《Port of Dreams》


 Chapter 1

    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¨C self-defense was a fairly straightforward explanation¨C 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¨C 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¨C 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¨C 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¨C the corporate variety¨C 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¨C some of them were now small enough to fit in my vest pocket¨C 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¨C and less expensive¨C 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¨C 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¨C 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¨C 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.


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.  ¡°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¨C nothing short of him being a fighter pilot stood chance of altering that outcome¨C 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¨C 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¨C which claimed some kid down the block from my office a couple of astros ago¨C 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¨C probably not but one never knew¨C 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¨C every species of humanity¨C 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¨C¡° 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¨C 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¨C 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¨C 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¨C which was strange since strictness was part of the job description¨C 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¨C despite what a certain sapien might think, I do know how to take them¨C 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.¡±

 Chapter 2

    Chapter 2


    She was no femme fatale, not like the back-stabbing elf in North to Oblivion. Now there was a classic movie based off a classic book. It sat on a bookshelf in another room along with several other twenty-plus jahr old books. I heard talk on the street over remaking it, along with He Flew In. Now there was as blasphemous a move as I have ever seen. They filmed it in black-and-white, so what? It gave the noir its character and despite what a certain motion picture town in a certain country might think, character still counts.


    Instead of a slim elf, who was as much bones as flesh, with her face hidden behind a silver mask, this potential client looked more like a stout factory hand. She stood looking at my framed certificate, standing stout in coveralls and a bright, white shirt that would not remain so pure after a few minutes on the foundry floor. Like any factory worker, she kept her hair short, shoulder length black strands rolled into a bun atop her head.


    I could tell immediately that there was no way on Towne that she was a factory worker. Aside from having clothes cleaner than any blue collar, she owned an auto so new it might as well have driven out of next jahr. Not even the highest paying union job in the Lullaby Motors complex would allow one of its employees to afford something as aerodynamic as a jet fighter. A high ranking manager perhaps. No, if she had those sort of connections, I doubt she would bother wasting her time waiting for a private investigator in a Bayfront office. Observing her for a few seconds, I quickly come to the conclusion that if I had to place bets, I would place twenty dinar on her not being from around here and the auto being a rental. Would not be the first time I have seen that.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± I asked as I stepped into my office. No point in a preamble considering that this is my office. Behind me, I let the door swing shut, a slight crack as it sealed itself. My guest turned to face me, allowing me a couple of seconds to admire her curves. It was not every day a young pygmaeus of the female persuasion wandered into my office. No doubt a sapien detective would lament over them. Not me, not for very long¨C unless directly connected to the case. While in the office, I am as all business as a dwarf could get.


    Approaching her, I stuck out my hand. ¡°Jack Hammer, Private Investigator¨C and yes, that is my real name.¡± So much more efficient to assume the rusted question was on a client mind and get it out of the way.


    She took my offered hand. ¡°Rosie Anvil,¡± her grip was firm, very business-like. I did not feel a ring on her finger, which proved very little these days. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a watch upon her wrist, one with a newfangled digital readout. Dwarf nothing, this here lady is a scatter-brained gnome. The old proverb about not being able to pick one¡¯s kin was more relevant among the two dominate philosophies of Homo pygmaeus than any other species. Not that it mattered in the office. A client was a client, and until proven otherwise I will have to treat her with more courtesy than I usually show the other side of my species¡¯ coin.


    I have to wonder about her name, specifically if it was an assumed one. Half the people who hire me never give me their real names. Unless it was vital to solving the case, I never asked. A client wishes to keep that to themselves, then it was none of my business. With an inner sigh, the unwanted image of Zollern reacting to the name appeared. No doubt the nominally dour peace officer would start cracking wise about hammers and anvils. At least he would until he took a clear look at her face. She met my gaze with steely eyes. Gnome alright and she knew full well I am a dwarf. Whatever he problems, they were critical enough for her to stomach talking to a ¡®blockheaded¡¯ dwarf.


    Not that I care. I would sooner call myself blockheaded than scatter-brained. ¡°Very well, Miss Anvil, how may I be of service?¡± She looked young enough to have yet married but as with the lack of a ring, it proved nothing.


    ¡°I heard you are the best. Looks like those claims have some validity,¡± she nodded at the certifications framed behind my desk. Aside from my private investigating licence, a lesser degree in law that allowed me to investigate, though never to practice law, hung proudly. As did my army discharge form telling the world that Lieutenant Hammer was hereby released from service in the Marasuanian Army.


