15

Number 42 and 43 Cummory Lane were much like any other homes. They sat at the end of a quiet terrace, they were rectangular, made of bricks, and had the appropriate amount of doors and windows. They sat in a regular lane in an area where people considered themselves ‘better off than some.’ Which in the socioeconomic hierarchy of the city translated that they were poor but could still eat year round and wear clothes with only a few holes in them. The street was quiet, as a respectable street should be once the sun sets. Number 42 and 43 were all the way at the end of the lane, as if shunned by the rest of the respectable homes. Nothing marked them to be anything other than a regular pair of buildings for people who could keep hold of work for a majority of the year. It was only the surprising amount of high end cabs with glossy black stallions and well besuited gentlemen drivers that were the first sign of something unusual happening.

“Guess Fillius was telling the truth,” Nairo said.

“First time for everything,” Ridley muttered.

“Do you think it’s the type of place you can just knock on the door and ask for a table for two?”

“Dunno.”

“I thought you knew all about these underground restaurants!”

“Know about them but I’ve never been.”

“So should we just knock?”

Ridley thought about it for a moment.

“Why not.”

Flicking away his smoke, Ridley strode up to the door of number 43. As they grew closer Nairo saw that the windows had been painted black and could hear a hum of noise coming from within.

“Smell that?” she asked.

Ridley took a deep appreciative sniff and sighed.

“Smells like meat. Real meat, sizzling meat.” he drooled.

At first glance the door looked like any other inconspicuous front door. But as the light flickered from the glow stone on the street, Nairo saw fresh drill marks in the brick work where chunks had been dug out recently. She would bet there were heavy iron bars on the other side. At about eye level there was a thin rectangle cut out of the door and covered with a strip of metal.

Ridley cleared his throat surreptitiously and knocked. There was a brief pause and some shuffling on the other side. The rectangle slid back and a pair of deep brown eyes looked down at them.

“Good evening sir, how may I help you?” a well cultured voice drawled at them.

“Ummm… table for two?” Ridley said.

“Name?”

“Clarence Winterforth the third.”

Nairo had to stop herself snorting derisively but she couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

There was a pause, punctuated by the sound of a gloved finger sliding down parchment.

“Sorry sir, I do not have a reservation under that name.”

“You sure? Look again.”

“I’m afraid it is reservation only…”

The voice stopped as two gold coins twinkled in Ridley’s fingers.

“You sure I’m not on there?”

“Really sir, bribes are always welcome, in fact I would dare say they are encouraged, but we are frightfully overcrowded as is.”

“That’s okay,” Ridley said, rubbing the coins together. “We won’t be here for long, we just need to speak to the maitre’d.”

“Mr Colsworth?”

“That’s the one.”

There was another pause and the eyes disappeared. Nairo looked at Ridley who shrugged. A sound echoed from behind the door as a bolt was slid back, followed by another, and then another. The heavy door swung inwards.

“Do be quick sir,” the man behind the door said, stepping aside to usher them in. He was tall and fastidiously dressed in the traditional black and white of wait staff. Nairo stepped through into the gloom and the door snapped shut behind her.

The smells!

Her mouth flooded with saliva and she took a deep, almost sensual, breath through her nose. Rich, meaty smells engulfed her, making her stomach growl and her head swim.

“Right this way sir and madam, would you like me to take your coats?”

“Not on your life, squire,” Ridley growled as he too sucked at the air like he could physically chomp on the smells.

“Of course.” The man gave them a wan smile and then led them through the darkened passageway.

Only now did Nairo begin to contemplate how this could possibly be a restaurant. It just looked like a normal, gloomy, three up three down, terrace house.

As they followed the doorman, the heady fumes of sumptuous foods grew so strong she wanted to break into a run towards them. Light glowed somewhere ahead. The doorman directed them to the living room. He threw open the doors and they were transported. Somehow, the living room felt twice as large as it should have been. Inside, the bare floorboards were carpeted with thick, luxurious, burgundy carpet, the walls were papered with some sort of golden gilt that glinted in the light of the flickering candelabras. Music filtered through accompanied by the buzzing conversation and merriment of feasting customers. Behind the host stand stood an impossibly erect and imperious man, with a face made to serve. He had a curl of well combed hair on top of his egg shaped head, and the hounded expression of a man who had to figure out how to say no to people that weren’t used to hearing it.

