“I need to speak to you two for a second,” the constable said in a professional manner.
“We dida not do-do,” The Breadman said defensively.
“Huh?” the officer asked confused by the sudden defence.
“No do,” The Breadman spoke again this time shaking his head in a peculiar motion that made him look like a child.
“Ok, listen. We are investigating the disappearance of a man named… er,” the constable opened his notepad and read the name slowly “er… Clay… Biff… Clay Biffley…” the constable had a look at the neighbourhood and changed his tone very lightly, “… also there have been some different events taking place down here. Possible disturbances taking place at night.”
It was well documented that Finn Slough was home to the odd nightly behaviour of Lulu Island residents, a lot of it based on narcotic abuse and sales. It was usual to see a Cadillac or a pick-up truck roll in and the base of high end stereo equipment blasting away the calm mood of the Slough at night and then to see cigarette cherries and lighter fires appear out of the black inside of the vehicles like tiny evil bonfires.
“Ya we no dig-a-lee-drug,” The Breadman said in a determined voice.
“Huh? Listen we think there has been a murder involving one of your residents in the last month… uh,” the constable looked intensively at his notepad, “… Clay Biffley was his name.”
“Is name,” Garry Perry corrected the constable politely.
“Yes name. Anyhow, Mr Biffley is feared dead and we are no longer treating this as a missing person investigation but as a slaying.”
“Weya, he’s no dead,” Garry Perry said defiantly.
“A-hem, he’s no dead.”
“Uhh… oh, yeah. Well he is not undead,” the constable said with an uncomfortable laugh. “A-hem, well he could be undead but that…”
“We cana do some good-a?”
“Yeah, well here,” the constable handed Garry Perry his business card that Garry Perry examined making his eye big. “If you hear anything, give us a ca… write us an email. We’ll check it out. We know how you people are close.”
The constable got in the car and awkwardly turned around his car. Driving away he could be heard muttering to the radio why he was always the one who had to come down to Finn Slough and talk to the weirdoes.
“Ya think-ee what a do?” Garry Perry asked The Breadman in a fearful voice.
“Druggery-le-lated. Poor Biff,” the Breadman said in a sombre voice.
“Naw, he’d said id ‘self. Undead. No dead. He still kicking.”
“Or he a Zomb-eya, no? He no dead but he not live.”
“We speake with Char McCool. She know da fo ‘bout Zomb-eya. Freaky-doo ‘fo she know.”
The Breadman moved quickly towards the path that led to Char McCool’s home that he happened to be parked in front of. Garry Perry had not had the time to think through all the possibilities before he rumbled after the Breadman towards Char McCool’s home. Char McCool and the Breadman had become very close lately and the rumours were that they were in fact expecting but that the Breadman stayed in his truck because he did not recognise the joyous event coming.
“Good-e-lay,” Char McCool warmly welcomed the two in to her vile looking home, a home so dark and black and filled with so much dirt that it did the most it could to seem unwelcoming but for the woman who stood in the doorway. A hippo woman, she had dark, flabby skin and wore a mixture of black and blonde hair, and clothed herself in a revealing but strained white dress with black roses across her chest. It reflected the house she inhabited. There was little light in the house and the inside smelled like soiled socks and the television spoke loudly out of one corner and some sort of Haitian music rung from another corner, but it sunk in to the background as if it were contrived to be forgotten about. “Wha be thid-a‘bout,” Char McCool asked curious as to why two grown men ran to her house like little children.
“Id ‘bout Clay Biffley,” Garry Perry said out of breath.
“We think-a he Zomb-eya,” the Breadman announced
“A Zomb-eya?” Char McCool wondered.
“Poli spoke-a-gamb,” the Breadman answered Char McCool’s question quickly.
Both the Breadman and Char McCool were given to believing in ghouls and goblins, it had seemed that’s what had brought them together. But their disposition wasn’t unusual in Finn Slough as the whole neighbourhood was guilty of make-believe. Garry Perry had his own peculiar ideas of what passed as fact so that there was no one who could discount the possibility of a true zombie walking about the area between Horseshoe Slough and Finn Slough.
Char McCool smiled confidently as if it were her time to shine and led both men to her table where of course there had to be a crystal ball centred on the dining table. She waved her hands above it quickly and breathed in deep. The Haitian music rose again and the TV inexplicably turned off. The Breadman turned his head quick to see that the television was indeed off, but was quick to return his attention to the trance Char McCool was stuck in. Her chubby hands seemed glued to the pale orb on her table and her eyes seemed even more glued shut, but she did not pay heed to all the motion made by the Breadman nor the fanatic look that had appeared on the his face.
“Shin-doo-lah, bringing da ha, come-oh-lah, Biffley rah!” she chanted slowly and terrifying in to the air. “Tell me the truth, tell me a Zomb-eya!”
Her eyes opened! She looked directly in to Garry Perry’s eyes and said in a voice not like her own that she knew all.
“A zombie stalks the Sloughs. He searches for greater minds to feed on. Beware the zombie stare. If he sees you, do not capture, only run!” and Char McCool’s head dropped to the table with a thud.
“Ya now know id,” the Breadman said confidently. “The poli and us now know id.”
Garr Perry nodded his head in agreement.
ONE MORE SMOKE FOR THE ROAD
9 years ago