Nightside 08 - The Unnatural Inquirer

destroyed?”
    “Oh, yes,” I said. “Several times. But it always comes back. You can’t keep a good ghost down, not when so many people believe in it.”
    The juke-box’s music changed to Manfred Mann’s “Ha! Ha! Said the Clown.” Go-Go girls, wearing only handfuls of glued-on sequins, danced wildly in golden cages suspended from the ceiling. At a nearby table, a collection of secret agents exchanged passwords and cheerful tall tales, while playing ostentatiously casual one-upmanship with their latest gadgets—pens and shoes that were communication devices, watches that held strangling wires and lasers, umbrellas that were also sword-sticks. One agent actually blinked on and off as he demonstrated his invisibility bracelet. Not far away, the Travelling Doctor, the Strange Doctor, and the Druid Doctor were deep in conference. Presumably some Cosmic Maguffin had gone missing again. And there were the King and Queen of America, smiling and waving, as they passed through.
    A tall and splendid waitress dressed in a collection of pink plastic straps and thigh-high white plastic boots strode over to our table to take our order. Her impressive bust bore a name badge with the initials EV. She leaned forward over the table, the better to show off her amazing cleavage.
    “Save it for the tourists, Phred,” I said kindly. “What are you doing working here? The monster-hunting business gone slack?”
    She shrugged prettily. “You know how it is, John. My work is always seasonal, and a girl has to eat. You wait till the trolls start swarming again in the Underground and see how fast they remember my phone number. Now, what can I do you for? We’ve got this amazing green tea in from Tibet, though it’s a bit greasy; or we’ve got some freshly baked fudge brownies that will not only open your doors of perception, but blow the bloody things right off their hinges.”
    “Just two Cokes,” I said firmly.
    “You want curly-wurly straws with that?”
    “Of course,” I said. “It’s all part of the experience.”
    “Excuse me,” said Bettie, “but why does he call you Phred, when your initials are EV? What does the EV stand for?”
    “Ex-Virgin,” said Phred. “And I stand for pretty much anything.”
    And off she went to get our order, swaying her hips through the packed tables perhaps just a little more than was strictly necessary.
    “You know the most interesting people, John,” said Bettie.
    I grinned. “Let us concentrate on the matter at hand. What can you tell me about the guy who originally offered to sell you the Afterlife Recording?”
    “All anyone knows is the name, Pen Donavon,” said Bettie, frowning prettily as she concentrated. “No-one in the offices has ever met him; our only contact has been by phone. He called out of the blue and almost got turned away. We get a lot of crank calls. But he was very insistent, and once we realised he was serious, he got bumped up to Scoop, who in turn passed him on to the Editor, who made the deal for exclusive rights.”
    “For a whole lot of money,” I said. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd, given that no-one ever met Donavon, or even glimpsed what was on the DVD?”
    “We had to pin the rights down before he went somewhere else! Trust me, the paper will make more money out of this story than Donavon will ever see.”
    “Do you at least have his address?”
    “Of course!” Bettie said indignantly. “We’ve already checked; he isn’t there. Skipped yesterday, owing two weeks’ rent.”
    “We need to go there anyway,” I said patiently. “There may be clues.”
    “Ooh, clues!” Bettie said delightedly. “Goody! I’ve never seen a clue.”
    She opened up a large leather purse, which I would have sworn she wasn’t carrying before, and rummaged around in it for her address book. The purse seemed to be very full and packed with all kinds of interesting things. Bettie caught me looking, and grinned.
    “Mace spray, with added holy water. Skeleton keys, including some made from real bones. And a couple of smoke grenades, to cover a quick exit. A demon girl reporter has to be prepared for all kinds of things, sweetie.”

    We went to Pen Donavon’s place. It wasn’t far. Bettie stuck close beside me. She wasn’t too keen on appearing in public, given some of the stories she’d written. Apparently while celebrities tended to take such things in their stride, their fans could be downright dangerous.
    “Relax,” I said. “No-one’s