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  “Not me, Mr. McGlade. You're going to be a snack,” cackle cackle, “for my... zombie wife!”

  I waited for the giggles to die down before I said, “Dude, your wife isn't a zombie.”

  “Yes she is.”

  “She's not even dead. I just saw her like an hour ago.”

  “Not that hag. I mean my first wife. The love of my life, tragically taken from me after only one year of marriage.”

  “So what about that ugly chick back at your house?”

  “Her? I married her for the money.”

  I smiled. “Thank god. I thought you were totally nuts there for a minute.”

  “No kidding. She's a real heifer, isn't she?”

  “I said in the first chapter that it was like God took a dare to make the most unattractive woman possible.”

  “Yes, that's Norma.”

  “Who?”

  “My second wife! But now it's time for you to meet my first wife! And to feed her! Do you know what a necromancer is, Mr. McGlade?”

  I shrugged. Not an easy task when tied up. “I meant to look it up.”

  “It's someone who has the power to raise the dead. Since Roberta died...”

  “Who?”

  “My first wife.”

  “This is a lot of names to keep straight. Can you write them down on a sticky pad for me?”

  He didn't take the bait. I'd hoped he would have gone off in search of a sticky pad, which would have given my time to scoot my chair over to the menacing curtains hanging from the ceiling and hide behind them. He'd never think to look for me there, and would probably go watch TV or something.

  But he was too smart to be tricked.

  “Since Roberta died, I've been searching for a way to bring her back. Now, through a combination of magic and science—something I call sci-magic—I have finally gained mastery over death! Behold, Mr. McGlade, the living dead!”

  He cast aside the menacing curtain. Hanging from the ceiling was a dead body.

  “Is that her?” I asked.

  “That, indeed, is Roberta, my Zombie Wife!”

  He spread out his hands, as if waiting for applause. Even if I wasn't tied up, I wouldn't have applauded.

  “That's not a zombie,” I said. “That's a dead chick hanging on a rope.”

  “Really, Mr. McGlade? Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “Well, watch this then.” He turned to face the corpse. “Roberta, my love, come to me!”

  Phil grabbed an overhead rope, and Roberta swung forward using a system of weights and pulleys. He made her wave at me.

  “You're butt nuts,” I said.

  “She lives, Mr. McGlade! And she thirsts for your flesh! For nothing else can quell the hunger of the living dead! Isn't that right, Roberta?”

  He tugged another rope, and she nodded. Actually, it was more of a sideways flop then a nod.

  “Look, buddy, this has all been tremendously entertaining, but what do you say we untie me, I go to the cops, and you get put in a nice room with soft rubber walls so you don't hurt yourself?”

  “I'm not crazy! Roberta is one of the walking dead!”

  “More like the swaying dead.”

  He got in my face. “Admit she's undead!”

  “No.”

  “But she moves! See!”

  He made her do a little dance.

  “You're making her move using pulleys and ropes, like some strange sad puppet.”

  He raised the hammer, aiming for the same spot where he hit me before. “Say she's a zombie!”

  “She a zombie,” I said quickly. “You're a genius who has conquered death. I'm in awe of your brilliance.”

  He stared at me hard, and then spun and yanked the dead chick closer. I realized she was naked, and her boobs were missing. I always notice little things like that. Her skin had become dark brown and wrinkly, like a giant raisin. Whack job had also cut some blue eyes from a magazine or poster, and stapled them over her eye sockets. Her teeth were bared, the corners of her mouth turned up. Twist ties, to make it look like she was smiling.

  It was kind of endearing, in a raving psychotic way.

  “Roberta does seem sort of tired today.” He caressed what was left of her cheek. “Perhaps she needs another treatment. I shall fetch the Rejuvenation Ray!”

  He scuttled insanely off, and I wondered what time it was, and if his butt ugly whore of a second wife had remembered to call Lieutenant Jackie when I failed to check in. Then I remembered I'd given her a bottle full of piss and told her it was apple juice, so I probably couldn't count on that particular horse to come in.

