Ghostbusters The Return (11 page)

Venkrnan's voice crackled over the speakerphone. "He's got quite a little bedside manner going there, doesn't he?"

Egon clicked off the radio, his eyes narrowed in thought. He didn't say anything.

Ray shrugged. "Well, we can still get hired by private clients, anyway," he said with characteristic good nature. "Assuming any clients call us after those cracks about 'collateral damage' and 'real professionals.' Besides, we
were
complaining about being overworked, right?"

"Whoa!" said Venkman. "You mean you're just going to sit back and let this stooge walk all over your turf?"

"'Turf?' We're not street gangs, Pete. New York is eight million people's turf."

"Yeah, but he's not stealing eight million people's paychecks."

"It's the Mayor's decision. He can hire whomever he wants. And let's face it, the Mayor's not especially likely to hire us back while you're running against him."

"Oh, so it's my fault?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yeah, right," Venkman said with an unmistakable edge in his voice. "I've gotta go to a meeting." There was a click, followed by a dial tone as he hung up the phone.

"What was all that about?" Ray wondered.

"You know, there's another option," said Egon.

"For what?"

"For handling this Goodraven situation."

Ray was a little leery about any kind of option Egon might come up with - interpersonal issues weren't really his strong suit. He tended to do better with fungus and mold. Still, Ray supposed it couldn't hurt to ask. "What are you thinking?"

"Admittedly, Goodraven talks a good game with all those 'thee's and 'thy's. However, if you and I don't know who he is, I can't imagine that anyone else does, either. Who knows if he's even any good? There's no data to support an informed conclusion."

"Fair enough. You're suggesting that we check him out?"

"No. I'm suggesting that we show him up."

"How?"

"Even if the city isn't paying us anymore, we should keep at it. Let the population of New York City see whose ectoplasmic containment units are more full when all is said and done. Let them see who provides the most effective protection."

"And if the answer turns out to be Goodraven?"

Egon gave him a look. "How likely is that? The probability is staggering."

Ray mulled it over briefly as he steered the Ectomobile onto the block that housed their office.

"I like it," he said.

Before Egon could reply, the phone rang again.

"Peter?" Egon guessed.

Ray shook his head. "Too soon. He wouldn't have cooled down yet. I'd say Winston."

He pulled the Ectomobile into their driveway and hit the button to answer the phone. "Y'ello."

There was silence on the other end.

"Hello?" Ray said, a little louder this time.

The silence continued.

"Probably a wrong number," said Egon.

Ray reached over to hang up. Just as his finger was about to push the button, a voice as cold as death came out of the speaker: "Have you...checked...the children..."

"'Children?'" said Egon. Into the speakerphone, he called, 'You've got the wrong number."

Again, the voice repeated: "Have you... checked... the children?"

That's no wrong number," Ray said, with a shudder in his voice.

"Another urban legend?" Egon asked.

"Yeah."

"Children in danger?"

"Worse." His voice sounded hollow. "A teenage girl is babysitting by herself. The kids went to bed hours ago. There's a phone call, then another, all with that message. And it turns out the calls are coming from inside the - "

Ray broke off the story as he was struck by a sudden realization. His face went pale, and he gaped up at the entrance to the Ghostbusters' headquarters.

"Coming from inside where?" asked Egon.

Ray threw open the car door. "Grab your gear!" he yelled. "We've got to get in there!"

CHAPTER 10

Half an hour earlier, Janine and Louis had been sitting at a table in the Ghostbusters' offices, poring through stacks of ancient, leather-bound books. Janine preferred to assume they were leather, anyway.

"Hm. How fascinating," Janine said. "Listen to this."

Louis closed the book he was reading and added it to his discard pile. "Did you find something about Xanthador?"

"No. But according to this, if you want to get rid of nightmares, you should boil up some wine and oil with the tongue, eyes, liver, and bowels of a dragon, and then 'anoint the patient every morning and evening.'"

"Gee, I usually just drink a cup of warm milk."

"That works, too."

Louis straightened the material of the Ghostbusters coveralls he was weanng, and stole a glance at Janine, admiring his girlfriend's looks. For the twenty-third time that day, he wondered what he'd ever done to deserve her. Absently, he opened yet another musty tome. As he lifted the cover, dust from the book scattered in the air, making him sniffle.

In contrast to Louis' uniform, Janine was still dressed in the street clothes that she'd worn to work that moming: a form-fitting polyester dress in black and white zebra stripes. "Bless you," she said.

Louis looked up from the book. "Thanks," he said, in a breathless tone that reflected deep, genuine appreciation, rather than an automatic reply.

Catching his tone, Janine stopped reading in midsentence. She looked up at him, and their eyes met. "You're welcome," she said meaningfully.

The two of them gazed at each other with longing.

"I just love a man in uniform," she said.

"Me, too," said Louis. Then, realizing what he'd said, he hastened to add, "I mean, I feel the same way... No, I mean... Not that I love men in uniform... although I'm sure most of them are quite nice people... I mean, I love women who love men in uniform... Well, not just
any
women who love men in uniform... I was thinking more specifically - "

Janine silenced him with a deep, prolonged kiss. Then, with a single, graceful stroke, she swept a stack of books off the table.

