“Okay, I’m not the…okay, I am the weird one, but not because of that. Taxe…”

Goodie was stopped mid-word as Frank burst into the room, the man yelping in pain as he entered, cradling his shoulder as he did for some reason.

He and Donny…and some unknown woman, had come in late last night from Frank’s date. A successful one, too, Goodie had to assume, given the amount of noise that they had made last night.

It had annoyed him somewhat—with him having needed to wake up early today to organise Germain and Alexander—their stomping about resulting in him now being off his game. Their disturbance having pushed him into that weird state where he was too tired to sleep but not awake enough to be awake, and it was hours before he could settle down enough to slip back into unconsciousness.

Thankfully, it was a similar noise from Frank’s apartment this morning that had helped to keep him from missing his appointments for the day.

It was a strange thing, having responsibilities. Not that he was complaining, mind you. Before, having that burden, knowing that he had some form of agency over his own existence, opportunity, and control…and a little measure of value as someone’s source of income, would have had Goodie on his knees in tears, the knowledge an emotional balm for a short lifetime of being utterly convinced of his absolute and unquestionable worthlessness.

Not now, though. After the wolf or whatever had taken from him his connection to all that had been the him of before—the emotional attachment to it, at least—he was rather apathetic about the whole matter. All it meant to him now was a slight bit of affirmation akin to that small peace mind you got from feeling that your keys were indeed in your pocket, or the memory that you had remembered to turn the stove off.

Not for the first time, Goodie wondered if he should have been concerned about that disconnect, but honestly, he could not work up the effort to care.

Presumably, that was also an effect of the disconnect, but, well…eh.

Frank was visibly in pain for some reason, favouring his one shoulder as he walked around his desk to the ratty chair behind it, where he, unlike usual, sat down as slowly and as gently as possible, wincing once more despite that care.

Goodie was about to ask what happened, but Donny intervened.

“Hey, Frank, get a load of this…,” the man muttered around a nearly spent cigarette, “kid thinks we should pay the government for us working.”

“What?” Frank asked, confusion visible on his brow.

“I didn’t say that…”

“But you did say it was normal,” Donny shot back

“In that it was normal for a government to want your…,” Goodie tried to shoot back.

“Hey-hey, mind clueing me in here?” Frank groused, obviously in a mood.

Donny spoke up before he could, not that Goodie had intended to. The man was obviously teasing him, and rising to that antagonism would have only invited more of the same in response, so instead, he focused on the mug in his hand.

It was a thin wooden cup of soup he had purchased from Hanna’s early this morning; pea and bacon with a hint of something else that he could not quite identify. It was meant to help him wake up, but there was only so much a cup of soup could manage.

There was coffee in this world, this Earth being a near duplicate of his own, but it was far more expensive for some reason that eluded him, the local economy beyond his current understanding. The tobacco that Donny smoked came from the same origin, apparently, but was cheap enough that the man’s supply seemed to be without end, and back on Goodie’s Earth, the two were comparable in price, so he was left stumped as to why there was such a difference between them here.

But that was not what truly confused Goodie the most, though. He did not know if it was the lack of technology, or the lack of resources, but they did not serve things in Styrofoam cups or cardboard, hence the wooden mug. Understandable, but for the life of him, he could not figure out how they made containers like the one in his hand. It was not glued together, nor was it carved. Instead, it almost looked like plastic in how it had been formed. Almost as if it had been poured into shape.

“The kid says that everyone over at his place pays taxes.”

“What? Like they do in the old the country? And how exactly is that funny?” annoyance obvious in the man’s tired words.

“Nothing, really, but here’s the thing: they don’t just charge you for services and such that they provide you, they charge you for just earning money.”

“What?!” Frank asked incredulously.

“Yeah! They earn money, and government just comes and takes it.”

Frank then turned to Goodie and, with the same incredulousness of his previous question, asked, “And you think that’s normal?!”

