WORKING STIFF: THE CASE FILES OF DAN SHAMBLE, ZOMBIE PI by
Kevin J. Anderson is a fun collection of seven short
stories -- "Stakeout at the Vampire Circus", "Road
Kill", "Naughty & Nice", "Locked Room", "The Writing on
the
Wall", "Role Model", and "Beware of Dog". These stories
make a nice introduction for any readers new to the
series.
New readers won't get bogged down by strange terminology
because the author defines key terms and characters in
each
of the stories. These zombie detective tales by Kevin J.
Anderson make me laugh and never fail to entertain. The
stories collected in WORKING STIFF: THE CASE FILES OF DAN
SHAMBLE, ZOMBIE PI are very typical of the series --
humorous, full of quirky characters, and a delight to
read.
One thing I love about WORKING STIFF: THE CASE FILES OF
DAN
SHAMBLE, ZOMBIE PI is that the stories all highlight the
relationships Dan has with his BHF (best human friend)
McGoo and his ghostly girlfriend Sheyenne. These
relationships ground the series for me. No matter what
supernatural wackiness Dan encounters on one of his cases,
he always has his friends to help him out if he needs it.
The moments he has with Sheyenne like those in "Naughty &
Nice" & "Locked Room" are particularly sweet without
distracting from the main story.
I love the sheer zaniness of "The Writing on the Wall"
and "Role Model", but my favorite story in this anthology
is probably "Naughty & Nice". "Naughty & Nice" has so many
of the elements I love about a Dan Shamble story and it
also feels like the most fully developed. This story also
exemplifies what each story in this series tries to stress
-- how much like everyday people "unnaturals", are and
that
there are more things that connect people than separate
them. It's this grander idea that elevates the story from
the usual, though highly enjoyable, silliness.
WORKING STIFF: THE CASE FILES OF DAN SHAMBLE, ZOMBIE PI is
brain candy of the highest quality and loads of fun. I
always enjoy visiting the fascinating new characters and
old favorites that populate the unique world of the Dan
Shamble mysteries by Kevin J. Anderson. I eagerly await
the
next installment in this series.
Back from the dead...and back on the case! Even being murdered doesn't keep a good detective down, and in the Unnatural Quarter-inhabited by ghosts, vampires, werewolves, mummies, and all sorts of creatures that go bump (or thud!) in the night-a zombie P.I. fits right in. Dan Chambeaux, a.k.a. "Shamble," solves a string of madcap cases with his ghost girlfriend Sheyenne, his Best Human Friend Officer Toby McGoohan, and his firebrand lawyer partner Robin Deyer. Working Stiff contains seven cases from the files of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations. Dan Shamble has to solve the mystery of a stolen deck of fortune-telling cards and the undeath-defying feats of a vampire trapeze artist, finds himself sealed in a coffin in the back of a truck with no idea where he's being taken, and is even hired by Santa Claus to find his lost "naughty and nice" list. Being trapped in an unbreakable monster-proof crypt, deciphering a string of mysterious zombie graffiti, investigating the murder of a costumed fan at a science fiction convention where the monsters are the normal attendees, or tracking down a kidnapped hellhound for legendary vigilante werewolf cop Hairy Harry-it's all in a day's work for Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I.