“Mr Colsworth sir,” their guide said. “This is Clarence Winterforth the third.”

Mr Colsworth’s eyes rolled up from the ledger he had been filling it.

“I think not,” he said with a clipped tone. “Mr Winterforth the third has been dead for almost a decade now.”

“Did I say the third? I mean the fourth,” Ridley said offhandedly.

“The idiot son who crippled himself playing midnight polo whilst drunk?”

“Yeah… I recovered well.”

“Mr Jameson, who are these… people?”

“Oh ummm…” Mr Jameson stuttered.

“We’re just here to ask a few questions,” Ridley said.

“I’m afraid answers are not on the menu,” Mr Colsworth snapped. “Now if you would kindly…”

“Do you talk to police officers?” Nairo said, stepping forward, her badge in her hand.

Mr Colsworth’s eyes widened.

“Oh well…”

“Because, if that enchanting smell is anything to go by, your establishment is in violation of so many city ordinances and policies that you might have to be sent up the river just on principle of your flagrant flouting of the law.”

“Now see here, miss…”

“Sargent Nairo.”

“We’re all paid up with Mr Weasel…”

“In cahoots with a known villain as well?” Ridley said, tutting reproachfully. “Fella like you won’t do good up Blackwater, they’ll turn you into a pretzel.”

A bead of sweat licked down Mr Colsworth’s brow.

“But… no one has to know about any of this if you would just be kind enough to answer our questions,” Nairo said with a sweet smile.

“W-w-what questions?”

“About some of your more… illustrious clientele.”

“The green kind,” Ridley said with a wolfish grin.

“Oh dear,” Mr Colsworth’s eyes flickered all around the room as if looking for an escape. “I couldn’t possibly…”

“You couldn’t?” Nairo said.

“Or you won’t?” Ridley said.

“Because it’ll make a lot of difference to the judge,” Nairo finished.

This time Colsworth looked over his shoulder.

“Not here,” he hissed at them before snapping at the doorman. “Get back to your damned post, Jameson! And I’ll be emptying your tip jar for a month for this!”

Jameson looked aghast. He limped back to his posting morosely.

“Wait!” Colsworth barked. “Escort our… guests out to the back.”

Mr Colsworth mopped at his sweaty brow.

“Yessir,” Jameson sighed.

“I will meet you out there shortly,” Mr Colsworth said to them.

“Good man,” Ridley said as he followed the downtrodden doorman.

“And bring your ledger,” Nairo added as she followed.

Jameson took them through the double doors, which actually turned out to be a hatch they had smashed through between houses. Number 42 was the restaurant proper, and Jameson hadn’t been lying, it was heaving. There were people everywhere. The stairs were full of customers crouching on steps, leaning over plates of exquisite food. The landings had all been equipped with bar-like planks of wood so people could stand and eat. Every room was wall to wall with tables, to the point that miniature scaffolding had been erected for waiters to hop along, laden with trays of food. The music was even louder here and the wine flowed freely. People laughed and chatted as they hung off furniture, dined in alcoves, and perched precariously on bannisters. Jameson led them through the chaos, dodging drunk diners with expert ease. As they made their way through the first floor, Nairo looked into the living room and saw a couple having a romantic candle lit dinner sitting on the fireplace.

“This is bonkers,” Ridley breathed.

Even the toilet had a Gnome sitting on the cistern happily tucking into a hunk of meat and a threesome sat in the tub, their feet hanging out as they spooned pudding into their mouths.

As they stumbled through to the kitchen Nairo looked into another room and this one was almost empty. Only a few tables were in here and around one of them sat a cluster of Goblins in fine two piece suits. They were laughing raucously and tearing into mounds of sizzling meat. One of them made eye contact with Nairo. She quickly looked away and got behind Ridley.

“Did you see that room full of Goblins?”

Ridley nodded.

“Were any of them Rufi?”

Ridley shrugged.

“They all look the same at a glance,” he muttered back.

“Do you think they made us?”

“I dunno, but keep moving and keep your head down.”

Nairo felt the prick of someone’s eyes on the back of her neck. She risked a glance back and saw a tall, lithy Goblin looking back at her curiously. Nairo turned around and hurried through to the kitchen.

