Free The Voodoo Killings by Kristi Charish

a need for cash, I made it my business to find him. It turned out that the people who’d tried before me had been offering the wrong incentive. It amazes me how fast practitioners forget ghosts were people, and in a lot of ways still are.
    I spent weeks writing notes on every set mirror I encountered and shamelessly leveraging the local ghost network. Finally, three weeks into my campaign, Nate agreed to talk to me out back of Damaged Goods.
    Saying Nate had been pissed off is putting it mildly.
    I’M NOT SIGNING YOU’RE GODDAM ALBUM , Nate had written.
    Don’t want your autograph , I’d written back. Just want to talk .
    There’d been a pause. Then: I’M NOT DOING ANY CREAPY GHOST SEX THING EITHER .
    Wow. Okay. Umm…Yeah…I don’t even want to know .
    UNLESS YOUR REALLY HOT—LIKE VICTORIA SECRET MODEL HOT…
    Yeah, that’s not creepy at all. Seriously—I only want to talk. If you don’t like what I have to say, we go our separate ways and I won’t contact you again—promise .
    A second later, Nate had materialized in front of me. It’d been a small bathroom, so it’d been cramped, and Nate was dressed like he was on a ghost bender. I think he’d been trying to scare me off.
    “What could you possibly have to say to me that I’d want to hear?” he’d said.
    I’d pursed my lips. Nate had trust issues. Couldn’t blame him, since his old band was trying to rope him into a comeback tour. “I have a proposition for you, one where you can make some money and it doesn’t involve reuniting with your band.”
    The no-comeback-tour clause clearly got his attention…and the money part too. My ghost contacts all said Nate was broke, even by their standards. Worldly possessions are a lot harder to give up than you’d think. And then there’s beer. Ghosts carry appetites from their real life into the next, and anything they’ve done repeatedly—like, say, drinking a cup of tea every day at noon—they’ll muster enough energy to do as a ghost. Nate drank beer. No one in the underground city was letting a ghost skip out on a beer tab.
    “What if I’m still not interested?” he’d said.
    I’d shrugged. “Then I turn around, head back into the bar and take this with me.” I showed him the six-pack of Steamworks in my backpack. His favourite.
    He’d glanced down at the beer and back up at me.
    “Just come into the bar, have a beer and hear me out,” I’d said, and crossed my heart.
    I don’t know if it was because Nate was bored out of his mind, or there was beer involved, or the fact that I had a passing resemblance to trustworthy. My money was on the beer. But he’d agreed.
    We worked out a mutually beneficial deal then and there. I’d be the exclusive provider of one Nathan Cade, but only for jobs he wanted to do. In return, I’d cover his outstanding bar tab and he’d get paid. I’d also give him free passage from the Otherside to this side through my apartment and keep his real name a secret. Did I mention that his real name was the other thing I’d managed to dig up? Ghosts have a bitch of a time ignoring them. The only reason Nate’s ex-bandmates hadn’t succeeded in calling him before I did was that Nathan Cade was a stage name. He’d never bothered telling them the real one.
    A few months into our partnership, I started charging Nate rent. Word to the wise: never let a ghost store a PlayStation at your house. No good can come of it. Nate’s not a bad roommate, and he’s a halfway decent friend, too…when he isn’t broke. Nate’s not what you’d call good with numbers.
    “What are you smirking at?” Nate asked.
    “Oh, nothing,” I said as the door closed behind us. A day would come when Nate would pay his beer tab on time, since, statistically speaking, at some point the day his bar tab was due had to land on a day he had money. In the meantime, I’d keep Lee’s earlier threat to myself.
    “I’ve got us a gig for tomorrow night.”
    “Really?” Nate perked up.