From the darkened stoop of Raging Records, I watched Chiquita lead her John by the hand away from her "office" on the corner of Height and Cobble.
The John was typical of the pre-rush hour crowd. Mid, maybe late, 30s. White. Thinning hair. A business suit and a wedding ring. Probably worked in the financial district. Some of Chiquita's John's are a little timid about initiating a business transaction, but this one was brazen. Walked right up to her and opened negotiations.
Chiquita is short, even for a woman, standing a hair taller that five feet. She has long, shiny black hair that spills down her back. Blue eyes and a perky, turned up nose are a big part of her appeal. But Chiquita's money maker is her bubble butt. Even on cold San Francisco nights she wears tight, tiny shorts to make sure prospective clients get a good look at it. All it takes is a shake or two of her cheeks to lure customers away from her competitors on the corner. Chiquita was born and raised in Oakland, but you'd never know it. When she's working, Chiquita puts on a south of the border accent that her customers seem to find more alluring and exotic than her very ordinary Californian non-accent.
"C'mon baby," I heard Chiquita say from across the street. "I got just the place for a big muchacho like you."
"I can not wait to get my hands on that ass," the John told her.
Chiquita escorted him around the corner of a blind alley leading off of Cobble. Before they left the street behind, the John turned away from Chiquita and looked first one way, then the other.
I pushed myself farther into the shadows.
Satisfied that no one was watching, the John followed Chiquita into the alley.
The ladies working the corner call it Bump and Grind Lane. It runs behind shops and restaurants on both sides and only has one entrance, making it very private and perfect for working their trade. Homeless used to make camp back there, but the ladies cut a deal with them. As long as the vagrants keep Bump and Grind clean and empty during "working" hours, the ladies leave behind food, drink and blankets when it gets cold. Which in San Francisco is just about all the time.
As soon as the two of them were out of sight, I left my hiding place and crossed quickly to the alley entrance. Peeking around the wall, I saw that the John had Chiquita pressed up against the wall with his body. His pants were undone and Chiquita's hand has moving inside them. That woman can get a John revved up faster than an old Chevy.
I tousled my hair with my fingers, accidentally pulling out a small clump of scalp. I'd need to eat soon or I'd be dropping body parts all over the city, I thought, tossing the skin and hair to the ground. I cleared my throat a few times, adding to the damage already done to my vocal cords by rot and decay.
I shuffled around the corner of Bump and Grind Lane, my arms held out straight in front of me.
"Unnnghhhhh!" I moaned in my most gravely zombie voice.
Chiquita was doing too good of a job. The John was still panting in her ear.
"UUNNGHHHHH" I moaned louder.
Nothing. The John's eyes were closed and he was breathing heavy.
I was getting pretty close with no reaction yet. Chiquita stole a glance at me, then nodded briefly at the John with a get on with it look.
I slowed down my shuffle and tried again.
"UUUNNNGGHHHHHHHH!"
The John's eyes snapped open and he turned his head my direction. He looked pissed I'd disturbed his morning hand job.
But then he got a good look at me and practically threw himself off of Chiquita.
"Jesus Christ!" he blurted out, his trousers falling to the ground.
"Waaaah-leeeeeet!" I groaned, inching closer.
The John grabbed onto Chiquita, pulling her away from the wall and holding her in front of him like a human shield.
"Dios mio! Un zombie!" Chiquita screamed on cue.
The John, still holding Chiquita in front of him, worked his way farther into the alley, his movement slowed down by the pants at his feet.
"Waaaaah-leeeeeet! I groaned again.
"They're real! Jesus Christ!" the John said again. "Take her!"
He pushed Chiquita at me. She'd been ready for that, though, and nimbly stepped around behind the John, using him as a human shield now.
The two were still backing into the alley, and I kept up my own slow shuffle.
"WAAAAH-LEEEEET!"
"Help! Help!" The John yelled out, holding his hands out in front of him to ward me off.
"He wants your wallet! Give him your wallet!" Chiquita urged him.
The John nodded and quickly bent over to grab at his pants. He managed to fish out his wallet, then stood up, holding it out to me in a trembling hand.
"Waaaaahlet!" I groaned again, reaching toward it.
Chiquita grabbed the wallet out of the John's hand and tossed it to the side of the alley.
I pointed my feet where it had landed and shambled over.
"Waaahlet!" I said in my happiest zombie patois.
