Grilled Cheese and Goblins

by Nicole Kimberling

  Gunther said, “Do you think we could continue this conversation in private?”

  “Oh, of course.” Keith stepped aside.

  Gunther sauntered through the doorway, sidestepped the bed and seated himself in a high-backed chair by the television. His eyes immediately homed in on the skillet.

  “Are you cooking grilled cheese?”

  “I was.” As Keith returned to the range and flipped his sandwich over, his deeply ingrained sense of hospitality took over and he found himself asking, “Want one?”

  “Sure.” Gunther gave him a brilliant smile, showing his perfectly white teeth. “I’m always hungry.”

  Chapter Two

  Snow goblins were, for Keith’s money, the scariest looking of the species. Their pure white bodies seemed to be constructed entirely of bones, talons and teeth. Only red slits marked their eyes and nostrils. They spoke in growls. They drank pure kerosene on the rocks and called it moonshine.

  Insofar as Keith knew, Gunther Heartman had never scared anyone. Not even accidentally. He was polite, well meaning and easygoing to a fault. Even when Gunther had ended his relationship with Keith—if you could describe a disjointed series of one-night stands a relationship—he’d been nice about it. “I think you might still be struggling with some issues,” Gunther had said, “and I don’t think being with me is necessarily helping you. I don’t think I’m the right man for you. And I know you’re not the right man for me.”

  At the time, Keith had consoled himself by thinking that at least Gunther had had the guts to give him a real reason, instead of the old “it’s not you, it’s me” line. Keith had always wondered why Gunther thought he wasn’t the right man for Keith. Now he thought he knew. Not only was he not human, he was exactly the sort of extra-human American who had destroyed Keith’s previous life.

  But that didn’t bear thinking about. Keith turned his attention fully back to cooking. Almost casually, he remarked, “I didn’t realize that you were of goblin descent.”

  “There’s no reason you should have.”

  Except that we’ve slept together at least a dozen times, Keith thought. Aloud he said, “I suppose there are quite a few of you on the West Coast.”

  Gunther nodded. “About six thousand. More than half of them were reengineered while they were still in the womb, like myself.”

  “It’s odd that you never brought that up before,” Keith said.

  “Is it?” Gunther gave him a meaningful look, though what meaning he intended Keith to take away was not clear.

  “Yes, it is.” Keith flipped Gunther’s sandwich. “So, you’ve always looked human?”

  “I haven’t just looked human, I’ve been human. I went to public school, ran track and got my first job washing dishes at Kentucky Fried Chicken just like everybody else.” Gunther popped another cigarette into his mouth and chewed slowly. He fished in his pocket for his slim, yellow tin of lighter fluid, popped open the red safety cap, and took a swig—something he’d never done in Keith’s presence before. Thin, flammable vapor floated from his breath as he said, “I enjoy being human.”

  “I bet you do,” Keith said dryly.

  The other man gazed at him with a mild, pleasant smile and then said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem slightly uncomfortable. Is it because you just found out I’m a goblin?”

  “No,” Keith said.

  “Is it because of our previous relationship?”

  “Yes.” Keith took his sandwich, cut it in half and offered one plate to Gunther, who accepted it with a strange half bow. Keith took his own plate and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I really didn’t mean for you to feel awkward—” Gunther began.

  “Let’s just focus on the task at hand.” Keith cut him off before he could launch into another well-meaning speech. While they’d been seeing one another, Gunther’s reflexive urge toward humane action had been one of the qualities Keith admired. Now that same quality not only irked but confused him. “Did you get much of a debriefing?”

  “Not much,” Gunther said, puffing around his first mouthful of hot, gooey cheese and bread.

  “We’ve had three dead, butchered human carcasses here in Portland in the last six months.”

  “Any evidence of serial killing?”

  Keith shook his head. “FBI says you can never rule that out completely, but our informants say that human protein has appeared in a couple of different goblin venues in the city. The summer holy days are coming up. I think some members of Portland’s extra-human American community might be stocking up their pantries.”

  “For the goblin solstice feast, you mean?”

  “That’s right,” Keith said.

  “And so you’re thinking that this is the work of some reactionary cadre of old-time religion goblin butchers, therefore you requested a native speaker to assist when you go talk to the community?”

  “In a nutshell.” Keith thought he sensed a certain reluctance to comply emanating from Gunther but chose not to address it. Not yet, anyway. Clearly the two of them made for a less than ideal team. But if they could get through the next couple of days, they could both go back to their respective offices on opposite sides of the continent, no harm done.

  “What about other known predators of humans?” Gunther asked.

  “There are three registered vampires in the area. I’m planning to interview them as well, because there was some exsanguination present, but there’s nothing to connect them to the crimes at this moment.”

  “So what do you have to link this to goblins?” Gunther asked.

  “The timing and the state of the bodies. It’s circumstantial, I know, but these really look like goblin killings,” Keith said, and from Gunther’s brief expression of distaste he guessed Gunther understood what he meant.

  “I might have something more solid soon,” Keith added.

