It was never a pleasant thing to do, delivering bad news to a client. As it is part of the business, I can never help it. A client would hire me to track down somebody, usually relatives or friends in hopes of finding them. I find them alright and then I bring back news of what happened to them. Very rarely did a client ever receive goods news for their money. After all, nobody vanishes without a very good reason and seldom by choice. By the look of defeat in the eyes of people who walk through my front door, they never anticipated good news. It was a look I have come to know well since the war ended some nineteen jahrs ago.
Back then, business boomed. With so many millions displaced by a war that ravaged a continent, there were millions of people willing to pay for any news on the whereabouts of family and friends. Not every investigator survived the business and most that did, did not last very long. It was too much delivering bad news after bad news to one brokenhearted person after another. Sapiens struggled under the despair. Yet, the demand continues remaining strong, even if those I seek are no longer war dead. It was what brought one Jack Hammer into the private investigation business.
Yes, that is my real name. If I had a dinar for every time some comedian asked me that question, I would be on rich pygmaeus. I had it written below the title and name on the opaque glass window on a front door that announced my existence to the outside world. I long since grew tired of answering the same question. Who else would I be? Admittedly, Jack is the shortened version of my name. It was the sort of familiarization known only in Marasuania. We are an informal people. As for the family name, it was not like Hammer was an uncommon name among dwarves.
Leaning back in my office chair, an old mahogany swivel chair cast off by some office in the business district jahrs ago. Traded it for the newest model, most likely. A typical sapien thing to do if there ever was one. With a little bit of effort, I fixed up the chair and brought it back to my office. It looked worn, a bit scuffed up and gave the office a little class. That was more than I could say about any of the other furniture, which no matter how bad it looks to non-pygmaeus, it all works just fine. My desk was older than me and every bit as battered. Two large drawers held files on various cases while the top slim one held my trusty Bison ‘957.
It was an old weapon, a simple weapon, one that proved itself over and over throughout the jahrs. It even saved my life a few times. Using it was always a last resort, It was not that I was ever reluctant to shoot somebody who deserved it. It was more about avoiding navigating the loops and paperwork favored by the rodgers. Every shooting warranted an investigation by the Port of Dreams Police Department. While they never find me at fault– self-defense was a fairly straightforward explanation– sometimes it was a more efficient use of my time to pistol-whip whoever decided to cause me trouble.
My desk, as wide as I am tall, remained clear and clean save for a note pad and pen in front of me and a telephone parked in the corner. It was a rotary dial, the sort society began phasing out of existence in favor for the push button model. I blame the gnomes for that one. Every time I start growing accustomed to something, they have to go off and improve it. I admit, the push button telephones work every bit as well as the older ones. It was never enough of a reason to shell out any more dinar when my old phone continues functioning as well as the day I purchased it.
Across the desk in a chair older than her sat my most recent client, her face kept under remarkable control for a sapien. She could not have been much more than twenty, if even that. In her brown eyes, I could see an all too familiar sight. Relief. It was not the sort of relief one felt by dodging the bullet. Trust me, I know all about that sort. No, this was the sort of relief in knowing, of having one’s worst fears confirmed. This was part of the job that drove many private investigators out of the business. Nobody enjoyed confirming the worst. I can tell the lady spent plenty of time worrying. Her red hair reminded my of a dwarf I met in Tropadiso, though his hair looked far more like freshly smelted copper, lacking my client’s dark crimson hue.
“Now I know,” she said, her voice barely audible. Had she spoken any softer, the cooing pigeons perched outside the window would have obscured her words. I resisted the urge to glare at those winged rats. They were trying to build a nest again. For some strange reason, the building I am in, as well as this part of the city, ended up a popular destination for birds. It was no different than any other red brick building in Bayfront, almost identical to the other three, four and sometimes five story blocks comprising the neighborhood. Must have something to do with cats having a tough time climbing these particular walls.
“I would preferred to deliver you better news.” That was the story of the trade. Rubbing my chin as I spoke, I wished I could have brought everyone good news. Happy clients were great for business. A medium length trimmed beard obscured my features well enough that sapiens faced a challenging task trying to read me, which was exactly the way I liked it. It was longer than the short bears favored by dwarven and gnomish ‘businessmen’ yet shorter than the wild lengths grown by blue collar pygmaeus. It was a professional look, the sort that announced respectability to the world. Had it not been a necessity in my trade, I would not give two tenth-dinars what the rest of society thought. “That’s the way the ball bounces.”
I could no more deliver good news on demand than could the weather gal on Channel Eight. One would think with all the satellites Marasuania put into orbit that meteorologists could track a simple rusted storm. Until they get their act together, I will continue trusting my two eyes. Last I checked, it was sunny, the dull red sun creeping relentlessly across the pinkish sky. It was a day like any other, the sort that went unnoticed by many until said persons lay on their death beds, lamenting the loss of so much time.
