“So, me and my partner, we’re looking for a lost pooka and…”

“A what?”

“A pooka, a trickster spirit; mostly hangs around children,” Alexander explained.

The butcher looked up then, a tense look in his eyes. All things unnatural were to be feared without question was the common wisdom, one that was rarely proven wrong.

“Oh, no-no; they’re harmless…well, for the most part. They like to guard and entertain children.”

Continuing his stare for a moment longer, the man slowly returned his attention to cutting into the slab of flesh in front of him before mumbling, “Don’t know nothin’ about all that.”

Alex was about to go on, but a thin woman exited from the back, interrupting him as she did.

As she and her husband, the butcher, talked, nearly breaking into an argument, Alexander listened to and observed them quietly, a disarming smile upon his lips as he waited for the two to finish.

When they did, the butcher blatantly turned away from him, the man moving his attention to another piece of meat.

Alexander placed his hands on the glass display as he leant in to further talk to the surly butcher, to then yank them back as he audibly cried out, “Oh!” drawing the attention of the man on the other side.

Placing his hand back and then withdrawing it again, he repeated the motion several times as he asked, “My word that is cold! Where’d you get the ice for it at this time of year?”

“What? Oh…no, it’s the electricity. Got it done up last year.”

“The electrics they’ve been putting up? And that makes it cold?”

“Yeah, sorta,” the man said as he turned to face him, the tone of his voice now more than energetic, “got a machine underneath that does it somehow. Chills the meat so it don’t rot. Got a better one in the locker that freezes it all solid,” he explained.

Alexander listened to the man waffle on for some time, smiling and asking any question he could think of to encourage the man to go on, though the butcher needed very little prodding in that regard.

Electricity was not so new that Alexander did not know of its capabilities, mind you. In fact, it was so long in the tooth, that he was genuinely surprised that the trick had worked. But making people feel smarter than you was always the best way to get them to lower their guard—the easiest way to manipulate them.

As he listened on, Alexander casually let the man talk him into buying some of the sandwiches packed into one of the several displays, the ones made by the butcher’s wife.

It was she who helped him then, treating him to a sample of their delicatessen’s goods. A delicious one at that, which genuinely enticed him into purchasing several more of the half-rolls for him and Donny outside.

But as he did, and as he turned his talk with the butcher to one with her, he noted everything he could about the woman.

Several scars visible upon her arms, ones that could easily be explained by the general danger one faced in working in a busy, knife-filled kitchen. Her interaction with her husband seemed to confirm those old wounds were not the result of anything untoward, the woman casually touching him in ways both affectionate and friendly, with no sign of fear in her body language.

But, that did nothing to hide the mostly faded blackeye Alexander had noted upon the woman’s first appearance, her left eye almost clear of the discolouration, but not to his keen gaze.

He warned himself to not fall into old habits; not all blackeyes were the result of abuse, nor was it any of his business if this one was.

The woman was far easier to engage with than her husband, prattling on as he first broached the subject of the strange weather, then proceeding with more mundane gossip—more so even once he started engaging her on anything to do with her personal life.

Her husband quickly grew bored of it, however, and quickly made his escape out the back to presumably deal with more of the meat as Alexander and the woman carried on. Alexander spent just over an hour talking with her after that, learning much of the woman’s life, the state of her relatives, and the woman’s current interests—all information that went far to confirm her identity to him.

But, eventually, all things must end, and with a wave and a cheery goodbye to her and her husband, he left, a paper bag filled with the rolls and a selection of cheeses in his hand right hand, the freelancer turning to the city at large as he made his exit.

They were near the ocean side quarter, a relative middle-class neighbourhood whose many similarly designed stores each bore several apartments above them, for their proprietors and whoever else deigned to rent here.

The weather was a little chilly today, but otherwise, it was pleasantly sunny, with a refreshing breeze blowing in from the west.

Crossing the street, Alexander made his way over to Donny, the man smoking up a storm on a nearby bench as he watched the people walk by, Alexander handed him a roll as he jovially laughed out loud, to then begin to gossip about nothing at all for a minute or two before the two of them then walked off.

“Spent a good while in there,” Donny commented.

“Yeah; sorry to keep you waiting, but the woman was a veritable font of information.”

“Oh, and?”

“A lot seems to match; cousin named Liam, went to Heigl when she was a kid, even got her star sign. There’s more, but I couldn’t remember everything off of the top of my head, so if we could take a gander at that file again, I can confirm it further,” Alexander explained.

