Yesterday I got a call from someone I knew 30 years ago. We had lunch. He showed me his scrapbook from our time at school. I hadn't realized until he showed me, but I looked mad in most of those hazy old pictures. Today, I got a visit from the local blue-boys. Now I'm standing in the cold and wet of a December morning over Teddy's dead body. He still has the scrapbook with him, but he's missing half of his shirt and most of his chest.
I could tell the local plods liked me for this. The two officers from the Adérfia Ston Pólemo police department had been all too eager to roust me from my bed this morning. They were very eager to see me identify the body, and possibly incriminate myself by yelling something like “I did it! That bastard deserved it! HAHAHA!”
Sadly for them, I was neither that stupid, nor that culpable for this particular mess.
But, I’ve seen a few goblins get their tickets punched, and this was a messy one. As bad as some of the ones I had seen in the War.
The light green of his skin was so bled down to yellow with blood loss; it made his face look like a sadly surprised lemon. The snow around his body, however, looked like it had enough dark green blood in it that it might qualify for the Draft.
Teddy had been a light-skinned kid when we were in school, the kind of light green that the other, meaner, kids come up with all kinds of pleasant names for. Because kids are swell.
Looking down at the little body where it lay in the shadow of the alley, there was no way the cops would ever call this either a natural death or a suicide. Too much blood. But, with the way his stomach and chest had been savaged, I was a little surprised the PD of the “City of Brotherly War” weren't out looking for any of the locals who might own a direwolf. It wasn’t common, but it wasn’t unheard of. Certainly not this close to Elftown.
With how the body looked, me being a suspect made no sense; I had an alibi. But my bet was that someone had dropped 10 coppers on me, and sang a song to a grateful ear in the city’s police department. A song that might have said they had seen me arguing with Teddy yesterday at the Sandbox. I hadn’t been. But I’m betting that would be the story they went with.
Wrapping up a murder investigation in the Adérfia police department was easy as pie when you already had someone you wanted to see go to the chamber. And walking up now I could hear the telltale sound of some high end brogans belonging to two detectives who would both rather see me go down than spend an 10 minute puzzling out whether or not someone else might have.
It was the kind of lazy you could count on to ruin any day of your week.
“So, Mister Sammy Archer.” One of the two detectives said as they walked up from where they had no doubt been sitting in a warm diner, bugging the waitresses. “I see our officers were able to bring you down here to view our little disturbance.”
The other chimed in with “We wanted a word with you about the sad disposition of Mister Theodore Grimes.”
I sighed, and turned to face the two cops as they came to a stop just outside of the convenient range of my fists. The one on the left was tall, lanky, well dressed, and ancient. Detective Mario Gravicki had been on the take for so long that I knew of at least three local business owners that called him The Tax-Man. He had been a dapper lad a century ago. Well dressed, with smooth dark-green skin and the fancy webbed ears that said there had been a Merrow in his grandma’s bed more often than a regular goblin. Time had not just been unkind, it had been borderline malicious. His tall, athletic frame was now bent, wasted, and stooped like a scarecrow afraid someone would see what he was doing with that Fall Feed & Seed catalog. He now had the kind of face that even a mother would slap for no good reason on a school morning.
The other was the younger, fatter, shorter, sloppier model of the same. Detective BW Marsh was the chubby kid who saved himself by pointing out the weaker kids for the bullies to target. Sour that he would never be accepted at the “Cool Kids' Table”, because he was unfashionable, unathletic, unwitty, untalented, unmagical, and as smooth as a tinsmith’s rasp. But what he lacked in everything else, he made up for with a gimlet stare, and a nose that whistled when he breathed.
“‘The sad disposition of Mister Theodore Grimes.’...?” I repeated back to Detective Marsh, saucily raising one of my eyebrows at him. “What, are you hanging out with elves now, BW? You’re gonna make your ma cry, you keep that up.”
That got a wheezy chuckle from Gravicki. “Now, Mister Archer, we all know you had lunch with the deceased yesterday. We know you argued with him.”
HA! Knew it! Crooked jackasses…
“And we know you have…” the tall scrawny goblin paused here for dramatic effect, as if injecting drama would make a point for him that the actual evidence couldn’t. “...dabbled in the Arts. You even got a medal for using the Arts in the war, we hear.”
That surprised me. Very few people knew my military record. The leering old creep looked like the kind of guy to request those kinds of records on anyone he might run across in the job from whatever contacts he might have in the Pennsterria government.
I’d bet on that kind of “good old gobbo network,” rather than the idea that anyone local who knew highlights of my time in the War would have talked to dried up jerky-sacks like Gravicki and Marsh.
Marsh had to pop in now. It was bad enough I had sassed him in front of his mentor on the force, but now he thought I would just fold up like a paper crane.
“We know you knew him. We know you argued with him. Just tell us why you did it, Archer. Then we can all go home.”
“Except me.”
His piggy little white eyes looked around for a moment before coming back to me, looking angry and confused. “What?”
“Except me, you mean.” I said, explicitly excluding the “idiot” that I should have added. Who says I can't be diplomatic? “If I confessed, I assume you will just throw me in the pokey, and then you two will go home. Probably make the two officers do the paperwork while you slope off? Right?” I looked to the two uniformed flatfoots who had been my escort to the scene.
Marsh was ginning himself up for a Grade-A tantrum when Gravicki held up his hands for peace, and raised a pair of long and wispy eyebrows to show surprised innocence.
“Mister Archer, I just bring up your service record to show you that we’re not just foundering on the ocean.” He winked here, and it was just as creepy as you might think. “We have had some of our lab boys here. And they tell me the body is covered in evidence of eldritch interference.”
I noticed the lab boys just told Gravicki. Or maybe they told both detectives, but Gravicki only counted himself amongst those informed.
Also, “eldritch interference?” What kind of fucking stupid term is “Eldritch interference?” It’s like saying “There was a ‘gravity pull’ involved in the ball dropping.” Sounds like the kind of phrase the big wigs in the army used to use to make themselves feel superior to those of us in the trenches.
If there is magic, there is interference. It’s what magic was, and what magic did. It “interfered.” I usually cannot lift a ton. With a little bit of magic doing some “eldritch interference” I can lift just over a ton. If I was willing to train and practice, if I have access to various tomes of power and art, and resources… I could. I definitely could, because magic.
Fucking magic.
Nothing ruins a perfectly good murder like some knob using magic. Guns and clubs and strategically applied switchblades are easier. Quicker.
And, apparently, harder to trace than “eldritch interference.”
“What a wonderful time to be alive.” I mumbled. It must have been just loud enough for Gravicki to catch it, because the old goblin laughed.
And just quiet enough for Marsh to not catch it, because he got his dander up, thinking I was still winding him up. “Listen you two-bit sorcerer, we got you for this! We GOT you!” He was almost spitting. Marsh was throwing around more anger here than I had expected. I didn’t know what nerve I was hitting on the little guy, but it was a solid F-Chord, the way he was acting.
