“Down here,” I said.
I took a sudden side turning, and just like that, the whole nature of the area changed. The crowds disappeared, while the general ambience made a rude gesture and lurked in corners. Boarded-up and whitewashed windows to every side, shops that were never open, and shadowy people just standing around for no obvious reason. I walked straight past them as though I belonged there, and they just assumed I did. It’s all in the walk. A few people glanced at Roxie, and she glared right back at them. No one looked twice. Wolves can always recognise an alpha predator.
I stopped before an old-fashioned red public telephone box, pressed up against a stained brick wall. The box had seen better days, some forty years ago. The glass panes were cracked or broken, the paintwork was chipped and grubby, and the phone had been ripped out. Some of the locals had been using the box as a toilet. Quite recently. Roxie turned up her nose.
“I thought all these old telephone boxes had been taken away, long ago?”
“Most have,” I said. “But not this one. Partly because it still serves a purpose, but mostly because it never was on any official list. I doubt there was ever a working phone in the box; it’s just protective camouflage.”
I pulled open the door, stepped inside, and gestured for Roxie to join me. Together, we filled all of the available space. Roxie wriggled deliberately and gave me a bright smile.
“Okay, now what?”
I gave the back of the box a good hard shove, and it swung open into the brick wall, accessing a great open hall. I stepped into the building beyond, and Roxie hurried after me. I let go of the door, and it swung quietly shut again.
“Welcome to the Hiring Ground,” I said.
“That’s it?” said Roxie. “No security guards or protections?”
“Getting in is easy,” I said. “Getting out again, alive and intact, is something else.”
Roxie looked around. “I was right. Still a shithole.”
The Hiring Ground was one big open area, with a tall arched ceiling. Packed from wall to wall with booths and stalls and trestle tables, and the occasional expensive commercial stand. People everywhere shouted their wares, while vendors at the booths competed to see who had the loudest sound systems. Crowds of extremely assorted people bustled up and down the narrow aisles, all of them talking at once. The volume was painfully loud, but no one seemed to give a damn. There was a certain grubby vitality to the place, but I didn’t care for all the greed and avarice on open display.
“Reminds me of the Nightside,” I said.
“No,” Roxie said immediately. “The Nightside is all about sin. The Hiring Ground specializes in commerce. Not that sin is excluded, you understand, as long as someone thinks they can make a profit from it. The Hiring Ground is all about money.”
“Just remember,” I said. “We’re not here looking for bargains.”
“There’s always time for shopping!” Roxie said cheerfully.
“You buy it; you carry it.”
The Hiring Ground goes back to Victorian times, though there are stories of earlier venues that go all the way back to the Roman city of Londinium. Unlike the much better-known and far superior Hiring Hall, which I’d visited not long ago on a case involving a plot to steal the Crown Jewels, the Hiring Ground is an altogether more desperate and sinister affair.
The Hiring Hall can boast stands and booths for any number of Governments, Spy Organisations, and important Special Interest Groups. A place to make the kind of deals that matter, with people who matter. The Hiring Hall attracts the upper crust and the upper levels—gods and monsters, rogues and villains, and creatures of the night. All very up-market, and no one ever makes any trouble because of the dozen or so big brass golems standing around the perimeter. Just waiting for a chance to make a nasty example of someone. The Hiring Hall is an ancient market for civilised people.
The Hiring Ground is where you go when you’re looking for dirty deeds done cheap and nasty. Neutral ground for mercenaries and adventurers, con men and killers, ghouls and ghosts . . . all of them desperate for a paying gig, and no longer in any position to be choosy about what it might involve.
Grubbily dressed vampires and shabby werewolves thrust flyers for specialized sex clubs into people’s hands as they passed. No one ever said no, but no one ever kept them. Blinking on and off like faulty light bulbs, ghosts flickered from stall to stall, looking to hire themselves out with offers of everything from subsidized hauntings to pestering debtors. It’s a hard life when you’re dead, and your options are limited. Ghouls slouched around, showing their toothy grins, always ready to dispose of an unwanted corpse. Because they’ll eat anything, up to and including toxic waste spills. A bunch of alien Greys, in ill-fitting black suits and designer sunglasses, politely indicated their ability to make anyone disappear. Short term or long term.
There were stalls selling very special weapons to kill the kinds of things that shouldn’t exist in a sane and rational world. Or specialized burglary tools, for getting in and out of haunted houses. Coats made from the pelts of creatures that don’t officially exist. Wines so potent you could get drunk just reading the labels on the bottles. Sex toys for mutant women, surgical tools for operating on alien hybrids, and bodily by-products of the rich and famous (carefully bottled and authenticated, and useful in all manner of unpleasant ways).
Every single bit of it desperately down-market, sleazy, and disreputable; nothing you’d want to brag about buying afterwards. The Hiring Ground is where you go when no one reputable will let you past their doors. Do I really need to tell you that most of what’s on display is not what it claims to be? That most of it is going to be faked, adulterated, or a complete con? The Hiring Ground is home to the fraudulent, the forger, and the confidence trickster. Buyer beware, and be sure to count your fingers after you’ve shaken hands on the deal.