    I never intended to serve as an officer. If you think the police department has a mountain of paperwork, they should check out the Army¡¯s bureaucracy. Paperwork there was not only a hassle; it was a nightmare. It was one of the reasons why I could never be a rodger. It was also said¨C by others¨C that Army is where I developed a pathological hatred for paperwork. I would not go so far as to call it hatred; paper only got in the way, slowed everyone down by filing reports nobody was ever going to read.


    As with so many other shortages brought on by the war, the Army needed officers and that was what they made me upon learning of my degree. It also meant I never once saw the front, fired a rifle in anger, serving instead at a prisoner of war camp. Can not complain too loudly about overseeing the few Navenians who fell captive, not when a few people I know never left the Army alive. Far fewer of the enemy survived the war, most of the people in enemy uniforms were typically shot on sight.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been told that if you can¡¯t take a case then it can¡¯t be solved.¡± She spoke emotionlessly, presenting the world a fact more of stone than flesh. If she was a sapien woman, she might even feel impressed. As she was a pygmaeus, I expected nothing less than total control.


    Walking around my desk, I gestured to the seat in front of it. ¡°I don¡¯t make any promises that I can¡¯t keep. If I refuse a case, that¡¯s on account that I don¡¯t think I can solve it.¡± Not legally, at any rate, and not in a fashion that would not result in me being shot, stabbed or otherwise ending my career face down in the bay. Parking myself in my chair¨C unlike a barstool, it was of a properly civilized height¨C and asked the obvious question as I leaned back. ¡°What needs solved?¡±


    Gnome or not, she was still pygmaeus to the core. Our two ways of life share far more in common than we differ, no matter how it appears, including our dislike of wasting time. ¡°I am looking for an associate of mine. He was supposed to meet me a couple of days ago.¡± Sounds not that different from half the cases I have solved. She produced a manila envelope like some conjurer on stage. Opening the stop, she spilled its contents on to my desk. Among the cache sat a few pages filled with scribble, part of a map and some photographs. It was far more than most clients offered.


    It never ceased to amaze me how many clients first arrive without adequate information, like the expected me to produce results from my seldom worn hat. None of those were ever Pygmaeus. When one of my species called on me, said person was always prepared. To do anything less would make a dwarf, or a scatter-brained gnome, look disorganized, sloppy, like they could not bother to do things right. I should question how seriously those people were about solving the case. I should, but I never have openly. A client was a client.


    Rosie sorted through he notes, pushing a color photograph forward. ¡°Professor Edgar Lemarquis arrived in Port of Dreams a week ahead of me. He said that he had to take care of a few details. What those details are, he did not bother sharing with me. He told me to meet him at a place called Dimmer Down in Tenzeil.¡±


    I never heard of this particular joint, though I do know Tenzeil. It is neighborhood filled with small shops, box stores and even a couple of shopping malls. There are some amusement parks and other traps designed to separate tourists from their money. To top it all off, the southern part of the neighborhood was all beachfront property, now gated communities largely inhabited by successful elves. I am fairly certain every aureus now residing in one of those mansions started their lives in this city as refugees. Some were now so wealthy that even their butlers wore silver masks.


    ¡°It took me the better part of a day to find the place. When I arrive and saw no sign of Professor Lemarquis, I tried his hotel.¡± Rosie shook her head, the only crack in a well-kept stone mask concealing her frustration. ¡°Naturally, he¡¯s not there either and nobody knows where he has been, much less where I can now find him.¡±


    As Rosie paused for a breath, I cut in with a couple of basic questions. ¡°Where does he work? Who is his employer?¡±


    Rosie blinked for a second, her train of thought clearly jumping the tracks. ¡°His employer?¡±


    That shocked expression told me more than words. She was hiding something. That was not a real problem in of itself since most clients always had something they wished kept hidden. If not, they would have brought their problems to the proper authorities, if ever such a thing actually exists.  With too much crime and never enough funding, the rodgers were not going to prioritize a missing person, not unless said person ended up murdered. ¡°I assume you want to hire me to locate him. Knowing who he works for might lead me in the right direction.¡± It could also alert me as to what sort of trouble I can expect.


    ¡°True,¡± Rosie admitted, tapping her chin with a finger. ¡°He doesn¡¯t have a specific employer any longer. He decided to go freelance. There¡¯s a far greater degree of flexibility working independent, of which I am certain you can appreciate.¡±


    There is plenty to appreciate at that. I set my own hours, take whatever job I decide is possible and am not constantly digging my way out of red tape induced cave-ins. Granted, the occupation has its dangers. Given the choice, I would rather die from a gunshot wound to the back than from ten thousand paper cuts. ¡°What¡¯s his field?¡± While a private investigate thrived when running his own show, I have no idea how anyone with the title professor would get away with it. No tenure out on the mean streets.