Gravicki held up his long, spidery fingers spread wide again for peace and used one ropy arm to push Marsh back from where I was standing near the body. In his reedy, cracked voice, he told Marsh, “BW, go over to Mama Sue’s and grab me a coffee, she’s open. I need a word with Mister Archer, here. And I need a coffee.”
The two uniforms looked uncomfortable, and it wasn’t just the cheap boots they wore pinching their toes.
“Mario, he...” Marsh tried to argue.
Gravicki turned his full attention to Marsh, and the shorter detective stuttered to a stop as terror moved over his body like ants on a dropped lollipop.
“Three sugars, Detective Marsh.” His usually high, craggy voice dropped low and added some gravel.
Marsh turned and trotted up the street to the Elf owned eatery at the corner of Arch and 10th.
We both watched the chubby little man fast walk his way out of sight of his intimidating partner, before Gravicki turned back to me. “We don't have anything on you, exactly. You know it. I know it. Someday Marsh might know it, too.” Turning back to face me, he said in his normal, scratchy voice, “But we have a problem here. Redblood Terminal Market is right over there, and Elftown is right over there. And here, we have a dead body, which we can both see was savaged by something big, and which is also covered with eldritch interference.”
I must have had a look on my face, because the detective rolled his eyes giving me a look that said “I know, fucking magic, right?” before he continued.
“At some point yesterday, you and he had a meal and an argument at the Sandbox. We have a few witnesses to this.” I must have had another look on my mug, because he raised his hand for peace again. “AND…” he stressed the ‘and’ hard here, “And we have all of these very same witnesses saying that you left the restaurant before Mister Grimes, and that you even paid the entire bill, and told the owner to get Theodore whatever he wanted, and to put it on your tab. Now, to me, that doesn't make you sound like you hated the guy. Doesn’t even make you sound hostile to him. Not to me, ya see? So, I’m gonna ask you, because we can be polite and professional, right?”
I nodded at him.
“I’m not even gonna ask you ‘Did you kill Mister Grimes?’ see? I’m gonna ask you something much better.”
I made a slow “go on” gesture with my left hand as I kept eye contact with Gravicki. He had classic goblin-golden eyes that were just on this side of rheumy, with a side of puffy; I knew my own eyes were not a common color amongst my people, were brown like a deer, or a human. It used to get me lots of attention from the girls when I was a much younger, much prettier goblin. The War and a few decades changed most of that.
Some goblin men, however, found my direct, brown-eyed stare unsettling and confrontational. Like they were staring into the eyes of some exotic forest animal, something from the Elflands. Or something from the human realm. But something they weren’t usually ready to see on the streets of old Pol-Adérfia.
“Do you have any information on why Mister Grimes is now dead in this alley, Mister Archer?” It was a simple question, open ended, and filled with blank spots. And I hated it.
I took a big breath, and told the detective what I knew.
“Teddy and I went to Central together. We never hung out in highschool, but we weren’t enemies or anything like that. I was a cat-chaser and he was a bookworm. He took a lot of pictures of everybody for the yearbook. After graduation, I signed up for the Army. No family, so no chance at college without doing a tour or two in the Reg. But then the War broke out, and I wound up in the trenches over in the Old Country.”
I looked down at Teddy’s corpse. “I heard Teddy got into a good school, and didn’t have to join the Draft until after he got out with a degree. By the time he made it out of Boot, I heard he was made a pasty-faced desk officer in logistics.”
“That make you mad, Archer?” the detective asked.
I thought for a moment. Answering too quickly looks like you’re not thinking about it. Always a bad look with the PD. “No. I couldn’t imagine him in the Slog. But, I couldn't imagine him missing a detail in the Quartermasters’ Corp. He probably was good at seeing that those of us at the Front had things like bullets, fresh socks and just enough beans and salami to not resort to eating our lieutenants.”
“Any contact in the years after the War?”
I shook my head, took off my hat, and scratched at a scar on my forehead over my right eyebrow. “None until yesterday. He called my office and asked for a meeting. Said he needed to show me something.”
“What did he show you, Mister Archer?” Gravicki continued being polite; I thought it was only fair to do the same. I pointed at the big, overstuffed book that was lying near his cold body in the alley.
“Just that. Packed with old pics from our days in school. He asked me to confirm the names of some of our classmates.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I said.
“Then why the argument?” He was looking sad now, like my answers were going to make his life harder than he was used to.
“He was getting a little cracked around the edges about some of the pictures. He would hold up a pick from us at Central, and then hold up a pic of some young broad he took recently that looked like someone we went to Central with. He wanted me to agree they were the same dame.”
“What?” His voice now cracked in irritation.
“Yeah. He got really worked up about it. Anyway, then he says he wants me to investigate if these two are related. So I tell him my rates, and he gets mad.”
“Are your rates that high?” Gravicki smiled now.
“I didn’t think so, but Teddy says I should be doing it gratis. And then tries to show me more pics of more young women. He had a lot of them.” I shook my head, it all made no sense.
The police detective and I stared at the body. And then he waved over the two uniforms, told them to collect the photo album, too, as evidence. They did it, and with only some minor grumbling.
…dead body? Sure boss! Big fucking book, too? Why you so mean to lil’ ol’ me?... I kept a straight face, and didn’t crack myself up in front of the cops and the dead body of my dear old school chum.
He released me, gave me the standard warnings about not leaving town. I had no plans to leave town, but now that he said I couldn’t, I wanted to grab a bus, boat, plane, or train going anywhere. It wasn’t a helpful attitude, but it was a solid part of my nature.
“Know your own nature, and the World will not be able to use it against you.” It was a mantra I had learned back in the special training I had to go through with the OSS during the war. Some days I even paid attention to those old bastards.
He gave me his card, and when I attempted to give him mine, he waved me off. “I know how to get in touch with you, Mister Samael Sturmon Archer. No worries, I know.” He smiled a crooked smile at me, and tipped his dark gray fedora as I turned and started to walk away. Creepy old gob even knows my middle name, it turns out.
Later in the day, sitting in my small office as noon was trying to creep up on me, I thought about the meeting I had had with Teddy the day before. He had already been angry, not merely agitated, when I had arrived at the diner.
He kept telling me “THEY” had gotten into some Dark Stuff. When I asked him to elaborate on what “Dark Stuff” was, he shifted to talking about the War, and asking me about my time in the Army. He had hinted that he had known I wound up in the Office of Spectral Services, though he didn’t come out and say it, thankfully.
The last thing I needed was people in the neighborhood thinking I was a Spook. That kind of rep could see me losing all my business, and all of my contacts drying up faster than a metaphor in a simile storm. While we got nods from real soldiers about what we did in the War, we never talked about any of it. Even with each other, in those rare as hen's teeth moments when more than one of us showed up anywhere.