  Like it had happened so many times before, the burden of saving my own skin rested on my own skin. I needed to figure out some sort of ingenious plan to escape. If I could only do that, then I'd be free.

  Freak boy returned, pushing a wheeled wine cart stacked with electronic equipment. He shoved it in front of his living undead zombie wife who was really just a putrefying corpse.

  “Behold the Rejuvenation Ray, Mr. McGlade!”

  “How do you know my name, anyway?”

  “Your wallet.”

  “I had eight bucks in there. It better still be in there.”

  “I didn't take your money.”

  “And a Blockbuster Video card. They charge you five bucks if you lose that.”

  “Silence! Through magnetron technology, I have harnessed the life-giving properties of ordinary microwaves, coaxing the spirit back into the body!”

  “That's a big microwave?”

  “Behold!”

  He hit a switch, and the stack of electronics hummed and whirred, throwing off an huge amount of heat. Most of it was directed at Roberta, the undead living zombie wife. Some of it came my way, and it hurt like a bad sunburn.

  Then the smell hit me. Honey baked ham and bacon strips. I watched through squinty eyes as Roberta sizzled and popped and exuded a scent that was downright mouth-watering.

  Now it all made sense. Phil's sunburn. Why he smelled like ham. Why his first wife's skin was so brown and wrinkly. Why his second wife smelled like sweaty feet.

  Actually, this didn't explain why his second wife smelled like sweaty feet. But I guessed that to be a hygiene thing.

  Blofeld finally turned off the microwave stack, then embraced his hanging wife. The embrace became a kiss. The kiss became a nibble. The nibble became a corn-on-the-cob chow-down, and I realized what had happened to the zombie's breasts.

  “And now!” He wiped the grease off his mouth with his sleeve. “Now it is time for Roberta to feast!”

  Fred reached under the cart, pulled out a meat cleaver. Didn't see too many meat cleavers, outside of a butcher shop.

  “What shall we start with, Roberta? The leg? Yes, I agree. The leg looks delicious. Do you prefer the left on or the right one, dear? Yes, the left one.”

  He raised the cleaver. There are few things more terrifying than being tied to a chair about to be hacked up by a lunatic so he could feed the pieces to his dead wife who he thinks is actually a zombie and is hanging from the ceiling using an admittedly clever series of weights and pulleys.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  Incredibly, he stopped.

  “What?”

  “Your parents!” I said, speaking quickly. “What would your parents think?”

  “Why don't we... ask them!”

  He stepped over to the menacing curtain, and with a flourish drew it back. Mom and Dad were hanging there, roped together so it looked like Dad was giving it to Mom, doggy-style.

  “Oops!” Fred said, tugging on ropes and making his parents bump uglies. “Daddy! Why are you hurting Mommy?”

  He pulled the cord again and again, Dad's hips rising and falling. A shrink would have a field day with this guy. Field days were fun. I liked dodge ball best.

  “Say that again, Daddy? You're wrestling? What wrestling move is that?”

  It looked, to my untrained eye, like a sodomyplex. I tore my eyes away and poi
nted at something with my chin. “What's that hanging next to them?”

  “Fluffy. My cat.”

  “And those tiny things?”

  “My goldfish, BA and Hannibal. Fluffy loves to chase them around. Don't you, Fluffy?”

  More manic pulling of ropes, and the three dead animals knocked into each other. While he was preoccupied, I called out in my best falsetto, “Honey, it's Roberta!”

  John turned his attention back to Roberta the zombie living bacon wife.

  “Dearest? Did you say something?”

  “I said,” I said, “We should let Mr. McGlade go. I'm not hungry right now.”

  Nut job was buying it. He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling against her tasty ribs.

  “But you need to eat, honey. You're getting thinner and thinner.”

  “Tack a couple of tomatoes to my chest. I'll look a lot better.”

  Bert began to laugh. A chilling laugh that chilled me. He spun, pointing the cleaver at my nose.