"Corré! Run!" Chiquita yelled at the John, then took off down the alley herself, trying not to stumble on her high heels. The John pulled his trousers up to his thighs and followed after, whimpering.
As soon as I was sure the two of them were gone, I dropped my arms back down to my sides and walked the last two steps over to where the wallet lay waiting. I squatted down and picked it up, popping a few gas pockets in my thigh muscles and adding to the general stench in the alley.
It was a nice bill fold. Gucci. Inside was a large wad of twenties, four credit cards, a picture of John, a baby, and a chubby, bovine looking blonde, a gym membership and driver's license. Turns out John's name actually was John. Johnathan Shaw. Just lives a few blocks away.
Probably won't be walking back this way on his way to work any time soon, I thought.
"Took you long enough," Chiquita said from behind me, without the Mexicana accent.
I turned around and tossed her the wallet.
"You're too good at your job," I said.
Chiquita opened it and took the cash out. Her cute, turned up nose flared and she stepped away from me, sniffing and holding her hand up to her face, palm out, trying to create a barrier between her and whatever she smelled.
"Oh, man Gordon. You stink even worse than usual," she told me as she started counting off the bills.
"Sorry. Its not me though, its the clothes," I said, covering.
I held open the lapels of the jacket I was wearing and waived them back and forth.
"I thought they made me look more recently risen from the grave than my regular duds," I told her.
"Euwww!" Chiquita said, stepping back further.
The offending garment was a light green leisure suit from the 70's that Bing, one of the daytime residents of Bump and Grind Lane, had literally been wearing since the 70's. It had holes in it, was dirty as hell, and stank to high heaven. Bing had been more than happy to part with it for the low low price of a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.
Chiquita stuffed half of the bills back into the wallet and handed it to me, stretching out her arm to keep her nose as far away from me as possible.
"I hate to break it to you Gordon, but even when you think you don't stick, you stink," she said. "No offense. I mean, you are a zombie."
I hated to admit it, but she was probably right.
My sense of smell isn't all that great. In fact, except for my hearing and sight, all my my senses are pretty dulled. Probably for the best though. Zombies, as I'm sure you could guess, are always rotting. If I could actually taste the taste in my mouth and smell all the gasses and fumes coming off of my body, I doubt I could live with myself.
"None taken," I told Chiquita, accepting the wallet.
Chiquita looked at her watch.
"Morning commute is still going strong," she said. "Got time for one more trick?"
"Not today, I've got a date," I told her, stuffing the wallet into my pants pocket.
Chiquita raised an eyebrow. She didn't believe me.
"You're not upset about what I said, are you?"
"I'm really not."
"'Cause we made a lot of money today. I like this arrangement."
"Don't worry, I like easy money," I told her and smiled.
Chiquita's face paled and her cocky, street wise attitude disappeared the way her accent had. She took a few halting steps backward and held out her half of the cash we'd lifted off of Johnathan Shaw.
"Take it! I don't want any trouble!"
Zombies shouldn't smile around casual acquaintances. Sometimes I forget we're scary. After all, most zombies are shuffling, groaning automatons with the IQ of a stick of wood, hell bent on ripping you to pieces to satisfy their undead compulsion to gnaw on living flesh.
I'm not like that. Although sometimes I think it might be easier to be a groaner than a thinking man's zombie.
I relaxed the muscles around my face and spoke in the most soothing tone I could pull off with my damaged vocal cords.
"Keep the money, Chiquita. I just meant I like our arrangement too."
Chiquita nodded and stuffed the twenties into her bra, but she didn't look completely convinced I wouldn't try to take a bite out of her.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked.
"I'm going to take tomorrow off," Chiquita lied. The woman was a workaholic. Probably pulled in more cash in a week than a Silicon Valley CEO. "I'll give Merl a call when I'm going to work again. Okay?"
Merl is my agent, for lack of a better word. He helps set me up with gigs unfit for the living. Toxic waste clean up? Living crash test dummy? Pressure testing deep ocean submersibles? I'm your zombie. He'd set up my mornings with Chiquita a week ago.
And now I'm getting a "Don't call me, I'll call you," from a hooker.
"Sure," I said flatly.
I buttoned my dirty jacket in a stab at establishing a bit of dignity, not easy to do in 40 year old clothes permeated in years of vomit, and walked out of the alley, head held high, arms swinging loosely at my side. I might look like a vagrant, but no one would mistake my gait for the shambling walk of the undead.
And I really did have a date to get to.