Well it was actually two kitchens. They had knocked the walls through here as well and taken over the kitchens from both houses. It was maddeningly loud and oppressively hot. Small, white clad cooks ran everywhere, in a buzz of constant action. Sweat poured from their brows as they worked furiously to deliver their beautiful food. The smell was too much for Nairo, she was almost dribbling now. Ridley surreptitiously flicked out a hand and nabbed a delicate pastry from a plate before the cook could realise. Nairo clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to pilfer. In the middle of all the chaos was a small man with a large nose and big doleful eyes, with heavy bags under them, barking orders and wildly flitting from station to station, verbally assaulting everyone around him.

Jameson ushered them through the kitchen door and out to the cramped back garden full of empty crates and boxes.

“Phwoar, this is amashing,” Ridley murmured through a mouthful of pilfered pastry.

“Mr Colsworth will join you momentarily,” Jameson said before withdrawing back into the kitchen.

Nairo’s willpower finally failed her.

“Give me some!”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Nairo snatched a handful of entrees that Ridley had pocketed. She shoved a fistful of little mushroom things into her mouth and felt the prickle of hot tears in the corner of her eyes. She hadn’t tasted something so wonderful in what felt like years. Silently, they both munched happily, sucking every last morsel of flavour from their fingers when the backdoor banged open. The diminutive chef strode out, wild eyed, a cleaver in his hands while a cringing Colsworth followed behind him.

“Who’s the poleeese man t’reatening ma restaurant!”

“She is!” Ridley said, pointing a treacherous finger at Nairo.

“Yoooouuu?” He lowered the cleaver and glowered at her, his little flabby face quivering.

“I am Sargent Nairo,” she said, trying to sound confident in the face of the iridescent little chef.

He looked her up and down, the point of his blade quivering, and then he deflated. He stabbed the blade into a box and slumped down on a withered tree stump. He withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“You have questions?” he asked her, looking exhausted as he tapped out a creased cigarette and lit it.

“Yes sir. Mister Garvoire, I presume?”

“Yes, that is me. Francois Garvoire.” He breathed through a cloud of smoke. “Proprietor of this once proud restaurant. If you have come to arrest me, do it now! Spare me my misery!” Dramatically, held out his wrists, like a man who would be glad for the time off.

“No sir. We haven’t come to arrest you.”

“No?”

“How could we arrest someone who makes grub like this?” Ridley said, through another mouthful of food he had produced from somewhere.

“Ahhh… my food, my passion! Reduced to sneaking out platefuls under the threat of imprisonment! ‘Ow far Garvoire has fallen.” He lilted and wiped at his sweaty forehead.

“Mr Garvoire, we have some questions about a customer of yours.” Nairo said.

“One of the green ones,” Ridley said with emphasis.

“Now I understand if you think you cannot…”

“Ha! These bloody Goblins! They have their claws deep up my ass! They come ‘ere they know nothing about fine cuisine! Barbarians! All they want is their meat charred and that foul Goblin booze! They get drunk! They abuse my staff! And they don’t pay! I spit on them!” Garvoire spat on the floor. “Look how far Garvoire ‘as stooped! Once upon a time only the finest men and women from all across the Free Cities would line up! Line up, for a morsel of Garvoire’s entree menu! Now? Now, I must deal with every filthy scoundrel with a gold coin and a box of stolen root vegetables.” He let out another heavy sigh. “But this is what we must do if we wish to stay alive in these hard times.”

“Mr Garvoire, do you know Benny Two Coats?” Nairo asked.

“Goblin?”

“Yes sir.”

“Which one is he?” Garvoire snapped at Colsworth.

“The frightful beast with the torn ear, sir.”

Garvoire spat again.

“He is with the others?”

“Yes sir.”

“Yes I know ‘im,” Garvoire said to Nairo.

“He’s been murdered,” Nairo replied.

Garvoire gave out a short bark of laughter.

“When?” Colsworth asked.

“This morning,” Nairo replied.

“Oh dear.”

“And we know he was here last night,” Ridley said, watching the man’s expression carefully.

“‘E was?” Garvoire said.

“Yes sir,” Mr Colsworth replied. “But he only came in for takeaway.”