For an average green-blooded goblin, the OSS was a little too… Elvin. A little too… Fey for the neighbors to feel comfortable with you living in the same building. Walking those same streets. What would they tell their kids? Would YOU want one of us dating your daughter? Working alongside your son? What if one of us Spell-Shocked vets wandered into the local produce market and started slinging lightning at the grapes?
Most of us who were in the OSS just had a notation in our files about working with the OSS as guards. Transferred over from some ground-pounder unit for the convenience of the Top Bronze.
And most of us were exactly that.
Some of us, however, had been found and transferred because we had a spark of talent the OSS could use. And use us they did, believe you me!
Looking out my window, I could see the glories of Ludlow street at midday on a Freyatag. The donut shop, Cobbie’s, was doing a fine, fast trade of little cups of coffee, donuts, and the occasional wurst in a bun with a side of exceedingly greasy fries. Next door to Cobbie’s was Ajax’s Millinery, known for very expensive hats, and very cheap coats. The sun was just bright enough as it slanted through my window that I knew a midday nap wasn’t in my cards.
Also, the image of Teddy’s torn up body was going to bug me too much to seriously consider it. I had lied to Detective Gravicki. But it was just a little lie, so I dont think it counts. Not really, I mean, he’s a cop. Cops lie all the time, it’s only polite to lie to them.
I told Teddy I would look into it, and I took a few of the photos he had, both the old ones from our senior year, and a few of the modern peekaboos he had done recently. Some from around the city, some taken down in what looked like Wilmington, in Lenape. The rest were in random spots in Lenape County, the big county that made up the southwestern set of suburbs outside of Pol-Adérfia.
When I had gotten back to my office, I had sent Wilbur, the only son of my landlady who still lived in the building, down to Elftown to ask for a meeting with Shizi Huan, and another meeting with a representative of Heshuo Tenzin.
Shizi was a title that the local Elftown gang used to denote “the Heir to the Throne.” The aforementioned Shizi Huan was a reasonable elf, for a sociopath. If I showed him respect, and maybe a little flattery, he might answer a few questions I had about some things I truly hoped were not happening.
If I were lucky, I would get a meeting with a highly enough placed official in Heshuo Tenzin’s Tong to be able to either answer my questions, or to get my questions to someone who could or maybe someone who would. The On Bing Tong was the largest of the local Tongs south of New Amsterdam, and Heshuo Tenzin made his organization run smooth as a shaved otter. I doubt I would meet Tenzin himself, as his title suggested, the Prince of Heaven on Earth was too busy to see a lowly goblin, much less a private investigator, like myself.
Wilbur came wandering back into the office around 1 o’clock looking like he had seen the face of Heaven and the face of Hell and he honestly couldn't say which was worse.
“What’cha got for me, kid?” I asked as he slowly turned back to me once the door had been closed.
The kid honestly looked a wreck. His hair was desperately missing his brush, and his clothes were all askew, with some random smudges here and there, as though he had been playing slides on a coal shoot. The thin young goblin slowly walked to my desk, and placed a small cloth bundle on the corner along with a red envelope.
He simply said “They will see you at 2 o’clock, Mister Archer. Here.”
And with that cryptic bullshit, he was back out the door and away like a shot of cheap bourbon.
Shit, less than an hour, and “they” would see me? “Here?” Who? Both of the interested parties? Absolutely cryptic bullshit.
2 o’clock finally rolled around, and I thought I might be ready.
With a little effort, I had done a quick clean up and tidy of the office. I didn’t get out the mop, or even the dustrag, but I had a good shuffle about the two room space I worked out of, and cleaned up any trash I had laying about, and filed or tossed everything else that was just tossed wherever over the last few weeks. I even wiped down the three chairs I had that faced my desk from across the small room.
The center chair was well made, thickly cushioned, and proportioned to human/elf standard size. The other two chairs were sized to goblins, and other diminutive peoples, like the dwarves that mostly lived under the city, and people like the redcaps and pixies that occasionally showed up in the city.
(Mostly to attend Phlyers games. Goblins, dwarves and redcaps like hockey, but everybody went to the stadium to see American style football whenever the Thunderbirds played. Then there is the Pol-Adérfia Athletics. The home town baseball team. That was for mostly just humans, and some of the minor fey. What can I say, it was a boring sport.)
Luckily for me that while I'm no neatnik, I don’t do well when surrounded by clutter. So the 40 or so minutes I had to clean my place was about 10 more than needed. I then used those remaining 10 minutes to cool myself down, put on a clean shirt (Remember kids, always keep a clean set of clothes in your work desk. Clients like to see clean, neat, professional clothes on the guy taking pictures of their hubbies playing a few rounds of Slap&Tickle with their secretaries.) and was then able to take that remaining moment to wash my face and comb my hair. I even set the kettle to simmer, and took out a plate of cookies and small finger cakes from a bakery I sometimes took the trolley all the way out to Medea to get.
I had just seated myself at my desk when the door opened, and three tall, elegant pale skinned apparitions glided silently into the office.
The yutzes didn’t even knock.
It was a private investigator’s office, so the jury was currently out on what the social customs and norms should be when entering the office of such a private contractor, I will admit. But, yutzes. Each one of them.
They were a study in homogeny. All three of the people who walked in wore traditional elven clothing, though in each case, it was decidedly modern. They wore business suits, but all in fine silk. Brown was the predominant color, along with accents in earthtones. Add in the crazy embroidery along seam edges, and at cuffs and lapels that was a hallmark of elven clothing.
I had been told it was a cultural marker the elven peoples all held, called “horror vacui.” Basically, it meant they feared open spaces in their artistic endeavors. If you ever wander into Elftown here in Pol-Aderfia, there’s not a square inch of open space that hasn’t been painted, carved, inlay, or mosaiced.
It’s visually exhausting.
My mother always just called it “busy” and “fraught.” It didn’t keep her from spending a wodge of cash on an elven shawl to wear at my father’s funeral, though.
Each of these tall, stoic faced pretty boys had long hair tied back in a queue thicker than my arm that trailed down their backs. I couldn’t see it from where I sat at my desk, but I would bet that whichever one was the highest rank would have the longest queue.
I noticed that two of the elves had on gold rings that looked like coiled dragons wrapped around several of the fingers of each hand. Which made them the fanciest and most expensive brass knuckles I had ever seen in my life.
That probably made this bunch Shizi Huan’s people.
I stood, and stepped out from behind my desk to welcome the men into my office. With a slight bow, I hedged my bets “Welcome to my office, Gentlemen. I appreciate His Grace sending such important men here to see me. As I sent in my message, I would have been very happy to have presented myself to His Grace, or to His representative.”
