Goons packed the exploding ammo that could take out a zombie.
I’d never seen a zombie go pale, but T.J. did. He dropped the broom and held out his hands, palms out, like they could ward off a bullet. “Sorry, man. It was an accident, all right?”
“You assaulted an officer of the law,” Norden said. “A human officer of the law. Do you know what that means?”
Everyone in the bar knew what it meant. Norden could blast a hole the size of the Sumner Tunnel through T.J., with no repercussions. I glanced around the bar. All of the human customers had gone, so no one here counted as a witness. T.J. looked sick with fear.