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CHAPTER 23

Living in America


“I’ve dealt with weird things from shadow dimensions,” Milo said, draining a bottle of apple juice. “I’ve killed more vampires than you can shake a stake at. I’m pretty darned good at monster hunting. But I’m not sure I’m cut out for New Orleans.”

The bottle of “trippin’ water” had cost ten dollars. And the cap wasn’t sealed. I was pretty sure the guy had grabbed an empty bottle and filled it with tap water. Milo was an even worse negotiator than he was a public speaker.

“The drug dealers here have a real serious work ethic. Hardest working sons of bitches in this town. Very competitive business. They’re always looking for new clients.”

I crumpled up the Bud can and tossed it out the window. I hate littering, but Milo was taking up the spot where my trashbag usually sat and I wasn’t going to just drop it in Honeybear. Although the way the interior was starting to look, I might as well. I usually rolled with a thick quilt on the front seat to sop up the blood and shit from my armor. It was sopped through with blood at the moment. Honeybear was going to need a serious detailing after this moon.

“Right in front of a cop,” Milo said in a wondering tone. “He was trying to sell me drugs right in front of a cop.”

“Special Investigations Unit don’t give a shit about drug dealing and he knew it. They’ve got more important things to do. And besides, even if he did get busted, he spends a couple of days in county and he’s back on the street. They think of it the way we think of being too injured to work. Three hots and a cot, see some old friends. It’s like paid vacation. Now get your game face on. We’re almost there.”

Fourth crossed St. Charles and continued on. Homes tended to be a bit smaller with smaller yards. But it changed quickly. In a few blocks we were in the ghetto again. It really looked exactly like Spain, same ratty cars, same ratty houses, same bars and heavy doors, scraggly yards, devoid of people.

The address Tremaine had given us was 1828 Fourth Street. Single-story, what would be called in Pennsylvania a mill house, that had been split into a duplex. Usual heavy front door and barred windows.

One of the windows was shattered and the bars had been ripped out.

“And it’s a roamer,” I said. “It’s nice when we can get them in the house.”

“Going to do your really bad werewolf call again?” Milo said.

“Hey, it works,” I said, cruising down the street. “Get out the light, maybe we can spot it.”

We rolled along slowly, looking for signs of loup-garou. Running people and blood splatter were the usual ones.

There was some blood splatter on the road and a red hat.

“Oh, Christ,” I said, stopping the car. “Not more of these little bastards!”

The sign was right by a brick building that was definitely a duplex. There were chain-link security fences on both sides between it and the neighboring houses.

Just inside the narrow passage to the right of the house was more blood splatter and another hat. I could hear what sounded like one hell of a dogfight going on behind the house. I pushed through the weed-choked passage between the two houses, and reminded myself to do a tick check after this one. I’d picked up a bunch at the cemetery my first day.

The backyard was a shambles. Bits and pieces of gnomes were scattered in every direction, at least ten more were seriously injured and a three-headed dog was just getting its last head finished off by the loup-garou. Red pointy hats were everywhere.

“Living in America” was playing on a boom box in the corner of the yard.

The loup-garou turned, snarling. Milo hadn’t even made it into the yard and I was blocking him.

I took a good stance and opened fire full auto, starting more or less pointed at the ground and riding the rounds up.

A couple dug dirt. The rest dug doggie.

The loup-garou skidded to a halt as the silver bullets shredded its body and spine. I slid sideways to let Milo get through, then dropped my mag to reload.

Milo stepped over and put two in the head of the panting and whining werewolf.

One of the gnomes stood up, shaking his head. He already had a sling on one arm and stitches over half his body. Now his leg had been badly ripped by claws. Whatever had happened to him before this, that gnome was having one bad week.

“Fuck you, Tall,” the gnome squeaked. “What the hell you doin’ on our turf? We had this!”

“Sure, you had this,” I said. “Lawn ornament.”

“Who you calling a lawn ornament?” the gnome squeaked, trying to pull a cheap-ass pistol out of his waistband with his left hand.

I walked over and stuck my Uzi’s suppressor in his puffy beard.

“You’re PUFF-applicable. You’re just a little bundle of green to me, short ass. Draw it! I double-dog dare you!”

“Hey, no problem, man,” the gnome said, holding up his good hand.

“Sorry about your dog,” I said, lowering the weapon. I wondered if we could file PUFF on the thing. It was probably worth a few shekels. “Where’s your burrow? We’ll help you get your homies out before the SIU gets here.”

“Hardly no burrows in New Orleans, man,” the gnome squeaked. “Too wet. Gots to get them up in the house ’fore the man gets here!”

Milo and I picked up the wounded gnomes, even I could carry two at a time by the ankles, and tossed them in the house. They were tough, say that for them. Their Momma would handle things from there. Gnome Mommas were grade-A healers. If the gnomes were up and in sight, SIU might just get the urge to “handle” the gnome infestation. SIU hated gnomes more than I did.

When we had the scene cleared up, we called SIU.

* * *

“So all the surviving gnomes were gone when you got here,” Salvage said, turning a red hat over in his hand thoughtfully. Tremaine had passed my receipt to him at some point, so we were good on that front.

“Yep,” I said. “The cerb was still kicking and there were bits and hats everywhere but the gnomes were all gone. We finished off the cerb so I’m going to file on that.”