All three of the elves just stared at me for a solid 30 seconds before the one in the middle cracked a smile, making the other two laugh out loud in their soft, mellifluous voices. They stopped when the middle one held up their hand. The elf looked me down, and then further down.
These mugs were all around 6 feet tall. The average goblin was merely 3 and half to 4 feet tall.
“The Pickle farmer has made a joke? Are we offended?” The middle elf asked. I was guessing they asked me, but it was one of the other elves who answered.
The elf on the right said, “No, My Light of Heaven. The telónio intended respect, but did not realize you should be addressed as Junzhu. He can see your business attire, not the glamour you have enrobed yourself in to walk upon the street of the city. He may be of the Hobb lineage. Or possibly even have Talents.”
Well spoken for what amounted to a leg-breaker in a Tong gang.
The middle elf, who was apparently a “princess of the third rank” turned to the elf on her right with a look of mild shock on her face. The elf on the right had called me “Telónio,” which was just an old word from the Old World for my people.
“Pickle Farmer,” however, was a slur. The problem was, none of the average goblins of today’s generation had any idea of why “Pickle Farmer” should be a slur. It was a reference to goblin society being agricultural, with an emphasis on preserved foods… some 600 years ago. Sure, we may have had a “pickle based economy” at one point in our history, but we also used to wear shoes that curled up at the toes. Nobody cared.
Elves who called us “Pickle Farmer” wanted to get under our scaly green skins and make us cry; meanwhile here we were eating sandwiches made with pickles where an elf or a human would put the bread. Elves were just bad at schoolyard smack-talk. Go figure.
I had forgotten my Sight. Something you used every day became so automatic that it wasn’t even an effort to engage anymore.
Being trained in the Arts, I had learned to sift out what was fake from what was real very early on in my training with the OSS. During the War, it had been a Life Skill that any of us who wanted to live had cultivated.
If I chose to squint at the “princess,” I bet I would have seen a vision of femininity and beauty that would have taken my breath away, and been worth a thousand poems, blah-blah-blah and all that romantic pigshit. But, I always had my third eye open to what was around me. What I saw instead was an androgynous woman in a well tailored silk suit, standing between two slightly larger androgynous men, dressed likewise.
As a PI here in Pol-Adérfia, it was just a smart play.
I bowed again, and restarted, as though nothing had happened. “Junzhu, Please, come in. I am sorry you had to come here, as I said, I would ha…” Still looking at her assistant to the right, she interrupted my new introduction with a gesture.
She then turned back to me, and smiled. “So, you do not see my glamour, little…” she paused here, about to say Pickle farmer again, but changed course, “... mage.”
That was a stretch.
“I am intrigued. Is Luathael correct? Are you of Hobb Lineage?”
I gestured for her to sit in the nice chair.
“Apologies, my lineage is not something I can confirm for you.”
I could, sure. But, I wouldn’t. Fuck nosy elves, I’m the PI here.
“May I offer you and your retainers tea?” I figured that some hospitality might smooth some rough edges. She looked dubious, until I mentioned the cookies and cakes. All three elves brightened.
Sugar is a hell of a drug to some people. Elves got the Sugar-Shakes the worst of any of the races. Worse even than the humans.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I spent a minute or two arranging cups and plates, and serving confections to my guests. Once we were all seated again, I was about to bring up why I had asked for this meeting. Mostly by saying “About the reason I asked for this meeting…”
Luathael answered me, while the princess ate sweets, and delicately sipped at her tea.
“We have come to you today, because you sent a message to the Houses of both the Heshuo Tenzin, and the Shizi Huan.” At the second name, the princess closed her eyes and winced slightly. “Junzhu Maethrega has been sent here today to answer three questions for your edification, within reason.”
She wasn’t happy to be here. And not just because I was a little green guy instead of a tall, pale, smug, cookie-huffing, forest monkey.
“While these two men do not work together, and would never work together, both have found the situation that Elftown is currently facing to be untenable, and we would wish for someone of reason and neutrality to intercede on Our August behalf with the Constabulary. It Is the policy of both of these men that the investigations into the murders of Theodor Grimes, Maddy Telesco, Miranda Thwaits, and Holly De Luca, and any other persons, regardless of race, have nothing to do with Elftown, the Tongs, nor any of the …other elven community organizations.”
He delivered this with a straight face, and complete eye contact with me. It was borderline creepy as all Seven Hells.
The women he named were completely new to me, and I was betting that at least one, if not more of those names matched up with the photos I had in my jacket hanging in the closet in the other room, that Teddy had given me when we had had lunch.
With that, the princess set her now empty plate aside, looked directly at me, and said in a calm, not at all petulant and whiny voice,”What three questions do you have for me, Mister Archer?”
I thought for a moment, figured out my best angle, and then jumped in with, “Junzhu Maethrega, may the Light forever Shine upon you, do either of the groups you are here today to represent know who is doing these killings?”
She smiled. I was betting it wasn’t at my formality, as she answered, “Yes.” I could hear the smirk in her voice that wasn’t quite showing on her face.
I dove in again. “Junzhu Maethrega, may the You walk forever the Green Road in Grace, Will you tell me who the killer is?”
Her smile stretched so broad across her face, it went past “mildly attractive, and shot into the wild realm of “manic grimace.”
“No.” She almost sang the word.
On the surface, I was stoic, and would give absolutely no fucks. Not a tick of the cheek nor a flick of an eyelash. But on the inside, I was roiling with rage. This pampered nitwit was fucking around. She knows people are dying, but is quite happy to play these stupid games just because she doesn't like being sent to a goblin’s office.
“Junzhu Maethrega, I have more cookies and would like for you to take the rest of them with you when you depart, but first, please tell me the information you have been asked to convey to me so I may act as a hired impartial, neutral party on behalf of your organizations in helping the Local Constabulary with their inquiries into these deaths.”
She stared at me saying nothing for a good thirty seconds before I raised my eyebrow at her. The princess was not amused.
“That wasn’t a question.”
“It was a request for information, from me to you, and a reminder that I can act as the hired arbiter your community is looking for, if that information is provided to me.” I said. I hammered the word “hired” into the sentence again, just to make sure they knew that my services here would cost them.
I have bills, just like everyone else.
“That was NOT a question.” She didn’t look mad. But, she looked as mad as anyone who ever dealt with her in public had probably ever seen look when she was mad.
Luathael bowed to the Junzhu, and said calmly from his deep bow, “Beloved Sister of the Heshuo Tenzin, it was a request for information, as Mister Archer has said. It was also an acknowledgement of his acceptance of working on behalf of your Royal Brother’s interests in this matter.”
The Junzhu’s head turned to the left. Her other attendant, chatty as ever, stared at me. Then in a quiet, deep voice, slowly answered in one of the tongues from the Old World. “Tha an losgann beag a’ bruidhinn na fìrinn, agus tha e air a bhith modhail. Bhiodh do bhràthair taingeil dhut freagairt.”