“Thank you, Mister Hammer. Finally knowing, truly knowing what happened will put my heart to rest.” She sighed, glancing over at the window. Only two windows let in light from the outside world, none of them at my back. No matter what industry a man occupies, it was never a wise idea to allow any sniper an easy bead on him. Not that I expect anyone to place a contract to on my life; it was only prudent in my line of work. While some, like this young lady, wanted people found, others did not wish for anyone to find them. They were always the ones that made the job difficult.
“I’ll have to tell mom,” the tone in her voice told me that was not a conversation she looked forward to pursuing. Can not say that I blame her. Delivering bad news, that was my job, it was something I long since grew accustomed to doing. Delivering news of a death in the family, that was an event a great many people could never prepare themselves. “I think she already knows. She always knew.”
This case was one of the more interesting and unusual ones this jahr. The lady’s father was Tropadisan and employed by a certain legitimate business that headquartered itself in the socialist bastion. Her mother– I think she is a Navenian, not that I would ever hold a client’s parentage against her.
Not so long ago, they called themselves the People and believed it their destiny to rule over the continent. That destiny sparked off a global conflict claiming in excess of a hundred million lives. The Navenians threw a war and invited everyone. What thanks did they get? They were now a dead people, their nation utterly destroyed, the survivors scattered into the wind. A few appeared here and there, facing a difficult life wherever they emerged. Navenians certainly would not receive a warm welcoming in my office. No matter how bad it was for business, I could never bring myself to trust any of them.
From what I gathered on my sojourn to the tropical paradise, her parents quarreled like a pair of married dwarves. I do not think they were actually married– another typical sapien thing to do. Of course, I did not ask. It was not particularly relevant to the job. She hired me to discover the fate of her father, not understand her family’s dynamics. When she was a child, he packed her and her mother on a ship, pressed all of the money he had in his pockets onto the mother and said he would try to meet them in Dream City. Astros passed, then jahrs without arrival. It did not take a genius to deduce what happened to the man. He wanted to leave the employment of Golden Hammer Enterprises and there was only one way anyone left the employment of the mob; feet first.
The copper-beared dwarf I met was rather up-front about what happened. He did not even try concealing the fact that the man in question was dead and been so for fourteen jahrs. I found this particular businessman in a joint called the Peoples’ Pub. Not exactly helpful if anyone ever wished to visit the country seeing how half the watering holes there shared the same name. Yes, I get it, your regime is all about the people.
Anyway, the businessman admitted he was the one who pulled the trigger. He even voiced some regret about it and not only due to the target shooting back, giving him a permanent limp. He liked the sapien and considered him a genuine friend as opposed to one of those ‘friends of mine’. As usual, the media has no clue what it is doing when portraying mafia life. None of them had any idea what they were talking about when trying to portray the life of one in my profession.
The businessman was high enough within his organization to make certain promises. Opening the top drawer in my desk, I push aside my sidearm and draw forth a blank envelop. It was hardly a consolation prize for a client who would rather see her father again. “In the course of my investigation I encountered a businessman named Copper. Couldn’t tell you if that’s his real name.”
“It is,” the lady confirmed, her face lighting up in recognition as I spoke the name. “I remember him. He was the only one of dad’s friends who ever smiled.”
I only grunted in reply. I did not overly care if any of the names given me were real– not unless somebody hired me to ascertain a particular person’s true identity. That was a scenario I never see happening. Even if somebody was so brazen as to seek the real name of an associate to any of the world’s organized crime syndicates, I certainly would not be so foolish as to accept the case. It was the sort of job that when done well would reward me with ten millimeter’s worth of lead.
“He wrote up something and shoved it in the envelope, asking me to deliver it to your when I next saw you.” The envelope, a common white business envelope with no markings, weighed next to nothing. “No idea what it is, only that it’s intended for your eyes only.” If open to bets, I would drop a hundred dinar on it being an I-owe-you, something to compensate the relatives. Most legitimate businesses, regardless of species, had a way of respecting the families of their members, as well as those of rivals. That was a courtesy no petty criminal would ever offer.
She ripped the side of the envelope open without hesitation, drawing forth a letter. She wasted even less time in reading it. I was not sure if it was a foolish move or a cautious one. She really had no right to trust me so easily, though sapiens had a way of giving out trust to each other the way I give out insults in traffic. “It’s authorization to dad’s bank account. Copper says to use it on my education.” She smiled sadly as she read it, her face coming to life. For a few seconds, the clouds of sorrow and pain parted.
That was sound advice for the young everywhere, the sort often ignored when said youth believed he, or she, knew better than the elders. It was also sound advice to not speak so openly about what she learned. “Might want to keep that tucked away until you reach the bank.”
The look she gave me surprised me, a rarity in my office. It was one of disdain, one given to a person who said something blatantly stupid. I suppose I had. “It is written for me and me alone. Not even mom could exchange it. The bankers would shoot anyone else who tried presenting it.”
