Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) Read Online Free PDF Page B

moved with all the probing intensity that had made him a romantic legend from the dancers’ feet, up along their bodies, to their heads.
    “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” I said sadly. “We’ll have to look it up.”
    The zombie dropped my wrist and shuffled forward.
    Ruth knew the answer. “Brains.”

V: Where the Lazy Daisies Grow
Necessity is the mother of defection.
—The Boy’s Book of Boggarts
    Bernard:
    “COFFEE, MR. BENJAMIN?”
    “On the table, please, Gladys.” Eleven o’clock the next morning found me wedged into a corner of the Fellowship’s bustling dance floor, anticipating a hard-earned breakfast of eggs Benedict, cooked to order by the Benjamin family retainer.
    “Your newspaper.” My golem, pale and proper, presented Friday’s Gazette . Behind her, the Fellowship’s off-hours jazz band took up their instruments and struck Paul Whiteman’s “Japanese Sandman” a series of staggering blows about the neck and shoulders. Miss Pinn, the contest’s morning judge, moved between dancers, hugging her clipboard, making marks.
    “Thank you,” I answered Gladys coolly. She’d forsaken the Benjamin bungalow before dawn, offering to help out in the Fellowship’s overburdened kitchen, leaving me to teach a half-human-half-cheetah genie to foxtrot on no better fuel than dry gin fumes and water.
    Gladys poured coffee and placed the pot on the tablecloth. “Cream?”
    I gave the noble nod. A gentleman who’s endured three heated hours clutched to the bosom of a female who has not only two left feet but two right feet as well cannot be easily mollified by beverages.
    Fortunately, Ruth’s good looks and lively personality had attracted a stag line of men eager to tap out the old slow, slow quick-quick in place of Bernie. I estimated I had twenty minutes to pile on calories before the genie crippled the lot and I was driven once more unto the breach.
    “Cigarette?” Gladys offered my refilled case.
    Perhaps at this point I should describe my housekeeper. Five feet tall, shaped like a woman, inscribed with words of power inside her head, the golem has served royalty—if her own tales can be believed—passing over the course of generations from prince, to lord, to gentry as the bloodline degraded, snagging at last on the lowest and least impressive branch of the Benjamin family tree, namely, Bernard. She looks human if you ignore the rock-tight bun, alabaster skin, eyes that blaze red whenever she’s annoyed, and a penchant for Argosy adventure stories.
    We tell the neighbors she’s Swedish.
    I lit a Lucky. Ruth’s dancing was not the morning’s only trial. My battered neck, discreetly bundled in a fashionable scarf, was bruised and stiff from last night’s tussle with Hans. What’s more, as news of Beauregard’s appearance had spread through town, women, large and old, young and small, had flocked in numbers to the Fellowship’s bar where Clara’s zombie protégé had been installed mixing cocktails with a practiced, if somewhat mechanical, skill.
    This was fine news for my cousin, since entering the dance contest provided a more respectable reason for ladies to linger than either guzzling gin or drooling directly on Beau. Less fine was the effect on yours truly, whose services as taxi dancer had been much in demand from ladies who needed a partner to qualify.
    “I believe,” Gladys said, “Mr. Johnny Weissmuller is strongly favored to win a gold medal in the men’s 400-meter freestyle.”
    “Sports aren’t everything,” I answered with some asperity. To prove my point, I scanned page one. Insanity Plea Expected for Leopold and Loeb the headlines blurted. Right after Beauregard Silent in Miracle Cure .
    Gladys left for the kitchen. I opened the paper and watched the crowded bar. Clara had announced that Beau Beauregard’s vacant expression and sudden lack of verbal skills were a publicity stunt for his upcoming film, Ali Baba’s Bazaar , and so far customers seemed to be buying