Busted Flush

“Heh,” Hoodoo Mama snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Guess I did.” She gestured to the zombies and they stepped back to their former positions, all except for the chef, who proceeded to put the chickens in the oven and adjust the dials.

“You ran over my ass, too,” Jonathan mentioned lamely.

The girl ignored him, still looking at Ellen. She took a sip of beer. “So,” she said after a while, “this morning, that really fuckin’ was Miss Partridge?” Ellen nodded. “Fuck,” the girl swore. “I really liked that ol’ lady. She was one of the few fuckers who ever gave a damn about me.” She rubbed at the corner of her eye and then slammed her beer, seeming to reach a decision. “So what do you fuckers want?”

Ellen glanced to Bubbles, who was sort of official spokeswoman, even if Ellen had been doing most of the talking. “Well,” Bubbles said slowly, “what we’d like is for you to stop screwing us up. We’re trying to save people’s lives here.”

“What about that fuckin’ vampire bitch, Lilith?” The girl glared. “She’s been stealin’ little kids. I ain’t read much of the Bible, but I fuckin’ know about Lilith the Child Stealer.”

There was a glance between the Committee members, and Jonathan was the first to answer: “She just thought the name sounded sexier than Teleporting Eurotrash Girl.”

Josephine Hebert handed her empty can to the chef zombie. “Okay, I’ll fuckin’ give you that.”

“You know,” Bubbles said, “there are two more storms. We could use your help.”

Jonathan opened, “The UN does have some money . . .”

“Fuck that,” Hoodoo Mama snorted dismissively. “You know how many fuckers die wearin’ wedding bands and fuckin’ diamond engagement rings? I’ve got a whole fuckin’ box full of bling.” She gestured to the mantelpiece. Amid the candles was a makeshift altar, with feathers and shells and the photograph of a woman who would have been attractive if not for the ravages of hard living. And beside the photograph sat an old wooden jewelry box.

Ellen stifled a ghoulish itch to open that box and see who lived inside it.

Bubbles sighed. “All we really need is a truce.”

Hoodoo Mama shrugged. “Okay, fine, you’ve got it.” She glanced to the three of them. “Anything else you fuckers want?”

There was a long uncomfortable silence with glances between Michelle and Jonathan, and between Ellen and the watchful eyes of all the zombies before she finally settled on Hoodoo Mama’s. “Can you really see through the eyes of the dead? Even animals?”

Josephine Hebert grinned proudly. “Fuck, yeah.”

Hope is a thing with wings. In this case, a dead pigeon. A whole loft of them. “I lost something when the levee broke,” Ellen told her. “A hat. An old gray fedora.”

“You fuckin’ want me to look for a hat?”

“Yes.” Ellen bit her lower lip. “It . . . it belonged to my friend Nick.”

Hoodoo Mama gave her a sly look. “You can’t work your mojo without a personal object, can you?”

“No,” Ellen admitted. “I know you don’t want money, but if there’s anything else, anyone you’d want to talk to . . .” She glanced to the photo on the mantel, the candlelight flickering over the tired woman’s face.

Josephine Hebert looked as well. “You’re a fuckin’ dangerous bitch,” she said at last, “but fine, I’ll keep my eyes out. But not because you’ll let me talk to my mama. I’ll do it because I saw what you did for PJ. You ain’t as cold a fuckin’ bitch as you let on.”

Ellen broke eye contact with the dead woman’s photograph to look at her daughter. “Thank you.”

Hoodoo Mama nodded, then looked at all of them. “So are you gonna get the fuck out now, or you still wanna stay for dinner?”

There was a second awkward silence, broken a moment later by a digitized version of “Tiny Bubbles.” Michelle looked to the zombies, then fumbled open her Hermès bag and got out her cell phone. Ellen glanced over and was able to read the text message just received: Michelle—Help, please. I’m in danger. Please come. I’m in Cross Plains, TX.—Niobe.

Bubbles quickly stowed the phone back in her bag but was visibly disturbed. “Would you be terribly offended if I took a rain check on the dinner? A friend of mine needs help.”

Hoodoo Mama flicked a hand. “Fine by me. Y’all should come for Thanksgivin’. I do self-bastin’ turkey.”

Back at the Place D’Armes Ellen let herself into her room. She didn’t like old rooms. They came with too much history, and this one was no exception. Whatever the reason, and today there was a particularly excellent one, the maid had not been in. Slowly, reverently, Ellen put her purse on the dresser, took out Aliyah’s T-shirt, and hung it up to dry. Then she picked up Nick’s jacket and sat down on the bed, clutching the fabric with both hands.

The tears came again, but there were no memories, none strong enough for her to call him back. It was an empty shell, without even a trace of the ghost of the man she’d made it for.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Who is it?” Ellen choked out.