Despite how the words had been spoken, Goodie sensed the insincerity behind them, Frank obviously also now joining in on the teasing. In response, he just rolled his eyes as the two men carried on, now openly laughing as they mocked his Earth.

A short lull descended after a bit of that, Frank then massaging his shoulder as Donny lit himself another cigarette. The latter also cast a concerned look towards his partner that Goodie only just barely caught. He was again about to ask Frank what happened, but the man himself interrupted, asking offhandedly, “How much?”

“Sorry?” Goodie asked.

“How much? What they tax you for earning money?”

“Well, I don’t know, and it’s not like I ever…”

Frink interrupted him with a wave of his hand, miming For Goodie to take a guess.

“Ugh…um, well, I don’t know about something like our business here, but the average is around ten to forty perc….”

“Good Gods!”

If either of the men had been drinking at the time, Goodie would have been assured they would have committed themselves to the mother of all spit-takes. As it was, Frank just looked at him while Donny thrashed about, having spat out his cigarette, the end burning him in the process.

Frank looked at him for a time, then said, “That wasn’t a joke, was it?”

“No…?”

“And the reason your lot haven’t resorted to bloody murder, would he?” Donny asked, rising from the floor where he had dropped his cigarette, brushing it off twice before reinserting between his lips.

Apparently, his supply was not so limitless that he could afford to waste one, Goodie noted.

“I don’t know. But it’s not as if we don’t get anything out of it,” Goodie replied defensively.

It was not as if he agreed with it, but he felt the need to defend his own Earth from the judgement of these two men for some reason.

“You best be getting something for it,” Frank muttered.

“Well, how do you lot handle things?” Goodie asked.

“Tariffs,” Donny replied, “Anything and everything and everyone coming in or going out of the territories gotta pay the government their share.”

“You know that’s sort of a tax, right?” Goodie shot back, hoping to do some teasing of his own.

Before the conversation could devolve into an argument, or more likely descend into bickering, a knock came from the door.

“Gentlemen? Mind if I intrude,” A rather elegant-looking man in a light-grey coat and hat inquired from the open doorway.

“Mr. Fitzgerald?” Frank asked back as he stood up, the action causing a slight wince to cross his face.

“That I am.”

“Please, please, come in,” Frank motioned towards the seats in front of his desk.

At the invitation, the man walked into the room, and as he did, Donny casually moved behind him to partially close the door behind the man. As Donny had explained it before, you wanted to give the client a sense of privacy and attention on your part, but also not leave them feeling as if they were now trapped, so you never closed the door fully unless asked to or receiving permission to do so first.

Mr. Fitzgerald shook Frank’s outreached hand, then, taking his hat in hand, he removed his jacket, placing it on his left arm before sitting in the rightmost of the two chairs reserved for clients.

“And how may we help you, good sir?” Frank started, charm and toothy smile on full display.

“Yes, well, that is the question, isn’t it? I realise that this may be stating the obvious, but I was referred to your services by a Ms. Clara bow. You are aware of this?”

“Yes, Ms. Bow mentioned that she had a friend in need. One whom we could possibly help.”

The man smiled wryly as he listened to what Frank had to say. After a moment, he said, “Yes-well, in truth, Ms Bow is in actuality seeking an exchange of favours, the currency of choice amongst the socialites of our fair city, you understand? In reality, we are anything but…friends.” Fitzgerald smiled once again, though it was anything but genuine this time, his final word visibly bitter to his taste.

Something twigged within Goodie as the man spoke, but he could not quite place a finger on exactly what it was that was setting him off.

“But,” Fitzgerald went on, “that does not mean I’m opposed to engaging in your services if it can resolve my dilemma. I say all of this out of preference for honesty, not to antagonise you.”

