by Tee Morris
“It’s all right, ma’am. I know I’m probably not what you expected. You probably expected someone less handsome, less dashing, and not so much in the facial hair department. I can only say this: It ain’t easy being this good-looking.”
When I got the laugh, I knew we were getting somewhere. Humor was the best way to get over the whole dwarf issue. Now, it came down to the credentials.
“I know you may think a dwarf stands out in a crowd, and perhaps I do. But I can also get in and out of many places without being noticed. My specialty. It’s this specialty that has built me a reputation for being discreet. I’d love to give you a list of references, but how ‘private’ of a private investigator would that make me? And, being a dwarf, I tend to be left alone, and being left alone tends to keep my investigations all the more private. The proof of the pudding with me is my work, and let me tell you something: I make great pudding.”
I got the impression she was impressed.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Baddings,” she nodded.
Back in Acryonis, no dwarf read the dames better than me. Yeah, I still got the magic.
“You appear to have overcome your—” And her voice ceased abruptly.
“Shortcomings?” I smirked.
She grinned with a reluctant nod. Obviously, that had been the next word on her lips. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Baddings.”
“You can keep it formal if you like.” I gave her that million-dollar smile that made all the barmaids of Acryonis swoon. “You can also call me ‘Billi’ with an ‘i.’ Short for Billibub.”
“I hope my instinct was right in choosing you to handle this delicate matter. I need someone unshakable, someone who is a master of discretion. I cannot afford to go to the police concerning this matter. My family earns enough attention as it is.”
“Do they, now? Mind if I ask who your family is?”
As her head tipped back lightly, the scarlet sunset creeping through a forest of buildings created a delicate lace-checker pattern across her face. Her posture wasn’t revealing anything to me (although her blouse had a tough time concealing a tavern wench’s bounty of a chest! If I weren’t smiling, I would probably be staring!), and I still couldn’t make out what she was thinking from either her eyes or her scent.
Part of being a dwarf involves having an uncanny ability to understand scent. It isn’t magic, just a discipline that you develop the older you get. We dwarves trained ourselves to “sniff out” metals, ores, and minerals, because the more precious ones were in caverns that never knew daylight of any kind. Imagine our surprise when we found out that our heightened olfactories worked on people as well as rock. A nervous disposition gives off a bitter, harsh scent. If someone’s in a happy, pleasant mood, it’s sweet, like cinnamon. If someone’s in that particular mood when the lights are dim and the skin warm to the touch…well, you get the picture.
Problem with this dame’s scent was the designer perfume she wore, so expensive it cost you a buck just to utter its name out loud. Because her bottled fragrance masked her scent, I couldn’t tell if she was upset, nervous, or all of the above.
Her voice didn’t help matters much. “I thought you were a discreet private investigator, Mr. Baddings.” As calm and even as a millpond on a cold winter’s morning. Whoever she was, she was very good at this game.
“Now hold on a minute there, sweets,” I said, hopping up into my office chair and positioning myself on the elevated cushion so I could appear as normal as a dwarf could behind a second-hand, human-sized desk. “Just because the door says ‘Private Investigator’ doesn’t mean ‘Blind to Trust Investigator.’ There are always need-to-know facts between investigator and client, and those facts stay between investigator and client. It’s a matter of protection for you, protection for me, and assurance of trust for both.”
She paused, her eyes studying me through the veil. If this princess was coming in here in search of some bizarre entertainment from the commoners, she was starting to wear thin with me. I was about to tell her to buzz off when she finally spoke.
“I’m Julia Lesinger, the youngest daughter of Henry and Wilma Lesinger.”
While she waited for my response, I tried not to suddenly break into a Sornomian jig. A job for the Lesinger family would not only make up for a slow week, but also set the office up for a few months and even score Miranda that raise she was fishing for! The Lesingers were the established money of the town; if it existed in Chicago, there was a good chance they owned it. Why one of the Lesingers wanted a two-bit private investigator instead of the cops was beyond me.
