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

  Yeah, it’d been a great plan. My only mistake was filling little Lana in on the details. But you know how it is when the little head takes over—common sense and good judgment go right out the window.

  At any rate, it all went as smooth as silk, up to the high-rise parking lot where we were meeting my buddy Larry, the guy with the armored car. Larry was there, all right, along with an unwelcome third party—one Marco Gionetti.

  Marco had a .38 pointed at my pal and a shark’s smile on his ugly mug. One quick look at my baby told me all I needed to know. Lana’d suckered me into doing all the dirty work, just so she could hightail it out of town with Marco.

  Lana sashayed over to her pasta-eating Romeo, who settled an arm across her shoulders in a way that still boiled my blood, even though she’d double-crossed me. Marco smirked and motioned me to stand over by Larry.

  “Thanks for doing all the work, Tyrone,” he said. “Me and Lana, we really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll be you do.” I stared unblinkingly at Lana, who looked away uncomfortably.

  “I’m sorry, Charles,” she said with what I’d still swear was genuine regret. “We had some good times together.”

  “We could have had a lot more, baby.” I started to inch my hand towards my shoulder holster. At this point, I figured I had nothing to lose.

  “Enough sweet talk,” Marco snarled. “Say good-bye to Mr. Tyrone, doll-face.”

  “At least let Larry go,” I said, stalling for time.

  “Sorry, Tyrone. I don’t leave loose ends behind.”

  I knew I had to act fast, so I did. Whipping my .44 out of my holster, I got off a shot just as Marco pulled his trigger. White-hot agony exploded in my chest. As the world started going black, I managed to squeeze off two more shots. My only regret as I exited the world of the living was that I didn’t know if I’d hit the bastard.

  I didn’t have to deal with the regret for very long, though.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A couple hours later, the zombie bug kicked in and the first sight that greeted me was of Marco Gionetti, lying on the floor, one kneecap shattered and another bullet wound through his shoulder. There was a trail of blood, left when he’d tried to crawl to his car. I would’ve smiled but my muscles hadn’t loosened up yet. The pain in my chest was gone, though and I felt pretty damned good, the only exception being a hellacious hunger. Luckily for me, I had a blue-plate special waiting for me.

  A groan of agony came from the body, and told me he was still alive.

  I lurched to my feet, stumbling as I tried to gain control over my newly reanimated dead body. Gotta say, it’d been worth dying, just to see the look on the poor sap’s face as I staggered towards him. He started babbling—about how Lana had double-crossed him, too, leaving him when my bullets had taken him out of the running as her sugar daddy.

  It was hard, but I finally got my brain and muscles together enough to growl “Tough luck.” And then I started chowing down.

  I’ve always liked Italian food.

  * * *

  I shook my head. This little trip down memory lane was getting me nowhere but more confused. I’d never worked out my feelings for Lana and her betrayal—the best I’d done was try not to think about it. But now I was being paid, not just to think about her, but to find her.

  When I did, would I want to kiss her, or eat her?

  I stared at her picture, trying to find the answer in those luscious lips, those sea-blue peepers, those perfect breasts that were so enticing... and edible.

  “Aw, screw it!” As frustrated as a zombie in a mannequin factory, I jammed the picture into my pants pocket and stood up, slamming my chair against the desk. I’d deal with my personal problems later. Right now I had a job to do. Besides, it was lunchtime and I couldn’t think on an empty stomach.

  First thing I did was douse myself with bug repellent. The worst thing about going outside is the damned flies. Where there’s flies, there’s maggots. And there are just some things a man shouldn’t have to deal with, even if he’s a walking corpse.

  I grabbed my trench coat and fedora off the coat rack. Hey, I like the look. And my fedora did double duty. I’d had it lined with steel, so not only did it protect my slowly decaying noggin from the elements, it also took care of any stray bullets that came my way. You never know when a job might turn rough, and you can never tell who might be packing a piece these days.