What I heard with my ears was “Ha-anloz-gan-abrewin-na- furnnnnnnnblah- DEblahhBLAHdeblah…”
I sure as hell didn’t speak it, but I knew a spell. So I forced my Will and Thoughts into the proper shape once I knew he was going to start speaking something other than English. Maybe he couldn’t speak English. Yeah, and maybe I would learn to play the guitar tonight.
I didn’t react as my mind filled with his deep, calm voice addressed the princess in a steady translation, “The little frog speaks the truth, and has been polite. Your brother would appreciate you answering.”
That rude, pale-faced, tree-fucking, sugar-monkey. And here I gave him the cookies with the raspberry jam centers. I love those.
I kept my face as bland-as-milk-in-an-icebox as he and the princess discussed it between themselves for another round or two. Finally she turned back to me, and said in a voice more calm than I expected.
“You are looking for someone who is cursed. Someone who becomes a beast. Someone who, like you yourself are rumored to be, was trained in the High Arts, and has hired himself out to use those Arts in forbidden ways. You are also looking for several wealthy men of status, who hired that beast. Those who hired him wanted to prey upon those poor souls who are wracked with sorrow and vainly wish to reclaim that which they lost, as all of those of mortal kind do. When those who paid him for his services have gotten what they wanted from their clients, those clients are then disposed of. Some feed the Beast. Some feed the River.”
She looked at me, and then looked to each of her companions, and she stood, turning to leave.
I stopped her party at the door, and with a small bow, offered Junzhu Maethrega the white paper bag of pastries I had bought in Medea. She breezed past me into the hallway, never even glancing at the bag.
Mister Chatty gracefully swept the bag from my hands as the two men left with the princess. As they made their way to the stairs, Luathael tossed me a red envelope bugging as thick as a brick. I caught the thing as it flew toward my chest.
“Your retainer, Mister Archer. And a week’s worth of expenses up front. You may invoke the Heshuo’s Name and Title once, only.” Luathael called as the three disappeared soundlessly down into the stairwell. That last “only” sounded more like the proverbial Knell of Doom than any single word had any right to.
They want me to be their arbiter, but “only” invoke my theoretical employer’s name and title once.
Fucking elves.
Walking in the front door of Gio’s Place, a little Grakus mom & pop restaurant in Sharktown, was always a treat for me. Not only was the building a pre-1900 treasure of Pol-Adérfia, which meant that unlike more modern buildings like the one my office is in, this place was built for goblins, dwarves, etc. The building my office was located in had been built after 1900, and so was built to accommodate every race except the Jotuns.
But, as the old saying goes, fuck those guys.
The front of the cozy little place was well lit and smelled of fresh baked bread and a few metric tons of roasted garlic, but as you walked toward the back rooms of the little eatery, the dark ambiance of the gloomy little alcoves made for the perfect place to meet with people who generally didn’t want to be seen being met with. Client confidentiality protected both parties here.
Some of these people came here to Gio’s Place to do exchanges, they consider Gio’s neutral territory. Other’s come here to broker deals, or get an inside line on what kind of chaos the local Scene might be throwing up in the near future; at least three rumor mongers had regular booths here, and there were at least two tables here reserved for representatives of some families with notable names.
Honestly, I came here on the regular for the lamb giouvetsi, and the fresh tiropsomo. Every once in a while, I will swing into an occupied booth to speak to someone who might know things I might be willing to pay to know myself.
The owner, Thea Gianna, is notorious for not tolerating people fighting in her place, and her uncles, brothers, nephews, and more sons than a woman who looks that good should have all made a point of treating infractions on Thea Gianna’s property or her reputation with a sharp finality.
Walking past the hostess stand, I nodded to Nicola, Gianna’s only daughter. She smiled at me, her pretty red eyes twinkling at me beneath a tousled mop of equally red hair that contrasted with her olive green skin, and asked if I was there for dinner or drinks, and had a look in those lovely eyes that said drinks just might be on her.
I told her I wanted to catch a bite to eat, and needed to speak with Molly Two-Mouths, if she was in. No matter what vibe I might get from Nicola, three things would always stop me from taking that bait.
One, she was skinny in what I considered an amount best described as “too.”
Two, I didn’t know how old she was, she had definitely been a teenager when I had first started coming here, but while I might suspect she was almost thirty, being woefully wrong on that score would see me chased out of town as if my life depended on it IF I was lucky… by number…
Three: her legion of male relatives, all of whom worked and lived in this very building.
She pouted a little, and said “Booth eight in the Red Room, Sammy. She hasn’t seen anyone tonight that I know of, so you could probably just go and have a seat with her now.”
As I walked towards the Red Room, the sound of Nicola angrily straightening the menus made me wince a little. If she was going to make it a problem for me to do business here, then it would also be a problem for me to eat here.
Seriously, their tiropsomo would haunt me if I couldn’t get it at least once a week.
I approached Molly Two-Mouths’ booth, and knocked lightly on the high-backed seat to let her know I was here.
“Cop a squat, Samwar.” Her voice was melodious, and spoke in harmony with itself. “Two-Mouths” was living under a curse that on the one hand meant she could sing a duet with herself, but on the other meant she was a little sensitive about her looks. Which was both a shame and a travesty to the very Idea of Justice in this world.
Any green-blooded guy from his 50s to 180s would gladly get a crick in his neck watching her walk down any street in the city, even if that guy were a priest. Molly might not be a spring chicken, but by any yardstick she was a solid 39 1/3 inches… ‘cause you just had to meter.
She was one of the only people to call me Samwar. Most called me Archer, or Sammy. But Molly was one of those rare few goblins who knew my full name. Some mooks tried to guess or assume what it was, and just threw caution to the Four Winds and called me everything from Samuel, Samael, Samson, Samian, and one joker even tried “Samwise.” But, my mother had come over to the States from a city called Khartoum, in Sudan. Apparently “Samwar Ismail Sturmon Archer” sounded good enough for my pops to not stick up for me, and as a bonus, made mom happy.
I sat, and when one of the waiters came by almost immediately, I ordered my dinner, and offered to get dinner for Molly.
Luckily enough for my wallet, she was drinking dinner tonight, and just wanted another glass of Mavrodaphne. It was a Greek red that was way too sweet for me. I ordered a coffee, they made it so rich here, I couldn’t resist.
Once the waiter wandered off with our orders, Molly wasted no time in asking me what I wanted. She was on edge about something, and maybe I was a part of that, and maybe I wasn’t. But it was always healthier to assume you’re the problem than not, so I just pressed on and hoped I would get a chance to ease her mind.
“I heard you might have run into some trouble with Teddy Grimes.” She said it blandly in her Alto/Soprano duet.
“Well, I had lunch with him yesterday, and now today, he’s dead.” I said. “I may not have been close to the guy, but after the fact, I saw what happened to him. No one should go out like that.”