“Ha takeaway,” Garvoire muttered sullenly. “Another dagger in my soul! Imagine, Francois Garvoire putting the delicate soups and pates in a paper bag like dog food!”

“How was he?” Nairo asked.

“Very much alive, I assure you.” Colsworth replied.

“Was he agitated? Or excited?”

“He was high as the bloody harvest moon, madame. He was always half in the bag but this time he was chattering like a loon.”

“What was he saying?” Nairo asked, magicking her notepad into her hands.

“He was raving about how he was going to be rich. How he’d hit the big time. He even paid for his own food for a change.”

“Did he say what he’d done?”

“No, just that it was the big one.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“Just another dreadful Goblin, don’t know his name I’m afraid.”

“Do you remember what he ordered?”

“Oh umm… the Steakfish I believe.”

Nairo nodded and scribbled down this information.

“And what time was this?”

“Towards the end of the night, perhaps 2:30 am?”

Nairo nodded and made another note.

“You said for a change?” Ridley interjected.

“Oh, what?”

“You said he paid for his own food for a change.”

“Umm… yes, he did.”

“Was that unusual?” Nairo asked.

“Yes. He usually put his food on that poor HobGoblin’s frightfully large tab.”

“HobGoblin?” Ridley said, his eyes lighting up in the gloom.

“Yes. Poor chap seems like he was never there of his own volition, and the way they would spend his gold was shocking.”

“Do you have a name for this HobGoblin?”

“I’m afraid he was never very forthcoming.”

“‘E ‘as a tab?” Garvoire asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Then where do we send the invoices?”

“Ahh of course! Well done sir!” Mr Colsworth opened up his tome-like ledger and flipped through the pages. “Here it is!” Mr Colsworth placed the ledger on a pendulous stack of empty crates and pointed to an address.

Nairo and Ridley peered at it.

“Hold on…” Nairo flipped through her notepad. “That’s the bank’s address?”

“You said it was a HobGoblin?” Ridley said sharply as he chewed the corner of his mouth.

“Yes sir.”

“Did he have a funny accent?”

“He had a particularly curious way of speaking… umm…” Colsworth dove back into his ledger flipping feverishly through the pages. “Here! The first time that they came in he did give a name.”

Colsworth tapped the ledger and Nairo peered at it and then looked at Ridley.

“Z. DW,” he read. “Zimeon De Woolf? The bank manager?”

Nairo nodded an excited glint in her eye.

“What is the bank manager doing going out for dinner with Benny?”

“You said Zimeon paid for the meals?” Ridley asked.

“Yes, and whenever that ghastly Goblin came in he would simply put his bill on this chap’s tab.”

“And Zimeon has paid up?”

At this, Garvoire was suddenly interested in the conversation again.

“Yes sir, all but the last… two months.”

“‘E ‘asn’t paid in two months!” Garvoire howled, his hand straying to the handle of the cleaver.

“Wait, how long has this been going on?” Nairo asked.

“Ummm… well… at least seven or eight months,” Colsworth stammered.

Ridley blew air through his lips and then he looked at Nairo.

“I think we’ve finally found the connection.”

Nairo chewed at her lips, her eyebrows drawn in thought.

“Do you have another address for Mr De Woolf?” Nairo asked Mr Colsworth.

“No. I’m afraid that was the only address we had for him.”

“Are yoo satisfied?” Garvoire asked, hopping off the stump he was sitting on. “Because I’ve got cod ‘ead stew spoiling on the boil.”

“Can I have some?” Ridley asked hopefully.

Garvoire eyed him, rolled his tongue around his mouth, and nodded.

“Get them a pot each and some fresh bread, to go!” Garvoire snapped at Colsworth.

“You’re a true gent,” Ridley said, grabbing Garvoire’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“Never let it be said Garvoire ‘e does not feed the ‘ungry!”

“Have you got one of those cards?” Nairo asked Ridley.

He fished around and found a card and gave it to Nairo. She scribbled her name on the back and a contact scroll number.

“Mr Garvoire, this is my name and contact details.” She handed the card to him. “If you ever find yourself in trouble, for… all of this, or anything short of murder and I will help you any way I can.”

Garvoire read the card and for the first time blessed them with a yellow toothed smile.