“True enough,” those sort of underground bankers had even less sense of humor than any of my species when it came to work. “But if this city has one thing in abundance, it’s fools. There are more than enough street hoods between here and there unable to think that far ahead.” There were plenty of honest citizens with the same problem. Occasionally they walked through my front door to plague me with their problems. While extra dinar in my pocket never hurt, I was loath to waste time on some of their problems, especially those clearly in the extralegal department. I did not, however, hesitate spending time showing them the door.
“So I learned,” she said, slipping the letter into her purse. For a fleeting second, I caught a glimpse of a wood paneled handle. It was the sort of smooth grip belonging to a low caliber pistol, a weapon ladies favored as a means of protecting themselves. It lacked the stopping power of a proper sidearm yet offered enough encouragement for would-be hoodlums to look for trouble elsewhere. Living up in Dream City did not mean the gal was asleep when it came to the plight down at sea level. Having a gangster as a father probably helped enlighten her at an earl age.
The floating city sitting more than a hundred meters above Port of Dreams had its fair share of private investigators, to say nothing of law officers. They were more of the domestic variety, those hired by wives to prove the duplicity of husbands or when one businessman– the corporate variety– did not trust his partner. While I have taken my share of those sort of jobs, the high paid snobs up there would never stoop to beating the mean streets, much less hop an ekranoplan to Tropadiso, a nation that remains under the embargo of most of the world’s government.
With her letter secure, she rested her purse in her lap and stared at me with something approaching an opponent in a friend game a cards. “Very well, Mister Hammer, how much do I owe you?”
She was certainly bolder than most sapiens. “Not much for pleasantries, I take it.” Having seen she was a blunt one from when she first hired me, I could hardly complain.
“Neither are dwarves,” she replied with a cool smile.
I nodded, appreciating her straight-forwardness. It was something of a welcome breeze on a stifling savanna day. With some sapiens, it could take half the day before they came around to the point. Funny, considering they lived on average a fourth as long as a pygmaeus. Not this lady. She spent many of her childhood jahrs in the company of dwarves and it showed. I glanced down at my notepad, empty save for some numbers I crunched. I could have purchased one of those calculating machines– some of them were now small enough to fit in my vest pocket– but I was not about to trust technology to do my job for me. The day I could no longer perform simple math was the day I stop breathing.
“Expenses are already covered.” I knew in advance I would have to hop the ekranoplan to Tropadiso for this investigation and factored it into the estimate. As quick as it would have been to purchase a ticket on a jet liner, I kept my expenses low, opting for a ground effect vehicle and its ample elbow room. Like with all other cases, part of the fee was always paid up-front with the rest upon completion. I figured it would take at least a week to track down some leads, though as it turned out I only needed half of that time. That, I knocked off her final fee; no sense in charging for work I did not perform. I turned the pad around and pushed it forward, tapping my pen on what I circled.
She looked down at the pad then quickly up to me, surprised by what she saw. So much for having a solid gambling face. “That’s all?”
Seldom did anyone ever question me for charging too little. Too much, clients complained about that all of the time. If they did not wish to pay what I charged then they were free to find a cheaper– and less expensive– investigator. “I factored in lodging for a week on the original estimate. Only took me five days to learn your answer. I subtracted the difference from the final settlement. That’s all, unless you want to overpay me.”
“No, you are more honest than some of the other people with whom I spoke,” she reached into her purse to pull out a roll of bank notes. “You are a dwarf, so not much of a surprise there.”
“Naturally,” I smiled, expecting nothing less than my due. Sapiens often complained about the unfair business practices of pygmaeus, saying that we were trying to muscle them out of the workplace. Truth was, at least from where I am sitting, Pygmaeus simply had stronger work ethics that sapiens lacked. One might even say it is in our blood. The only thing I could see working out in a sapien’s favor was that some people cared far more about cost than efficiency, thus opted for their cheaper labor.
I watched her count out the notes, a rainbow of blues, greens and oranges. Every not had its color; the bluer the note, the greater its value, at least according to the state. I do not consider them worth all that much. I would take the jingle of cold, hard metal over the feel of special paper in my hand. Gold, iron, nickle, it hardly mattered. All heavy metals were worth more than paper. Of course metals are hardly used in currency any longer aside from a tenth-dinar stamped from common aluminum.
My client pushed several bills forward. I picked them up and shoved them in a vest pocket without counting. There was no need. Aside from already watching her count the bills, to do anything else would insult an honest client. Without further comment, she pushed herself out of the chair, an older, less comfortable counterpart to my own. “I will show myself the door. A good day to you, Mister Hammer.”
I nodded back, wondering as I watched her depart if my next case would be nearly as interesting. Probably not. Pushing myself out of my chair, my feet hit the hardwood floor with a loud thump as I turned my attention to the window. I was not about to open it, no matter how muggy if grew in here. Aside from letting in the birds, it would also let in the aroma of Bayview. The neighboring buildings stood with most of their windows open to the sea breeze. I never really saw the appeal. When that breeze did not smell like rotting vegetation, it stank like industrial waste.
