Goodman Dennis got into the backseat and slouched down wearily. He was perhaps one of the most forgettable people I’d ever seen. He was unremarkable in every way, a man of medium height and build, blandly not-bad-looking, and if you looked real close you could see Native American background in him somewhere. He was also one of the most dangerous shapeshifters in the world, he worked for one dollar per case, and he had saved me from meeting a truly ugly end in Tartarus.
“What the hell, man?” I asked as he settled in. “You’re supposed to be watching Justine.”
“Me and everyone else,” he complained. “You should have asked me about my group rates. Hey, Ms. henry.”
“Goodman,” henry replied. “Still working for these unsavory characters, I see.”
“Risk of the trade, ma’am,” Dennis replied.
“Ho