  I left my office and hit the street. My first stop was just down the block on the corner of Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevard, so I figured a little smog and heat couldn’t hurt. At least it was a dry heat, instead of that nasty-ass, makes-your-flesh-rot-overnight humid weather. The zombies in Florida must really be hating unlife.

  The streets were pretty empty, only a few other damned souls braving the midday heat. The transients who lived on this side of the hills were probably inside Thrifty’s, where a dollar would buy you an hour’s worth of air-conditioned relief.

  A couple of yuppie types strolled unsteadily down the sidewalk toward me, both looking a little worse for the wear in their designer suits. Yuppie number one had large patches of scalp peeling off, the worst case of dandruff I’d ever seen. Number two wasn’t exactly a candidate for GQ either. His face reminded me of an exploded raspberry pie. Where it hadn’t gone green, that is. Both carried paper sacks with red fluid leaking out the bottoms. I guessed they were on their lunch break.

  As we passed each other, Pie-Face gave me a real snotty glance out of his remaining eye. I sneered back and let my coat fall open enough to show my .44. That wiped the snot from his face, all right. Never mess with someone who’s heeled, especially if you’re not.

  My mood improved, and I continued on my way.

  Joe’s Joints was packed. The logo—a severed leg in the hands of a smiling, well-preserved California zombie gal—proclaimed, “One million served!” No kidding. And every single one of the goddamn million stood in line today.

  I was tempted to leave, but it’d been a while since I’d had a decent meal. Fresh meat was at a premium, and even if you found a live one, you couldn’t dig in like you could during the first few months of zombification. Now you had to turn it in to the authorities for “proper distribution.” The politicians made it sound like their precious Proposition 7—other wise tagged “The Live Meat Act”—would ensure that everyone got fed. Give me a break!

  Nothing’s changed. The rich still get the prime cuts of life. If you have enough money, you can even pick your meal before it’s killed. Remember Lobster House? Same deal, except the lobsters got boiled before they were eaten.

  So I waited in line for half an hour to get my elbow joint—“freshly killed!”—with a side order of toes. Not bad for ten bucks, although too much fast food can clog the arteries. Har, har...

  I ate at the counter, and when I was done I decided to call a cab instead of driving to my next destination. Gas is still expensive, and parking in Hollywood is a bitch. I used the pay phone in Joe’s, and waited inside out of the heat, flirting with one of the cashiers, a cute red-head with most of her skin and all of her curves.

  Shortly after I placed the call, an old Yellow cab pulled up in front. I chucked Red on the cheek, careful not to scrape anything off, and left.

  The cab looked as if it’d seen quite a few years of duty. The same went for the cabbie, who turned around as I settled myself in the back seat. He was an old guy, blue cap perched jauntily over one runny eye.

  “Where to, Mac?” His voice had gone from gravelly to gargly, and a dark cavity lurked where his nose had been. His flesh was kind of puffy, turning a greenish-black around the eyes. Either he wasn’t getting enough sleep, or he had a bad case of dry rot.

  “Hollywood and Vine,” I instructed. “And crank up the air conditioner, will ya? Christ on a crutch, a guy could decompose just sitting in this trash heap.”

  “Sure, Mac,” the cabbie said agreeably. “Whatever you say, you’re the fare.” The muscles and tendons in his neck made omino
us tearing sounds as he turned back to the wheel and peeled out into the light afternoon traffic. He hit the “high” switch on the AC, and rolled up his window.

  I sighed in contentment as cold air began circulating.

  “That’s more like it,” I said. “Ya know, pal, you might still have your smeller if you kept it like this more often.”

  “You ain’t the first fare to say so,” he replied, screeching around the corner onto Laurel Canyon with a total disregard for pedestrians. “It’s a bad habit from the old days. I’ve been driving a cab in this town for over thirty years and I tell you, there’s nothing like hanging your arm out the window, the wind blowing on your face to make you feel like king of the world.”

  “Whatever, pal.”

  “Hey, check this out!” He lifted both arms above his head, short sleeves giving me a clear look at the flesh. His right arm was in okay shape, blue going to greenish-gray, but the left was nothing but tattered flesh and bone, short on the flesh, heavy on the bone. He was also down to three digits on the left hand.

