The Urban Fantasy Anthology (Peter S. Beagle) (Kitty Norville 1.50)

I do pick and choose, though. I look for people sneaking around in the middle of the night, like Billy waiting in the park that time. I figure they’ve got to be out looking for trouble at that hour, so whose fault is it if they find it? I have done a lot more for the burglary problem around Baker’s Park than a hundred dumb “watchdogs,” believe me.

Gerry-Anne is not only talking to me again, she has invited me to go on a double-date with her. Some guy she met at a party invited her, and he has a friend. They’re both from Fawcett Junior High across town, which will be a nice change. I was nervous, but finally I said yes. We’re going to the movies next weekend. My first real date! I am still pretty nervous, to tell the truth.

For New Year’s, I have made two solemn vows.

One is that on this date I will not worry about my chest, I will not be self-conscious, even if the guy stares.

The other is, I’ll never eat another dog.

Farewell, My Zombie

Francesca Lia Block

They call a male P.I. a private Dick. So what would they call me? Not a C word or a V word, that would be much too offensive. There are plenty of Dicks but no Vaginas walking around. That just wouldn’t be right, now would it? Maybe my title would be Jane. Private Jane. Dick and Jane. Makes you wonder why Jane hasn’t been used as a nickname for female genitalia before. Better than a lot of them. Men have a nicer selection.

It was one of those warm L.A. autumn days when you felt guilty if you were at the beach while other people were working or freezing their asses off somewhere, and even more guilty if you were sitting in an office letting your life slip away. That’s what I was doing. Sitting in my office with my black-booted feet up on the table (even though it was too hot for boots), staring at the window, wondering why I wasn’t at the beach. But I knew why. The beach made me think of Max. I tried to distract myself by poking around some paranormal activity websites on the Mac. There was an extended family in the Midwest who ghost hunted together. They had a disclaimer on their site that they could turn down any job that felt too dangerous. The woman kept spelling the word “were” like “where” and “You’re” like “your.” That happened so much online I wondered if someone had officially changed it and not told me.

That was when I got the call.

“Merritt,” I said.

“Jane Merritt?” the caller asked.

“Speaking.”

“Sorry, I…I need some help.”

“That’s what we’re here for. You’ll just need to come in and fill out some forms.”

There was a silence on the line and for a second I thought the call had dropped.

“Hello?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”

“So when would you like to come in? Everything perfectly confidential, of course.”

“Thanks. Sorry. It’s about my father.”

“I see. Yes.”

“He’s a monster.”

I waited for the giggling on the other end. She was obviously very young. I got calls like this all the time. Curious teens with too much time on their hands.

No giggling.

“I mean really,” she said. “A real monster.”

Then she hung up.

No one else called that day. Business had been slow. I left the office early and stopped at the West L.A. Trader Joe’s for a few groceries. Bagels, cream cheese, apples, celery, the cheapest Pinot Noir I could find and a tub of cat cookies, plus a can of food for David. I wanted to buy myself flowers because that’s what all the women’s magazines tell you to do when you haven’t been fucked in too long, but I decided not to waste the money. There was a big bouquet of fourteen white roses with a pink cast. They looked pretty good but I knew they’d blow up in a few days in this weather, petals loosening from their cluster and drifting to the floor. Besides, roses were another thing that reminded me of Max.

I went home and watched CNN while David and I ate dinner. Bad news as usual. The economy, disasters, war. Not to mention global warming and assorted acts of violence. It was like a horror movie, really. I drank the whole bottle of wine. Then I took a bath and went to bed. I had really weird dreams about letting Max go by himself on a train at night and then realizing what I had done and not being able to get anyone to understand why I was so upset when he didn’t come home. Dreams are cruel; they won’t let you forget.

Coco Hart came to see me about a week later. She was a beautiful girl in a private school uniform skirt and blouse and a ratty sweatshirt that was too hot for the weather. Her long hair up in a ponytail and makeup so lightly and carefully applied that only the most discerning eyes would notice it there. She looked perfectly well-adjusted but her fingernails were bitten down so far that it hurt to look at them.

“I called you,” she said after she’d introduced herself. Her eyes darted around the room trying to find clues. I don’t have any in this tiny, dingy office. Not even a photo of Max. I had to hide it in a drawer.