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe a venue. Lulu’s Flapjack Shack hosted a show recently that has all the hallmarks of a hide-in-plain-sight blood orgy. I’m heading over there in a few minutes and I’d like you to come along.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Gunther took his remaining sandwich triangle, folded it in half, and, despite the magma-like cheese, ate it in three bites. He then said, “Do you mind if we stop to get another pack of cigarettes on the way? I’m out.”

  Lulu’s Flapjack Shack inhabited a space that had certainly been continuously used as a hospitality venue since linoleum had been invented. Mismatched vinyl booths lined the dining room walls and small tables filled the center space, creating the feeling of being in a pastiche of all diners that had ever existed anywhere. Keith couldn’t tell if this was sophisticated and subtle interior design or the result of buying fixtures piecemeal.

  According to the sign, Lulu’s was open twenty-three hours a day—the one hour closure occurring between four and five a.m.

  Presumably, this was when they mopped.

  At nine thirty p.m. the dining room was at about half capacity. Mostly the patrons seemed to be in the prelegal phase of adolescence. Groups of five or six shared plates of french fries and pretended to be adults. At the diner counter, intermittently spaced single older males competed for the lone waitress’s conversational attention in between bites of all-day breakfast.

  “Where do the bands play, do you think?” Keith asked Gunther, mostly to make conversation. The notion that the goblin currently setting off his proximity alert was standing right next to him disturbed him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

  “Banquet room.” Gunther pointed down the long counter to a lighted sign at the back.

  Gunther turned out to be correct.

  “I don’t like the fact that it’s called the Banquet Room.” Keith’s watch buzzed gently, number three still glowing red.

  Gunther glanced at it. “Is that some sort of prototype?”

  “It’s a sensor. It’s coded to alert agents to the presence of extra-humans.” Keith gave Gunther the brief rundown on th
e prototype and its codes. “It’s meant to be subtler than other types of sensors. The downside is having to memorize the codes.”

  Gunther nodded and said, “So what’s it say now?”

  “At least one goblin within fifty feet. But that is most likely you.”

  “You know, R&D really needs to get on developing a way for agents of other-realm origin to avoid triggering those things before they take it out of the prototype phase. I could see how that could go really wrong in a strike force situation with limited visibility.”

  “I’ll make sure to include that in my report on how it functions in the field,” Keith remarked. Strike force was never an assignment that Keith had coveted, but there was a certain inevitable comparison of masculinity that occurred between agents when one was a member and the other wasn’t.

  “I’d appreciate that, thanks.”

  The Banquet Room had been designed when restaurants still routinely catered banquets, sometime way back in the early imitation-wood-paneling era. Like most banquet rooms of this ilk, it offered no windows and only one emergency exit in the back.

  Essentially, a perfect space to hold a blood orgy.

  Whoever had converted the Banquet Room into a bar had kept the basic fixtures and furnishings. The room seemed largely set up like a banquet room as well, with long tables lined by inexpensive, wipeable pine-green dining chairs. Large mass-produced nautical-themed paintings dotted the wall. Toward the front of the room, where head tables would have been, was a small stage, a ten-seat wet bar and a tiny dance floor.

  Few patrons were in evidence—just a pair of young guys at the bar watching cartoons on a closed-captioned television and a couple who seemed to be hiding in the corner table. Keith gave them the once-over. But upon closer inspection, the reason for their furtive behavior became clear. He wore a wedding band and she did not.

  He seated himself at the bar next to Gunther. Catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, Keith had the unfortunate experience of comparing himself with Agent Heartman physically. There was no contest whatsoever. Gunther was taller, broader and somehow looked good slouching beneath dank, yellow light. Whereas Keith, sitting in shirtsleeves, tie slightly loosened, resembled nothing more than an off-duty county health inspector. Only the tattoos on his arms revealed that there might be any aspect of his personality that an average person could find interest in.

  The bartender set a bowl of popcorn down between them. The man resembled Gunther in the powerful proportions of his body, but his coloring differed notably. He had red hair, small, narrow eyes and a mouth that stretched too wide to be attractive, especially when he smiled.

  “What can I get for you?”

  Gunther ordered pink vodka on the rocks. Keith stuck with beer—microbrew. The bartender stepped aside to pour their drinks. Gunther began to amiably munch the popcorn. After a few bites he remarked, “This would be a good venue.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. No windows. Drain in the floor.”

  “I was thinking more for seeing a band,” Gunther said. “The decor seems dank and lowbrow for a real goblin feast.”

  “Have you ever been to one?”

  “Do I not have a mother who would be disappointed if I failed to attend?” Gunther tossed a yellow kernel into the air and caught it in his mouth, then slid his gaze slyly around. “I feast every year. Not how you’re imagining it, though. My family’s feasts take the form of barbecues generally conducted in the garden. The most unsavory item typically present is my godfather’s fifth of substandard rye.”

  “What protein do you cook?”

  “You know, a less polite man might find that question, and its implicit assumption, somewhat offensive.” His tone shifted slightly, lowering to a near growl.

  Keith bristled. “Maybe a less polite man hasn’t seen the same kinds of things that I have seen conducted in places much like this.”

  Gunther folded. His easy manner returned. “I suppose not. I imagine that as the primary investigator for cases like these you’ve grown naturally suspicious of individuals of my heritage.”