“It was bad?” She asked me. And it occurred to me I might be able to feed her some information, which was her stock and trade, and possibly get what I needed without paying for it with a leg. Especially not my own.
“I was very bad, Molly. Whatever got at him opened him up, and took a fair amount of his innards out. And didn’t leave them lying around afterwards, either.”
Molly sipped at her last glass of the wine as she watched me through narrowing green eyes. “So, now we’re sharing a meal.”
It was a basic statement, but I knew what she meant. “Molly, I had nothing to do with what happened, and so I doubt you’re now on that same menu.” I tilted my head, and she looked back at me, daring me to somehow back up what I was saying. “I don’t know how many people might have heard…” I dropped my voice for this.
She leaned forward, instantly hooked.
“But, the leader of the On Bing Tong, and the head of the South Moon Gang both sent a representative to my office to let me know that THEY didn’t have anything to do with this, and hired me to let the constabulary know that, too.”
She stared at me. One mouth was slowly sipping from her petite wine glass, the other was chewing over what I had just told her.
“Is this a paid gig? Are you now In the Circle?” That was an old cliche term for guys who were connected. I had no such illusions, because I knew I wasn’t. I was just the paid help here. I knew both of those illustrious groups wouldn’t lift a finger to help me unless it benefited them. “Who did they send to you to offer you this auspicious job?” she asked me finally. And with that, I knew I had her. This would be an exchange.
“Well, Moll, I need to know if Teddy came to you asking anything before he came to me. And I need to know if there is anyone locally who might be a Black Wand working on the sly. This special someone would have been buying extra heavy potions for pain by the crate.”
“Samwar, you know every potion, every reagent, every back-alley mix by every two-bit wannabe alchemist has its own horde of junkies. That’s not an easy trace. Not for anyone.”
She was right, but I had more, and just asking the right question would give her as much new info to broker to other possible clients as what I wanted. “This isn’t just another tripper looking for their next kick. This is going to be a mean Spell Slinger, maybe even someone who shares a War-time occupation with myself, who has been enlisted locally to jazz up some few faded Roses. I was given the names of several who are all now in a similar state to that of my old school chum, Theodore.”
As I named some of the names I had been given, I looked her directly in the eyes, and she stared back at me. I could see no small amount of anger building up in the corners of both of her mouths. Some of these names were as much news to her as they had been to myself. And some of these names were dolls that Molly knew.
She set down her dainty little wine glass, and set her shoulders. “There’s a goblin I've met. Not recently, though. I know he still lives in Old City. But I hear that lately he has been working in Walnut Hill, for the Todds doing glamours for the girls at the Cheese Shop. His name is Kofaks. Lionel Kofaks. Moved here from Cinci after the War.”
That made me blink. Hard.
The Todd Brothers, Stevie and Lyle, owned a lot of real estate around the city. They ran at least three brothels, and no less than eight clubs. The Cheese Shop was the closest thing they had to an “upscale” brothel. The shop front itself was legit. But if you came in the front door and asked for a “third of a pound” of any German cheese, you would be shown downstairs to the “Aging Room” to pick out the pretty young “cheese” of your choice.
Then you would be shown to a private room to enjoy the Cheese.
The Todds were notorious for abusing… the Cheese.
The waiter brought my dinner, and Molly’s new glass of wine flavored syrup.
I ate my souvlaki on pilaf and a side of fried smelts with skordalia. And I drank my coffee. I took my time, savoring all the rich flavors. Molly drank her syrupy wine, and I signaled for the waiter to bring her another.
I pushed my plate back, and sipped the final dregs of my gone all too soon cup of coffee. “The Junzhu was sent to my office with a heavy glamour and a pair of minders wearing Bronze Dragons. One minder was a well spoken representative named Luathael. The other did not speak in the King’s Lingo during the visit, but did call me a “ little frog” in whatever that Old Tongue they use is when they think no one can understand them. Possibly like maybe this guy…” I paused to swallow. “Like maybe he lived in a place like Eboracum.”
Her eyes widened a little at that. Not many of the old Elf Queen’s Ravens were allowed to fly so far from Jorvik.
Telling her that Tenzin’s little sister was sent out to do a minor job was one thing, but that she had done it under a glamour, and that she had been sent out with those particular representatives was a lot of info for Moll to peddle.
As I left the booth, Molly’s twinned voices said to me in their odd harmonies, “You should ask a nice woman out on a date. Soon. Nicola, perhaps. She’s a nice woman.” She stressed the word “woman” each time she said it. Maybe she knew I thought of Nicola as a kid still. “Ask her out before you visit the Todds, Samwar. She’s a good woman. Been carrying a torch for you for a few years. And you should have a taste of that in your life before you throw it away. Or get too old. Don’t miss the best bits of all this.”
I have nightmares. I’ve had them since the War. Some nights it just means I toss and turn in my bed, maybe I wake up in a sweat.
Other nights I scream in my sleep.
It’s not a life I want to subject anyone else to.
I didn’t want to subject myself to it, either. But it’s too late now. I can’t go back and not get drafted. I can't un-join the OSS twenty-eight-some-odd years after the fact. And I can not unsee what I have seen. Nor can I undo all of the horrible things I have done.
With a full belly and a roiling conscience, I wandered back to my flop. It was a simple little place, reasonably priced, and within walking distance to my office. It’s two floors up from my office, in fact.
I was losing that post dinner bloat that a good heavy meal lays on a guy as I topped the stairwell leading up to my apartment. But it all went sour when I was in sight of my front door.
The door was cracked slightly open.
I checked my piece in my shoulder rig, feeling its reassuring weight. Gave my right leg a little shake, feeling my backup bounce above my brogan. And then touched the surprise I kept in my jacket, in a special pocket I had a tailor put in all of my coats, as I cautiously made my way to the door.
I could hear the sound of someone talking in calm, measured tones as I stood just inside the shadows outside of the light that crept from my apartment’s door.
The voice belonged to a man. From his tones and inflections, a goblin, like myself, and from his accent and word choices, not a local boy.
Unlike myself.
I eased the pistol from my shoulder holster, and dropped my now heavy right hand to my jacket pocket. I briefly wondered if I should also take out my rod from where it hung snug in the special pocket of my tweed.
I left it where it was. A surprise was only a surprise until it wasn’t.
Edging the door open lightly, I could see the back of the head of a goblin sitting in my reading chair by the little table I usually had my breakfast at, or on which I set my tea cup while I read. Something he had in his left hand glowed, and flickered in the dim light of my living room.
There was a buzzing pulse in the air that made my teeth hurt and my ears itch. Someone had cast a power heavy spell, and was maintaining it.
It wasn’t, from what I could tell, a heavy piece of spellwork, but it was being held with far more strength than was necessary. Like one of those bodybuilder guys that hang out at the Shore, flexing their quads like madmen, trying to get your attention.