Frank clicked his tongue and momentarily shared a look with Donny, before saying, “Well, if you’d allow us a bit of honesty in return, Mr. Fitzgerald? All of what you said is a bit outside of our social circles—that being the common lot who just want to earn a living. Your relationship or arrangement with Ms. Bow is none of our business, so long as neither of you are here to mess us about.”

Fitzgerald nodded twice, then asked, “Well, now that that’s settled, what exactly would hiring you entail?”

“Before I answer, would I be wrong in assuming that you first visited one of the more well-to-do agencies first?” Frank asked.

“Yes, Mr. Sullivan; several, in fact. The results were…well, I am here, am I not?”

Frank gave a smile of mixed emotions at the answer, but replied, “That you are, Mr. Fitzgerald, that you are. Well, I’m afraid to say that our methods would only differ from those agencies in that our boy here has a greater efficiency than any other long-sight within the city,” Frank stated, hyping up Goodie’s abilities a bit, Fitzgerald looking over to him then, a visible look of the man having finally put two and two together in regards to the boy’s presence in this room full of grown men flashing across his face.

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“Beyond the initial seeing, I and Donny perform all the standard footwork…though I would dare say that we’re more willing to rub shoulders with those that our more established competitors would avoid. A small advantage, I’ll grant you, but one that might just get you what you want,” Frank offered, coming on like the most veteran of used-car salesmen.

Fitzgerald nodded once more, thinking a moment before then saying, “I’ve been left with few options where this matter is concerned, Mr Sullivan, but might I suggest something that could save us both some time?”

Waiting for Frank’s nod of consent, he then said, “If you would perform it now, I’ll hire you for the initial seeing; then, if I’m satisfied, I’ll invest fully into employing your agency.”

“Well, if you’re willing to wait, then that should be more than fair,” Frank answered, “though I must warn you, the boy can take a fair bit of time about it. Depending on what it is he’d be looking for, exactly, and how much you have for us to do the reading.”

Goodie tried to keep the look of annoyance off of his face; it would often take no more than ten minutes or so for him to finish one of his drawings. Frank’s warning was another means of selling their capabilities, the few clients who had ever opted to stay during the process often being impressed by how quickly he resolved whatever they had come in for.

He understood why Frank did it—money was money, after all—but still, Goodie hated lying.

“Well,” Mr. Fitzgerald said, “I suppose I should tell you whom it is I’m looking for then?”

Frank retrieved a notepad and pencil, as did Goodie—and Donny…well, Donny just continued to smoke, but the look in his eyes showed that he was paying particular attention to the client as he spoke, the man recording to memory every word, inflection, and physical movement that he could observe.

“In your own time, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Frank told the man.

Clearing his throat, their newest client told them, “Three months ago, a piece of jewellery went missing from my residence in the Long Island. The item was not particularly valuable—to me, at least—neither personally nor financially, and could be easily replaced. But that someone would and could violate my home in such a manner has left me unsettled, you understand? And it’s the perpetrator of this theft whom I wish for you to locate.”

Reaching into the pocket of the jacket adorning his arm, Mr. Fitzgerald retrieved a small packet and presented it to Frank.

“The item was part of a set, and the agencies I went to before each asked me to bring the rest in to assist in their efforts,” he explained as he handed it towards Frank, his motion stopping halfway as Frank signalled Goodie, who then retrieved the items from the man.

“Yes, this should help,” Goodie told him before turning to Frank. “Mind if I use your desk?”

The school desk Goodie had once sat at had been moved to his new office. He had his own desk now, a proper one, but the angled school desk was far more comfortable to draw at, despite the slight embarrassment he felt whenever someone saw him doing so.

Now, as it was before his introduction to their partnership, Frank and Donny’s office only contained their two desks, Franks in the dead centre, and Donny’s off to the side.

Goodie could have opted for sitting at the latter, but felt that being near where their client could see what he was doing would be the better choice. Something that Frank seemed to agree with, a nod of consent from the man soon seeing Goodie moving around to take his seat, placing art supplies down in front of him after doing so.