  Keith lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Look, last year, in Dallas, we busted a group of upper-crust gourmandizing sickos who were human right down to their Manolo Blahniks. Before that we collared a real, live child-eating Russian Baba-fucking-Yaga. But in this particular case, I happen to suspect goblins, all right? If you can’t deal with that maybe you should request reassignment.”

  The bartender turned back and plunked their drinks in front of them. Keith slid the tattered flyer out toward him and said, “I was wondering, did you happen to be working on the night of this show?”

  The bartender glanced down and grimaced. “Yeah, I was. Hell of a mess they made.” Then, with a bartender’s eerie prescience, he inquired, “You two cops?”

  “I’m Agent Keith Curry. This is Agent Heartman.” He briefly opened his NIAD ID, then closed it again. For most people, just seeing a badge—any badge—was enough to get them to talk. The bartender was no exception. He nodded, stiffening only slightly. Keith continued, “And you are?”

  “Jordan Lucky Greenbacks. What is this about?”

  “Just a routine inquiry.” Gunther gave the bartender an easy smile. “Are the owners in?”

  “No, they don’t work nights.”

  Keith took over again. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Greenbacks?”

  “Three years,” Jordan said.

  “Tell me, does the management ever close this room for private parties?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When was the last time?” Keith removed a black notebook from his pocket and flipped it open.

  “Around Christmas last year there was a private party,” Jordan said.

  “So around the winter solstice?”

  “It didn’t have anything to do with any solstice, winter or summer.” Jordan’s tone sharpened. His expression snapped instantly into defensive hostility. He stared straight at Gunther. “It had nothing to do with . . . our community. It was a fund-raiser for the fire department.”

  Keith raised his eyebrows fractionally. Jordan could have been referring to the gay community, but Keith seriously doubted that.

  He wondered if Gunther had already perceived that Mr. Greenbacks was trans-goblin as well. And if so, how did the two of them recognize each other? Psychic power? Smell?

  “So, are the owners of this club part of you and Agent Heartman’s community?”

  “No, they aren’t,” Jordan said in an insistent whisper. “And they don’t know anything about it or about me. I haven’t broken the Secrecy Act—”

  “Of course you haven’t,” Gunther said. “The reason we came here was to ask about this particular show. We want to know what you can tell us about these bands.”

  “Nothing except, you know, the obvious.” He looked directly at Gunther as he spoke.

  “Define obvious for me.” Keith took a sip of his beer.

  “Some of the musicians were”—he gave another slight gesture in Gunther’s direction—“also part of our community. Obviously you know that already or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Keith allowed himself a tight smile, then said, “Did you happen to get any names?”

  The bartender shook his head. “It was a popular show, I was running the whole time. I didn’t even have time for a smoke break. You could ask our booker, Samantha. She’d probably have some contact information for them.”

  “Is Samantha here?”

  “No, Monday’s her day off.”

  “Let’s get back to the band. Did you notice anything special about any of them?” Gunther asked. “Physical characteristics? Anything?”

  Jordan shrugged again. “It was just a metal show. They drank cheap beer and played really heavy, brick-in-your-face metal but didn’t do anything”—he leaned forward, whispering to Gunther—“anything magical. They sang in goblin during the refrain, but that was all. Hardly anybody even recognized it.”

  “That an
d made a hell of a mess.” Keith circled back around to the front of the conversation.

  Jordan paled slightly. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the white bar towel.

  There it is, Keith thought, that telling expression of information that has been omitted. “What was so messy about the band?”

  The bartender swallowed. “They did some theatrical stuff on stage.”

  “Such as?” Gunther prompted.

  “They drank some stuff that looked like blood. Poured some of it over the crowd.” The bartender busied himself with wiping the already clean bar. “A lot of metal bands do things like that.”

  “Did it look like blood or was it blood?” Keith pressed.

  “I don’t know.” The bartender refused to look at him. “I’m not some kind of expert.”

  “You cleaned it up, right?” Keith folded his hands, prepared to wait all night for the answer. “Blood has a fairly distinct odor, color and texture.”

  “I—” Jordan looked to Gunther.

  “It’s all right,” Gunther assured him. “We just need to know about this band. We don’t have any reason to believe you are connected with them. Are you?”

  “I’m not,” the bartender said quickly. “They said it was cow’s blood. They poured it out of these gallon jugs that said USDA on them.”

  Keith nodded. Though strange from the standpoint of an average white-bread American, beef and pork blood were standard ingredients in everything from the Filipino blood stew called dinuguan to verivorst, the blood sausages Estonians considered crucial for any Christmas feast. It was entirely plausible that the blood had its origin in livestock. It was also possible that they had simply refilled empty containers with human blood. Without a DNA sample and test, it would be impossible to tell.

  “How long ago was this show?”

  “Last week.”

  “Has the mop head been changed since then?” Keith asked.

  “I don’t think so. The laundry service hasn’t been here yet. Do you want to see it?”

  Keith followed the bartender back into a dank supply cupboard. As predicted, the mop head was still attached to the mop handle, sitting in a yellow plastic bucket.