    ¡°Atomic physics,¡± Rosie chirped, sounding almost as cheerful as a gaggle of kids who just heard the jingle of the ice cream man¡¯s bell.


    I admit, I am not usually phased by whatever strolls through my door. I have seen quite a bit over the jahrs. Out of all the possible cases I imagined taking up next, looking for a missing person who probably had a high degree of top secret clearance was not one of them. Atomic physics¨C a little alarm in the back of my head screamed out danger. A man could easily end up spending the day sitting in an interrogation chamber if he asked the wrong question over at the naval yard. The Navy was real sensitive when it came to its pet boomers.


    At least that was a newfangled contraption that made sense. A submarine so large that it could carry missiles might seem utterly preposterous on the surface. After a couple seconds thinking over the problem, anyone with the sense of a duck could see the advantage in concealing one¡¯s most powerful weapons beneath the waves in a fortress that moved. What few enemies the nominally neutral Federal Republic of Marasuania has in the world would be hard pressed to take out ultima missiles while underwater and on the move. ¡°That is going to complicate matter.¡±


    It took Rosie a second to understand my concerns. ¡°No, no, not that sort of atomic physics. His research is a little more out there,¡± she nodded towards the window and the clear pink sky beyond, ¡°If you know what I mean.¡±


    I had a general idea. ¡°Astrophysics or something along those lines?¡± I was far from an expert on that particular topic, though I knew enough to understand how the atomic part comes into play, especially when it came to studying stars.


    ¡°Something like that,¡± Rosie agreed. ¡°On his last job, he spent three jahrs studying neutron stars at the Eindorf Observatory before going back to Rhosea.¡±


    That was quite a leap. He went from an observatory high in the mountains, one with the largest reflector in the world named after a giganticus physicist¨C that was as interesting of a story if I ever read one¨C right into a land now utterly devoid of human population. ¡°I wasn¡¯t away any telescopes remained there.¡±


    Now it was Rosie¡¯s turn to hesitate. She looked back and forth, surveying my office. For what exactly, I could not say. If she sought out listening devices or some other bug, she would end up disappointed. The most advanced piece of equipment I owned was a telephone the size of her head and I can not think of a good, or a bad reason why anyone would bother spying on me. ¡°Do I have your assurance of absolute confidentiality?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± What a stupid question to ask a detective running his own operation. I would not be much of a private investigator if I could not keep a secret. It is at the core of the business. It would be like asking a footballer if he could kick a ball. ¡°I have to inform you that if there is anything illegal, I mean really illegal, I¡¯m going to have to ask you say nothing further.¡± What I did not know could not land me in hot water with city, state or federal agents. Or worse yet, all three at once.


    ¡°Naturally,¡± Rosie blushed ever so slightly as she spoke, suddenly realizing she might have insulted me. Not that I took much offense in any client being overly cautious. I have lost count of how many people I have encountered who gave trust away like it was water in the ocean. It was clear something was going on here, something secret. Anybody with a dinar¡¯s worth of sense knew a secret¡¯s value diminished in proportion to the number of people who knew about it. Leaning forward, she continued. ¡°He led a team to Maldiva. Do you know the place?¡±


    ¡°Personally, no. Never been there.¡± Nor have I any plans to pay it a visit, not unless it was on a case. It was the only large city in Rhosea not erased from existence. The city itself still stood, more or less, even if the dragons drove out the inhabitants the hard way. It stood battered, now choked with marshy overgrowth. Why the Blacks spared it, who could say. I certainly have hear my fair share of hair-brained theories, up to and including the dragons¡¯ love of its architecture.


    Rosie lowered her voice. ¡°The city¡¯s university had a world renown astronomical department. The professor studied there, researched there for many jahrs. Only dumb luck the city did not vanish like the rest. He managed to escape with the shirt on his back. It took him a while, but he managed to organize an expedition to the city in search of its archives, to see what could be salvaged.¡±


    ¡°For the sake of papers?¡± I could not bring myself to buy into the notion that anyone entered dragon territory for the sake of research papers. It was almost as difficult to fathom that the man did not have other copies of the works there from which he could reference. Researchers love to publish their works, announce to the world and their peers¨Cmostly the latter¨Chow much they learned.


    Rosie sighed, a little more dramatically than the situation called for, or so I hoped. ¡°And equipment. He wanted to see if that survived too. It¡¯s rather advanced hardware; neutron detectors, a UV telescope and a few other pieces the kind that might go on a new research satellite.¡±


    ¡°He wanted to salvage what he could,¡± I nodded, an image starting to form within my mind. Some of the data did not quite add up though. Professor Lemarquis must have been working on some space probe when the dragons struck. Given how long ago that happened, it would have been the first of its kind. So advanced, in fact, it would have to wait a few more jahrs before anyone designed the first orbital rocket, let alone built it.