The ritual enacted then was not an overly complicated thing. The natural magical ability—as much as Goodie found it weird to apply the word natural to anything related to magic—of anyone was employed much as one would let their heart beat, the true complication coming from forcing it to not do so, not in letting natural instinct utilise the capabilities inherently available to it. Thankfully, Goodie’s ability did require a certain level of conscious focus on what exactly it was he wanted to locate, so he did not have to worry about it dragging him into anything as Donny did.

So, Goodie sat there, packet of jewellery in hand. Thankfully, paper and such seemed to have little effect on his abilities, so he rarely ever removed things from whatever packaging people had brought them in, though he would be lying if he said he was not curious as to what lay inside.

Closing his eyes and focusing on the disgusting sensation that was the magic of this world, the natural unnatural force that polluted the blood within and around him, he let go of the thin wall which he had constructed around his ability. Then, grabbing a mental hold of what he imagined his power to be, a whip-like strand that writhed to-and-fro as it reached ever outward in search of nothing, he dragged it over towards the image of his left hand and the little packet held within his palm.

It took a moment, but it eventually latched onto that package like a magnet to metal, the tip piercing it harmlessly, to then thread through it entirely before stretching out to an absurd length as it went off in search of the missing piece.

As this happened, Goodie’s eyes opened wide, his irises expanding likewise as his hands then grabbed for whatever drawing supplies were within reach, to then begin sketching upon the paper in front of him with a feverish passion.

The whole process was slightly disturbing to those seeing it happen, but Goodie was ignorant to this reaction. He was not unconscious, not entirely, but his ability took over his mind when in use, co-opting his mental resources for purposes unknown. He would only remember what happened much later, and even then, only like some half-remembered dream.

While he was…away, Frank took a moment to explain his current state, then entertained Mr. Fitzgerald with some small-talk, not wanting the man to grow bored.

Until a knock came from the partially opened door.

It was Donny who answered it, greeting Alexander Bley, a.k.a. the Rodent, with whispered but undisguised antagonism.

“What?!”

“I need to talk to the boss.”

“Not now, we’re busy!”

“But he’s really going to want to hear this.”

“We’re with a client, you can wait!”

Alexander tried to argue further, but surrendered when he saw that he was going nowhere, muttering in a defeated tone, “I’ll wait out here, then.”

Donny closed the door on him.

In response to that, Fitzgerald turned and said, “Oh, I’ve no objection to the man coming in. I would hate to disrupt your business.”

Refraining from showing his antagonism towards the Rodent, Frank told Fitzgerald, “I’m not boss he’s looking for,” while nodding his head towards Goodie as he did.

Fitzgerald’s brow rose in surprise.

“Yeah,” Frank went on, “kid’s young, but he’s got, uh, …he’s got something,” giving a short laugh as he looked from the man to Goodie, then back again.

It would be several more minutes before Goodie finished the drawing.

The pictures he drew while under were done so with a far greater skill than he could have ever managed without his ability, for whatever reason, the one before him displaying a slightly crude but detailed depiction of the front of a building, a rough floor plan, and the picture of what seemed to be a maid, or someone dressed similar to one.

Goodie gave the picture the once-over before turning the large pad around for Frank and Mr. Fitzgerald to look at.

His prediction would have been far more accurate if Goodie had included one of the many cheap paper maps stored within the case in which Goodie kept his art supplies, a simple mark pinpointing the exact location of whatever he was looking for, but Frank liked to keep that particular part of his ability for later. Another means of impressing clients, and also as a way to disguise the true costs of the legwork their office needed to bill for.

They were not lying as such, just not completely mentioning what resources that they had available to them.

“Well,” Frank started, “A face and a place. And all within a few minutes! This does seem to be your lucky day, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“So it seems, Mr. Sullivan.”

“I trust this is proof enough of our competence,” Frank then asked.

“More than enough.”