Excerpt
Road Kill It’s never a good thing to wake up in a coffin, unless you’re a vampire—and I’m definitely not a vampire. I’m an entirely different sort of undead. Now, vampires belong in coffins; they actually find them comfortable. Vamps go there regularly to get their sleep. I’ve even known several who kept everyday coffins and vacation coffins (fitted with tropical interior décor). Some are just stripped-down pine boxes, while others are luxury models rigged with stereo systems for music or audiobooks. Some coffins even have tingly massage fingers on the bottom. The coffin I woke up in wasn’t one of those types, and I sure as hell didn’t belong here. I’m a zombie, and zombies aren’t so picky about where they rest. Sure, coffins will do just fine, but once we’ve clawed our way out of the grave, we don’t need to sleep often, and when we do we’re okay with sleeping on a sofa, or even just propped up in a corner somewhere. It doesn’t really matter. But I knew I hadn’t taken a nap here on purpose. I’m not just any zombie: I’m a zombie detective, and it’s my job to figure out mysteries. I’m good at my job—though I try to avoid being part of the mystery itself. The coffin was dark and cramped, with very little elbow room. I squirmed, thumped the sides of the box with my arms, managed to roll myself over onto my stomach—which did me no good at all—then had to exert twice as much effort to roll myself onto my back again. I pounded the wooden lid with my fists. Yes, it’s a cliché: I had become one of those things that go bump in the night. I felt the entire coffin vibrating beneath me, accompanied by a low pleasant thrumming. No wonder I had dozed off for so long! But this wasn’t a timed “Magic Massage Fingers” sensation. I realized the sound was road noise, the vibration of wheels. I was in the back of a vehicle somewhere. Worse, I was in a coffin in the back of a vehicle going somewhere. I hammered on the lid of the coffin, felt around the edge. No safety latch there. That was a code violation, and I was starting to feel testy. Coffins are supposed to have quick-release latches, otherwise it’s a safety hazard. Ever since the Big Uneasy, laws had changed to protect the unnaturals. My partner Robin had hung out her attorney-for-hire shingle on behalf of the vampires, zombies, werewolves, ghosts, and other assorted “beings” that needed legal representation in the changing world. One of her early legal victories was to institute safety systems in coffins and crypts so that, in the event that a dead body came back to life, he or she could re-emerge without discomfort or inconvenience. I got my hands in front of my chest, flattened my palms, and pushed up against the coffin lid. The planks creaked but remained fastened. Nailed shut. This was getting more annoying by the minute. I tried to remember where I’d been and how I’d gotten there, but it was all a big blank. I’m better-preserved than most zombies, many of whom eat brains because they have a deficiency in that department (kind of like a vitamin deficiency). Me, I’ve always loved a good cheeseburger, but these days I rarely bother to eat except out of habit, or sociability. I don’t have much appetite, and my taste buds aren’t what they used to be. My mind, though, is sharp as a tack … usually. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be much of a detective. At present, I felt as blank and stupid as one of those shamblers who can only remember long strings of vowels without any consonants. Moving in the cramped box now, I patted myself down and realized that I still wore my usual sport jacket with the lumpy threads where the bullet holes had been crudely stitched up. I managed to get my fingers up to my face, felt the cold skin, ran them up around my forehead and skull, felt a crater there—a bullet hole, entry wound in the back of my head, exit wound in my forehead. Yes, everything seemed normal. For many years, I’d been a detective in the Unnatural Quarter, a human detective at first, working on cases where unnaturals ran afoul of the law, or stumbled into curses, or just lost things from their original lives. I made a decent living at it, especially after I partnered with Robin, and the cases we dealt with were more interesting than typical adultery spying for divorce cases. On the downside, I had ended up getting shot in the back of the head while investigating the poisoning death of my girlfriend. That would have been the end of any regular Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, but the cases don’t solve themselves, so when I came back from the dead … I went right back to work. I pressed hard against the lid of the coffin again, heard the boards creak, listened to the nails groan a little bit. That was some progress, at least. I kept pushing. Even though zombies have the advantage of being able to sleep wherever they like, vampires are generally more limber. I was accustomed to stiff muscles and sore joints, however, so I kept pushing. I put my back into it. (What, was I going to get a bruise?) With steady pressure, I managed to coax the nails farther out. The boards splintered, and the lid finally came loose. I nudged the top of the coffin aside by a few inches and let in some cool air. But I was still trapped. A thick silver chain and a padlock had been wrapped around the coffin. Great. Silver chains and a nailed-down coffin—exactly what would be required to contain a vampire. Okay, B+ for effort, but somebody really needed to go back to the field guides and do a better job at identifying their unnaturals. How could anyone have confused me for a vampire? Then one or two of the pieces fell into place with a big thud. I wasn’t supposed to be here—this should have been someone else! I’d been duped, or switched.
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