    He was working on something that Rosie could not discuss. Whether or not she knew her associate¡¯s reasons was not quite as clear. If I had to bet, I would say she knew some of it. In my line of work I have dealt with a great many liars, all of varying skill. Rosie was not a skilled one, far from it. She was as transparent as a window. While I could not discount the claim completely, not considering how eccentric some of these researchers behaved, it was as likely as finding gold in a storm drain.


    Not a problem. She planned on hiring me to find the man, not complete his work. If he wants to play around with equipment twenty-something jahrs out of date, that was his business. Considering that a gnome sat across the desk from me, no doubt there were some improvements made along the way. It would still be cheaper to start new than to salvage old equipment, but as I said, she is not going to pay me to complete his work.


    Rosie nodded, keeping her true thoughts masked better than most sapiens, transparent or not. ¡°That¡¯s the size of it. We salvaged what we could and brought it to Port of Dreams. He wanted to finish what he started.¡±


    ¡°Then it is possible that the details he neglected to inform you about might have involved meeting something from Marasuania¡¯s space program.¡± I seriously doubted it. They would be even less interested in older equipment, especially given the mass constraints of lobbing anything into orbit. Still, if Rosie planned on paying me to find the professor, did it really matter what the mad scientist did with his time.


    ¡°That is a logical conclusion. I suppose they might even have delayed him, sapien civil services being as inefficient as they are. I will have to give them a call.¡± She failed to hide her true thoughts for an instant. She really dreaded the impending run around bureaucrats loved to give. Good; it meant she intended on making the inquiry.


    Scratching my beard, a nagging doubt started yipping away at the back of my mind, like a small dog with the bark of one three times his size. Whenever a client offered to do some of the work, it was was another clear sign of trying to keep a secret. That was as much a law of nature as gravity, thermodynamics or rain falling ten minutes after washing your auto. Obviously, she needed help. Anyone capable of solving their own problems would not bother seeking my services. Whatever the professor found out in the swamp, I may never know. What is clear is that the man is missing and Rosie worried enough to hire me.


    ¡°Sounds like a straightforward enough case. Now for another question; have you spoken with the authorities?¡± I knew the answer was usually no and by observing the reaction of clients, sometimes it gave me a little more insight into the case. The usual response involved appearing very nervous. Whenever friends of family went missing, the police¡ªeven those of bloated big city departments¡ª tended to be the first stop. One avoided them for a good reason. In this case, bringing who knows what across the border without clearing it with customs.


    Unsurprisingly, Rosie simply looked back at me with a neutral gaze. ¡°No.¡± All things considered, I can not claim it surprised me. Only a few times before had clients been so open and every single one of them was a pygmaeus. ¡°As a mere assistant, I am not privy to all of his plans. I do know that he is a secretive man when it comes to research. He always worries that others might steal his findings and claim it as their own. It doesn¡¯t make the news often but theoretical research is a real cutthroat field.¡±


    Now there was something I did not know. Something I never considered. Research was research and that what took place in a university seldom had much immediate practical use. Sometimes I suspect these researchers push paper around while collecting grant checks. Now engineers working on the upcoming new contraption, they faced stiff rivalry. Or rather their employers did. Industrial espionage, while not making the news like the international variety, was as serious a business as was stopping the spies. Every so often, one of these companies hired me to find out where their ship of industry sprang a leak. They were certainly the better paying of my clients.


    ¡°I see. If you went to the authorities, they would ask questions. They would continue asking questions until you give them a satisfactory answer.¡± That much I remember very clearly from my army days. Prisoners faced long interrogation sessions and I still wonder why anyone bothered. Those who were actually taken captive were mostly grunts, ground pounders who knew nothing more than the orders issued by their officers and noncoms. A buck private is about as likely to know something about grand strategy as I would about what transpires in the governor¡¯s office. Actually, they would know less. I know enough to say whatever goes on in the state capital, it is probably crooked.


    ¡°That¡¯s the last thing the professor wants,¡± Rosie agreed. She shifted in her chair, trying to find a comfortable perch. ¡°If lawmen in uniforms started appearing at the university asking questions about him, that would not reflect well. He is as jealous of guarding his reputation as his work.¡±


    There are not a whole lot of industries that considered bad publicity as an asset. Even legitimate businessmen steer well clear of negative press, or attention of any kind for that matter. Street toughs might thrive on a bad reputation, until life caught up with them, stabbed them multiple times and left them in a back alley for dead. I can not think of an honest trade with a higher turnover rate.