“Thank you very much, Sergeant.” He gave her a comical salute with his cleaver as Colsworth came bustling back out with a small box in his arms.

“You are a gent,” Ridley said, taking the box off him. “I’m sorry I called you a diddler.”

“You did?”

“Oh, didn’t I say that out loud? Don’t worry about it.”

Ridley hopped out the back with the box and sprinted away.

“Thank you!” Nairo called over her shoulder as she followed him.

Ridley had a massive grin on his face as he huffed away with the box in his arms, sniffing appreciatively with every step.

“De Woolf was…” Nairo began as she caught up with him.

“Food first!” Ridley barked and he put on an extra spurt of speed.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a place!”

Ridley’s coat flapped in his wake as he rounded a corner and scurried up a fire exit that zigzagged up the side of a crumbling yellow brick building. They continued up eight floors until they finally reached the roof. Nairo was sucking wind, sweat trickling down her back, as she doubled over to catch her breath. Ridley was a buzz of activity. He had grabbed a discarded rubbish can and upended it to create a makeshift table. He’d found a pair of wooden crates and pulled them up for seats. Setting the box down, he reverently placed the two steaming pots of cod's head soup on the upturned bin. Nairo was about to admonish him for putting his stomach before the case when the smell wafted past her nose. Her mouth flooded with saliva and she stomped like the living dead towards the pots. Wordlessly, she plonked herself down on the crate next to Ridley and accepted the chunk of fresh bread and a wooden spoon. Gingerly, she dipped her spoon into the thick, and slightly oily, broth. She only had enough patience to blow on it twice before she sucked it up.

The tastes were physical.

She felt like she had been hit in the mouth by the Minotaur again. Her shrivelled taste buds, dulled by months of endless beige slop and flavourless roots, sprung to life like desert flowers in the rain. Tears wet the corners of her eyes as she took another spoonful and then another spoonful and then another. The broth was zesty and rich, scratching some deep urge in her that had lain dormant for so long. The bread was so soft but crunchy. Then she found the first fish head. Without hesitation, she tore into the cheek of the fish, broth dripping down her chin.

“It shtill tashtes like fish,” Nairo moaned as she chomped on it.

“Mhmmmm,” Ridley said, sucking the eye from his nearly stripped fish head.

They went on like this in silence. Sucking. Chewing. Slurping. Swallowing. It was an auditory feast as well as gastronomical. Quicker than she would have liked, Nairo’s soup dwindled to nothing but dregs and bones. She upended the pot to suck down the last morsels of flavour while Ridley burped and ran his finger around the edge of the pot and licked it clean. They both sat back and let the warm after glow of good food wash over them. Only now did Nairo notice the view before them. The building they were on was perfectly situated to show the sprawling West side of the city twinkling below them.

“That was amazing,” Ridley said as he lit a cigarette and burped again.

“I haven't had a meal like that… ever,” Nairo replied.

Ridley blew a smoke ring in the air.

“So the bank manager nicked the Diamond. Can’t say I didn’t see that coming.”

Nairo ran her tongue around her mouth and sighed.

“What?” Ridley groaned.

“It’s just… I don’t know, something’s not sitting in my gut about it.”

“Maybe you ate too quick.” Ridley let out a wet burp for emphasis.

“What? No, not like that. A copper’s got their gut instincts…”

“Oh here we go!” Ridley sat up and pointed his smoke at her. “You coppers and your bloody guts. Well you know what PIs have?”

“A criminal record and a drinking problem?”

“What? No… besides that. We got a brain. That’s what separates a sleuth from a copper. You lot just plod about in your boots waving your badges and talking about your guts! Just think about it. There wasn’t a single clue in that vault. No way anyone could have broken in. It had to be an inside job! De Woolf had opportunity and clearly there’s some sort of connection between him and Benny.”

Nairo sighed.

“I know. My brain says you're right. It’s all just too suspicious for us not to follow up on. It can’t be a coincidence… it just can’t be. Benny’s seen lurking about, the bank gets robbed, he winds up dead the next morning, and our bank manager has been dining out with him for at least eight months. It’s all too… suspicious.”

“But?”

“I don’t like Zimeon for it.”

“Why not? He’s a banker. Only thing slimier than them are…”

“Snails?”

“Lawyers.”