Beyond the neighbors, the commercial district’s high rises stood like sentinels over the harbor. I remember back when only a few buildings rose high that the cliffs in the background. Those were simpler, quieter times. Now, eight of them exceeded one hundred stories, with the tallest sporting an observation platform and the city’s most expensive restaurant hundreds of meters above the street. The only reason towers did not grow taller was on account that they would soon prove navigational hazards for air traffic. It continues mesmerizing me that anyone would willing go up to that spherical joint with its glass floor balcony.
Give me solid ground any day of the week, both beneath my feet and above my head. The only reason I do not live in a dwarven neighborhood, the nearest of which sat underneath Port of Dreams’ hills was on account that I did not want the hassle of a commute back and forth every day. It was far less of a bother to live where I work. The neighborhood her might not be the best but it was far from the worst. Rent remained lower than most parts of the city and far more customers were willing to visit an old brick building than they were to a subterranean warren.
I seldom bothered looking at the cliffs, the autoway switching back and forth across it surface, or the ancient dam. What business ever took me up to Dream City? Not all that much. Unlike some of the other peoples who called Dream City home, my people were not in the habit of going someplace simply for the sake of going. Not that I was going anywhere other than for a drink. Before that, let us see if I can rid the window of those annoying pigeons.
Stale smoke and poor lighting were the norm of most taverns in Bayfront, a welcome comfort to the uptight, almost sterile atmosphere of some of Dream City’s clubs. Despite its historical nature and the interesting masonry that I sometimes see on the side of a few of its buildings, I never could figure out what keeps attracting people to this neighborhood. Yet here it stood, on the verge of blossoming into a fashionable neighborhood within the city. I hope not. The last thing any of us here need are a bunch of developers buying up land and driving up prices.
For now, a mixture of species inhabited Bayfront, most either working in high paying industrial jobs or as mid-level white collars in the business district. Fifty thousand people call it home now, many of which recently fled from other, cheaper neighborhoods that the war inundated with refugees. Prices still remain reasonable, though who knows how much longs that will last. In a city as large as Port of Dreams, not very.
It was a reoccurring complaint over the jahrs that rift-raft stood poised to take control of so many other neighborhoods. Some of them were nice places to live back when I was still in school. The people were poor but for the most part they were an honest sort of poor, people who worked hard in hope of bettering themselves. Those who succeeded now lived in Bayfront. The rest– ever crowd will always have its share of shiftless characters, the sort who expected something for nothing. Way I see it, if people who are not willing to put in the effort are unable to afford better, that was their problem. It was not like the city was short on jobs. Sure, plenty of them were not high paying or glamourous. So what? One has to start somewhere.
A few of those poor worked in the tavern, including one who purchased the establishment a couple of jahrs back, when the previous owner decided he wanted to run out the clock relaxing on some beach or another. The new owner, he towered over the competition on the street, literally. Genaldi stood at least two-point-five meters in heigh and weighed more than twice anyone else in the tavern, including one fat sapien nursing his drink on the far end of the bar. Genaldi escaped from Rhosea a couple of days ahead of the Navenian invasion. Being non-sapien, the giganticus had to run for his life. He ran along the coast all the way to the Marasuanian border.
Unlike the vast majority of refugees, those from Rhosea could never return home. Their country no longer existed. Instead of finding itself obliterated by an alliance of the world’s nations, it was mostly wiped out by the dragons from the Swamp. Black dragons did not feel comfortable living next to humans who were growing in technological prowess, as well as population. The final wave of refugees spoke of plasma weapons, force fields and other science-fiction devices spawned from a mad gnome’s dreams. Seeing how cities in Rhosea were literally erased from the landscape, there might even dwell a little truth in the wild tales.
Nobody worried much about dragons in Marasuania turning professional exterminator on the populace. Long ago, to placate the Blues, the state decided to mark off a wide stretch of savanna as national parks and wilderness preserves. Essentially, the land belonged to the dragons and no human dared encroach. The lands between the settled east and the mountain border far to the west sat mostly devoid of civilization– except for the southern coast. Best anyone could tell, dragons never lived there. That was just as well; if dragons as friendly as Blacks wiped out fifty kilometers worth of civilization, what would the crotchety Blues do?
Genaldi stood before me as I found a stool, producing a bottle and shot glass. He poured me a shot of Tropadisan spiced rum. Who cares what the world’s politicians thought of the place; Tropadiso produced the best rum in the world. Most of the denizens lurking in the dimly lit tavern preferred it mixed with juice into a variety of cocktails, the most popular including a dash of mint. Not me. I never tried any of them and have no plans on doing so. There was nothing wrong with a straight shot of rum.