Or she would have, if the oversized books hadn't been so big and heavy. What actually happened was that the stack of books refused to budge, as Janine discovered with a grunt. It took both hands, and some help from Louis, to shift the books to one side of the table.

Once some space had finally been cleared, they threw their arms around each other and started to kiss passionately. Intertwined, they fell across the table in the midst of the volumes that lay there.

The dust from the books made Louis sniffle.

Meanwhile, over in the kitchen, Slimer was trying an experiment of a different kind. He studied a brand new, five-pound plastic bag of unpopped popcorn, feeling the heft of its weight in his hands, and admiring the !abel's photo of a skinny man in glasses and a bow tie.

His hands moved to one end of the bag. In a single, sharp movement, Slimer yanked hard in both directions, sending up a shower of popcorn kernels as the end of the bag burst open. The effect made him laugh, although he was careful to keep most of the popcorn in the bag. He didn't want to lose too much of it before he tried out his idea.

Next, he floated over to the microwave oven and opened the door. He started to pour the bag of popcom inside, thus creating a large, growing heap in the middle of the floor of the microwave.

Midway through the process, he abruptly cut off the flow of popcorn when he was struck by a new thought. He took a handful of the unpopped kernels and dropped them into his mouth. Then, he took careful aim and spit out a stream of kernels like machine-gun fire. They bounced off a frying pan in the drying rack beside the sink with a loud, ringing
clang-ang-ang-ang-ang-ang.

Slimer giggled heartily. He was still giggling when he turned back to the microwave and added the rest of the bag of popcorn.

Once the bag was empty, he slammed the door, pushed the button to set the microwave for six hours, then hit the button marked START. As the microwave lit up and began its work with a quiet hum, Slimer positioned himself horizontally in mid-air beneath the microwave. He opened his mouth wide, and waited to see how long it would take for the popcorn to force the door of the microwave open and cascade down into his mouth.

The popcorn was just starting to pop when he was startled by the sound of a voice. "Oh, my. You poor dear. just look at you. You're absolutely soaked!"

Baffled, Slimer drifted aimlessly into an upright position as he tried to figure out what was most puzzling: the presence of an elderly woman in the kitchen, the fact that he actually wasn't soaked at all, or the fact that, like him, she was drifting in the middle of the room without any legs to support her.

Slimer spoke in a stream of gibberish that sounded something like a question.

"Don't you worry now, dearie," said the ghost of the old woman. "I know just how to fix what ails you."

Before Slimer could protest - or even react - she pushed the button that simultaneously paused the microwave and opened the door. In a single, fluid motion, she reached inside and used her hand to sweep the pile of popcorn kernels (both popped and unpopped) out of the microwave. The kernels fell in a graceful shower that hit the floor and bounced all over the room.

Slimer was so startled by the whole thing, and transfixed by the shower of popcorn, that he didn't even put up any resistance when she suddenly grabbed his arm, shoved him inside the microwave, and slammed the door. By the time Slimer realized what was happening, his rotund body was already stuffed into the too-small space. He tried to move, but with his body filling the space, the best he could manage was a slight, helpless jiggle of one arm.

Before he could think to dematerialize and pass through the walls of the microwave, the old woman hit the START button. "There you are, dearie," she said. You'll be dry as a bone in no time."

Slimer didn't feel so well. His superheated body started to bubble and bulge.

The old woman watched through the window of the microwave. She smiled pleasantly, and started to hum a happy tune.

The bubbling was getting faster now, stronger, more out control. Panic registered on the distorted mass that was now barely recognizable as Slimer's face.

Faster and faster, the reaction multiplied exponentially in speed and intensity. In a matter of seconds, it raced to a fever pitch - 

- and Slimer exploded. The door of the microwave blew open in a mass of black smoke and green sludge. The bits of slime that splattered across the room were all that was left of the Ghostbusters' pet poltergeist.

"Oh, my." said the old woman. "What a mess."

Louis and Janine were still sprawled across the table, and he was still sneezing, when she opened her eyes to see they weren't alone. The visitor was a tall, slender man with dark hair, dark eyes, and swarthy good looks. He wore a silk shirt and tight pants, and an embroidered red jacket that looked like something Janine might have expected to see on a bullfighter or a waiter in a Mexican restaurant.

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Janine tried desperately to salvage whatever bit of professionalism she could still muster. "Excuse me! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, struggling to pry herself loose from her awkward position beneath Louis. The visitor waited patiently for her, a bemused smile playing about his lips.

Still muttering apologies, Janine dropped down to her feet and hastily began straightening her clothes and hair. Only then, as Louis' sneezing fit staked to subside, did he notice the visitor himself.

"Oh. Hi," Louis said His glasses were askew, his hair was mussed, and he just couldn't help looking sheepish from his position atop the table.

With all the grace of a baby calf finagling its legs for the first time, he clambered down from the table. He tried to zip up the front of his coveralls, only to discover that the zipper was stuck in the halfway position.