  “You idiot! Do you think I'm that stupid?”

  “Yes.”

  “What good husband doesn't know the sound of my wife's own voice?”

  “You, I was hoping.”

  “Enough of this tomfoolery! This ends now!”

  He launched himself at me, screaming and drooling insanely, his probably very sharp cleaver raised for the killing blow.

  Then Lieutenant Jackie Daniels shot him in the head.

  Chapter 14

  “You're an idiot, McGlade,” Jackie said, using the cleaver to cut away the ropes.

  Carl was dead on the floor. He was finally with his wife. Because she was dead on the floor too. Jack had made me sit there until the Crime Scene Unit arrived, taking pictures and gathering evidence. They cut the bodies down before they freed me.

  “So how did you know I was here?” I asked.

  Jack wore a short skirt and heels that probably cost a fortune but still looked kind of slutty, just how I liked them.

  “Norma Cauldridge,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “George Cauldridge's wife.”

  “Who?”

  “She called me, wanted me to arrest you for trying to poison her. I asked where you were, and she said probably here. After we nabbed those necrophiliacs at the cemetery last night, I needed to find you anyway to get your statement. Lucky I heard your girlish screams which gave me probable cause to bust in here without a warrant.”

  I wasn't listening, because it sounded like a boring infodump.

  “Can I give you my statement tomorrow?” I asked. “I gotta take a monster dump. I had some hot dogs earlier that are going to look better coming out than going in.”

  Jackie leaned in close. I braced myself for the kiss. It didn't come.

  “Did you give Norma a bottle full of your urine and tell her it was apple juice?”

  “Maybe. Did she drink any?”

  “She said the second glass went down rough. She's going to sue you, McGlade.”

  “She can take a number. Seriously. I've got one of those number things. I swiped it from the deli.” I grinned. “You can come over later, and watch me cut the cheese. You know you want to.”

  “I'd rather gouge out my own eyes with forks.”

  “Don't be coy. This could be a way to pay back what you owe me.”

  She cocked her hips, hot and sexy. “Excuse me? I just saved your ass, McGlade.”

  “Are you kidding? This is front page news. You'll probably get a promotion. There's no need to thank me. It's all part of the service I perform.”

  “I really think I hate you.”

  “Really, Jackie?” I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, really. Be in my office tomorrow morning for your statement. And try to stay of trouble until then.”

  I stood up, stretched, and gave her one of my famous Harry McGlade smiles.

  “I'll try. But trouble is my business.” I winked. “And business is good.”

  Read the Jack Daniels series by JA Konrath: ?Whiskey Sour?Bloody Mary?Rusty Nail?Dirty Martini?Fuzzy Navel?Cherry Bomb

  Shaken

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  Excerpt from SUCKERS by J.A. Konrath and Jeff Strand

  - 1 -

  Andrew

  It all started with mushrooms.

  Of course, lots of bad things start with mushrooms, but these were the non-hallucinogenic variety. My wife Helen despises mushrooms. I mean, she loathes them with every ounce of her being, and while she's admittedly a rather petite woman, she's able to cram a lot of loathing into those ounces.

  I myself am no big fan of mushrooms or other fungi products, although in college we had a lot of fun with fungus when my best friend Roger got Athlete's Foot. We called him “Itchy Roger” over and over and over and over again. I have to admit that it seems a lot less funny now than it was at the time, almost a bit pathetic in fact, but trust me, it was hysterical and kept us entertained for hours on end. The next semester, we entertained ourselves by playing darts with slices of pizza.

  Anyway, I was thirty-three and long out of college (well, not that long, but that's another story) and I'd spent the evening out drinking with Roger. Of course, we were drinking coffee, and only one cup each because that stuff was expensive as hell. I'd been given two tasks to complete before I returned home:

  a) Purchase a jar of spaghetti sauce.

  b) Ensure that the jar of spaghetti sauce did not include mushrooms.