“You look in a better mood than usual, Jack,” though the ogre spokes softly, I still heard every word in the quiet tavern. This was not the sort of joint one when to celebrate– at least not this early in the day. No, here was a quiet hole in the wall where many patrons frequented to drown their sorrows. For now, the few people here lost themselves in thought, staring into their drinks in search of answers. Their hunched shoulders and cold grimaces were enough to tell even the densest of people they did not wish for company.
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“Did I forget to wear my scary face?” I asked, squinting at the ogre. Genaldi stood between me and an annoying neon sign advertising a popular brand of ale I have always found too bright, its final syllabic constantly flickering in a migraine-inducing pattern. I wish the stupid thing would fail already. Nothing short of that would get the owner to toss it out with the rest of the useless junk.
Genaldi nodded slowly. “You look less menacing than usual. Pay day?”
He should know better than to ask questions like that. What business of anyone’s other than myself is it when I get paid. Nobody’s, not even a man who came close to being a friend. I certainly saw the bartender more often than I did any of my family. “Wrapped up a job today.”
“Anything you can talk about?” Genaldi at least understood that much. He knew his customers and he knew it was next to impossible to pry anything out of a dwarf or gnome who did not feel like talking. A comedian once said pygmaeus are like cats; we are social only when we feel like it.
“What’s there to talk about? I got to see a little of the world, enjoy paradise and bring a young lady back some bad news.” Was there any other kind of news? Knocking back the shot in a single gulp I decided that there usually was not. “Every once in a while, I wouldn’t mind bringing back some positive news for a client.”
“At least you only deliver the news. I seem to create it.” I looked over my shoulder at the familiar voice, watching a sapien in a partial blue uniform approach the bar, minus his hat and jacket, letting the world know he was off duty. He had better be if when he visits a place like this. His face was dim against the sudden influx of light flowing in as he swung open the door. I do not need to see the face to know his identity. I signaled Genaldi to pour another shot, wondering if I should have him leave the bottle.
“Brennel, I see the world hasn’t killed you in my absence,” I said before inhaling the second round.
Brennel Zollern was not a bad guy, far from it. He stood a good three hundred millimeters taller than me, even if he was quite a bit narrower at the shoulders. He had to be around the same age too, making him middle aged going on old by sapiens standards. Ancient if anyone ever listened to the growing cult of youth. Gray hair was no predominate at his temples while the rest engaged in a losing battle against entropy. “If the Navenians didn’t, I really can’t see how your wonderful city can.”
Apart from not being a bad guy, he also was not a refugee. Well, not exactly. He was born in Celius, a small port on the southern coast. When the Navenians tried sucker-punching Marasuania, his hometown bore the brunt of the invasion. The enemy razed half of it with their bombers, claiming tens of thousands of victims, including his wife. They already produced a couple of children, both too young to remember any of it, who family friends quickly rushed to the east, finding shelter with grandparents in far off Port of Dreams.
The man still partly blamed himself. Not so much for the death– nothing short of him being a fighter pilot stood chance of altering that outcome– rather for not being there. At the time, he was a young officer in the navy, a security man aboard one of the shiny aircraft carriers. I admit, at the time I thought a ship so large it could carry its own air force was one of the stupidest things I ever saw. Their usefulness in the war proved me spectactularly wrong. Now– I still think they look ridiculous, more so with the newer models and their angled flight decks.
Once the war ended, he was one of the millions of men hastily demobilized. The fact that he had two jahrs of service before Marasuania entered the war hardly mattered. The war was over and the voters tired of paying higher taxes. Unlike so many soldiers who struggled for a jahr or more in transition, Brennel landed a job with the police department, serving in Bayview and being an occasional pain in my neck ever since.
“Plenty of ways,” I helpfully began listing them, ranging from walking out into traffic without looking– which claimed some kid down the block from my office a couple of astros ago– to taking down armed bank robbers all the way to some random hooligan. Like with those people connected to the mob, it was never wise to attack a peace officer. As with the mob, it never stopped the city’s endless stream of fools from trying.
“Are you trying to cheer me up?” Zollern asked as he waved for a glass of his own. “And none of that straight booze either. Give me a shipwreck on the rocks.” The ogre behind the bar nodded, turning his back to collect the ingredients.
“Who comes up with these names?” It was one of the many mysteries when dealing with sapiens. While it is more efficient to give it a simple name instead of spending thirty seconds listing off ingredients, it still sounds stupid. When you get down to it, shipwreck on the rocks was far from the most idiotic name I had ever heard, a fact that in no way invalidated my question.
“Folks with greater imagination than you, Jack,” Zollern shot back. Pausing for effect, the comedian added, “So pretty much everyone. I swear, you will still be using that antique telephone of yours long after I’m dead.”
I slammed the empty shot glass on to the bar, not in the mood for any sapien arrogance. Not that I am ever in the mood for their nonsense. “These is nothing wrong with my phone! I am not about to hand over my hard earned dinar for a new one when the only one works as well as the day I bought it. If sapiens quit wasting money on newfangled contraptions for the sake of them being new, you wouldn’t be so poor.”