  “That’s something, alright, ” I said, but I was more interested in the fact that the cab was headed in a straight trajectory, while the road ahead curved as it went up into the hills. “Do me a favor, though, and watch the road.”

  “Sure, Mac,” Cabbie said, putting his hands back where they belonged, which is to say on the wheel. “No problem. You’re the fare.”

  We passed Mulholland Drive and started the descent into Hollywood. I had to hand it to the various sanitation departments—they’d done a damned good job cleaning up the mess that’d been made during the first months of zombification, getting rid of all those partially munched bodies and pieces parts lying around in various stages of decay. Not to mention all the litter.

  People are pigs, y’know?

  Soon we were on Hollywood Boulevard, going east. Once past La Brea, activity on the street picked up. Punks, prostitutes, and the occasional tourist strolled, lurched, and crawled along the Boulevard, some looking to be discovered by some big shot moviemaker, others just looking for trouble. These were the kind of scum who’d sell their mother for a plugged nickel... if they didn’t eat her first.

  You saw a lot more transients on this side of the hill, a lot more missing limbs and rotting faces. These were the zombies with no place to go, no homes, and no food. They didn’t have air conditioning. And given the current political climate, you could bet your balls that there’d be no funding available for shelters and low-income housing projects.

  Government. They can bring the dead to life, but they still can’t solve the homeless problem.

  A couple of blocks from Vine I tapped on the divider.

  “I want you to turn on Vine, and pull up to the curb,” I said. “And I want you to wait for me. Got that, pal?”

  “Sure, whatever you say. You’re...”

  “...the fare,” I finished. “I know. Just make sure you don’t forget it.”

  Cabbie turned onto Vine and parked. Half-dozen streeties—all armed with squeegees—immediately surrounded the cab. They shoved each other as they tried to get close to the windows. The ones who succeeded left more gunk on the glass than they took off. A patch of greenish slime smeared across the windshield as two of ’em jockeyed for position by pushing at each other’s squeegee with rotting fingers.

  “Aw, shit!” the cabbie yelled, finally losing his amiable tone. “I hate this. Hey! If I want my windows washed, I’ll tell ya! Aw, goddamn it to hell, that jerk left a fingertip under the wiper.” He cracked his window and shouted, “Hey, get a life, assholes!”

  I shoved open the right hand door, sending one of the would-be wipers tumbling to the ground. There was a splat as he hit the pavement. He was pretty ripe.

  “Sorry, pal.” I stepped over him, leaving the cabbie to deal with the rest.

  I headed back to Hollywood Boulevard, hanging a left at the corner. I immediately started scanning the faces—what was left of them—of the crowd as I walked down the block.

  I was looking for Lana’s ex-roommate, Jackie. I’d met her a few times during my little interlude with Lana, and thought I’d still recognize her... if she was still alive or thereabouts. I had a hunch she’d be back on her favorite strip of the Boulevard now that she didn’t have to worry about undead johns. It was a long shot that she’d have any clue as to Lana’s whereabouts, but I didn’t have any better ideas at the moment.

  It looked like I’d have crapped out, though. There was no sign of Jackie among the hookers and dealers leaning against poles and storefronts. None of the hard cases gave me any shit. I’d been down here a few times, and had a reputation. Maybe it was time to use some muscle to find out where Jackie was hiding.

  “Hey, handsome, looking for fun?”

  The voice came from a dame in one of those black leather bra things, the type with metal studs all over it. Her filling had started to deflate, but the legs that showed beneath the black mini were still good enough to get my Grade-A rating. Her face, when my eyes made it up that far, was less than perfect, but the Tina Turner wig added a certain “Jeannie says quay,” as the Frogs would say. She leaned against the side window of a wig shop, her hips pushed forward as far as they’d go.

  Maybe I wouldn’t need to use muscle to find out about Jackie.

  “No thanks, doll,” I replied, walking over to her. “Though I gotta say, the offer’s tempting.”

  “C’mon,” she wheedled, running a finger down my coat front. The nail fell off and we both pretended not to notice. “What’ve you got to lose?”