We all get it, pal. You have muscles… and identity issues.
I was about to charge in, when the goblin sitting in my chair spoke up loud enough for me to hear what he was saying.
“No, no need, Brandywine. He just walked in. I will talk to you later.” That didn’t quite stop me, but it certainly slowed me down. “Yes, I’ll be fine. Send the crew around for a cleaning job in about twenty minutes.” A pause. “Yes. Nothing to worry about. I'll take care of it all." And with that, the flickering light in his hand died out, and the incessant buzzing he was creating with the spell died with it.
I made it the rest of the way in the door, and slowly closed it as I said, “Mister Kofaks, I presume.”
A slight chuckle, “And you are Mister Archer. I’ve heard of you, sir. I’d tip my hat, but it’s on the coat rack, over by you. I just can’t reach it, mac.”
He half turned to me, and I could see by the light of my reading lamp, and the light spilling in from where it had been left on in my kitchen that the smiling man was heavily scarred.
The right side of his square face had taken a heavy hit at some time in the past, and whatever had done it had been rude enough to leave it a mess without even offering to clean up after itself. The fold of his right eyelid melted and flowed into the swell of his cheekbone, and the cheekbone itself was barely covered by a thinned out strip of barely green yellowed, and scarred flesh that stretched in a tangle of ropey segments down to meet his jaw.
The mutilation of his flesh had gone down the side of his face, and disappeared into the well starched collar of his shirt.
I looked at the mook as I walked into my living room. “I wish you had just made an appointment, It would have saved you the trouble of breaking into my place, Lionel.”
“Well, Sammy, I’m not always in charge of my social calendar, ya see. I have people I work for. They call the shots, and I pours the drinks.” He said it in a crappy impersonation of the South D’arphy accent that visitors always get wrong. Next thing you know, he’d be “axking me for a cuppa wooder.”
The jackwagon. The absolute jamoke.
“Alright. I know how that goes. You’re on a leash, and the Todds will be sore if you're not back in time to see that all that Emmentaler looks good, right?”
He blinked at that, then he let loose a gail of harsh laughter. For the first time, I noticed that his left eye was a milky white.
The running wax motif that had been done to the right side of his mug was bad enough, but it extended well onto the left, as well. Meanwhile, his right eye was staring at me with a rabid weasel kind of intensity, the heavily bloodshot sclera surrounding a misshapen muddy iris, and a too large pupil.
He was on something strong that some other mook might use for the worst kind of pain.
I edged around the wall toward my kitchen, as I spoke to the mad goblin in my home.
Shit, Moll had been right. I do need a better life.
“So, you’ve heard of me?” I asked, just to keep the pot dubbing away on a simmer. No need to boil.
“Are you kidding? Samwar Archer was the gobbo whose body count everyone had to beat back in the OSS. Not a damn day went by in the Eastern Theater that we didn’t hear about THE Sergeant Archer!”
By the time the War ended, and I was able to demob, I had been a Captain. But, no need to confuse the guy with facts, he didn’t look like new facts would make his day go any better.
And with that, he jumped up from the seat, and gestured wildly about the room, arms flailing, as if encompassing all the world. “You were one of the FIVE, bud! They hung your pictures in the C&C room, and every morning during our briefings, we all looked up to see your faces. You, and the others.”
In my mind’s eye, I could see the photos he was talking about. Four young, fresh faced goblins and a dwarf. All of us in our Dress Uniforms. All starched collars and medals hanging on our Dress Jackets. The DOD had even sent my mother a copy of that photo of me on my graduation day from the SMS, the Strategic Mage School. She had been proud of me, but deathfully afraid for me. Goblins and magic had a bad history. We weren’t elves. We weren’t dwarves. Weren’t even humans. But, some rare few of us do have natural talent. And the DOD and the OSS decided the War Effort needed a few Goblin Mage units. And I wound up as a member of a Unit just called “The Five.”
I hate that term now.
“The Five.”
Having been one of “The Five” was why I couldn’t sleep most nights. But, this revelation told me that Lionel had had enough talent in Magic to get pulled into the OSS, but not enough to be doing primary tasks working in the field. He was probably part of a scrying team, or possibly, if he did go out in the field, he might have been “a scrubber,” someone who earned their daily Bread in Uncle Sam’s Army by using magic and spells to hex enemy equipment.
Every bit helped in the War Effort, as the recruitment posters and ads for Bonds used to say.
He looked around the little apartment room, and gestured at it all. “And now THIS is your life?” He looked perplexed. And angry. “THIS?!”
I looked around at the simple room. Seeing the chair, the table, the standing lamp and the small radiator under the window. The small chest over in the corner had been opened. It held the extra blankets that I kept there for when the radiator didn’t work as well as I might have wanted.
“The War was a long time ago, Lionel. This is how I live now.”
I didn’t say “This is how I can live with myself now.” That would be telling. No need to tell the creepy little man that I was just a Spell-Shocked as he was, I just wore mine on the inside.
He didn’t scream, but it was a close thing. “YOU WERE A WARHOUND! You could have anything you want! ANYTHING! And you’re here, in this dinky little apartment! Running errands for whoever pays. You may as well be a waiter! ‘Would you like some more wine, Moll?”
I must have blanched, because he looked too happy now. “Oh, Brandywine told me! And I’m going there right after I finish up here!”
As he finally turned to fully face me, I could see he held a small wand in his left hand. The thing was the regular Army Issue that those of us in the OSS all got, but his had broken, its end was splintered, and if the tip frayed any further, it would look like a tiny broom.
Fuck.
I Raised my hands to show him I wasn't armed. I was hoping he failed to notice how much my right jacket pocket was sagging.
“You could be living big, man. You could be a name here in Pol Aderfia! You could be one of the men who pull leashes, instead of one of those schmucks on a leash! You used to be a HERO! And now you’re…You’re just old and sad and alone.” He was worked up now. I didn’t know if the potion he was on was egging his fit on, or cooling it off.
“Lionel, I don’t need to be that kind of name. I got enough of that in the War. I’m just a PI now. I have a job, and sometimes I help people. That's all I need.” I said as calmly as I could.
“No.” He said. “You WERE just a PI. And then Brandywine told me you were coming for me. He said you Wanted a CHANGE, and were going to push me out. TAKE my PLACE! Well, I’m not a push-over!”
His pot was bubbling over now, and spittle was flying as he ranted.
“Stevie and Lyle paid well, but they don't have the vision. They liked treading water where they were… up to now, they had been kings. They don't see how much more I could do. I was gonna show them, after I take care of you, and the cursed old bag who sells secrets. I’ve already done the Todds, too! Those swine are out at a pig farm in Bucks County now, becoming a new load of manure!” The spittle was really flying now.
