Free Blood Lite II: Overbite by Kelley Armstrong

European-looking and had been roundly ignored by the wary folk of Beaulahville.
    Ray Ray sidled over to the Devil and gave him a firm handshake. “Ray Ray McEelvy. A pleasure to meet you.”
    “Likewise. Pete Wilhite, insurance agent.”
    “An accent like that, you’re bound to be from New Hampshire.”
    The Devil hadn’t been there since his humiliation at the hands of Daniel Webster, but the liberals were doing a bang-up job of carrying on his mission in those parts. “I’ve lived all over,” he said. “But I’m thinking of settling down here.”
    “We’ve got a strong business community,” Ray Ray said. “Beaulahville could always use more insurance. Sort of like lawyers, the more you have, the more you need.”
    The Devil consulted his vast mental filing cabinet. McEelvy. Town alderman, real estate salesman, carrying an out-of-state conviction for public intoxication and indecent exposure. McEelvy wasn’t the only man ever caught urinating in a Las Vegas fountain. So much for “what happens in Vegas.”
    “I can see where my services might be needed,” the Devil said.
    “If you need some property, look me up,” Ray Ray said, slipping the Devil a business card. “I have the scoop on a town rezoning that’s sure to push up appraised values. Nothing beats artificial equity.”
    The Devil’s hopes rose. “Isn’t that illegal?”
    Ray Ray gave him a hearty slap on the back. “It’s win-win, the right thing to do. Higher values means higher taxes, and that means more services for the poor. Growth for the sake of growth.”
    “I’ll think about it,” the Devil said.
    “Fine, fine. But I wasn’t kidding about that white lightnin’.” Ray Ray glanced around to make sure Betty was occupied. The constant demands of napkins and plastic spoons kept her fussing and fidgeting. No idle hands there with which to conduct mischief, but the day was young.
    The Devil wondered how many of the fine people of Beaulahville were getting lubricated in anticipation of the coming sermon. A canvas canopy was stretched over one end of the lawn, and rows of folding chairs were arranged to face the main stage. It reminded the Devil of his adventures in rock stardom, but he’d given up that profession in the digital era. Teenagers these days couldn’t receive the Satanic messages that could only be revealed by spinning vinyl records backward. And ever since the advent of Christian heavy metal, the old bait-and-switch techniques had proven a waste of time.
    “That’s a kindly offer, Mr. McEelvy, but I want to keep my head clear. I’m here on business, after all.”
    “I understand. I only drink on Sundays myself.”
    The Devil smiled. On the color wheel of lies, Ray Ray’s was neither white nor black. It was a kaleidoscopic rainbow. “What say I offer you some insurance on that backstreet office building?”
    “The renovated train depot? How did you know it was mine?”
    The property owner was listed in the county deeds office as Railway Enterprises, LLC, with the company principal under the fictitious name of “Lawrence Raymond.” “I’m in insurance,” the Devil said. “It’s what I do.”
    “The building’s already insured and—”
    The Devil held up a pumpkin-covered spatula. “Mr. McEelvy, I don’t have all day, and I know you need to get to your next drink. So let’s get down to business. It’s on the books at three-quarter million and you only have forty grand in it, thanks to your buddy at the lending institution and your inside peek at the local tax foreclosures.”
    “Those are serious allegations, Mr. Wilhite. I believe you should talk to my attorney.”
    “Honest men don’t need lawyers, Mr. McEelvy. And you have three.”
    “Are you extorting me?”
    “Please.” If the Devil kept sighing like this, he was going to sound like a leaking tire. These people didn’t appreciate subtlety. “I’m on your side, and you’re in good hands. Just let me draw you up a little supplemental