  “I’m down here on business, sweetheart. But maybe you could give me a little hand.”

  “That’s just one of the things I had in mind, honey.” She gave my crotch a suggestive squeeze, not too hard though. No doubt she’d lost a few prospective clients, before adjusting to the relative fragility of zombie genitalia.

  “Sorry, babe.” I gently but firmly moved her hand away from my package. “Now how about some info?”

  She pouted, clearly piqued that I wasn’t interested. Not surprising, considering the condition of a lot of the men wandering the streets these days. I could still be considered a damned good catch. But I knew how to pacify her.

  I extracted a twenty from my coat pocket.

  “This oughta buy you a nice lunch, baby.” She grabbed for it with greedy little hands, and I pulled the bill out of reach. “Uh-uh, not so fast,” I said. “Info first.”

  “What d’ya want to know?” She was all flirtatious smiles again, warmed up by the sight of cash.

  “You know Jackie? Short, blonde, usually works this block?”

  “What d’ya want with her?” she asked with a jealous frown. “Ain’t I good enough for you?”

  “You’re better than most, babe,” I lied. “But like I said, this is business. So how about it?” I waved the twenty in front her again, and her indignation melted away in the face of cold, hard cash.

  “Yeah, I know her,” she said. “She’s probably over at Club Dead. She hustles there sometimes, when business is slow on the Boulevard.”

  “Club Dead’s over by the Ivar, right?”

  She nodded, her gaze glued to the twenty.

  “Thanks, doll face.” I handed over the dough.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?”

  “You never know.” I left before she got too attached.

  I walked to the next block and went left, walking past the library. Club Dead was down a mini-alley, next door to the strip joint. A white building with splashes of red thrown randomly against the wall. Someone’s idea of modern art, I guess, with a title along the lines of “Zombie Eating Frenzy.” The doors, under the overhang of the roof, were painted black.

  It was dark and smoky inside, a band playing loudly on the small stage at the back of the main room. I paid the doorman two bucks cover charge and went over to the bar.

  There I ordered a shot of J.D. and leaned against the bar, scanning the crowd. The place was packed for m
idafternoon, the little dance floor a mass of bodies jerking around in time to the music. I chuckled as I caught the lyrics.

  “I want to be a zombie, g’wan joint the living dead.

  I want to be a zombie, don’ shoot me in the head.

  Don’ need to work, don’ need to sleep,

  It’s better than a forty hour week, mon.

  Don’ feel no pain. Don’ need mah brain.

  I think my life be better being dead!”

  The band played with a catchy voodoo drumbeat, as contagious as a zombie bite. I mean, it wasn’t the Stones or Elvis, but it was good rock and roll. And come to think of it, Mick’s last album hadn’t been that hot. And Elvis was still dead, though if someone sighted him these days, I might consider the possibility it wasn’t a hoax.

  I checked out the women in the place. Slim pickings for anyone wanting intellectual stimulation, but for plenty for those interested in stimulation of a more physical type. Now I knew where bimbos went when they died. Unfortunately all the eye candy wasn’t helping me locate Jackie.

  “You lookin’ for someone in particular?” The bartender, a skinny guy with a downright cadaverous face, the remains of his hair pulled into a ponytail, refilled my glass and continued, “Or will anyone do?” I bet he would’ve winked if he’d still had any eyelids.

  “Thanks, pal.” I lifted my glass in acknowledgement of his willingness to be of service. “You get a percentage of their take?”

  The bartender grinned. Not a pretty sight.

  “I let ’em use my place to hustle, they pay ten percent.” He nodded sagely. “Five percent cheaper than the standard agent’s fee in this town.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’m looking for a dame that I’ve been told hangs out here. Name’s Jackie, short, blonde...”

  He nodded again.

  “Yeah, I know Jackie. She’s seen better days. There’s a lot tastier here to choose from.”

  I swallowed some J.D.

  “Sentimental reasons, pal,” I said. “She around?” I slipped a twenty onto the counter to jog his memory.