Christopher Moore - Secondhand Souls

Lily ordered a black brewed coffee and Mike followed her lead until the server said, “You want anything in that?” directed at Lily.

“Like?”

“We just got our liquor license. We don’t have the bar put together yet, but we can make you an Irish coffee.”

“A shot of Irish whiskey would be great,” Lily said.

“You?” the girl asked Mike.

Mike cringed a bit and looked at Lily when he answered. “I’m trying to stay away from depressants. I’ve just gone through a breakup and some stuff.”

“Me, too,” said Lily. “Put his shot in mine as well.”

The server smiled. “I know. I’m dating an old guy, too. Don’t you love how they act like every decision is life-altering?”

“I’m not an old guy,” said Mike.

“It’s not a date,” said Lily.

“I’ll be back with your coffee,” said dread girl. “Anything else right now?”

“A Viagra and a pair of handcuffs,” said Mike, deadpan.

“Nice,” said dread girl, then to Lily, “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.” And off she went.

“You’re sharper than you look,” Lily said.

“Thanks. I think. You’re younger than you sounded on the phone.”

“My experience weighs on me far more than my years show.” She sighed, a tragic sigh that she didn’t get to use much anymore since she’d been forced by a brutal society to behave like a grown-up, and since she’d lost weight, most of her mopey Goth clothes didn’t fit, so she was almost never dressed for tragic sighing. “I’ve seen too many things that can never be unseen, Mike.”

“I guess I thought you were older because of how you dealt with that jumper.”

Was he trying to say something? She didn’t need anyone else judging her and she wished she had worn something low-cut so she could accuse him of looking at her boobs, which he totally was not, which was annoying. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“You were so calm, unconcerned. I mean, that guy died .”

“You think I’m unconcerned? That I don’t care? Do you know why I’m cynical and snarky on the crisis line?”

He shook his head.

“Because it works. It’s normal. They need normal, fast. They need out of the spiral they’re in, so if they’re suddenly offended by me, or horny for me, I don’t care. What they’re not focused on is their own pain, they’re not alone, there’s someone else on the planet with them who is annoying and possibly sexy, and it gets them to put the pills or the gun down, it gets them off the bridge in a safe way. That’s my jam. It used to be being dark and mysterious , but you can’t out-dark the people I was hanging out with, and if I get the least bit drunk or high, I tell everyone everything I know, so I’m a fucking loser at mysterious. Yeah, we lost that guy, but I saved five others this month. I’m good at what I do.” Five and half, bitches! she thought.

“I know, that’s why I called you,” Mike said.

“Wait. What?”

“And because she told me to.”

“Who told you to?”

Their coffees came before he could answer and he waited for Dread Girl to leave before he answered her.

“This is going to sound really strange,” he said. “I can’t quite believe I’m going to say it—”

“If you start talking about your ex, I will knock you out of that chair—”

“A ghost. The ghost of Concepción de Arguello, daughter of the governor of Alta California.”

“Where is that? I don’t even know where that is,” Lily said. He was doing that big lie with a little detailed lie to give it the credibility thing.

“It’s here,” Mike said, gesturing to the street and around them. “ This is Alta California.”

“This is the Marina. This is where you go between the fraternity or sorority house and your first divorce. Look around, except for our waitress, who I guarantee doesn’t live in this neighborhood, it’s all people who are completely self-absorbed without a shred of self-awareness.”

“Wow, that’s harsh,” Mike said.

“You haven’t served them,” Lily said. She smiled, not a lot of teeth but a sparkle of mischief in her eye, then sipped her hot liquor through the straw.

“Ghost,” Mike said.

“So?” Lily said.

“This was Alta California in the early 1800s.”

“You’re not going to just forget you said that, then? I’m willing. I mean, to be honest, you’ve probably lost your shot with me, because I have a rule about not boning the mentally disturbed, but we can be acquaintances, and I promise not to cock-block you with the waitress—she seems into you. But don’t you think that was disrespectful, her hitting on my date like that.”

“I’m not your date.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

“You told her that.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“She said that you knew Death and could help with the Ghost Thief. That I should call you.”

“The waitress?”

“The ghost.”

“You’re going to tell me, so tell me?” she said. She signaled for the waitress to bring her another, then, in her head, she conjured sad French accordion music playing, mimes and ballerinas entering the stage to act out Mike’s story, guys rhythmically kicking Gérard Depardieu in the kidneys as a backbeat, because fuck him, why did he have to be in everything French?

So he told her, about Concepción, about the other ghosts, about how they had only spoken to him, about the Friends of Dorothy, about all of it, and as he told her, she believed him, because his wasn’t even close to the most bizarre story she’d been part of, and then she realized…

“Oh my fucking god, the guy who paints the fucking bridge orange for a living is special and I get to go back to retail. Oh, fuck me. Fuck me roughly with a big spiky demon dick!”

“Huh?” said Mike, who hadn’t expected that particular reaction. “People are looking.”

“Fuck them!” Lily said. “They’re not special. I know, because I’m not special and I recognize the symptoms. Although all you Marina people think you’re fucking special, don’t you? You entitled fucks!”

The waitress was making her way over to try to settle Lily down, but Mike signaled that he had this and she went the other way.

“Concepción evidently thinks you’re special,” Mike said. “She said you would be able to help save them from the Ghost Thief.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Lily said.

“Maybe you’re supposed to find out,” Mike said. “And right now I need you.”

“What for? You’re the magic ghost-talker guy.”

“I need you to talk me out of jumping off the bridge.”

She was so slight that her body made barely a rise in the sheets, like a wave on a calm pond from a phantom wind—her face might have been a skeletal mask laid upon the pillow for presentation, her long white hair brushed out to one side the way she liked it.

“You are trying to disappear,” Baptiste sang from the doorway, “but I see you.” He wheeled his mop bucket into her room.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Baptiste,” Helen said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“ Bonjour, Madame Helen ,” said Baptiste. “ Comment allez-vous? ”

“ Pas trés bien. Je suis fatiguée, monsieur.”

“I won’t be long, then you can rest. Can I bring you anything, chère ?”