Then again, when you’re only four-foot-one, a lot of things tend to go flying over your head.
By the time I managed to find my voice, Miss Lesinger continued. “It’s my boyfriend, Anthony DeMayo.”
“Wait a minute. ‘Pretty Boy’ DeMayo is your boyfriend?!?”
“Was my boyfriend. He was killed in the hit on Sal’s Diner.”
Although the hit happened earlier in the week, the news story was as fresh in my head as this morning’s headlines. According to the Defender, only a few chunks of Sal’s still remained standing after the bomb detonated. That was a real pity, too. If I was ever working in that part of town, Sal’s was the best place for a coffee and a danish. Maybe the company there was not to my liking, but you couldn’t beat his coffee.
“Miss Lesinger, that was no hit. What happened at Sal’s Diner makes a wizard’s maelstrom look like a spring drizzle.”
“I know,” she replied, as if commenting on the weather. For someone who lost her knight in shining armor, she didn’t seem all choked up about it.
Speaking of which, I never understood why humans—even the ones in my realm—believed in this overly melodramatic image of a “knight in shining armor.” The average squire couldn’t polish shoes properly, and the average “knight” was usually some noble who couldn’t fight his way out of a thumb-wrestle. And the way those clumsy dolts fought when wearing full armor, it was impossible for a squire to keep armor in pristine condition, anyway. They’re a sentimental lot, humans. Eh, you got to love ’em, though.
“Mr. Baddings, I want to know why—”
“Now wait a minute there!” My hands went up as if Miss Lesinger were holding me up at gunpoint. She would have to if she wanted me to do what I thought she wanted. “Everyone knows who ordered that hit. If you want some kind of proof…”
“Mr. Baddings, you know who was behind it. I know who was behind it. All of Chicago knows who was behind it. I want to know why.”
I could count on one hand how many murder cases I had been asked to investigate and still have digits left over for stirring the milk in my cup of java, sampling whipped cream off my ice-cream sundae, and flipping off some punk who is eyeing me up as an easy score. In that murder case, I was asked to find out “who.” Once I found out the “who,” the “why” would inevitably follow. But this was something different: The “who” was already understood and accepted, and I wasn’t being asked to finger the man behind this hit. Good thing, too. Simply point a finger at Alphonse “Scarface” Capone in a way he didn’t like (as in, “That’s the guy I saw whack my cousin!”) and you could not only lose that finger, but suddenly end up with the rest of you misplaced as well.
That was the way Al Capone ran the Organization. He loved telling the papers that he was simply a “businessman” answering to the needs of the people. His business, though, was something you were in for life, and in Capone’s business, “early retirement” never led to a gold watch and a place in sunny Florida to enjoy the sunsets. With Capone, whether it was a double-cross or an “I want out,” it always led to the same end: a one-bedroom flop, six feet under.
“Just find out why?” I asked, breaking the unnerving silence we were swapping. “Seems harmless enough, but Miss Lesinger, can we agree there’s nothing harmless with anything involving La Cosa Nostra?”
“Mr. Baddings, do you wish to have me tell you that I was daddy’s litt
le girl, never getting into trouble?” She cocked an eyebrow at me and tilted her head. “I enjoyed living dangerously, but Tony was…special. In his own way. I only ask a simple question concerning his death.”
I wouldn’t deny that. It was who I had to ask that gave me pause. “And since we're being so honest with one another, why hire me, a streetwise dwarf? Hell, everybody knows the Lesingers have their own legal team, including detectives.”
“My father is hardly pleased with my public image at the moment. I wish to hire you for your talents of discretion,” she continued, “keeping this professional relationship of ours out of the papers.”
And no doubt, away from Daddy Dearest’s attention. Blunt. And to the point. When called to the mat, it appeared that the girl wasn’t shy in showing a little moxie.
“This job is gonna cost you triple.” I leapt from the chair and landed firmly on the floor with a hard thud. “Hazard pay.”