It was not that a dwarf could ever be poor. Far from it. It was more that non-pygmaeus had the habit of flushing their money down the drain. I need look no further than certain political parties whose idea of fixing a problems is throwing money at it for proof. If the scheme did not work the twenty-second time, what makes them think the twenty-third time doing the exact same thing is going to be any different. A dwarf could make a poor investment, end up in a lawsuit or even develop a gambling problem. Rare is the dwarf who says he has money burning a hole in his pocket.
Zollern snorted rudely, not getting drawn into the age old argument. “I think raising a couple of kids on my own played its part.”
Alright, I could hardly argue that particular point. Well, I could but it would be a losing battle. Children consumed a great deal of resources, which was why my kind had them while still young. Between twenty and forty are our typical family jahrs. Once the business of producing the next generation was out of the way, we return to spending out lives hard at work. Mostly.
As much as it pains me to admit it, I was the odd man out there. Already in my fifties, I never established a family of my own. Probably on account that I do not play well with others. If I were the man who used excuses as shields, I could blame my particular line of work. It is not exactly what one would call family friendly, especially when you make enemies. Of course the truth of the matter is that my situation is on account that I am a jerk.
“How is Radek anyway? Last I heard, he was still in the army.” Even in times of peace, Marasuania maintained a respectable army. Every election saw politicians running on platforms of slashing budgets, downsizing the armed forces and in each of those elections, the voters reject them more often than not. I suppose it proves the old adage that while a person could be smart, people were idiots. They reject higher taxes while wanting to maintain a strong military in the age old tradition of wanting something for nothing.
While it was far from law, it was certainly customer for the youth to serve in one branch of the armed forces or another. In a nation of a couple hundred million people, there was never a shortage in the manpower pool. A good thing too on account that most of them also served their four jahrs and went back to civilian life. From what I heard on the street, the air force was the most popular destination.
“Military police,” Zollern smiled as he spoke. Since he spoke at the same time Genaldi brought the off-duty peace officer his drink, I could not say if it was a smile of pride or relief. Knowing Zollern, probably a little of both. “He is going to follow in my footsteps. Here’s hoping it turns out better for him than me,” he lifted his patch black drink in salute.
Staring at the drink, it was not that hard to see how it earned its name. It looked for all the world like an oil spill with a couple of ice cubes floating in it. Gazing into darkness and pondering the sapien’s words, I start wondering if any hypothetic children would have followed the path I took. For sapiens, that might be an idle question. For pygmaeus, it was mostly our way. Children tended to learn the trade in their parents’ house.
With a name like Hammer and a profession of investigating, I was the exception to that rule too. Both of my parents lived their entire lives in Engrade, a steel working city built directly into one of the giant open pit mines of Marasuania’s largest iron deposit. The place was a terraced fortress with coal shipped in from as far as a thousand kilometers to fuel the mills. The old man is a steel man, hammering steel into ingots while mom was a mechanic keeping the mill’s equipment in top shape, that is when she was not raising a couple of children.
My brother followed in her footsteps. As best I know, he still lived underground. As much as I enjoyed fixing things when I was a kid, I had ambition beyond repairing machinery. It was not enough to fix something; I wanted to know what went wrong. I wanted to solve problems. When I grew old enough, I departed Engrade and headed to the big city, never bothering once to look back. Perhaps had I stayed, I might even been married by now– probably not but one never knew– siring a child or two before devoting the rest of my life to steel. I never regretted my decision to leave and it was now far too late to worry about it.
“Children having a better life. Sort of like my most recent case.” I told the officer a little about my trip to Tropadiso, leaving out any details that couple possibly infringe upon client confidentiality. I kept my voice low enough so only he could hear, though I would never put it past Genaldi to pick up the words from anywhere behind the bar. Picking out islands of words in a sea of noise was part of barkeeper’s trade.
“Should I have your office searched, just to make sure you didn’t do any smuggling?” Zollern said once I mentioned my destination.
“Get a warrant,” I shook my head, muttering silently about stupid questions. The Feds are not about to start slapping embargoes on a country on account that all of our neighbors do. It is bad enough law enforcement in large cities goes out of its way to try and trample the rights of citizens, they have to try it while spouting nonsense. “I’m sure the judge will be really eager for you to waste his time. Rusted hinges, Brennel, most of the smoke in this place comes from Tropadisan tobacco and where do you think they buy this rum? And yes, I know you are joking. That’s beside the point.”
“What is the point?” Zollern touched upon one of the greatest questions of all time, a question plaguing humanity– every species of humanity– since our arrival in the cosmos. Even I had occasion to ask that question, usually in the morning after having a shot too much of rum. Sometimes three shots too many.
“The point is that it is only natural for parents to want the best for their children.” It was as close of an answer to the grand questions and far closer than most.
“What about the childless?” Naturally, he would have to bring up that. Zollern finished his drink, pounding the empty glass upon the bar. “No, one is enough. Work wasn’t that bad today,” he said as the giant bartender looked his way.