Roxie wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but this place has gone even more down-market. I used to hang out here a lot in my younger days, as Molly and Roxie. When I was still finding my feet in the hidden world. Looking for causes worth fighting, causes that would pay enough for me to live on. Vendetta may satisfy the soul, but it doesn’t put a roof over your head or food on the table.”
“What kind of jobs did you end up doing?” I said, genuinely curious.
She shrugged. “Mostly strong-arm stuff. Bodyguarding and general security. For the kind of people and places no one else would touch. Overseeing the transport of very special items from one location to another. Helping collectors get their hands on the kinds of things that are never going to appear on the open market, and then keeping them alive afterwards. A lot of it was about keeping people alive, when someone else wanted them dead. Usually with good reason.” She stopped, and looked at me directly. “I never killed anyone for pay, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t asking,” I said.
“The Hiring Ground’s got a lot worse, since my day,” said Roxie. “These crowds have the look of people prepared to do absolutely anything for money.”
I had to agree. There was a general air of desperation. Of people who’d fallen so far, or been pushed so far, they were ready to accept any job, any danger, any humiliation, for fear they might never find another opening. Those at several of the larger booths were recruiting mercenary fighters for armies at war in other dimensions. The sides weren’t clear, but then, it wasn’t the cause that mattered. Just the money. I was astonished to see none of the booths carried the official Seal of the Guild of Mercenaries, guaranteeing proper levels of training and equipment, and a return home afterwards for the survivors. I could remember a time when no one would sign up unless the Seal was there. But now the attitude of the recruiting officers was apparently If you don’t want to do this, someone else will. And you’ll miss out. Don’t come back whining tomorrow, because we won’t be here and neither will the job.
<
br /> There were long lines at each of the booths, and no shortage of men and women willing to take some king’s shilling. More meat for the grinder.
Those at other booths were looking for paid volunteers to act as test subjects for new drugs, spells, and nonlethal weaponry. Good money but not great, and absolutely no safety guarantees. Take it or leave it. An awful lot of people looked happy enough to take it. No questions asked, apart from Where do I sign? and How soon do I get paid?
“You know,” I said to Roxie, “a good ambulance chaser could clean up around here.”
“You really think the Hiring Ground would let a lawyer or a union rep through its doors?” said Roxie.
“When times are hard, the choices get harder,” I said. And surprised myself with the bitterness in my voice.
“I’m surprised your family allows a place like this to exist,” said Roxie.
“If we did shut it down, another would only spring up somewhere else,” I said. “Just as bad, if not worse. At least we know about this one and can keep an eye on it. Just the knowledge that we’re watching keeps people from doing anything too extreme.”
“Define extreme,” said Roxie.
And I didn’t have an answer. We moved on past stalls and tables, taking our time so as not to appear in a hurry. Someone would only take advantage. I saw several faces I knew, all of them doing things or agreeing to things that disappointed me. After years of enforced absence, the Pariah Priest was back on the job, looking to sign people up to be possessed for a short period. So that certain angelic and demonic assignments could be carried out on the mortal plain. The removal of the possessing agent was guaranteed, but not the state of the body after the agent was finished with it. Roxie stepped in front of the booth, and glared at the Pariah Priest until he was forced to acknowledge her presence. He scowled right back at her.
“What do you want, you infamous child?”
“Who’s doing the possessing?” said Roxie. “Agents for the Light, or the Darkness?”
“What does it matter?” said the Pariah Priest, smiling smugly. “You aren’t responsible for anything the agent does with your body; you’re just renting it out.”
“What about after-effects?” said Roxie. “Having Heaven or Hell camp out in your head is like having the afterlife take a toxic dump in your soul.”
“Why do you think the pay’s so good?” said the Pariah Priest.
Roxie would have pressed that more, but the long line in front of the booth was growing restless, and she reluctantly stepped aside to leave them to it. You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. I spotted a familiar face in the queue.
“Jack Shelter,” I said. “You used to have a solid rep as a poltergeist handler. What are you doing here?”
“Might ask you the same thing, Shaman,” said Jack. “There’s been a real downturn in the building trade. I had to lay all of my people off, until there was no one left to lay off but me.”
“But why this?” I said.
“When times are hard, you have to go where the work is,” said Jack. “At least the Hiring Ground is hiring. A lot of places aren’t.”
I moved on, with Roxie a silent unhappy presence at my side. We stopped before another booth, where a platinum blonde beauty wearing hardly anything at all was fronting a concession called Lust from the Dust. Roxie squeezed my arm tightly.
“I know her!” she said. “That’s the Chakra Cutie! Used to train girls to weaponize their sexuality. She’s one of the old gang I was expecting to meet at the Deep Down Pit.”
“Does she know you as Roxie or Molly?” I said.
“Oh yes . . . We go way back.”
Roxie planted herself in front of the Chakra Cutie while I listened to the spiel. The Cutie was shilling for a company looking to hire bright young things to channel dead movie stars. So their fans could have sex with them. A new twist to the oldest profession. I leaned in to murmur in Roxie’s ear.