“Hazard pay?” she asked incredulously. “Are you sure ‘costing me triple’ isn’t because I’m a Lesinger?”
“Miss Lesinger, you could be heir to the Throne of Zelir and promise me a dukedom, and I would still charge you triple. This case involves Capone. You follow me?”
She didn’t know what to say then. She was probably trying to figure out the hometown reference. This is a tactic I use whenever I want to close a discussion or get in a last word with someone. Whip out the Acryonis allusions, and I’m guaranteed to end any conversation. It’s also a lot of fun to watch humans try and noodle through whatever I’ve just thrown at them. I can almost hear them thinking, “What did he just say?!?”
“Very well, Mr. Baddings.” She reached into her purse and produced five clean, crisp C-notes. “This should be an adequate down payment for three days’ work at triple your normal fee. I’ll return later with another payment. I will expect a progress report at that time, if you please.”
Time to test the waters. “Is there anyone else I should answer to?”
“Talk to anyone other than me, I will not only deny knowing you, but I will make your life very uncomfortable.”
No surprise that kitty has claws.
“That’s why it says ‘Private Investigations’ on the door, sweetheart. I’ll talk to ya in a couple of days.”
The door closed, but I didn’t watch her leave. My eyes remained on the five greenbacks fanned out on my desk.
Suddenly, the neon lights outside were casting shades of pink, light blue, and green into the dim lighting of my office. It was getting late. I had lost track of time because my mind was trying to grasp my new client and my new job. Julia Lesinger of the Lesinger estate had hired me to ask Big Al ‘Why?’ concerning one of his hits. It’s not like he needed to explain to anyone why he did anything. He was, and still is, the Boss of Chicago. Capone’s business is Capone’s business.
Now, these five C-notes in front of me made it my business.
This was a serious score for a private eye, no doubt. But did the payment make the risk worthwhile? Maybe I didn’t have to ask Capone outright. Maybe I could check a few sources, ask around in that subtle Baddings style I was building a reputation on. I couldn’t deny this was going to be a risky job, but I also couldn’t say no to the green. No, sir. There was that nagging voice in my gut telling me I was stepping into a world of hurt. But it was either this or playing “Waldorf” again.
So, Billibub, what’s it gonna be?
I hadn’t even finished asking myself that question before reaching for the down payment and stuffing it in my pocket. Who would have known my Lady Trouble was going to be a princess in high heels?
Chapter Two
Scene of the Grime
A quiet weekend is a private eye’s best friend. There were no special parades or galas planned, the ball team was out of town, and other forms of revel and raucous were either enjoying their current run or getting ready to shut down. Since nothing special was happening in the Windy City, there would be the same number of cops on the streets as usual—and those cops tended to take it slow on the weekends. No one likes to be working on a Saturday when you can be at home with the wife and kids, enjoying a picnic, or huddled around a radio enjoying a morning with the Philharmonic or an afternoon of theater. So while the cops were taking their time walking the beat and the Chicago nightlife types were catching their breath, a dwarf could expect to enjoy a day of honest work without too much hassle.
“You work too hard,” I could hear Miranda saying just before popping her gum. “Even a guy like you needs to take a break.” She never liked it when I worked weekends, and I wouldn’t argue with that. I did work hard, even with things as slow as they had been at our office lately. But I needed to turn things around for Baddings Investigations, so my weekend began with the biggest case this little guy ever had cross his desk.
Two’s a crowd when you’re snooping where you’re not wanted, so I got this morning started before the early bird sounded its battle cry. The trolley dropped me a few blocks shy of the corner of Kingston and D Street, where Sal’s stood—excuse me, where it had once stood. Rounding the corner of a brownstone, I couldn’t help but just stand there for a moment, taking in the epic scale of this mob hit. All that was left were a few stone pillars and wooden beams, charred by the heat of the fire but defying the urge to collapse into dust and soot. Maybe it was the ghost of Sal himself keeping the last shreds of his place standing. I don’t know if he had paid protection money or not, but whatever his deal was with Capone, it certainly didn’t protect him or the few innocents in his place when the bomb went off.
