Anyone who knows me knows I shoot first, ask questions at the funeral when it comes to werewolves—or any other monster for that matter.

The first time I met Grimshaw was through a letter I received. It wasn’t sent by mail, someone slid it under the door of my Studio City house. The note was handwritten with what looked like an old quill pen, there was no return address, and the envelope smelled like lilacs and musk.

The note was short and to the point. Under normal circumstances the content would have meant someone, namely the sender, wanted me to kill them. But this was different.

The note went like this:

Detective McDonald—

My name is Paul Grimshaw. I am a werewolf and it is imperative that we speak about a grave matter that concerns the lives of many thousands.

Sincerely

—Grimshaw

The fact that he told me he was a dog-boy before showing up proved he wasn’t a complete retard. As a rule werewolves are the least civilized of all monsters, so Grimshaw intrigued me.

I’d let him talk before I smeared him all over the lawn.

It was “winter” in Los Angeles so it rained and there was a little wind. Sometimes it dropped to fifty degrees at night. The way the locals reacted to it you’d think the fucking state was sliding into the ocean, but it wasn’t so bad. I liked it. The rain reminded me of back east.

The day after the smelly note slid under my door, a car pulled up in front of my house. This wasn’t some Honda Civic, this was one of those block-long vintage Rolls-Royce deals with a canopy and a hood ornament the size of a midget.

I opened the front door and stood on the porch while a chauffeur, dressed like some sort of gay Nazi, jumped out and ran around to open the door for the passenger.

I knew it was Grimshaw before the door opened. When I saw him I was only a little surprised. I hadn’t seen anybody that fancy-pants this side of a classic forties film. He was a tall, husky guy wearing a fine tailored suit, close-trimmed hair and get this, a fucking monocle over his right eye.

I stood on the porch as the regal man approached. He looked completely out of place, out of the past, strolling all elegant and shit down my cracked, white asphalt walkway dividing two plots of grassless yard.

As he reached the foot of the porch, he stopped, clicked his heels, and extended his hand. “Cal McDonald. I’m Paul Grimshaw.”

“Yeah, I got your note.” I gave him the once-over, then stepped aside. “Come on in. Sorry about the place. It’s the maid’s day off.”