Donny nodded, but said nothing in reply.

He was not like Frank and the kid, the two of them being the talkers of their little agency, so he kept his mouth shut most of the time. Now, especially. It was the only real way for him to remain diplomatic while working with the Rodent scurrying along beside him.

He was still antagonistic towards the man, though the Rodent had yet to give any reason for it. Other than the annoying eagerness in which the Rodent sought to please everyone, the way he spoke carrying with it an endless promise of flattery and subservience, though his words said nothing of the sort.

Everything about the man just rubbed him the wrong way.

More than that, like whores, one should never trust a snitch. Donny was not saying the man was a bad person, not at all. He had known many a whore and snitch with a good heart. And they remained as such…while the going was good…while things were nice. But when they were not, when time got tough or some challenge got in their way, then they would all fall back into old habits. Take the easier path and then justify the doing of it instead of weathering the storm.

It was strange, but the person most vocal about the unwanted presence of the man beside him, Frank, was also oddly far better at maintaining a civil state when in the man’s presence. Donny could just not scratch the itch at the back of his mind, the one that told him in no uncertain terms that the Rodent besides him now would soon prove himself to be the rat that he was.

So, he kept silent.

Honestly, he should not have been here, but he was trying. And they all needed this job done quickly, so they could then scarper or commit themselves to whatever idiotic plan Frank and the kid were coming up with.