“Looks like the scene’s clear,” Salvage said. “Coroner’s on the way. You going to file on the gnomes?”

“Depends on if we can figure out how many there were,” I said. PUFF on a gnome was ten grand, which was just insane. The three-headed dog was half that. Generally, it was ’cause they were hard to catch. Unless you were a werewolf crashing the party. “Lotsa bits. Not sure if the Feds will pay on a hat count.”

Turned out that Shelbye had already filed on the gnome I accidentally shot with the killer frog. I hated to get paid for killing innocent bystanders but you couldn’t call gnomes innocent so all good.

“Coroner’s on the way,” Salvage said. “With your reinforcements in town, they’re having a hell of a time keeping up.”

“The good news is we’re getting it shut down faster,” I said.

“Yeah,” Salvage said, dropping the hat in gnome splatter. “I’ve got another call. You gotta wait on coroner this time.”

“Works for me,” I said. “I’m gonna go grab a beer. Milo, want an apple juice?”

“Yes,” Milo said.

* * *

I was getting an apple juice out of the back for Milo when I heard a “Psssst.”

Sure enough the much battered gnome was up by Honeybear’s tire, hunkered down to keep out of sight of “the man.”

“Hey, humie,” the gnome said. “Sorry ’bout earlier.”

“No problem,” I said, pulling out the apple juice and grabbing another Bud. I popped the top and handed it to the gnome. “I’m Iron Hand. You?”

“Bun-Bun,” the gnome said, taking a deep drink of Anheuser-Busch’s finest. “Shit tastes like camel piss. You need to get some Dixie!”

“Speaking of camel piss,” I said. “What you got, shortie?”

“Big Momma says we owe you one,” the gnome said, making a face.

“If I need a cheesy decoration for my garden, I’ll let you know,” I said.

“Well, fuck you, then,” Bun-Bun snarled. I could tell he wanted to toss a table. Assuming he could reach one.

“Just kidding.” Gnomes could be good snitches. “Gots nothin’ I need right now,” I said, then paused. “Actually, the one big question I gots, only one might be able to answer is Big Momma. Gots somethin’ weird going on.”

I was a Monster Hunter. I was talking to a gnome. You have to understand I have a different definition of “weird.”

“Big Momma don’t like t’ talk to humies,” Bun-Bun said. “Hell, I think humies all need a cap in the ear, you know? But Big Momma don’t talk to humies none at all.”

“Fine,” I said. “When I need a lawn ornament, I’ll call.”

“Up yours, Tall.” The gnome vanished.

* * *

“I can’t give you a receipt based on number of hats!” Dave said.

“Hey,” I said placatingly. “Gnomes never leave a hat behind! If there’s a hat, it’s a dead gnome!”

“I’ll try to figure out how many pieces there are,” Dave said. “MCB’s been looking over our shoulder lately, you know? Castro’s been in a bad mood since the frog incident.”

“I’m good with not padding. I’ve never liked it anyway but I’m not from around here. Just try to get a count of the bits and give me that.”

We had to borrow a ladder from a nearby house. There was a gnome head, still in the hat, on the roof.

“Seems like it mainly was leaving behind the heads,” Dave said. We had seven battered gnome heads lined up on the back porch of the house.

“Not much eating in a gnome head,” Milo said, nodding sagely. “Mostly bone.”

“I’ll give you a receipt for one loup-garou, one medium cerberus, and seven gnomes,” Dave said, scratching at a receipt.

“Works for me,” I said.

He pulled off the yellow slip and handed it over.

“I think we can fit all the gnome bits in one bag…”

* * *

“Totally bogus,” I said, tucking the receipt away as we drove off. We’d had to wait until coroner cleared the scene. “Like that hat on the street? That one got completely gobbled up. Maybe if they find some heads in the stomach contents we can get the rest of the PUFF.”

“Chad,” Milo said. “Gnomes aren’t all bad. And we didn’t even kill them.”

“Know who Horatio Nelson was, Milo?” I said. We had a call over on St. Charles Avenue. Another loup-garou that two teams were already trying to track down.

“I went to high school,” Milo said. “And I didn’t get straight Cs.”

“Getting a perfect C is hard,” I said. “He was one badass fighter. Ship, personal, you name it. Took a Spanish ship-of-the-line with the crew of a brig by boarding from the stern and fighting his way to the front—at the front, leading his men. Just swinging a sword most of the way. One of his quotes I always keep in mind: ‘I could not have tread these perilous paths in safety were it not for a saving sense of humor.’ If I don’t laugh about this shit, I’m going to suck start a twelve gauge.”

“That’s fair,” Milo said.

“And it was bogus. You got any idea what the PUFF is on a gnome? I’ve got a house to pay for…”

* * *

We cruised St. Charles for a bit, then got the call that Ray’s team had finished that one off. Then the phone rang again.

“Think you can find Loyola University?” Milo asked, juggling the car phone and a map.

“I think so,” I said drily, speeding up. There was traffic. I hit the purple light and the sirens and made a U-turn. A Toyota had to turn desperately to avoid being run over. It would not have survived the Honeybear. “It’s on St. Charles Avenue.”

“Vampire attack,” Milo said.

“This should be fun.”

“Why?”

“Loyola’s a big center for monster lovers. We’re probably going to catch some shit.”


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