What about us? I only shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind leaving the world in better shape than I found it.” In a way, I already have, though it was nothing of my doing. The Navenians are now a thing of the past. Their genocidal ways will never threaten the people of Towne again. By the time I die, assuming that it is actually from natural causes other than extreme blood loss, the last of their numbers would have been dead for more than a century. Zollern stared at me quizzically.
Seeing how he only had one drink, something was on his mind. “What? It’s not like I’m one of those childless sapien protestors complaining about parents taking their children out of the public works and sending them to a private school. I swear, those people are more interested in tearing everything down than solving problems.” Those same people did not care and were not shy expressing it. I always figured it was more like they wanted voters to see them pretending to care about a problem more than anything else. Yet another item to add to the lengthy list of issues that are very sapiens things to do.
“Selfish indeed,” Zollern snorted in disgust. “I am so sorry for trying to better the lives of my children.”
Having drank my share for the day, I pushed myself off the stool, landing louder than I would have liked. When the people packed the joint, nobody noticed. When empty, I made as much of a racket as one of those palm guns pushers keep up their sleeves. It was an inevitable part of life whenever a short man wandered into an establishment intended for the tall. The previous owner of the tavern was a sapien and ran the place for his species only, even if he might hire non-sapiens. Genaldi ran things differently, under the belief that everybody’s money spent the same. That did not mean he was about to shell out any of that many renovating the place. The stools worked, so it was impossible to fault them or the owner.
“That’s enough philosophy for me. I don’t suppose you can be useful and tell me if anyone out there needs to find somebody but doesn’t want to ask your outfit for help.” The questions was thoroughly rhetorical, kind of my way of saying later. I was never much for farewells, or greetings for that matter.
“If I did, I’d be investigating them,” Zollern eyed me carefully, his face returning to the lawman’s mask he wore whenever on duty. “The only reason anyone hires the likes of you is to circumvent the law.”
To any casual observer, that would appear a serious charge. From any other rodger I might even take it personally. Knowing Zollern as long as I have, he was joking. Well, I was not about to let him get the last shot today. “They might hire me to avoid the sea of red tape your department holds. I’ve seen what your paper trails look like. It’s no wonder they come to me.” I never could figure out why anyone would work in a big city department.
A sheriff out in the countryside or a small town officer, there might be some reward there. Port of Dream’s police have more layers of management than a cake has chocolate. Seriously, any organization that has managers managing other managers and in turn answers to higher levels of management is on with severe flaws. Cut out about seven layers of administration and they would never go over budget. It was not like they had more than a few hundred people who actually did any work.
“You only returned from one job, why not take a day or two off? I know you dwarves think that the work must go on but have you ever thought about letting it go on without you?” Any sapien would have taken tomorrow off, especially if they went on the ride I had. Even this pain in my neck, despite having a strong work ethic for his species, took a vacation once a jahr.
“No,” I told him coldly, instantly as it was a question that required no thought. “If I don’t do the work it will end up dumped on somebody else. Well, if you don’t know anything–“ I trailed off, biting my tongue quickly. Telling him that he did not know anything was too much like taking out fish in a barrel with a shotgun. “I’m sure somebody out there will. Besides, if I don’t go looking for trouble, it might start looking for me. I’d like to get the drop on it for a change.”
I have to say, the rate trouble came looking for me this time took me by surprise. The strange auto parked on the street in front of my building told me all that I needed to know. I had a guest. Most people living in the old brick building, a throwback to the turn of the century, did not even own autos. Those that did owned vehicles that life kicked around the block a few times. Most of the units within the building were residential, not offices. I was the long pygmaeus in this sapien stronghold, unless you counted the gremlins living on the first floor. Few did and fewer even noticed them since they worked the night shift.
The auto was one of the newer models, a mark twelve the manufacturer called it. Unlike so many ten and fifteen jahr old autos on the street, this one was sleek, streamlined and almost futuristic in its design. That mean either a sapien of a gnome designed it. For the driver’s sake, I hope they were gnomes. I never care to admit it, even to my self, but when gnomes tinkered with designs they improved its efficiency in one way or another. Not even to justify buying it, mind you, however it is a noticeable improvement instead of for the sole purpose of trying to sell next jahr’s model. It was all academic to me since I had no plan on buying a new one any time soon.
As for the shiny new auto and its aerodynamic design, I could give it a grudging stamp of approval. Less air resistance should improve its fuel economy, might even give it an extra kilometer per liter. Every little bit helps, not matter how little. I certainly would not say it was worth the price tag, though if I was starting out without an auto of my own, I might invest in it– provided it did not have too many gadgets inside of it.
While I approve of the design, I can not say the same about the youth sitting on the stairs into my building, his blue jumpsuit with a collar so wide he could hang glide with it. Rusted new fashion. It was not even made from cotton or any other proper, natural product. They call the material polyester, a fabric that firmly belongs in a category I call disco technology. The thing was every bit as bright as a strobe light and gave me as much of a headache looking at it.