“So,” Frank began with a very toothy grin, “shall we go over our rates and what it is exactly you’d like us to do…?”

Frank was interrupted as Fitzgerald held up his hand.

“Mr. Sullivan, while I’m more than satisfied with your results, this picture will be all I’ll need in regards to this matter.”

“…you know her? This woman?” Frank guessed.

“I do, indeed, Mr. Sullivan. Miss Connors has served my family for a long time, and someone I trust implicitly…and the only person whom I would trust to assist me in this test.”

“Ah…,” Frank replied.

“I apologise for this foolery, but I despise having my time wasted, as much of it has been so far…from your competitors, that is.”

Though Frank was visibly pleased to hear that remark about their competition, a client who lied was always trouble, so his guard went further up as the man across from him went on.

“And what is it you really want from us, then, Mr. Fitzgerald?” Frank asked, his tone slightly cold, but not so much so as to risk chasing away a paying client.

“Well, it’s a bit of a story,” Fitzgerald started, his tone indicating that Frank might want to sit down first.

Getting up, Frank soon replaced Goodie in the well-worn chair behind his desk, Goodie moving over to the side once more, giving Donny a glance to see if he had anything to say on this sudden turn of events. Donny said nothing, physically or otherwise, though his eyes were narrowed and as hard as steel as he observed the man in front of Frank with an eagle’s glare.

“Many years ago,” Mr. Fitzgerald began, “when I was far younger and far less confident, there was this young woman, Deborah Parker, someone whom I was deeply infatuated with. But, though we moved in the same circles and did talk with each other on occasion—lacking the courage, I never truly talked to her. A common enough story, I know.”

Frank gave a sympathetic nod but said nothing.

“Then, one day, she seemed to vanish. I inquired as to her whereabouts, of course, but no one seemed to have a clue as to where she might have gone. No one seemed to suspect anything untoward had happened to her back then, so I merely refrained from further looking into the matter and filed the whole affair under ‘The one that got away’. She was not the last to be interred within that folder, so you can understand why I soon forgot about her,” He paused then, sighing before continuing, saying, “but…she was the first. And that,” Fitzgerald waggled the fingers of his right hand next to the side of his head, “never truly goes away, does it?”

“Something happened?” Frank asked, thinking that the man across from him had discovered some new bit of information as to the woman’s current state.

“Hm? Oh, no, not as such. A little over a year ago, I was accosted by a man of a much lower class than you or I, one who was of the opinion that I had no right to be unhappy, given my wealth. Though I ignored his words at the time, I later realised that he had a point.”

“Meaning?”

Fitzgerald looked Frank straight in the eyes.

“Mr, Sullivan, like I am sure you were, I was taught as a child to not obsess over regrets like mine with Ms. Parker—to remember them, yes, learn from them and then move on with my life, and I agree with this wisdom…in general, but I do, in fact, have the money to address such regrets, so why should I not?”

“So, you want to get in contact with this woman?”

“While I would be lying if a said I was not open to reintroducing myself should she prove open to such an advance, I am fully aware that my infatuation may be more for the idea of the woman than the woman herself, so all I ask of you and your agency, Mr. Sullivan, is for affirmation that she is indeed still alive and has not succumbed to something nefarious—something I still do not believe has occurred—a summary as to her current circumstances, and extreme discretion in your search for this information; If she is doing well, I would not have either of us intrude upon her life unnecessarily. As for anything beyond that? Well, I’ll leave that to fate’s whim.”

“I see, I see. Well, Mr. Fitzgerald, you’ve already seen how our boy here works, if you’d care to wait?”

“Actually, I would not, Mr. Sullivan. I would rather prefer that you commit yourself to a full investigation, less I be tempted into doing something rash. That, and while I do have both a memento and photograph of Ms. Parker, they are my only connections to her, so I refrained from risking them on a simple assessment of your abilities. If you could get in contact with my legal representatives, we can formally organize my employment of your agency and hand over said items into your care, where, hopefully, you can then ascertain Ms. Parker’s ultimate fate.”

