A Man's Gotta Eat What a Man's Gotta Eat (EBK) Read online

  A MAN’S GOTTA EAT WHAT A MAN’S GOTTA EAT

  DANA FREDSTI

  TITAN BOOKS

  BOOKS BY

  DANA FREDSTI

  THE ASHLEY PARKER NOVELS

  Plague Town

  Plague Nation

  Plague World (forthcoming)

  Murder For Hire: The Peruvian Pigeon

  A MAN’S GOTTA EAT WHAT A MAN’S GOTTA EAT

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783291472

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: October 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Dana Fredsti asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright © 2013 Dana Fredsti

  Cover illustraton © Matthew Burns

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  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Author’s Note

  About The Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  The name’s T-Bone. Chuck T-Bone. I’m a private detective. You know, a P.I., a dick, a gumshoe. To be specific, I find missing people. Then that feeling of security is shot to shit, never to return.

  It’s always been my specialty, even before the big change. After I died I changed my name to fit my new life—though “life” might not be the right word, under the circumstances.

  Yeah, I’m a zombie.

  Undead, living dead, ghoul, take your pick. The scientists still argue over the best label, but you ask me, it doesn’t matter jack shit what you call us. I say we’re just ordinary guys and dolls trying to earn an honest day’s wages and put food on the table, same way we did before this zombie crap really hit the fan. You know, back a year or so when the dead started refusing to stay buried... or even stay still long enough to be put in the ground.

  Having corpses walking around in various states of decay was bad enough, but then it became obvious that the deads’ favorite pastime was chowing down on the living. You’d step outside of your house and bam! Instant corpse kibble.

  Back in the old days, I’d been Charles Tyrone, of Tyrone’s Investigative Services. But I bought the farm while doing a job for a prominent family—an Italian clan with connections in all the wrong places. You’ll excuse me if I don’t give their name—professional discretion and all that shit. Yeah, I know it doesn’t mean a lot these days, but old habits die hard.

  They paid me well. I’ve never had enough money to be choosy about who I worked for, and it never lasted long.

  I’ve always tried to stay on the clean side of the law, but it ain’t easy, even these days. Life, morals, ethics... they’ve never been purely black or white, no matter what the fundamentalist whack-jobs try to tell us. And in a world where the dead walk and eat the living, shades of gray pop up all over the damn place.

  * * *

  It was a Wednesday morning, the middle of a hot July week. Smog lay over the San Fernando Valley in a thick haze, and it was hotter than the Sahara outside. I kicked back in my office, air conditioner cranked to the max as I waited for a new case to keep me in grub and pay the bills. These days it’s more important to pay the bills— especially the electricity, so you can keep your home and your workspace nice and frosty. Dead meat rots if you don’t keep it cold.

  Me? I’m still in pretty good shape after six months. A little green around the gills, maybe, but nothing major. Compared to the poor saps who can’t pay rent, I’m a regular Romeo. One of these days I’ll get down to a local mortuary and get myself embalmed. But that’ll take more do-re-mi than I have to spare, so in the meantime I’ll make do with my J.D.

  Used to be that Jack Daniels took up most of my pay. I figure my insides must be fairly pickled, as is. But now I mostly drink it out of habit, and to slow the decay.

  I think that’s what they call irony.

  It had started out to be a slow week and so far there were no signs of things picking up on the speed track. My bank account was flatter than a ten year old in a training bra, and if something didn’t break soon, I’d be joining the lines at the unemployment office.

  I’d just started to sink into a depression darker than an African night when the door opened and she walked in. She didn’t knock, but then, trouble rarely waits to be invited. Tall and still lusciously curved, she swayed toward me. This could’ve been on account of the fact that her dainty feet were encased in black stiletto heels, the kind that said “fuck me, but don’t ask me to walk.” Nice gams, kind of slender, so slender that in a couple of places I could see bone showing beneath the seamed stockings.

  Her hair, where it still clung to her scalp, was blonde and luxuriant. Heavy make-up gave her once-porcelain, now bluish complexion an almost natural skin tone, marred only by a gash across one cheek that no expensive mortician’s putty could hide. Her nails were painted red to match her lipstick and her low-necked, curve-clinging satin dress.

  A black silk scarf draped around her throat and shoulders didn’t quite conceal the gaping wound where someone had given her the King Kong of hickeys, right above the collarbone. Little bits of flesh clung to the scarf where it caressed the putrefied flesh around the wound. Her peepers were still an icy blue, but brother, all the Visine in the world couldn’t get the red out.

  Still, I wouldn’t kick her out of my bed.

  “Chuck T-Bone?” Her voice was cold, matching the look in her eyes.