“What do you think of my new ride, Mister Hammer?” the youth asked, gesturing to the dark gray auto.
The idea this kid owned anything costing more than a few dinar was laughable– and I use that term generously here. “You owning that auto is about as likely as me owning a suit like that, Memphis.
Memphis glared fiercely at me, an impression of anger his fifteen jahr old face could never properly convey. He might think it made him look tough, intimidating even. Compared to some of the mugs I have stared down, it makes me think he had intestinal problems more than anything else. “You don’t think I could own something so fine?”
“Not a chance.” I seldom waste time bantering with anyone save those few I call friends– or at least tolerate to a great extent. While I would never consider Memphis a friend, the kid had a way of growing on you. Kind of like a strange mix between puppy and ringworm. If only the boy applied himself as much to school and work as he did trying to get out of it, he would go far. His family lived somewhere on the second floor, practically on the other side of the building from my office.
Memphis tugged at the collar of his outlandish jacket. “I own this.”
“That proves my point.” Whatever he held in potential, he completely lacked in taste. Not that I care two tenth-dinars about fashion either way. The slacks and vest I wore today I purchased a decade or so ago. I never bothered keeping track of in what jahr I buy clothes. Unlike autos, improving clothing was a near impossible task. What I wore worked. I even have a thirty jahr old fedora I wear when I am out on the town for the sake of being out, which is to say not very often.
One evening, a while back, some street toughs mocked my old outfit, laughing at what they considered an old fashion way of dressing. They did, at least up to the point when I broke one of the laughing gits’ noses. A couple more punches thrown landed the rest on the ground while I walked away with little more than a bruised eye. They were not professions, that much was certain. I only wish the fights on the job were so easy. I suppose I should not complain too loudly. Any job I wrap up that does not shoot me is a good job.
“What are you doing out here anyway? Don’t you have schoolwork to complete?” I have a fairly good idea why he was out this sunny evening, aside from admiring the latest from the automotive industry. He complained often enough about his parents being too strict– which was strange since strictness was part of the job description– along with other familiar issues. Seeing how his father was an overseer at a non-union factory, I could hardly dispute his claim. Those bosses were not afraid to fire slackers, shirkers or people they simply did not like.
“Of course,” the boy tried assuring me, wearing that he must consider a very smooth smile. I was not impressed.
“Satisfactory?” Seeing Memphis continuing his smile, I pressed one. “Are you trying to be like those hooligans over in Lancing? They never applied themselves and look what it got them.” It earned them crime and poverty. Unfortunately, it also brought the people of their neighborhood the same. Gangland violence ruled those streets and not of the organized, professional variety. The city council keeps saying that have a plan to clean up the slums. Right. They have had a plan to clean up the slums for ten jahrs now, leaving me to conclude it was an issue brought up only when seeking re-election.
“Don’t be venting on me man, you aren’t even my father. Why are you so keen on what I do?” This time, Memphis managed to look genuinely offended. Perhaps he was; the attitudes of the young were always turbulent.
“I’m not. I am not keen on seeing good material wasted.” I pointed to the shiny new auto Memphis spent far too long admiring. He did not know how to drive so it was not like he could steal it, even if he so desired. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about that?”
Memphis shrugged. “Some dwarf lady owns it. She asked me if Detective Hammer was in.”
“And?” I walked over to the auto, confining his statement. Peering into the driver’s seat, I spot a cushion on it, the sort I have to use whenever I want to look out of my auto. It was thick enough to allow anyone as tall as a pygmaeus, even one of our women, to see above the wheel.
“I told her you’d be back, that she can wait in your office and that I’d watch her auto.” Memphis appeared rather proud of his accomplishment. It was the sort of satisfied smile that told me this was the most productive task he accomplished all day.
If I were a sapien, I could have stood around speculating about the nature of this visitor. Since I am not, I nod my thanks to the kid and decide there is only one way to learn what this visitor wants. I never worry much about people waiting in my office, especially anyone who was a dwarf. We are an honest people, ones who would not rifle through files when the proper owner was nowhere in sight, not unless it was our job. Besides, any secure locations, such as the part of the unit where I actually reside, I kept securely locked. Only reason the front door remains unlocked was on account that it was not yet closing time.
I never reckoned anyone would visit me so late in the day, hence my little trip. It was a rare enough event that the odds of it happening remained low enough for a drink or two. Nonetheless, I wrote the closing time on the door. I could not very well have my own front door making a liar out of me. It served me well, even if it was not a typical system among my kind. If anyone really sought my services while I was on break– despite what a certain sapien might think, I do know how to take them– then they would wait for my return. If not, then the best of luck to them at the next investigator.
Ascending the front stairs, I shot Memphis a final look, suspicious of his motives. “If that auto has as much as a scratch on it, I’ll break your hand.”