So far, my only company this morning were bakers, butchers, and various other tradesmen, sweeping their porches free of the soot and debris that had wandered over from Sal’s the night before. They paid no mind to this pile of rubble that had singed the buildings surrounding it, nor did they seem to care about the lives lost. As far as they were concerned, it was a week-old Tribune headline that would soon be replaced by another gang-related incident. Life had to go on.
Casting a final glance over my shoulder at the merchants still busy opening their shops, I crossed the street and stepped across the threshold of scorched tile work. I was on my own for the time being, at least until the more-adventurous tourists showed up.
The locals here were smart enough to respect Sal’s for two things: First, that it was a crime scene, and you only wandered through it if you wanted to announce that you were involved; second, that they considered this place a gravesite. Disturbing a grave, even in this magic-free realm, was considered an invitation to curses and bad luck. Still, there were those “mob fans” who wanted a piece of the action…a little memento of a true gangland crime.
In Acryonis, we had a name for trophy-hunting dinks like this: Lycanthrope’s Lunch.
Suddenly, my eye caught sight of a tiny crater in the floor next to the remnants of a bar. This must’ve been where an inconspicuous, Italian-pinstriped goblin left the bomb. With nothing like a storeroom underneath to take part of the blast, whomever sat around here got the full taste of Capone’s wrath. Ouch. This bomb took most of the bar and the surrounding tables with it. Good bet that ol’ Pretty Boy was somewhere in this vicinity.
Yeah, Capone didn’t care for anything on a small scale. He liked his hits like he liked his operas and his picture in the papers: big and brash. I think his smile irked the Feds more than anything else. It was one of those genuine “F.O.” smiles, letting them know they had nothing on him but speculation, circumstantial evidence, and J. Edgar Hoover breathing down their necks demanding results. Even if I were human-sized, I wouldn’t have wanted to trade places with a Fed at this point. Too much overtime, with very little hazard pay.
I placed a hand into the hole created by the explosives, rubbing the dust and soot between my fingertips and giving the mix a few whiffs. Nothing new or out of the ordinary here. It was a standard, Capone-style bomb, triggered by a timer that gave his man a chance to casually walk out the establishment and then double-time it
across the street. The bagman probably looked like an innocent jaywalker trying to avoid the traffic, so no one would notice him running from the scene…especially when the bomb blew.
The stench of burnt wood still clung to the place, even after a week. From the faint traces of burnt flesh I was also picking up, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if the coroners had overlooked a finger or toe in here somewhere. The sight of this place reminded me of orc raids that me and my boys would clean up after. Orcs didn’t think a village was properly raided until everything—houses, barns, and the villagers themselves—weren’t level with the ground. They called it efficiency. I call it a serious lack of self-control.
I stepped over a small pile of timbers that had collapsed to make what resembled the skeleton of a tent. Just the glimpse of it brought back campaign memories. I smiled at the chance happening, but the smile quickly faded when I caught what was hidden behind it. Shooting another quick look around to make sure I was enjoying the private time at a dead man’s party, I bent down to sample the second crater. Sure enough, my fingers felt the unmistakable grit of black powder, and the sharp scent assailing my nostrils confirmed my conclusion.
Like a broadsword into a troll’s gut, it now started to sink in why this crime scene had struck me as particularly eerie. Usually in a mob hit involving a bomb, the building’s front gets obliterated in the blast, leaving behind a gutted-out shell that serves as Capone’s reminder to everyone—be it those closest to him or not yet part of the Organization—that things are done his way. Period. It’s important to have that reminder to the good people of Chicago, so lessons are not only learned, but stay learned. Teaching those lessons requires only one bomb.
So, this second crater was way out the ordinary. Two bombs for one hit? Capone liked his hits big, sure, but a few pounds of dynamite and a timer would have sent DeMayo the message. A second bomb, even for Alphonse, was too much of an orc’s approach to things. Even the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre had a panache to it, brutal as it was.