“Well, I’m all for helping a paying customer, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Frank said with a charming smile.

Fitzgerald rose then, first shaking Frank’s hand, then stepping to the side to shake Goodie’s.

Throughout this meeting, Goodie had been experience strange inklings of something he could not quite ascertain, but as he grasped the man’s hand and looked into his grey-blue eyes, the understanding of what he had been sensing hit him with all the subtlety of an oncoming truck.

‘Not entirely disconnected, then…,’ Goodie remarked to himself as a flood of memories flashed through his mind.

The looking assessing him for value, the all-to-genuine smile as the man took him in, the cold body language that contradicted that smile…he had seen it before, had suffered from it before.

Goodie no longer held any true connection to the memories, but despite that, a stunted wave of fear and anxiety welled within him, a muted emotion that came with dire warnings. Not of what the man grasping his hand wanted—Goodie had no clue about that—but of how the man would behave in order to attain his desire, what he could and would do and how he would do it.

Thankfully, it was that same disconnection, as incomplete as it now seemed, that saw Goodie refrain from showing any sign of his discomfort, Fitzgerald soon releasing his grasp to then once more don his hat and coat. Once done, the man then exited the room, giving Donny a nod before heading out the door.

He and the others watched the man leave.

Goodie then waited several moments more, for the sound of the man descending the stairs in the distance before addressing the man behind him.

“Frank? You remember me telling you about my aunt? How she would manipulate and…”

His words were cut off as, with a scream, Frank flung the lamp on his desk into the wall, the small, glass ornament smashing into a shower that he and Donny had to flinch away from for fear of getting cut.

“Bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”

Goodie doubted Frank truly understood his warning, but even if he had, that reaction was a bit much.

“Never trust the godsdamned rich?!” Frank yelled.

Confused, Goodie looked to Donny for a translation, but the man was looking back down the hallway, still observing a man that was already long-gone, so he asked, “Am I missing something here?”

“He came here without a lawyer,” Donny said, not turning around. “The rich don’t go anywhere without their lawyers. Hell, they usually don’t have to go anywhere in the first place; lawyers’re generally the ones to deal with us on their behalf. Wouldn’t have come here alone unless he wanted to keep this meeting a secret, had something to hide.

Goodie was about to suggest that the man could have been embarrassed by his infatuation, despite him not believing it for a moment, not after seeing Fitzgerald’s eyes. Perhaps he had some nefarious reason for seeking out the woman? But then why…would…?

He squinted as he ran the meeting back through his mind.

“Yet he wanted us to contact his lawyers in the end?”

“Exactly,” Frank said then. “Don’t know how it works where you’re from, but all the law firms here ultimately work for the government. They do keep secrets, but everything they know also goes to those in charge, so if he truly wanted to keep something under wraps, he would not let them even get a whiff of whatever this is. If he had the pull to not care about such a thing, then why the act? And if not, then why tell us to contact them? He was manipulating us from the get go.”

“Any idea why?”

“What have we been trying to avoid this entire month?” Donny asked rhetorically, “The missing girls, of course.”

“We don’t know that!” Frank growled, though his tone lacked any genuine belief in his disagreement with Donny’s conclusion.

Donny, in response, gave Frank a lopsided stare, one of his bushy eyebrows raised questioningly.

Frank waved his partner off, but did so with the wrong arm, the man then growling once more, this time in pain.

“Seriously, what’s with the arm?” Goodie asked.

“Got shot,” Frank answered between gritted teeth.

“What?! When?!” Goodie asked, shocked at the answer.

“Last night,” Donny answered, “Got into a fracas during his date.”

“What the hell type of date was this?! And why aren’t you in hospital?!” Goodie responded, still shocked.

“Why would I be in the hospital?”

