Lord High Councilman Farkvold is a lot of things, but I've never known him to be a liar. And unless he was lying, he seemed to be unaware of the Grimox anise trafficking scheme.

"The Slatt Guard are not involved with trade of the Forbidden Seed!" Lord Farkvold's voice grew louder and I instinctually turned down the volume on the car stereo. To my surprise, it worked. "Anise possession is a capital offense! Buying and selling of the Forbidden Seed is strictly -”

"Forbidden?" Henry offered. "Well, you didn't hear it from us."

Lord Farkvold's twisted face twisted some more. "Who has been trading anise?"

“Lord Councilman," I said. "What did Commander Boarvex tell you about these 'top-secret materials' that Agent Dobbins had in his possession?"

"The Commander said it… was a weapon. To be used against the Grimoxian rebels."

"Hmm," I said. "Well, in a roundabout sense, I suppose that's true..."

Farkvold's lips formed into something like a sneer. "Anise seed…"

"You know, on Earth they use that stuff to make cookies," Henry said.

"Lord Councilman," I said to the image on my dashboard. "Unfortunately, we can't get Agent Dobbins out of jail right now."

"And I'm not telling you how to do your job, Councilman," Henry whispered. "But you may want to check if Commander Boarvex has a side-hustle." Henry winked at the screen.

"It's also been an eighteen-hour day for us," I said. "What with the time-dilation from the portal factored in. So, I think we're done for the day. Mr. Dobbins will remain in jail until Monday. And we'll follow up with you Monday morning, Councilman. Goodnight."

"Enjoy the rest of your weekend," Henry turned off the screen above the gearshift before Lord Farkvold could answer, and the image disappeared.

We drove a few blocks in silence before I turned to Henry:

"You know, the High Council isn't going to accept this."

"I know," he sighed. "It's going to be a shitty weekend."

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I opened the car window and inhaled the night air. It was starting to feel like winter in Los Angeles, the Santa Ana winds were blowing in, crisp and cool and scented with smoke from a distant wildfire - destruction that smelled like burning wood in a warm fireplace, the smell of home.

--

Henry was right, the weekend started out rough. Relentless molar-messages started coming in first thing Saturday morning.

I was brushing my teeth when I felt my jaw begin to tingle, and for a moment I prayed that it was just a cavity. Then I heard the familiar clicking sound in my left ear:

“ATTENTION, EARTH ATTORNEYS!” my molar blasted. I gripped the bathroom sink, knocking a bottle of moderately-expensive aftershave onto the floor. Luckily, Denise was downstairs watching yoga videos and didn't hear the ruckus.

“PLEASE REPORT TO THE INTERGALACTIC COUNCIL IMMEDIATELY WITH AGENT DOBBINS!"

I started to pick up the pieces of the broken bottle when "HAIL SLATT!" echoed through my skull, followed by a clicking noise behind my eye socket.

I told Denise that I was suffering from a headache, and I used that as an excuse to get out of a trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond for new dishtowels. Denise went alone, and while she was out my molar-transmitter went off twice more.

"IF I RIP ALL MY TEETH OUT, WILL THAT MAKE IT STOP?" Henry texted me. The molar-transmissions are sent to both of us simultaneously, which I guess means we're on the same channel or frequency or something.

By early afternoon, Henry and I were enduring our fourth blast of molar-messages, always with the same instructions to 'immediately report' to that the High Council.

'SCOTCH HELPS," Henry texted me after the fourth broadcast. After the fifth one, he texted "NO, IT DOESN'T."

Then by mid-afternoon, like a miracle, the skull-numbing messages stopped.

I told Denise that I was feeling better, and we were able to have a normal dinner and conversation before I went to bed, early and exhausted.

Sunday morning was warm in the valley, and I sat on my deck, sipping fresh coffee and looking at the mountains in the distance. The sky overhead was clear blue with only a few white brushstrokes, and as I looked up I thought about what was happening right now throughout the universe: argon-gas Dobbins was awaiting his fate in a jail cell downtown, the Grimoxians were running out of Angeles Anise at the peak of the Grelope Fertility Festival, and Commander Boarvex was probably realizing that his days as an interplanetary drug kingpin were coming to an end.

More than anything, I was grateful that I was no longer being bombarded by transmissions from the Slatt.

"Work on your mind?" Denise appeared behind me on the deck, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of green tea.

"How can you tell?"

"You worked late night on Friday, had a headache yesterday. And you've been checking your phone every fifteen minutes," she gave a half-smile and leaned her arm against me.

"We have a difficult client," I said. "They like to call Henry and I whenever they feel like it, even when it’s not an emergency."

“Well, you have to set your own boundaries, or else other people will set them for you," Denise said.

“I couldn't agree more."

I glanced up at the clear sky once again; there was plenty to be concerned about. But nothing that couldn't wait until Monday morning. I took a long sip of coffee and savored the warmth.