    From what Rosie told me, the professor sounds like a man with a case of paranoia. As for the rest of it¨C that really was none of my business. ¡°Where is he staying?¡±


    Rosie pushed forward a scrap of paper with a name and address printed neatly upon it. ¡°The Oracle Hotel.¡±


    I know of that place. It was one of the luxury hotels in Tenzeil, one that drew in tourists from all over the world. Its design stood out against the skyline clear enough for one to spot it from up in Dream City. Entering the joint will offer me little trouble. With so many strange people passing through, who will notice one more? ¡°I¡¯ll start there. My initial fee is five hundred dinar plus expenses.¡± I quickly jot down some numbers on my notepad as I ran them through my mind. A case like this should not take more than three days, provided I do not have to travel far. If I do, then I will have to charge for fuel.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.    Rosie eyed the numbers presented to her. ¡°Do you take a check?¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°Not for the advance. Cash only. Keep in mind that there is no guarantee I will find anything. If I can¡¯t find his trail, I will let you know. Otherwise the rest of the fee will be paid on completion. We can negotiate the method of payment then.¡±


    Rosie scowled at me as she dug into a pocket. At least she came prepared for this eventuality. She dropped a pile of twenty-five notes on to the notepad. Atop the cash, she laid a small business card. ¡°I¡¯m staying at the Regal Shrine.¡±


    I reached over to scoop up the offerings. The card was the first thing I checked. It was nothing more than a Regal Shrine business card, stating the address and office hours. It sat somewhere inside Hilltop. Flipping the card over, I scanned the number scrawled on the back. ¡°I will call you as soon as I have news. Shouldn¡¯t take more than a couple of days to find out if I can solve it or where your professor went.¡± Judging from his photograph, the professor appeared old enough that I could not discount from him entering a second childhood. It was a condition known to strike sapiens who lived too long. ¡°I also can¡¯t promise to deliver good news if I find him.¡±


    Rosie jumped to her feet. ¡°If you made a claim otherwise, I would know you to be a liar. That is why I cam to you. If you don¡¯t believe you can solve a case, you are not shy in admitting it. In my case, any news would be an improvement. I wish you good fortune.¡± Without further word, she walked towards the door, showing herself the way out.


    Following her movement, I kept wondering home much she was not telling me, how much she did not even know, how important all of that would prove and, above all, in how much trouble this case could end up landing me. Tracking down missing persons is a straightforward case, a fact that never stopped life from throwing a wrench into the works. Well, whatever happens will happen. At least I will not have to leave the country this time.


    As a rule, I avoid Tenzeil. The place was too glossy, too new, and too designed to separate a chump from his money. If tourists were anything, they were chumps with more money than they knew what to do. I seldom encountered that problem on the rocky road of life. I knew exactly what to do with my money, even when I had it in excess¨C a state of existence I seldom experienced. Of all the things I would do with extra dinar, wasting it at a mall, resort or any other tourist trap was not on the list.


    Tenzeil might not have as many of those as chumps but it came awfully close. It also had far too much in the way of traffic. I sat in my twenty jahr old auto at one of the many offending traffic lights, windows rolled up thanks to a lory belching out fumes ahead of me. To either side of me waited autos much newer than my own, louder and painted colors so bright it hurt the eyes. They were not much better than the teamster, who at least had the excuse of hauling cargo.


    What reason had these other sapiens for taking up space? One auto full of them off to my left had a couple of sapiens arguing loud enough I could hear them both through thick glass and above a growling engine. I heard enough arguing in my time to know the types. These were tourists, lost ones at that, wasting their energy deciding who was at fault. In my opinion, they were both to blame for an extra auto clogging up traffic.


    To my right, local kids packed the four door auto, music pouring from it like so much audible bile. Sometimes I wondered which is worse; their taste in what is jokingly called music or their disregard for those around them. My auto naturally had no such luxury. If I wanted to listen to the radio, I would have stayed in the office. Besides, music is something best heard live, not canned on vinyl or one of them newfangled magnetic tapes.


    Mercifully, I did not have to endure this particular light and its residents for long. At the next block, the lemon yellow auto pulled into a large parking lot, an asphalt bay surrounding a two story shopping center. The massive concrete bunker had four giant department stores acting like its anchors and a great many smaller shops selling useless, overpriced or overly priced useless products within its confines.


    As soon as traffic began flowing at a pace slightly quicker than molasses, I moved around the lory, cursing it as the driver tried speeding up. Some drivers were simply not content with merely blocking traffic with their mere presence. Some of these sapiens, I swear that they believe parts of them will shrivel up and fall off if they ever let anyone pass them. The only difference between now and when my auto was new was that far more people drove with the erroneous belief.