  “That’s my moniker,” I said, staying where I was, feet perched on top of my desk. If this dame wanted to play it cool, I could turn on the ice, too. I nodded toward the cracked leather chair on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

  She did so. As she sat down across from me, I got a whiff of expensive perfume. Everything about this dame screamed “money,” except for the portions that screamed “trouble.” And by the look she gave my knock-off Nagel posters, I could tell she was used to more elegant decor.

  The room vibrated with a palpable silence as we eyeballed each other. I took a gulp of J.D. and stared at her until she looked away. That was good enough.

  “So, what can I do for you, Miss...?”

  I paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

  “Gionetti. Mrs. Robert Gionetti.” She watched me closely, as if expecting some kind of reaction.

  I reacted all right, but only on the inside. A good P.I. never gives anything away.

  “Don’t you recognize the name?” She seemed disappointed.
<
br />   “I don’t know,” I replied coolly. “Should I?”

  “Perhaps you’ve been dead a little longer than we’d thought.” Her tone was caustic.

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe there are some people a man would rather forget.”

  “Like this one?” Mrs. Gionetti opened her small black handbag, pulled out a slightly yellowed photo, and held it out to me. I took it, lifting my feet from the desk and swiveling my chair around so my back was to her.

  It was a good thing I did, because seeing the photo hit me like a punch to the gut and I had a hunch Mrs. Gionetti would’ve enjoyed being the one delivering the blow.

  I stared at the photo for a few minutes, regaining my composure.

  “Well?” Mrs. G sounded faintly triumphant. “Does that ring any bells?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact.” I made sure my voice was carefully neutral. “Quite a few.”

  “I thought it might.”

  Her smugness was really beginning to piss me off. I turned back toward her and flipped the picture face down on the desk.

  “This is old business,” I said. “Why bring it up now?”

  Mrs. Gionetti smiled, causing the gash in her cheek to crack open a little more. Fluids glistened on the raw flesh and muscle inside.

  “On the contrary, Mr. T-Bone,” she said. “This is unfinished business. I believe you were killed before completing the job that my family originally hired you to do. That’s very sloppy work.”

  That hurt.

  “Yeah?” I snarled. “Well, it doesn’t look like your family lasted much longer than I did, sister. And at least I had a clean death. You didn’t see me ending up as boxed lunch for a zombie.”

  I could tell I’d struck home when she raised one hand to her wounded cheek. Her face would’ve been flushed with anger if her arterial ketchup had still been circulating.

  “How dare you!” She glared at me. “I was with my husband when he died, and...”

  “And the first thing he said when he got back up was “Gee, honey, you look good enough to eat!’”

  She sprang to her feet and tried to slap me from across the desk, but I grabbed her wrist.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I cautioned as she tugged angrily against my grip. Dead flakes of skin came off my fingers and her wrist. “You might lose a hand.”

  That did it—she stopped struggling. I let go of her wrist and she sat back down. I gave her a few minutes to regain her composure, and thought about how many people had been offed because of sentimentality during those first few months. No matter how many time people were warned to burn their dead, to avoid contact with their newly deceased loved ones, or to cap ’em in the head, they all made the same mistake, over and over. All it did was add to the ranks of the unwashed—and undead—masses.

  Idiots.

  I mean, the first thing most newly dead folks do after they rise is hightail it to wherever they spent the most time when they were alive. So you have your basic schmoe who should be lying under a slab of granite, and instead he’s walking in through the front door of his house, nothing on his mind but “what’s for dinner.” And who should be there but the little woman, plus maybe a couple of brats.

  So what does his grieving widow do? Does she go for a gun, or even a baseball bat? Nope. Nine times out of ten, the dumb broad screams “Darling!” and runs right into the arms of her hungry hubby.

  Next thing you know, dinner is served. Hubby has his meal, a little “kid à la mode” for dessert... Before long, everyone comes back—minus a few pieces.

  Sure, there were guys who made the same mistake, but more often it was a female kind of thing.

  Mrs. G., here, looked to be a prime example.

  “So,” I said casually, “I take it the Gionettis have some unfinished business they want wrapped up?”

  “That is correct, Mr. T-Bone.” Mrs. G’s voice dripped icicles.

  “And you want me to finish what I started.”

  “Yes. And as before, the authorities are not to be involved.”

  “Withholding live meat for the purpose of private consumption is highly illegal,” I said.

  “We’re aware of that, Mr. T-Bone,” she replied. “We’ll make it worth the risk.”

  “My fees have gone up,” I said. “Cost of not living, and all that.”

  “Money is no object.”

  “I didn’t think it would be.”

  Mrs. Gionetti took an envelope out of her purse and laid it on the desk.

  “You’ll find ten thousand in the envelope. That should be an adequate advance against any expenses you might incur.” She stood up and turned to leave.

