The Voodoo Killings by Kristi Charish

there?”
    “He’ll run out of quarters soon enough, and he won’t have his short-term memory back until I get this into him.” I held up the cooler. “Way I figure it, he can’t do any serious damage.”
    Nate glanced back at the curtain before darting ahead of me to grab a seat at the bar. “Man, I need to stay on your good side.”
    “Better believe it.”
    I made a point of not putting any part of my jacket on the bar this time as I scanned the room for Lee, who was missing from the bar well again, even though a line of zombies were waiting for service.
    I gauged the distance to the taps and stretched myself over the bar, careful not to touch it. I picked up two pint sleeves and reached for the tap. Bingo. I poured a beer for Nate and one for me.
    I passed one to him. “Bottoms up.”
    Nate stared at the full glass with something akin to reverence. You’d only catch it if you were looking for it, but his hands and face took on more substance. Not quite solid, but close. It took a hell of a lot out of a ghost to solidify even a little, but he had to use the energy if he wanted to drink.
    “Thank you, Jesus,” he said, and gunned back the beer.
    I doubted very much Jesus had anything to do with it.
    The metal cooler safely tucked under my feet, I hazarded one more glance at the pinball alcove. Then Nate’s empty glass clinked on the bar and I turned to see him eyeing me.
    “What?”
    Nate leaned in close. “At what point were you going to explain to me why you have a dead artist playing pinball? You aren’t starting a collection, are you?”
    I choked on my beer. “How the hell do you know who he is?”
    “Ummm, what self-respecting Seattle native doesn’t know who Cameron Wight is?” When I didn’t immediately respond, he added, “Cameron Wight? The modern, contemporary—whatever the hell you call it—artist? Has a penchant for art, drugs, women. In that order.”
    “I know who Cameron Wight is. I watch the news, but you don’t, so how do you know who he is?”
    He shrugged. “There’s a set mirror in one of the art galleries. It’s not one I can stroll out of, but the view’s decent. I’ve seen his work, and him.” He stopped to focus on his hand, solidifying it so he could set his empty glass spinning. “I think he’s sleeping with one of my exes.”
    “You think?”
    Nate solidified the tip of his hand and rested a finger on the rotating rim. The glass sang like a wind chime. “It was foggy,” he said.
    “Are you referring to the mirror or the patchy memory that is the result of your short life?”
    He stopped the glass spinning and arched an eyebrow at me. “You really want to know?”
    I rolled my eyes. “Annnddd so we mark your descent into cheap voyeurism.”
    Nate looked up at the strings of lamps. “Nah, I was always into cheap—”
    “Nathan Cade.” Lee Ling’s voice rang out through the bar.
    “Shit.” Nate spun around with inhuman speed, scanning the room as the muted roar of conversation came to a halt. Lee stood at the back of the room holding two frosted blenders full of what I can only describe as green zombie mojitos, her green eyes on Nate.
    Nate turned to me, eyes wide in panic. “Kincaid, you got to spot me two hundred bucks.”
    “What?” It came out louder than I’d intended, garnering even more attention from the zombies on either side of us. “Are you out of your mind?”
    “This is an emergency—”
    Lee was making her way towards us at a clip, the tight skirt barely slowing her down.
    “Lee already warned me once,” he said.
    Oh, for the love of—Lee had even less patience for Nate’s total lack of financial awareness than I did. I glared at my roommate. “Nate, I don’t have two hundred bucks.”
    “We did a gig a couple weeks ago—” Panic edged his voice.
    I shook my head. “Most of that went to rent, and then remember you begged me to buy Call of War and Demon Run.”
    “Shit.” Nate slumped down onto the bar; he didn’t have to