    Once free of the exhaust, I wasted no time in cranking down the window, enjoying the breeze. Even a sea breeze reeking of rotting seaweed was a spot better than a seal auto during a sunny day. The large red orb above throbbed away, bathing Port of Dreams under its warm, soft glow. People walking along the sidewalks dressed in short clothes showing more arm and leg than I deem proper. A few men even walked without their shirts. All of them were sapiens¨C no, not quite all of them. One walking in the crowd wore the unmistakable green skin of a goblin.


    As best I can tell, all of them were tourists, people who purpose in life right now involved spending a lot of time taking up space. Tenzeil might be a nicer place for a drive if not for all these visitors. I could have reached the Oracle a half-hour earlier. Instead, I have the privilege of wasting that time ploughing through a flood of autos, stopping at ever other traffic signal as it let even more autos cross.


    Autos with people who were not out on important business. Even when the light graciously permitted me to carry on with my day, pedestrians would keep right on walking in front of traffic. How many people ended up dead or worse thanks to such lack of foresight. State and city government keep throwing money around, trying to find a solution to the high fatality rates when the answer stared them in the face. Stop walking out in front of vehicles that are physically incapable of braking in time.


    After fifteen more minutes or so of cursing and frustration¨C really, it is quite easy to lose track of time this way¨C I finally leave the endless savanna of paved road and short, wide concrete bunkers and entered a forest of metal and glass. Towers rose abruptly. One block sat nothing more than those squat bunkers and the next stood glistening glass obelisks a hundred meters high and taller. Neon signs capped most of the towers, announcing to the world their names. Only people likely to actually see them were those up at the observation platforms capping the ancient dam.


    The Oracle was an easy enough one to spot. It stood taller than most of its neighbors, laying claim to the largest hotel in the district. I spotted it several blocks away, its ultraviolet sign harsh on my eyes. Unlike many of its neighbors, its windows did not glisten in the sunlight. The hotel had a pair of tinted, one-way windows for each of its room, giving it a distinct dark, even foreboding appearance. If that was not enough to make people stop and take notice, its four sides sloping upwards, ending in a roof large enough to hold its sign did. Kind of surprising they did not use the roof for a heliport, given their clientele.


    Out of all the shapes they could have used, why a pyramid? It was a waste of space. With a base as wide as the Oracle¡¯s, its architects could have housed five times as many rooms if they designed it like a proper tower. Of course the owners did not permit it. They wanted it to look different, to stand out in a part of the city home to so many hotel resorts. Its ¡®ground¡¯ floor was actually the fifth; the lower four dedicated to hundreds of autos belonging to its guests.


    I drove past the garage¡¯s entry, scowling at the guest only sign flashing above it entrance. Given that parking was at a premium in the neighborhood, I could hardly fault them their policy. Instead, I brought my rig to a halt in a driveway arcing from the street towards a wide span of stairs leading to the front door. Parking here came with time constraints, an hour at most. Even if somebody overstayed the limit, it will likely take a tow truck the better part of the day to arrive. Not spying a sign explicitly saying private investigators could not park here, I slide my auto into an open spot.


    Stepping out of the auto, a goblin valet rushed to greet me as I closed the driver¡¯s side door. ¡°I won¡¯t be taking that long,¡± I told him, looking down to meet the goblin¡¯s disappointed eyes. Gobli were the only people I could routinely look down upon, literally and occasionally figuratively. I can do the same to ottemensen, a people I fortunately seldom to never encounter. They were enough to drive a priest insane. The goblin¡¯s flapping ears fell against his head as he watch me pocket my keys. He must be the new guy here, unfamiliar with the habits of my people.


    Another goblin valet rushed up, his movement more forceful than his colleague. ¡°Pardon, mister, this is for delivery only,¡± the second goblin protested in a squeaky, rasping voice.


    ¡°I¡¯m delivering a message,¡± I told him, ignoring the goblin¡¯s protest. The other valets, several of them waiting to pounce on any arriving vehicle, glanced at me, disinterested in a dwarf wearing a twenty-jahr old suit. It was not because they knew me personally, it was mostly because my species has a reputation for being poor tippers. Rightfully so; why should I give people more money for doing their job, jobs their employer already paid them to do?


    At the base of the stairs, I glared up at the dark glass entrance atop four floors¡¯ worth of stairs. Grumbling, I take my time ascending to the face of the building. Sapiens shoot past me, some making the climb two steps at a time. No matter what sort of hurry I might find myself in¨C none in this instance¨C it was a feat I could never hope to match with shorter legs. Very few of them dressed like anyone living within a hundred kilometers of Port of Dreams. Mostly tourists, though a few in business suits would not be that out of place in the commercial district.