  “There’s just one other thing,” I said.

  She stopped, teetering precariously on her heels and exuding impatience.

  “What is it?” she snapped.

  “I’m just curious. What difference could this possibly make to the Gionettis now?”

  Mrs. Gionetti looked at me.

  “We believe in paying our debts, Mr. T-Bone. And that other people should pay theirs, as well. We see no reason why death should change that.” She turned her back on me again. “Good day, Mr. T-Bone.”

  I watched appreciatively as she swayed out the door, her rounded ass clearly defined beneath the satin of her dress.

  * * *

  Mrs. G. was right about one thing, though—death really didn’t change things a whole hell of a lot.

  After the initial rigor mortis wore off, you started getting your smarts back. It took a couple of days, and while some zombies were damned stupid, sooner or later most of us were able to function as well as we did before we died.

  There’s still a lot of speculation as to the whys and wherefores of this particular phenomenon: cause of death, how much time passed before reanimation, the stage of decomposition when you came back... you name it. Scientists are still trying to figure that out, too.

  If you ask me, it all depends on what your gray matter was like before you died.

  At any rate, it didn’t take long before the walking dead got organized. Any breathers who were left went into hiding. Major cities became party time at the morgue. So we didn’t breathe any more, big deal. Who the hell needs bodily functions? You get a lot more work done when you don’t have to stop to drain the dragon.

  Sure, we all smelled like dead meat. I figure it’s the same as it was back in the really old days, when nobody bathed, and nobody noticed.

  In this brave new world, it seemed natural for zombies to go back to our old professions. Sure, some jobs were obsolete, like doctors—although plastic surgeons still managed to rake in the dough. Anyone who was out of work, either they found themselves new careers, starved, or became rogue zombies who refused to obey the new laws—especially those regarding the regulation and disposal of live meat.

  Yup, only things that really changed were our diets.

  No such thing as vegetarians any more.

  I shook my head in disgust. Here I was with a job to do, and I was wasting my time on zombie philosophy.

  I looked at the photo that still lay face down on my desk, hesitated briefly, then picked it back up. And felt the familiar flip-flop of my stomach when I looked at the girl in the picture.

  Lana Malloy, former love of my life, and the cause of my death. She’d been something all right, a curvy brunette with big blue eyes and full, pouting lips that were made for kissing. Her breasts were like firm summer melons and she had the kind of round ass that you wanted to sink your teeth into... no pun intended.

  * * *

  I know I wasn’t gonna name any names, but what the hell. The family I’d been working for at the time of my death had been none other than the Gionettis. Lana had been the girlfriend of Marco Gionetti, the middle son of Don Roberto Gionetti. Somehow Lana had gotten ahold of a shipment of gold belonging to the family and had then taken a powder with the dough. So they wanted the dame found, preferably alive, so they could have some fun before altering that state.


  The zombie thing had been in its early stages and the Gionettis didn’t care that the world was going to hell around them—it was still business as usual.

  It hadn’t taken me long to find her. Like I said, finding people has always been my specialty. Lana had been hiding out with an old roommate. She and said roommate had both worked Hollywood Boulevard before Lana was spotted by Marco. Seeing how it wasn’t safe to work the streets any more, her roommate had switched to a seedy hotel. Various kinks were one thing, but being approached by johns who’d just as soon eat you as screw you—that was a whole different game.

  I found Lana at the hotel. She was alone, an easy target. All I had to do was deliver her to the Gionettis, collect my dough, and buy myself a case of J.D. to celebrate. But no, I had to be a sap and fall for her. She knew what I was there for, all right, and fed me a sob story about how Marco had forced her to steal the gold. He’d been in on the heist from jump street.

  She told me about her dreams, her failed career as an actress, the whole nine yards. And I fell for it, hook, line and sinker, especially after she laid a lip lock on me that would’ve brought the dead back to life—without the virus or radiation or whatever the hell had screwed humanity.

  That was it for me, the girl of my dreams.

  So we made plans to leave L.A.—not an easy task seeing how the government had placed all the major cities under quarantine. Since zombification was a worldwide problem, it was a case of locking the crypt door after the ghoul had gotten out, but no one gave a shit. The bottom line was that there were armed guards at all major routes in and out of Los Angeles, making it hard for anyone who’d had enough of the laid-back Southern California lifestyle.

  But I’m nothing if not creative.

  I called on every connection, every favor I’d collected over the years, and it wasn’t long before I’d put together a fairly foolproof plan. I’d pick Lana up at the hotel at one in the a.m. We’d go to a prearranged location and meet a buddy of mine who’d have an armored car waiting to get us through the roadblocks and up to a little hideaway in the mountains—a place my dad had built in simpler times. In the car, there would be enough supplies and ammo to get us through a few years.