“Good point. But did you get even a hint from him that morning that he had helped steal the Diamond? That many coppers around, plus you, and not one of us ever got the sniff that he was lying to us?”

“Like I said, he’s a banker, professional liar.”

“And how did he think he was going to get away with it?”

“Wanna know my theory?”

Nairo nodded.

“I reckon our boy Benny had something on De Woolf. You heard Colsworth, he was never happy to be there. And him paying for all of Benny’s meals whether he was there or not? Sounds like they were bleeding him. Thug like Benny wouldn’t have any connection with a straight-laced tax payer unless he had something on him.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Blackmail? Debt? Maybe De Woolf took a loan he couldn’t pay back.”

“Why would a bank manager take a loan from a criminal?”

“You’re right. They’re usually the criminals giving out the loans. But I’ve seen it play out a million times. Some juicy tax payer falls under a villain’s thumb and they get bled dry. Week after week, month after month, never able to get out from under the interest. An experienced crook like Benny? He could play that string out for months before the well runs dry. De Woolf was probably deep under it and running out of rope, so he sees the Diamond as a way for him to finally pay off his debt. Or maybe even Benny put him up to it. Either way, this was his last desperate chance to get free of Benny. So he nicked the Diamond and passed it off to Benny.”

“But why would he hang around waiting for the police to show up?”

“Where else would he go? Plus, it would look mighty suspicious if the bank manager disappeared the night after the Diamond got nicked, no?”

“That makes sense. But then who killed Benny?”

“Ahh, that’s the cherry on top of the pie. De Woolf did it.”

“The bank manager killed Benny?”

“My bet is Benny still wouldn’t let him off the hook. De Woolf sees red and finally snaps.”

“The meek, cringing bank manager murdered a nasty thug like Benny? Damn near cut his head off?”

“He is a Goblin. Genetics finally kicked in.”

Nairo let out a deep sigh as she let Ridley’s theory fall into place with everything they knew so far.

“So, he goes to Benny to deliver the Diamond. Benny won’t release him from whatever hold he’s got over him. De Woolf snaps, kills Benny, and then shows up to work hours later?”

“You never know what a desperate creature will do.”

“So where’s the Diamond?”

“Only De Woolf would know.”

“Why not replace the Diamond though?”

“What?”

“Well, if he only stole the Diamond to pay off Benny, then after he killed him, why not bring the Diamond back? No one would have ever known it was stolen and nobodies going to investigate the murder of a villain like Benny in too much detail. Let alone suspect a bank manager.”

They sat in pensieve silence.

“Maybe he plans to do a runner?”

“With the Diamond?”

“Stands to reason that the Kith would come after him. They would know all about Benny bleeding him dry, and if any of them knew about De Woolf stealing the Diamond for Benny then he would be the number one suspect. And unlike you lot, they don’t need a whole lot of evidence to snatch a body and disappear it.”

“So why did he turn up to work in the morning? Why not just run in the middle of the night. He has a priceless Diamond. And who would he fence it to anyway? Conway told us the blackmarket barely even exists for such a thing.”

“I dunno!” Ridley threw up his hands in frustration. “Maybe he really likes his job. Maybe he was having a fling with his secretary and wanted to take her with him! I can’t put all the pieces in place but it’s the best lead we have!”

Again they fell into silence.

“You’re right,” Nairo conceded. “I don’t know how it fits together but it’s worth pursuing.”

“Good. Let’s go drop by his house…”

“In the morning,” Nairo interjected. “I’m exhausted. I need at least three hours of sleep before I can begin the hunt again.”

Ridley tutted and then a yawn escaped his mouth.

“I suppose you’re right. We’ve hit it pretty hard today.”

“More like it’s hit us pretty hard,” Nairo said, massaging her rapidly cramping hip.

Ridley chuckled and stood up, his back cracking audibly.

“Fine, we go after the bank manager tomorrow morning.”

“Bright and early.”

“Not too early,” Ridley said. “Make it eleven.”

“Ten. And that will give me a chance to try and run De Woolf’s name through the police system. If he was in some sort of financial trouble then there’s bound to be a paper trail.”

“Sounds exciting, but I’ll leave the paper trailing to you. Let’s meet at Letty’s greasy spoon in the East End at 10:30 and close this case.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nairo said.