The Laughing Corpse - By Laurell K. Hamilton Page 0,2
legs were taller than I was. His brown eyes watched me as if he were trying to memorize me and would be graded later.
The blond bodyguard went to lean against the bookcases. He couldn't quite cross his arms, jacket too tight, muscles too big. You really shouldn't lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross your arms. Ruins the effect.
Mr. Gaynor said, "You've met Tommy." He motioned towards the sitting bodyguard. "That's Bruno."
"Is that your real name or just a nickname?" I asked, looking straight into Bruno's eyes.
He shifted just a little in his chair. "Real name."
I smiled.
"Why?" he asked.
"I've just never met a bodyguard who was really named Bruno."
"Is that supposed to be funny?" he asked.
I shook my head. Bruno. He never had a chance. It was like naming a girl Venus. All Brunos had to be bodyguards. It was a rule. Maybe a cop? Naw, it was a bad guy's name. I smiled.
Bruno sat up in his chair, one smooth, muscular motion. He wasn't wearing a gun that I could see, but there was a presence to him. Dangerous, it said, watch out.
Guess I shouldn't have smiled.
Bert interrupted, "Anita, please. I do apologize, Mr. Gaynor . . . Mr. Bruno. Ms. Blake has a rather peculiar sense of humor."
"Don't apologize for me, Bert. I don't like it." I don't know what he was so sore about anyway. I hadn't said the really insulting stuff out loud.
"Now, now," Mr. Gaynor said. "No hard feelings. Right, Bruno?"
Bruno shook his head and frowned at me, not angry, sort of perplexed.
Bert flashed me an angry look, then turned smiling to the man in the wheelchair. "Now, Mr. Gaynor, I know you must be a busy man. So, exactly how old is the zombie you want raised?"
"A man who gets right down to business. I like that." Gaynor hesitated, staring at the door. A woman entered.
She was tall, leggy, blond, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it was a dress, was rose-colored and silky. It clung to her body the way it was supposed to, hiding what decency demanded, but leaving very little to the imagination. Long pale legs were stuffed into pink spike heels, no hose. She stalked across the carpet, and every man in the room watched her. And she knew it.
She threw back her head and laughed, but no sound came out. Her face brightened, her lips moved, eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence, like someone had turned the sound off. She leaned one hip against Harold Gaynor, one hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the movement raised the already short dress another inch.
Could she sit down in the dress without flashing the room? Naw.
"This is Cicely," he said. She smiled brilliantly at Bert, that little soundless laugh making her eyes sparkle. She looked at me and her eyes faltered, the smile slipped. For a second uncertainty filled her eyes. Gaynor patted her hip. The smile flamed back into place. She nodded graciously to both of us.
"I want you to raise a two-hundred-and-eighty-three-year old corpse."
I just stared at him and wondered if he understood what he was asking.
"Well," Bert said, "that is nearly three hundred years old. Very old to raise as a zombie. Most animators couldn't do it at all."
"I am aware of that," Gaynor said. "That is why I asked for Ms. Blake. She can do it."
Bert glanced at me. I had never raised anything that old. "Anita?"
"I could do it," I said.
He smiled back at Gaynor, pleased.
"But I won't do it."
Bert turned slowly back to me, smile gone.
Gaynor was still smiling. The bodyguards were immobile. Cicely looked pleasantly at me, eyes blank of any meaning.
"A million dollars, Ms. Blake," Gaynor said in his soft pleasant voice.
I saw Bert swallow. His hands convulsed on the chair arms. Bert's idea of sex was money. He probably had the biggest hard-on of his life.
"Do you understand what you're asking, Mr. Gaynor?" I asked.
He nodded. "I will supply the white goat." His voice was still pleasant as he said it, still smiling. Only his eyes had gone dark; eager, anticipatory.
I stood up. "Come on, Bert, it's time to leave."
Bert grabbed my arm. "Anita, sit down, please."
I stared at his hand until he let go of me. His charming mask slipped, showing me the anger underneath, then he was all pleasant business again. "Anita. It is a generous payment."
"The white goat is a euphemism, Bert. It means a human sacrifice."