A slit of a grin appeared on his stark-white, bony face. “You forgot I was here, didn’t you?” He looked a little too pleased with himself.

I took a deep breath. “Get the hell out of my bathroom. I got a call from Blout. Something’s up.”

The ghoul stepped out of the tub with long, sweeping, puppet-like motions. Two strides and he was standing outside the bathroom facing me. He looked me up and down like a ten-cent peepshow.

“Do you know you’re naked?” He seemed to be genuinely concerned.

I slammed the door in his face. It hit him, and he fell to the floor cursing. He was very tall and thin, like a bone rail. Getting himself off the ground was a major pain. Teach his dead ass to mess with me. Maybe it would be a good day after all.

I showered, shat, shaved, and dressed before returning to my desk, where the ghoul was emptying his pockets onto the blotter: mace, a lock-blade knife, handcuffs, and a pair of short spiked steel knuckles—an inexpensive, but nasty cousin of the brass knuckle—covered the stained desktop.

“Hey, don’t go dumping your shit on my desk!”

“This is your ‘shit.’ I took it from you at the party after your episode with the alien,” he said, “Besides, I do not have any ‘shit.’”

He wanted me to see the bloody smashed mess the door had made of his nose, but I just stared at him. His busted nose wasn’t any big deal, it’d heal before we got to the precinct. The undead have amazing healing capabilities. He just wanted some easy sympathy.

“Officer Blout called again while you were in the shower. I took a message,” Mo’Lock said as he lifted a piece of paper off the desk. “He said, ‘If you don’t get your fat, lazy-fuck, bastard-self down to the station immediately, you can kiss my black ass.’”

I loaded the stuff Mo’Lock had been holding for me into my pockets. Six-thirty pm and I was ready to start my day. When I headed for the door, Mo’Lock lumbered behind me. I stopped.

“You coming?”

“Do you mind?”

“No, not at all. You got cash?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s grab a cab.”

The ride to the station was the usual bit of the bizarre that I’ve come to expect. The driver was of Mo’Lock’s ilk, and the two of them gabbed on and on in a tongue that sounded foreign, but was simply regular English spoken at unbelievable speed. It’s fascinating for about thirty seconds, then it works your nerves to blunt nubs. Moments like these made me wonder what the hell I was doing riding in a cab with a couple of the living dead. It was the eternal question—why me?

3

As a rule, I detest police departments, but I really hate my old precinct. Aside from the stares and nasty comments thrown my way as I pass, the place has a smell that sets my memory reeling. Walking the halls, I’m always reminded of the worst times.