“Pardon my ignorance, but . . . this is a con, isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s a con! They’re just looking for young people without much personality of their own, who can be trained to fake it.”
“Don’t they always?” I said.
The Chakra Cutie finally accepted that Roxie wasn’t going anywhere, and cut off her spiel to glare coldly at her.
“What do you want, Roxie? I’m working here! And anyway, I’m not talking to you! Drood lover!”
“Really?” said Roxie. “You’re going to claim the moral high ground, when you’re fronting a knocking shop? There was a time you would have fire-bombed places like this.”
“Times have changed,” said the Cutie.
“Even so, Hooking from beyond the Veil?” said Roxie. “That was an old con, even when we were starting out.”
“The money’s good.”
“It would have to be,” said Roxie.
“You want me to call booth security?” said the Chakra Cutie. “Have them throw you out?”
Roxie smiled slowly. “I would love to see them try.”
I took her by the arm and moved her firmly away. “We’re not here to start fights and get ourselves noticed. We can’t afford to be distracted.”
“I know,” said Roxie. “We’re here for you. But . . . I can’t believe it’s all got so damned sleazy! The Hiring Ground was always the bottom rung of the ladder, but this is just blatant exploitation.”
“Hard times make for hard people,” I said. “At both ends of the queue.”
Everywhere we went there were people we knew, who knew us, and none of them seemed at all surprised to see Shaman Bond and Roxie Hazzard at the Hiring Ground. No one offered anything but a sad smile, a resigned shrug, and a general attitude of It comes to us all, in the end.
“I feel like burning down the whole place,” said Roxie. “Just on general principles.”
“Then where would these people get work?” I said.
“Don’t be reasonable,” said Roxie. “I’m not in the mood to feel reasonable.”
“Can’t recall a time when you were,” I said.
She managed a small smile. “Let’s just do what we came here for and get the hell out.”
It took us a while to track down the Psychic Surgeon. He might have been a Major Player once, but these days, his stall was a lot farther from the main drag than it used to be. It comes to us all . . .
The Psychic Surgeon was a fleshy, middle-aged man, in clothes so colourful, he would have looked overdressed on a golf course. He had fierce eyes and a strident voice, and a distinct if somewhat disturbing presence, like a wolf with a big smile and some foam on its chops. He targeted anyone who came near his slightly shabby stall, boasting of his past triumphs and the extraordinary extent of his abilities. A lot of people stopped to listen, but not many stayed.
“I am the one and only Psychic Surgeon! I can operate on you with my mind; add or remove moods, modify memories, and cut away inhibitions! I can boost your talents and accentuate your attitudes! I can do surgery on your soul and make you a better person! Or, at least, a different one!”
He was quite happy to demonstrate his abilities on the people gathered before his stall, without warning or apology. He was certainly impressive enough, but the casual cruelty implicit in his demonstrations put a lot of people off. He made a man forget his own name, and a woman weep inconsolably over the death of someone she’d never heard of. He made two strangers fall passionately in love, and he set an old married couple at each other’s throats. All for the entertainment of the crowd, and himself. But most people just drifted away, before he could do something to them. The Psychic Surgeon grumpily released his hold on the people he’d affected, and they hurried off, shaking with reaction. The Surgeon shouted after them.
“You’ll be back! I can make you happy! Make your enemies miserable! Cut away all the parts of you that a
re holding you back! You need me!”
Roxie tried to get his attention, but he just waved her away.
“Not now, girlie. I’m working.”
“Girlie?” Roxie said dangerously.
He looked back at her, and then smiled suddenly. The stage persona was gone in a moment, and he was just a calm, somewhat fatigued businessman.
“Roxie Hazzard; mercenary for hire, no job too dubious. And Shaman Bond, plausible rogue about town, always looking for a little trouble to get into, but never around when the authorities turn up.”
I looked at Roxie. “He’s heard of us.”
“Who hasn’t?” said Roxie.
“You made good time getting here,” said the Psychic Surgeon.
“You even look at my aura wrong,” said Roxie, “and I will rip your head right off.”
She was being more than usually brusque, because she couldn’t afford him looking past Roxie to see Molly. Or my torc. The Psychic Surgeon just shrugged.
“I get that a lot,” he said.
“Isn’t there any hall security?” I said. “To protect people from people like you?”
“Not any more,” said the Surgeon. “They got in the way of business. The official attitude these days is Enter at your own risk. And don’t be too upset by my little exhibition. Half of that crowd works for me. The point is to get people talking, and then they’ll come and see for themselves. At which point I shall be their kindly old physician, there to help them with all of life’s little problems.”
“Can you?” said Roxie. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Depends on the problem. I can cut things out, or move them around; but I can only work with what’s there.” He looked me briefly up and down. “Want an upgrade on your charisma? A voice that compels, or a look that seduces? I’m doing a special on confidence boosters. Two for the price of three.”
“That’s not right,” I said.
“You see! They’re working!”
“Never mind that crap,” said Roxie. “We’re not here for what you have to offer.”
“You sure?” said the Surgeon. “I could always cut away Shaman’s bothersome independence; make him live only to serve you.”
Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA Page 34