    Finally reaching the door, I had over a five dinar note I kept in a vest pocket to the doorman¨C door goblin. The short fellow, dressed in a uniform that looked like somebody spun it a thousand jahrs ago, thanked me profusely. It was not a tip. I do not believe in that sapien custom. Bribes, those were another matter. It was the cost of doing business. As the doormen in these places usually knew more about what passed through the lobby than receptionists, I left him with a few words. ¡°You never saw me.¡± With a wink and a nod, he pocketed his payment.


    First impression usually are quite deceiving in my line of work but I can tell you that I did not much care for the interior of the Oracle the instant I saw it. While the lobby was spacious, easily holding twenty times the floor space as my entire place, it looked very antique. It was not the sort of antique nature that was my office, or the quaintness of some corner caf¨¦ up in Dream City. The owners decked it out like a temple from some long, lost civilization, right down to the sandstone floor panels. That was the theme here. Where doormen dressed like servants, the ladies behind the front counter dressed in what the owners considered robes of ancient priestesses; quite revealing and probably nothing remotely resembling the reality of civilization six thousand jahrs in the past.


    With a line of guests ahead of me, I leaned again a pillar decorated with hieroglyphics, patiently watching the line to snake forward, deciding which one to take. One glance at the pillar left me wondering if this writing even means anything or did some interior designer slap together a bunch of random symbols. Enough to fool some tourists, I suppose. I have the feeling it would never pass inspection of a real archeologist. The place feels more like a movie set than anything else.


    As things being equal, I chose the shortest line, the help line nowhere near as long as the check-in counter and still long enough to annoy me. Taking my time climbing the stairs was one thing; having my time deliberately wasted by others, that was something else. Did anyone really believe that because my natural lifespan was four times that of a sapien did not mean I planned to wait four times as long. Seeing the line move forward, I shuffled away from the pillar to the back of the shortest one.


    About ten minutes passed before I reached the counter, giving me more than enough ample time to wonder if this was a wasted effort. If they would not answer Rosie¡¯s questions, they might not answer mine, private investigator¡¯s licence of not. Looking back at the doorman, I had to wonder if it ever crossed the gnome¡¯s mind to ask anyone other than anyone behind a desk. Given her youth and inexperience, probably not.


    When I finally reached the front of the line, the help desk lady, old by sapien standards, looked down at me and smiled. It was nard not to look down on me, not when my beard barely reached the counter. Rare is the day I actually visit a place designed for a man of my stout figure. ¡°How may I help you?¡± Looking at her smile for more than a second, I quickly grew to dislike it. It struck me as more condescending than friendly, very unprofessional.


    I would be lying if I said it colored me surprised. Anyone could tell merely by how I dressed that I was not a customer. Assuming she could not already tell that by my species. No self-respecting pygmaeus and few of the eccentric type would stay in such a garish establishment and anyone unable to recognize that had zero business helping anyone¨C even the level of ¡®help¡¯ I was about to receive.


    I pulled out a walled. Flipping it open, I flashed a badge. It was not the gleaming metal of a peace officer. No matter how useful that could prove, I was not about to lie on the job. My reputation is worth more than any easy score. Instead, it was a plastic card that proclaimed my legal right to investigate private matters. ¡°I am looking for a man by the name of Edgar Lemarquis. I was told he is staying here this week.¡±


    The helper turned a rolling file index. She flipped through the files quickly, homing in on the proper syllabic. Once there, she took slightly longer to run through each of the index cards. I read once that gnomes somewhere worked on a means to automate filing cards by using computers. In ten jahrs, one could pull up a name by typing a few keys. I have to admit, it was one of their improvements that was not a half bad idea, assuming they ever got it working as advertised.


    The helper¡¯s brows knitted together as she pursed her lips. It was an all too familiar expression, in this instance appeared to add several jahrs to her face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry; we have no guest by that name.¡±


    No, of course not. If this Lemarquis is as paranoid as Rosie made him out to be then he would have used an assumed name and false identification. Reaching into my left vest pocket, I drew forth the photograph of the man. I showed it to the helper, reaching up high enough for her to get a clear view. ¡°This is what he looks like.¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry that I can¡¯t be of more help. Perhaps one of the receptionists or the hotel detective knows something about him. They might be able to help.¡±


    My beard sagged as I frowned. The house detective was not likely enjoy seeing a private investigator snooping around what he considered his own turf and there was no way on Towne I planned to wait in another line. At least not until I exhaust every other option. ¡°I won¡¯t take up any more of your time,¡± I stepped quickly out of line, making way for the next person seeking aid, a young sapien man wearing a t-shirt proclaiming to the world that he visited a nearby amusement park.


