turned her attention back to me. She inclined her head towards Cameron and lifted a frozen draft glass.
I nodded. “Yeah, on my tab—and top shelf, Lee, no formaldehyde. He’ll need more than one glass.”
“He’s new. Best to start slow. It is also less intimidating than a pitcher,” she replied.
“Just keep them coming,” I said. I polished off the remainder of my whisky sour.
As she stepped out of the cooler carrying a grey, frothy concoction reminiscent of a milkshake and topped with a red umbrella, I asked, “Hey, have you seen Maximillian lately?” Lee liked to make all of the zombie and ghoul mixtures look like tropical drinks. She placed the glass in front of Cameron, who leaned as far back from it as he could without toppling off the stool.
“No, I have not seen Maximillian Odu in quite some time,” Lee said.
I slid two twenties across the bar. The bills disappeared into Lee’s dress. Without another word or glance at me or Cameron, she left to handle the other patrons. Sparse as they were tonight, they still expected something resembling service.
Cameron eyed his brains.
“Cameron, there’s an easy way or a hard way to do this.”
He still didn’t touch the glass.
“Right now, you’re doing it the hard way.”
His nostrils flared and the muscles in his throat contracted as he involuntarily began to salivate. A big part of the new Cameron wanted to drink it.
I shook my head. “Stop thinking.”
He closed his eyes, grabbed the glass and slammed the drink back, forcing the grey liquid down his throat with the commitment—if not the enthusiasm—of a frat pledge. He made it halfway through before something between a gag and a whine escaped him, but he finished it all. He set the glass back down and wiped the remnants off his mouth with his hand, then coughed as he began to breathe again. “That was disgusting,” he said, staring at the glass.
“Less chugging, more sipping: this isn’t a kegger.”
He coughed again. “You try sipping it, then.”
I’d have come up with something witty to say, but just then Lee stepped back behind the bar well and began mixing drinks. I caught a whiff of formaldehyde. I’d been right: only zombies putting up with the fumes tonight, probably ones who couldn’t pass for human anymore.
I figured Lee would offer her opinions about Cameron when she was ready to, so I switched topics. “Care to tell me what the redecorating is about? And don’t tell me you found the undead, Chinese version of IKEA.”
She glanced around, as if seeing the lanterns and paint for the first time. “I had a premonition of bad luck. Red and white will help to change that.”
I looked around the bar. Considering what happened the lasttime Lee had a premonition, luck was something she had to take very seriously.
Lee Ling Xhao had died during the summer of 1889, the year the great fire destroyed most of Seattle. An entire city built of lumber on wooden stilts—even the drainage pipes were made of wood. Add to that the driest summer in fifty years and a carpentry shop full of turpentine. The surprise wasn’t that the city burned down; it was that no one had seen it coming.
Lee didn’t die in the fire, though. She had been murdered three weeks before the carpenter had the bright idea of downing a bottle of whisky and striking a match.
At the tender age of fifteen, Lee had had a flourishing career as a high-end courtesan in Shanghai. Known for her gold-coloured eyes, a coveted symbol of freedom from worldly cares, she expected to have a long and illustrious career…until her twin brother, Lou, was exposed as a practitioner of the dark arts. Perfectly acceptable in China at the time, but not so much so with her predominantly foreign and very Christian clientele. A witch hunt ensued, and the two fled to San Francisco, where they once again set up shop, Lou selling his talents and Lee selling hers. They eventually followed the gold rush up the coast to Seattle.
To hear
I nodded. “Yeah, on my tab—and top shelf, Lee, no formaldehyde. He’ll need more than one glass.”
“He’s new. Best to start slow. It is also less intimidating than a pitcher,” she replied.
“Just keep them coming,” I said. I polished off the remainder of my whisky sour.
As she stepped out of the cooler carrying a grey, frothy concoction reminiscent of a milkshake and topped with a red umbrella, I asked, “Hey, have you seen Maximillian lately?” Lee liked to make all of the zombie and ghoul mixtures look like tropical drinks. She placed the glass in front of Cameron, who leaned as far back from it as he could without toppling off the stool.
“No, I have not seen Maximillian Odu in quite some time,” Lee said.
I slid two twenties across the bar. The bills disappeared into Lee’s dress. Without another word or glance at me or Cameron, she left to handle the other patrons. Sparse as they were tonight, they still expected something resembling service.
Cameron eyed his brains.
“Cameron, there’s an easy way or a hard way to do this.”
He still didn’t touch the glass.
“Right now, you’re doing it the hard way.”
His nostrils flared and the muscles in his throat contracted as he involuntarily began to salivate. A big part of the new Cameron wanted to drink it.
I shook my head. “Stop thinking.”
He closed his eyes, grabbed the glass and slammed the drink back, forcing the grey liquid down his throat with the commitment—if not the enthusiasm—of a frat pledge. He made it halfway through before something between a gag and a whine escaped him, but he finished it all. He set the glass back down and wiped the remnants off his mouth with his hand, then coughed as he began to breathe again. “That was disgusting,” he said, staring at the glass.
“Less chugging, more sipping: this isn’t a kegger.”
He coughed again. “You try sipping it, then.”
I’d have come up with something witty to say, but just then Lee stepped back behind the bar well and began mixing drinks. I caught a whiff of formaldehyde. I’d been right: only zombies putting up with the fumes tonight, probably ones who couldn’t pass for human anymore.
I figured Lee would offer her opinions about Cameron when she was ready to, so I switched topics. “Care to tell me what the redecorating is about? And don’t tell me you found the undead, Chinese version of IKEA.”
She glanced around, as if seeing the lanterns and paint for the first time. “I had a premonition of bad luck. Red and white will help to change that.”
I looked around the bar. Considering what happened the lasttime Lee had a premonition, luck was something she had to take very seriously.
Lee Ling Xhao had died during the summer of 1889, the year the great fire destroyed most of Seattle. An entire city built of lumber on wooden stilts—even the drainage pipes were made of wood. Add to that the driest summer in fifty years and a carpentry shop full of turpentine. The surprise wasn’t that the city burned down; it was that no one had seen it coming.
Lee didn’t die in the fire, though. She had been murdered three weeks before the carpenter had the bright idea of downing a bottle of whisky and striking a match.
At the tender age of fifteen, Lee had had a flourishing career as a high-end courtesan in Shanghai. Known for her gold-coloured eyes, a coveted symbol of freedom from worldly cares, she expected to have a long and illustrious career…until her twin brother, Lou, was exposed as a practitioner of the dark arts. Perfectly acceptable in China at the time, but not so much so with her predominantly foreign and very Christian clientele. A witch hunt ensued, and the two fled to San Francisco, where they once again set up shop, Lou selling his talents and Lee selling hers. They eventually followed the gold rush up the coast to Seattle.
To hear
Similar Books