“Do…,” taking a second to think, Goodie then asked, “is this another magic thing?”

Frank stared at him a moment before realising what the kid was getting at. But instead of answering, he turned to Danny and asked, “Is gremlin blood magical?”

“Must be,” Donny replied, unsure himself. But if the kid was reacting as if it was, then it probably was. A sliver of memory ran through Donny then, one pertaining to the boy’s reaction to how his back had bubbled after that stint at the museum. It reassured him of his initial assessment, so Donny nodded his head as he looked at Frank.

Frank then indicated to him that he would be fine, that his injury just needed time.

“Well, still, shouldn’t you at least be lying down?” Goodie went on.

“Pfah…I don’t have ti…hey, you guys don’t have magic!” Frank said as he pointed a finger at Goodie, his voice matching the boy’s in shock.

“Uh, yeah?” Goodie answered, confused. That fact had already been well established by now.

“My gods, you must die by the boatload?!

Goodie did not know how to answer that. Yes, many died to gunshots, but he had heard of those who had gotten positively riddled with bullets, only for said individuals to walk away alive and well. He had even heard of someone who had gotten half their head blown off and had lived to tell the tale. Not in a comatose vegetable sort of way—the guy had apparently gone on to become a lawyer, even. But then again, gunshots were only one of the many, many ways people on Earth, his Earth, died, so…yes, they did…?

Rather than answer—something Goodie was certain would only make him sound stupid—he instead returned to his original question.

“You still haven’t said how you got shot?”

Frank hesitated a moment, then told him, “That woman I told you about? Took her on a date?”

“Yeah?”

“Just as we were coming back from it, we ran across a kidnapping; some goons in the middle of grabbing a twenty-something blond. Got shot in the scuffle.”

“Okay…and the reason you're so hesitant to tell me that is?” Goodie asked with a frown, a hint of suspicion in his voice indicating that he had already guessed as to the answer.

“The badges think it’s related to the kidnappings,” Donny replied when Frank would not.

Goodie winced.

“Yeah,” Donny said, “Told you kid, the more we try to get away, the quicker we’re drawn in.”

Before the conversation could go on, however, a series of hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway outside brought the attention of all within the room to its source.

Alexander rushed towards them, shouting “Boss?! Boss?!”

“Ugh,” Frank groused as Donny headed off to the couch after he had momentarily considered whether or not to close the door fully.

Alexander came in, panting for breath as he apologised, saying “Sorry, had to hit the can. Boss, we need to talk.”

Goodie had sent the man on the same run he had originally tasked him with, acquiring anything and everything magical that his ability could discover, items not found by the city at large, and whose owners had no clue as to their real value.

It was presumably on that matter with which the man wished to talk to him about now.

“Go on.”

“Uh…,” Alexander started, then hesitated as he cast an eye towards the other two in the room.

“HEY?!” Frank shouted, “You don’t give us that eye, Rodent! We’re the kid’s partners, and you will treat us as such!”

“Frank, I may be your partner, but he’s my employee,” Goodie growled, genuine emotion in his voice.”

“Meaning?”

“He has a name, and you will use it, and you will do so in a civil tone.”

“Actually, boss?” the stout man behind him near whispered. “Thank you, but Rodent is fine; I’ve more than earned it,” Alexander said, a strange look whose meaning Goodie could not decipher crossing the man’s face as he spoke.

“Ugh…,” Goodie sighed after a moment, “fine. But otherwise, Frank’s right; anything you want to tell me, you can tell them.”

Hesitating a moment, the man gripped his hat tightly, almost wringing as he near squealed.

“Ghost!”

“What?”

“Found a ghost,” the man repeated, grinning like a fool.

Not understanding, Goode turned around to get an explanation from the others, but when he did, he saw his two partners stiff and still, their faces frozen, the cigarette in Donny mouth half-hanging from it, threatening to slip out at any moment.

“What?!”