As they continued on towards the Beast, he lit himself another cigarette as he lamented the fact that their day had only just begun, and that there was so much more legwork to do before this case was closed.

~~~

“…several years, but no children. Their store’s been stable enough, though they have been going through a bit of spotty patch, according to what we could gather. Seems to be doing better of late, though, at least for this month. Otherwise, a perfectly normal, perfectly average life, all around,” Frank concluded.

Reginald Fitzgerald nodded his head as he listened to the man, sitting in a comfortable, green-coloured leather chair within the living room of his city apartment. He much preferred his Long Island estate, but business often required that he spent his time here.

“And otherwise? Does she seem happy?”

The freelancer across from him hesitated, tensing as the man visibly questioned himself on bringing something to his attention.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“What?”

Breathing out as he relented to the inevitable, Frank Sullivan said, “The man we had talk to her, he noted several signs of what might have been, uh, what we used to call—when I was in the police, ‘Domestic enthusiasm’.”

“Abuse?” Reginald Fitzgerald asked.

The freelancer hesitated once more before answering, “Well, that’s the question. The woman herself doesn’t seem to be afraid of him from all accounts, and injuries happen for other reasons…but…”

“But?”

“We got several reports from both the neighbours and the local law enforcement about excessive shouting. Nothing you would not expect from most marriages, but it’s also often a sign of something more, and it all started up around the time their business started going through the trouble.”

Reginald nodded again in understanding.

“Before I go on, Mr. Fitzgerald, I feel the need to warn you against rushing off. Ten years ago, I would have been all for teaching a man the error of his ways, but time and experience have taught me to reserve such gallantry.”

“Meaning?”

“Things are not always as they appear, and even when they are, there’s often more to it. I know she’s your old sweetheart, but I’ve learned through some rather painful lessons that abuse does not always go one way. And I’m not just talking about a woman’s sharp tongue. …and, I’ve also learned that sometimes the reason why a woman’s with guy who’d not treat her right is because their the type to enjoy a rough hand. Or, if not that, then the attention and sympathy it brings them for suffering it.”

Reginald stared at the man in silence for a moment. Not for an inability to understand, nor him having no exposure to such realities—honestly, if that was the worst the man had been exposed to, then Mr. Sullivan had experienced nothing of the world—but he had apart to play, and a pampered elite was not someone who would know of such things. Reginald was meant to be ignorant.

Not a fool, merely inexperienced for the isolation his wealth brought him. So, a moment later, he slowly nodded his head in a way that he hoped would convey to the freelancer across from him that he was willing to accept the more experienced man’s word, but actually dismissed them due to his pampered ignorance.

“A twisted mind is not solely restricted to our gender,” Mr. Sullivan warned him once more, the man reassuringly believing in his act.

They went over a few more details, then, mostly about his ‘sweetheart’s’ past; her family, friends and passing acquaintances of note, but he was only half listening as Mr. Sullivan went on.

Much of what the man now told him had already been reported on by his more usual sources. While they had botched up the job of actually locating “Janine”, as she now called herself, through both magical and mundane means—and to be fair, she had done an extraordinarily thorough job of shedding her old life—once they had an actual lead, they were quick to prove to him of the worth of their continued employment.

Though their combined bungling of this matter did have him questioning their worth out of jest, he was now giving it some half-serious consideration after verifying the capabilities of Mr. Sullivan and his associates. Though Reginald was only meant to be vetting the group for that deplorable woman, they had managed to impress him greatly, delivering nearly as much as the more established agencies had, only lacking where the latter could afford to pull on greater connections or resources to attain what information they sought.

For the amount he was paying the latter, exchanging them for the far smaller agency was well worth the thought, even with their drawbacks, but such a choice was only for those who were not rich enough to afford both.

“…and I can’t really think of what else to say, Mr. Fitzgerald. If there’s anything you think we missed, or something more you would like to know…?”

“Actually, yes,” Reginald answered with a genuine smile, “but not on this matter—you’ve done an excellent job here, and I’d like to extend your employment to several other tasks, if you would be open to it?”

“Ah,” Mr. Sullivan hesitated, “I’m afraid we’re organised for the foreseeable future. The…incident,” the man said with a bite, “at the museum has left the city with far fewer hands to deal with its problems.”

It sounded reasonable, as far as excuses went; The freelancer’s was not lying, but he sensed a slight obfuscation behind it.

Reginald’s smile widened. He loved a challenge.

As he observed Mr. Sullivan closely, Reginald considered the man before him.

Middle-aged and of irish descent; Not first generation, not by far, so he was fully acclimated to the nature of their fair colony, and thus, the man was fully aware of the politics involved in tying himself to someone of his status. An ex-cop, from what the briefing of the man said—bitter and angry due to the years of thankless service and having his hands tied by those same politics, no doubt.

…as he continued to stare at the man whose body-language clearly expressed his desire to leave, Reginald’s face twitched in annoyance.

He hated being proven the fool.

The guarded stance, the desire to get away from him, the run-around and avoid further association with him…

“Where did I go wrong?”

“Sorry?” Frank asked.

“Please, Mr. Sullivan, neither of us are fools here.”

The man, having been seen through, visibly relaxed.

“I repeat myself, what was it?”

“A few things, but mostly it was you not showing up with a lawyer.”

“Was it? I had assumed that doing so would have been typical of the pampered elite.”

“Surprisingly, even idiots aren’t that stupid.”

“Made a fool for playing a fool,” Reginald remarked. “Hm.”

The two stared at each other for a time in silence, each man assessing the other.

“Was it merely that subterfuge that dissuades you from consideration of further employment with me,” Reginald asked a moment later, “or is there more?”

“Life seems to be attempting to entangle us with those girls being kidnapped recently, and we would prefer to avoid that whole mess,” Sullivan explained. “Even if that has nothing to do with whatever you and Ms. Bow have planned for us, we’d rather keep to waters more fitting to a small agency like ours.”

“I see. While I confess to my duplicity, it was merely to vet you on behalf of Ms. Bow. Beyond that, her business with you is just that: entirely her affair, and one which a shan’t discuss with you. But so too are mine, and I assure you that the tasks I desire you to address have nothing to do with the events currently going on in the city.”

Sullivan stared at him for a moment, taking his words in, then told Reginald, “Well, in that case, Mr. Fitzgerald, me and mine would be willing to discuss further ventures in your employ, but only after a serious talk, which we unfortunately will need to delay until after the previous engagement that I mentioned.”

“Tell me,” Reginald asked, willing to expose himself to the freelancer for a moment, “does your avoidance of those kidnappings have anything to do with those men following you?”

Mr. Sullivan paused, mouth agape for a moment, before recovering himself enough to reply.

“In a sense, Mr. Fitzgerald. They aren’t the ones doing the kidnappings, however. Merely someone’s idea of how to convince us into investigating it.”

“They’re threatening you into investigation.”

“The opposite. Blatantly threatening us into not to, so we do the opposite. One of those head games.”

Reginald nodded in understanding…sort of...but before the freelancer could make a move to leave, he asked, “One last thing, if you would, Mr. Sullivan, what affair am I playing second fiddle to, if I may be so bold?”

Taking on the look of a child who had just been caught doing something foolish, the freelancer hissed with a wince before reluctantly admitting, “The Black Cherry Estate.”

Not only was Reginald’s smile genuine this time, he had to force himself not to let it grow into a full outburst of laughter.

“Well,” he snorted, “you really were desperate, weren’t you?”

Sullivan groused, but nodded.

“Yeah…”