  When I got to the grocery store, I selected a jar of sauce. It had fancy calligraphy on it and a drawing of a smiling man in a chef's hat. The part of my brain that should have been saying “Hey, dumb-ass, don't forget about the no-mushrooms rule!” instead said “Gee, I wonder if this place has any sour gummi bears?” I bought the sauce and the gummi bears and left the store.

  As it turns out, the drawing was not a smiling man in a chef's hat. It was a giant mushroom. Damn those poofy chef's hats.

  Now, I don't want you to think that my wife is the kind of person who would throw a screaming temper tantrum over me purchasing the wrong variety of spaghetti sauce. Instead, she's the kind of person who would bottle up rage over my lack of a job, my questionable babysitting habits, the incident where I accidentally didn't shut the freezer door securely and ruined hundreds of dollars' worth of frozen meat, and a few dozen other infractions, and let it all come exploding out of her petite frame in the form of extremely strong disapproval over my choice of spaghetti sauce.

  I shouted back at her (though an onlooker might have mistaken it for shameful cowering and groveling) and headed out to do a sauce exchange. As I walked into the driveway, I realized that I'd left my car keys on the kitchen table. Having just been lectured for my lack of responsibility, I didn't think it was a good idea to walk back into the house and sheepishly say “Uh, forgot my keys.” The store was only ten blocks away. I'd walk.

  To keep the walking time to a minimum, I cut through several backyards. I didn't notice the man breaking into an unfamiliar house until I practically bumped into him. I'm not very observant.

  He had wavy brown hair and a two-day beard that looked like dirt on his cheeks in the semi-darkness. Clenched in his teeth was a penlight, aimed down at the doorjamb where he wiggled a pry bar. Upon hearing me he dropped the tool and dug into his trenchcoat, removing a handgun the size of a loaf of handgun-shaped French bread.

  “Beeb, brubbubber!” he said.

  “I
beg your pardon?”

  He removed the penlight from his mouth. “Freeze, bloodsucker!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I'd been called a lot of things in my life, many of them only a few minutes ago, but “bloodsucker” was a new one.

  The man pointed the gun at me and glanced down at the jar in my hand. “What's that? A jar of Type O positive?”

  “It's Momma Helga's Spaghetti Sauce.”

  “Why does it have a penis on the label?”

  “That's a mushroom.”

  “It looks like a penis.”

  “No, it looks like a chef's hat. But it's a mushroom.”

  “Drop the penis sauce and get down on your knees. Then open your mouth.”

  I didn't want to do that for an infinite number of reasons. “I'd rather not.”

  The man smacked me in the head with the gun, hard enough to make me see mushroom-shaped stars (which was odd). I got down on my knees as instructed.

  “Open wide,” the man said, pressing the barrel against my lips.

  I opened my mouth.

  “Wider.”

  I opened my mouth wider.

  He tilted his head and peered inside, flashing the pen light along my gum line. Then he nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw. “You can close it now. No fangs. You're cool.” He lowered the gun.

  I should have made the comment, “Yeah, I lost my baby fangs when I was eight,” but I never think of clever stuff like that until a few minutes after the moment has passed. Instead I said, “What the hell are you talking about? And why did you hit me in the head?”

  “Pires.”

  “Pires?”

  “Vampires.”

  Oh, goody. A whacko.

  “Vampires don't exist,” I helpfully pointed out.

  The man sneered at me. “They exist, sauce-boy.” He tapped the door he'd been prying at with his penlight. “And they're in this house.”

  - 2 -

  Harry

  They call me Harry McGlade. Probably because that's my name. I'm a private eye.

  My office is in Chicago, and five days ago a desperate woman named Phoebe Mertz retained me to find her daughter, Tanya. Little Tanya was sixteen, into the Goth scene big-time. You know the type: dresses in all black, collects piercings, wears way too much mascara, scowls all the time. Most parents dream their child will go to medical school. Very few dream their child will get a tattoo on their forehead that says, “Life's a toilet.”