"They sent this package to us, the Resurrection Company in California and the Essential Spark in New Orleans."
"They prefer élan Vital to the English translation," I said. Frankly, it sounded more like a beauty salon than an animating firm, but nobody had asked me. "So what? The lowest bid gets it?"
"That was their plan," Bert said.
He looked entirely too satisfied with himself. "What?" I asked.
"Let me play it back to you," he said. "There are what, three animators in the entire country that could raise a zombie that old without a human sacrifice? You and John are two of them. I'm including Phillipa Freestone of Resurrection in this."
"Probably," I said.
He nodded. "Okay. Could Phillipa raise without a name?"
"I don't have any way of knowing that. John could. Maybe she could."
"Could either she or John raise from the mass bones, not the ones in the coffin?"
That stopped me. "I don't know."
"Would either of them stand a chance of raising the entire graveyard?" He was staring at me very steadily.
"You're enjoying this too much," I said.
"Just answer the question, Anita."
"I know John couldn't do it. I don't think Phillipa is as good as John, so no, they couldn't do it."
"I'm going to up the bid," Bert said.
I laughed. "Up the bid?"
"Nobody else can do it. Nobody but you. They tried treating this like any other construction problem. But there aren't going to be any other bids, now are there?"
"Probably not," I said.
"Then I'm going to take them to the cleaners," he said with a smile.
I shook my head. "You greedy son of a bitch."
"You get a share of the fee, you know."
"I know." We looked at each other. "What if I try and can't raise them all in one night?"
"You'll still be able to raise them all eventually, won't you?"
"Probably." I stood, picking up my coffee mug. "But I wouldn't spend the check until after I've done it. I'm going to go get some sleep."
"They want the bid this morning. If they accept our terms, they'll fly you up in a private helicopter."
"Helicopter--you know I hate to fly."
"For this much money you'll fly."
"Great."
"Be ready to go at a moment's notice."
"Don't push it, Bert." I hesitated at the door. "Let me take Larry with me."
"Why? If John can't do it, then Larry certainly can't."
I shrugged. "Maybe not, but there are ways to combine power during a raising. If I can't do it alone, maybe I can get a boost from our trainee."
He looked thoughtful. "Why not take John? Combined, you could do it."
"Only if he'd give his power willingly to me. You think he'd do that?"
Bert shook his head.
"You going to tell him that the client didn't want him? That you offered him to the client and they asked for me by name?"
"No," Bert said.
"That's why you're doing it like this; no witnesses."
"Time is of the essence, Anita."
"Sure, Bert, but you didn't want to face Mr. John Burke with yet another client that wants me over him."
Bert looked down at his blunt-fingered hands clasped on the desktop. He looked up, grey eyes serious. "John is almost as good as you are, Anita. I don't want to lose him."
"You think he'll walk if one more client asks for me?"
"His pride's hurt," Bert said.
"And there's so much of it to hurt," I said.
Bert smiled. "You needling him doesn't help."
I shrugged. It sounded petty to say he'd started it, but he had. We'd tried dating, and John couldn't handle me being a female version of him. No; he couldn't handle me being a better version of him.
"Try to behave yourself, Anita. Larry's not up to speed yet; we need John."
"I always behave myself, Bert."
He sighed. "If you didn't make me so much money, I wouldn't put up with your shit."
"Ditto," I said.
That about summed up our relationship. Commerce at its best. We didn't like each other, but we could do business together. Free enterprise at work.
Chapter 2
At noon Bert called and said we had it. "Be at the office packed and ready to go at two o'clock. Mr. Lionel Bayard will fly up with you and Larry."
"Who's Lionel Bayard?"
"A junior partner in the firm of Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein. He likes the sound of his own voice. Don't give him a rough time about it."
"Who, me?"
"Anita, don't tease the help. He may be wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, but he's still the help."
"I'll save it up for one of the partners. Surely Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, or Lowenstein will appear in person sometime this weekend."
"Don't tease the bosses either," he said.
"Anything you say." My voice was utterly mild.
"You'll do whatever you want no matter what I say, won't you?"
"Gee, Bert, who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?"
"Just be here at two o'clock. I called Larry. He'll be here."
"I'll be there, Bert. I've got one stop to make, so if I'm a few minutes late, don't worry."
"Don't be late."
"Be there as soon as I can." I hung up before he could argue with me.
I had to shower, change, and go to Seckman Junior High School. Richard Zeeman taught science there. We had a date set up for tomorrow. At one point Richard had asked me to marry him. That was sort of on hold, but I did owe him more than a message on his answering machine, saying sorry, honey, can't make the date. I'm going to be out of town. A message would have been easier for me, but cowardly.
I packed one suitcase. It was enough for four days and then some. If you pack extra underwear and clothes that mix and match, you can live for a week out of a small suitcase.
I did add a few extras. The Firestar 9mm and its inner pants holster. Enough extra ammo to sink a battleship and two knives plus wrist sheaths. I'd had four knives. All handcrafted for little ol' moi. Two of them had been lost beyond recovery. I was having them replaced, but hand forging takes time, especially when you insist on the highest silver content possible in the steel. Two knives, two guns should be enough for one weekend business trip. I'd wear the Browning Hi-Power.
Packing wasn't a problem. What to wear today was the problem. They'd want me to raise them tonight if I could. Hell, the helicopter might fly directly to the construction site. Which meant I'd be walking over raw dirt, bones, shattered coffins. It didn't sound like high-heel territory. Yet, if a junior partner was wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, the people who'd just hired me would expect me to look the part. I could either dress professionally or in feathers and blood. I'd actually had one client who was disappointed that I didn't show up nude smeared with blood. There could have been more than one reason for his disappointment. I don't think I've ever had a client that would have objected to some kind of ceremonial getup, but jeans and jogging shoes didn't seem to inspire confidence. Don't ask me why.
I could pack my coverall and put it over whatever I wore. Yeah, I liked that. Veronica Sims--Ronnie, my very best friend--had talked me into buying a fashionably short navy skirt. It was short enough that I was a little embarrassed, but the skirt fit inside the coverall. The skirt didn't wrinkle or bunch up after I'd worn the outfit to vampire stakings or murder scenes. Take the coverall off, and I was set to go to the office or out for the evening. I was so pleased, I went out and bought two more in different colors.
One was crimson, the other purple. I hadn't been able to find one in black yet. At least not one that wasn't so short that I refused to wear it. Admittedly, the short skirts made me look taller. They even made me look leggy. When you're five-foot-three, that's saying something. But the purple didn't match much that I owned, so crimson it was.
I'd found a short-sleeved blouse that was the exact same shade of red. Red with violet undertones, a cold, hard color that looked great with my pale skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. The shoulder holster and 9mm Browning Hi-Power looked very dramatic against it. A black belt cinched tight at the waist held down the loops on the holster. A black jacket with rolled-back sleeves went over everything to hide the gun. I twirled in front of the mirror in my bedroom. The skirt wasn't much longer than the jacket, but you couldn't see the gun. At least not easily. Unless you're willing to have things tailor-made, it's hard to hide a gun, especially in women's dress-up clothes.