    Instead of seeking the house detective, I find myself drifting back towards the doorman. The goblin greeted everyone entering the hotel, holding the door open in hopes of a tip. As most guests were sapiens, most guests ignored him. That did not stop him from doing his job and doing it the best he could. If more goblins made that level of effort, their lot would be far better off. Did he live in some basement apartment in the neighborhood or did he commute in from Lower Beldel, another neighborhood full of mostly honest, poor folk, half their number either refugees or children of them.


    ¡°Ask you something?¡± The goblins started in surprise as I spoke. For all I know, I was the only visitor today in this tourist-cursed tomb to speak directly to the doorman.


    ¡°Sure thing, mister,¡± the goblin smiled, displaying a row of sharp teeth ideal for slicing through greens at dinner or the finger of anyone fool enough to stick it where it does not belong. If the city had one thing in overabundance, it was fools. The goblin appeared pleased enough to be able to talk to somebody face-to-face without craning his neck. He still only stood at chin height to me, making me an improvement over the rest of the visitors. The payment earlier aided his disposition to me.


    I fished out the photograph and waved it in the goblin¡¯s face. ¡°Recognize this man? His name is Edgar Lemarquis, though he might have used an assumed name. He¡¯s some kind of professor.¡± Anything more than that, the goblin did not need to know.


    He squinted his eyes so narrow that it was wonder he could see past his bulbous nose. He obviously saw well enough for he looked away from the picture in time to open the door for more guests. After greeting them, he returned his attention to my question. In retrospect, a goblin might not make the most reliable source when it came to making positive identifications based on images. They had as hard of a time telling sapiens apart as any species of human did with goblins.


    As quickly as they squinted, his eyes flew open in recognition. ¡°I recall an old sapien, spoke real educated, earlier this week. After he checked in, he asked me if I could take his bags to his room. I wasn¡¯t doorman that day. When I said I would, he slipped me a fiver same as you.¡± The goblin paused long enough to scratch his head. ¡°Don¡¯t know if that¡¯s the same fellow you are looking for; kind of hard to tell them apart, if you know what I mean.¡±


    He spoke the last words quietly, hushed enough so his voice would not carry more than a few meters away. ¡°I have an idea.¡± I was right on one note; he was not particularly good at telling one sapien from another. That did not mean he would forget a big tipper. Anyone working his line of work certainly had zero chance of growing rich off their wages. That was why most people avoided these jobs. These were the same people who believed the job beneath them, that it was work best suited for the one of the two species of gobli.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t catch his name,¡± the goblin admitted. ¡°Come to think of it, haven¡¯t seen him in a couple of days. Has something happened to the old chap?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I am here learn.¡± Concern for another was almost a sign of a willing accomplice. Cooperation was never a given, not when people did not wish to for anyone to find them. He also had a sort of naivete that older goblins and gremlins lacked. His parents might have been refugees; he was clearly Port of Dreams born. Assuming he was a he. I am not sure if goblins are harder to tell apart of I am simply biased in favor of my own genus.


    ¡°I hope nothing bad happened to him. He was a decent enough customer. Anything I can do to help?¡± The goblin whispered conspiratorially, thrilled at a chance to break out of the monotonous drudgery of work.


    ¡°Can you tell me where he was last headed?¡± When the goblin shook his head, sending his long ears flapping around like a hound who recently jumped out of the bath, I sprang an easier question on him. ¡°Then can you give me his room number?¡±


    The goblin nodded. ¡°That I can do. It was fifteen-seventeen. That¡¯s the seventeenth room on the fifteenth floor. It doesn¡¯t have a window view of the city.¡±


    I have little interest in a view of the city, especially this neighborhood. There was nothing more than high rise hotels and commercial sprawl between here and the ocean. Tourists, especially those from out of state, grew so excited about the view. Traveling magazines gushed about it too, though it boggled my mind as to why. Who would want to see what tourists across the street were doing? The only good thing I could say about the oracle was that while its tinted windows let him see out of the lobby, anyone looking inward would see nothing more than their own reflection.


    ¡°Thanks. Remember, you never saw me.¡± I said, handing the doorman another five before walking across the lobby. I did not make straight for the elevator, not with so many people watching. Not knowing if anyone from the desk paid me the least attention, I slowly wandered in the general direction of the house detective¡¯s office. Not that I had any intention of visiting the man and answering his questions. No, I looked beyond, towards a stair well hidden behind an aluminum door. With six elevator shafts available, who would bother keeping watch on the stairs?