As Louis muttered to himself and struggled to free the zipper, Janine stepped up to the visitor. She'd done her best for a quick fix-up, but with her hair in disarray and her lipstick smeared across her mouth and cheeks, the effect was moderate at best. "Sorry about that." she said. "welcome to Ghostbusters. How can I help you?"

The visitor did not reply - at least not in words. Instead he thrust one arm upward and the other across his torso in a dramatic pose. Janine didn't notice the castanets in his lands al first. But they seemed to come alive as their clacking, accompanied the sound of his shoes striking the floor in a brief, fast-paced dance step that ended as abruptly as it had begun.

"Uh...wow," said Janine. She found herself fascinated - albeit a little perplexed - by the spectacle in front of her. She wasn't used to people dancing through the office in the middle of the afternoon.

Somewhere behind her, Louis was still tugging on the stubborn zipper. He started jumping up and down in an attempt to shake it loose.

Janine didn't notice. She couldn't take her eyes off the mysterious flamenco dancer. whose feet were now tapping against the floor as he slowly circled around her. She stared at him, entranced, as he directed smoldering glances deep into her eyes.

When he completed the circle. the dancer drew back with a flourish and extended a hand toward her. Meanwhile, Louis was still jumping and tugging on the zipper. At least he was until he smacked into a nearby filing cabinet, lost his balance, and fell over.

Janine didn't even look in the direction of the crash to see if Louis was all right. She took the visitor's hand, and he led her over to the open space between the office area and the parking bay. With fluid grace, he slid an arm around her waist, pressed his cheek against hers, and guided her back and forth across the floor. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensual feel of the dance. The visitor moved with measured precision, and as long as Janine followed his lead, she moved with a grace that she never knew she possessed.

Louis managed to get back up on his feet. To his delight, he discovered that the fall had jarred the zipper loose. He zipped the coveralls up with pleasure, then turned to see the handsome stranger hoisting his girlfriend high over his head and spinning around before gently setting her down again.

"Hey, guys," Louis said, "whatcha doing?"

Janine could barely hear him. Louis' voice sounded distant, as though it was coming from far, far away. The sensation was like being underwater or lost in a dream. As the visitor twirled her away from himself, then caught her and pulled her back, Janine found herself falling madly, deeply in love.

Janine opened her eyes to gaze into the face of her new love. She smelled his scent, and felt the strength of his powerful arms. Then, she looked down...and screamed.

To be fair, it was an understandable reaction. The rhythmic clicking of her partner's heels didn't actually come from his shoes - he wasn't wearing any shoes. Nor did he have heels - at least, not the kind that Janine was expecting. Instead, the clicking was coming from the long, sharp claws that extended from her partner's six toes and the spur that protruded from the back of each foot. He had the feet of a chicken.

And when she looked back up into his horrible, laughing face, she discovered that he had horns as well.

Suddenly, the floor opened up all around them. Flames licked upward from somewhere deep below. The roar of the fire was accompanied by the screams and moans of a million tortured souls. Only the small piece of floor beneath Janine's feet hovered above the pit.

"Janine!" Louis shouted.

"Louis!" she screamed in reply.

"Hold on! I'll save you!"

Louis started to rush toward the pit, but he was stopped cold by a firm grip on his shoulder. He turned to see a hulking, twisted, translucent fiend. It grunted, drool dribbling down his chin. Its hands held a large axe.

With what was probably intended to be a smile, the fiend opened its mouth and said: "Have you... checked... the children?"

Before Louis could do anything more than look confused. it swung the heavy axe directly at his head.

Winston just didn't buy it. "You're telling me Ray blamed you for getting them fired?"

"That's right. The man was totally unreasonable," said Venkman.

"Ray did that?"

"Uh-huh."

"Ray?"

"Yes, Ray," said Venkman. "Guy about this tall? Baby face? Nicotine patch?"

"No way."

"You weren't on the phone. You didn't hear him."

"Come on. Ray? Ray's a pussycat. You must've misunderstood."

"Aha! Don't let him fool you. under all that niceness, he's got a real nasty streak."

Winston rolled his eyes and sighed.

Milken cleared his throat. "Gentlemen? Much as I hate to interrupt, we do have work to do."

"Right. Sorry," said Winston.

The two of them rejoined Milken down at his end of the conference table. Venkman still looked a bit out of sorts, but he gave his body a little shake and got down to business with the others.

"Now, we'll have to do something about this Goodraven character... " Milken said.

Affecting a Brooklyn accent, Venkman said, "I could have Lefty and the boys rub him out."

Milken smiled indulgently. "I'll speak to John about adapting our campaign strategy to accommodate Goodraven. But knowing John, he's probably already working on it."

"I bet your guys never saw something like this coming. It must be throwing them for a loop," said Winston.

"Actually," said Milken, "we knew that something like this was possible."

"You did?"

"Certainly. It stands to reason. They based so much of their campaign on the Ghostbusters that they needed a substitute when that was no longer an option. The Mayor couldn't continue to give your group free publicity once you boys were running against him."

"Really," said Winston, shooting Venkman a sidelong
I-told-you-so
look.

Venkman grimaced momentarily, but stayed focused on the task at hand. "So you've already got a way to deal with the spud?"