I felt my hopes start to sink as he ranted, and I was afraid of where this was all leading.
“And with the right curses, and some sacrifices, I can now make the women look even younger!” He was starting to screech instead of speak now. “And YOUR blood will help me!”
He took the end of his want and caressed the side of his jaw, and the cracking sounds it made while the bones beneath that scarred skin shifted and lengthened turned my stomach.
As I watched, he began to shift, twisting his body into a new, hideous form. Haphazardly, he changed his body by starts and turns. It wasn’t the smooth transition that my unit trained to do. We were trained to change all over, all at once. Having a huge wolf’s jaw on a small goblin skull was a painful, impractical, and inefficient way to do it. Stretching muscles out to fit on bones that cracked and spread to accommodate a new shape that wasn't there yet was just serving pain on a platter.
This, however, was sloppy.
And it was slow.
Maybe Kofaks thought the horror of what he was doing would keep me rooted in place. Maybe that was what worked with his previous victims. I slid my right hand back into my jacket pocket.
And it was almost as painful for me to watch as it was for Lionel to bloodily stumble through. I was a little surprised he had survived doing this to himself before. But, judging by how much his mind was slipping, I know at least one of my old OSS majors would point to his broken mind as proof of his incompetent transformations, and vice versa.
He had a jaw that looked more like a croc’s than a wolf’s, teeth sticking out at odd angles, and his hind legs were mismatched in length, causing him to shudder and stumble as his hunched back tried to straighten out beneath a spreading mat of gray-brown fur that had too many hints of that classic goblin green coloration from his own scaled hide.
Maybe he thought his transformation was fast. Pain can ruin your sense of time.
Maybe he didn’t realize how afraid of him I just could never bring myself to be.
He was a petty chump playing at being a Grandmaster.
The sound of my thirty-eight was loud in the small space of my living room.
The idiot had been so intent on the transformation shitshow he was putting on, he didn’t realize I had pulled a gun out of my pocket until I had pulled the trigger. If he hadn’t been doped out of his gourd on back alley painkillers, maybe he would have searched me, or made me turn out my pockets.
But then, if my uncle had different wedding tackle he would’a been my aunt.
The busted old wand he had been using fell from his paw-like hand to my hardwood floor, and rolled a sad semicircle toward me.
He was slowly transforming back to his normal form as he panted and bled out on my floor, his one good eye red-rimmed and watching me as I drew my own wand from my modified inner jacket pocket, replacing the gun in its holster.
“You got sloppy, Lionel. You let the Talent take over, the need to do magic is an itch. You scratch it, it just keeps itching. It’s called discipline. Maybe next time around you might get it.”
I brought up the wand, and as the light began to fade from his one remaining eye, I started to clean up the mess.
At lunchtime the next day, I was sitting in a booth in the Sandbox, waiting on a fried steak bagel, and a side of pickle salad when the lanky, stooped form of Detective Gravicki walked in with his sweaty little fat partner trailing behind.
Marsh looked like a plump little stormcloud, full of lightning and rage. And possibly greasy popcorn.
I knew they would be joining me, I had called Gravicki an hour earlier.
“Detective Gravicki, glad to see you. I have some news you might want to hear, it’s about Teddy’s murder.” I said as the waitress bounced over to bring me a coffee, and assure me my lunch was on the way.
I raised my eyebrows, and gestured to them and to my coffee.
Gravicki shook his head as he sat in the booth across from me. He didn’t slide in, making it clear that Marsh could stand. Marsh stood. And glared.
I nodded acquiescence as I took a sip.
“Sorry. I was up late. Busy night.” I said.
Gravicki’s wrinkled old face managed a gruesome smile, as he asked “Your dime, gumshoe. What the good word?”
I savored the coffee a moment longer before setting it down. “Teddy was cut because he stepped on the Todds’ toes. They had a game they were running at the Cheese Shop. Possibly at one or two of their other dives, too.”
I let this sink in.
“That’s bullshit,” Marsh spat from where he stood. “You ain’t have no proof it was the Todds.”
Gravicki just turned to look at his younger partner, and the little goblin shut his fat mouth. The looks of outrage and terror on Marsh’s face was precious.
“Seems they had a Black Wand working for them, a guy named Lionel Kofaks. Real piece of work. Apparently, the Todds and Lionel got into a fight last night.”
“Bullshit!” came from Marsh again. “You can’t trust anything this rag-picker is trying to sell ya, Mario!”
This time, Gravicki didn’t even turn around. He just said, softly in his broken glass voice, “BW, be quiet. If I have to say it again today, I will strip your badge, and sell it for the tin.”
BW’s little piggy eyes glared daggers at me where I sat; and yet no fucks could I be bothered to give.
“It seems like after the fight they had, Mister Kofaks drove Stevie’s car out to the pig farm they own a share of in Bucks County. If you ask any of their employees at the Cheese Shop, neither Kofaks nor either of the Todds ever returned last night. Were I in a position of Constabulary Authority, I might call out there, and check out some of those very full swine sties. See if there is any evidence of foul play.”
Gravicki was doing that wheeze laugh that he did when he was trying to not laugh too loud in public. Can’t let the regulars see you enjoying yourself, after all.
“Lionel Kofacks.” He said.
I nodded.
“The Cheese Shop?” He asked.
I nodded again as I sipped my coffee.
“Pig farm?”
I slid a folded piece of paper to him, it had an address out in Bucks County.
“And the proximity of the body to Elftown?”
“Just where the body fell after the attack.” I confirmed.
Gravicki stared at me. He wanted me to push something at the elves. I shook my head.
“And the attacker?”
“Kofaks. As I said, a Black Wand. And very unstable, from what I hear from the women at the Cheese Shop. In a place where the Todd brothers made their money off of the women, those women thought Kofaks was a problem. He made those Roses scared, Mario.”
The old detective took off his hat, and placed it on the table as he smoothed back his thinned out, brittle, yellow-white, receded hair.
With a sigh, he looked at me, and said, “Well Mister Archer, the Pol-Aderfia police are happy to hear your cooperative nature has lent you some 25 cent words to give us a lead on what direction this case might have run off in. My partner and I will look into these events.” With that, he replaced the fedora on his well aged nugget with one hand, the other held up the paper I had written the address on, and the old detective creakily stood from the table. “We’ll be in touch.”
He turned to walk out, his partner whispering angry complaints to him as they made their way to the door. Gravicki wasn’t listening.
I yelled out “Hey, Brandywine!”
Detective Marsh turned toward me, a look of rage on his piggy features.
As I sipped my coffee, I made a gun gesture with my right hand and pointed it at him. HIs eyes widened as I mimed a “Pow! Pow!” gesture at the chubby little monster. He spun and ran to catch up with Detective Gravicki.
The waitress brought me my order, and I slowly ate it, savoring every bite as the December sun slanted through the diner’s windows.