by Tee Morris
“Well, yeah, as you can see,” I said, motioning to my weapons mounted on the wall. “I have an interest in ancient weapons and artifacts. Safe to say, I’ve got a lot of hands-on experience with them.”
“We also understand that you relieved Dr. Hammil of a photograph of item #EW234450-112-MM and kept it for an unspecified period of time.” And like a peacock that held full reign over a courtyard leading to a King’s Palace, both Jackson and Miller arched their backs ever so slightly to give themselves a hint more height. (I know that trick well.) “We are here on matters of national security to collect your data concerning #EW234450-112-MM.”
And they did their little posturing maneuver together again. How cute. I bet these government dinks do everything together.
I was trying really hard not to snicker because I knew they could, if given the green light from The White House, tear up my office without so much as a worry for my individual rights. Power is power, regardless of what freedoms are promised to people. All it would take to turn me from Billibub Baddings, Private Eye to Billibub Baddings, Enemy of the State was a single phone call to the great Ivory Palace of the East. Still, that didn’t mean I had to blindly roll over and play dead for these clowns.
“I gave the photo back to Hammil already, so if you guys flash your badges to the Ryerson or the Chicago Police I’m sure they’ll grant you two access to whatever you want. As far as access to my personal notes, I’m afraid that is classified.”
“Classified?”
“Yeah, classified,” I echoed Jackson. “I knew that’s a word you two would understand. There are already two deaths that I know of linked to item #EW234-blah-blah-blah. That’s enough blood spilled for my taste, so I’ve got my notes stored away in a safe place so that no one else will come to harm.” I then leaned forward, slowly lacing my fingers together. “As far as turning over my own personal notes without question, that gets a little complicated.”
“Complicated?”
I paused for a moment, looking at Jackson as if he had suddenly grown a third arm from his forehead. “You should change your last name to ‘Canyon.’ It suits you better.”
He didn’t get the joke. I didn’t expect him to.
“My own notes are linked with a case,” I went on, “and because I am a private investigator, it really would not do a lot for business if I went and released my findings to anyone…even ol’ Uncle Whiskers himself.”
“Watch your step, Shorty!” Well, what do you know? Miller had a voice. “You’re working with the G here, and we don’t take kindly to that kind of talk!”
“Where’d you hear that tough-guy talk, G-man? Listening faithfully to True Detective Mysteries, are we?”
Miller’s beady eyes narrowed. If these boys were with Alphonse’s or Bugs’ crew, they would be taking me for a one-way scenic ride through the more rural spots in Illinois by now, and I wouldn’t be making the fitting I had scheduled at Sergio’s after lunch.
No, these guys wanted to keep a low profile, and for good reason. Because Chicago was creeping up more and more in the trouble department lately, the Feds were now poking their noses into business that local law enforcement couldn’t handle. While mobsters were able to deal with local cops—easily adding them to the “business expenses” of the operation—the Feds were gumming up the works with reps like Eliot Ness. Apparently, Ness had recruited himself a sharp little team, all of them following the same codes and edicts of refusing bribes and remaining out of the Organization’s influence. (I hope those “Untouchables” are as squeaky-clean as their press makes them out to be.)
As Jackson cleared his throat to speak, the sound seemed to give the invisible chain connected to Miller’s neck a bit of a tug. Not too much, though. The dink still wanted my head as his pike ornament.
“I don’t think you understand the present situation, Mr. Baddings. We are not requesting information from you. We are merely extending a courtesy in telling you that you will hand over all information concerning Ryerson’s missing item #EW234450-112-MM.”
When you’re dealing with dwarves, the best way to completely shut down the negotiation channels is to make demands. Never tell dwarves that they are going to do something, because whether you insinuate it or not, we will add “…or else!” on the end. I have seen peace negotiations degenerate into barroom brawls simply because the party opposite the dwarves worded their terms as “You will do this,” or “You will do that.” And so, the rumor (probably started up by the elves) grew that dwarves are rude little twerps at treaty talks.
“Really?” I countered. “Then how about I extend to the Department of War a little courtesy of my own? If any agent of the Department of War—or any other United States Government agency for that matter—attempts to relieve Gryfennos-born dwarf and United States citizen Billibub Duronhoumus Baddings of any information he is not willing to part withal, then said dwarf cannot and will not be held responsible for damages or injury to the government agents in question.”
This was the challenge Miller had been waiting for. As he leaned over my desk, tipping his charcoal-grey fedora back to the top of his head, I could make out the roscoe under his now-unbuttoned jacket. While I mentally painted the bull’s-eye exactly where my fist would do the most damage to that square jaw of his, I sent the High Warrior and His Second a prayer that “Tough Guy” Miller was going where I hoped he would.
“That sounds like a threat, Shorty.” He rested his fists gently against my desk. “You threatening us? You threatening Uncle Sam?”
I had to give this ogre some credit. Every time his mouth opened, another line from some dime-store detective magazine came out. For a government agent, that’s talent.
“It isn’t a threat, tough guy.” I smiled. “Like you said before, it’s a courtesy.”
“Really? Well then, maybe we should dig deeper. Maybe we shouldn’t just take your classified notes, but everything here. Find out exactly what brought this courtesy on.” Miller looked over at my battle-axe and war hammer and gave a nod to them both. “I think I’ll start with these trophies of yours over there. They look dangerous.”
As Miller strode over to my former tools of the trade as if he were the herald returning with the enemy’s surrender, I nodded to myself in satisfaction. Apparently, my prayer had just been heard.
“Hey, Miranda!” I shouted, causing Miller to freeze in midstep. “Make the call!”
Just as I heard Miranda pick up the phone and ask for a connection, Miller’s hand touched the handle of my battle-axe. My charmed battle-axe.
This weapon was forged by the best in the business, a big, burly dwarf by the name of Dursley Dingelhorff. This guy crafted one-of-a-kind battle-axes that could slice through metal armor like a knife through warm butter. Once Dursley finished this little gem of a weapon for me, I took it to a wizard whose forte was casting charms for weapons and asked him to give my battle-axe something that would make it work for me instead of against me. Let me just say that I’ve got to be damn more careful what I ask for from a friggin’ mage! The old coot took my request literally and charmed the axe with a spell that prevented anyone else to wield it, outside of yours truly. This way, no one could use it against me. Not what I expected, but a handy charm nonetheless.
As I was saying, Miller’s hand touched the leather-wrapped handle, just long enough for him to feel the tanned animal hide against his own fingertips. As I watched him fly across my office and through the frosted window that separated my office from Miranda’s reception area, I remembered how my pal Kev had described being on the other end of my battle-axe’s charm. Once, when he and I were well into our kegs of malt beer, I dared him to try and take my battle-axe from me. When he landed on solid ground and sat up, laughing in a drunken stupor but also grasping his ribs, he described a sensation of being back-kicked by a pack beast in a very bad mood. Now Kev was a big guy, though not as big as “Tough Guy” G-man now landing in front of Miranda’s desk with a hard crash.
If I remembered c
orrectly, Kev managed to walk away with a couple of broken ribs. I had no doubt Miller had the wind knocked out of him, but chances were good he’d just be sore as hell for the weekend.
“Hello, Mr. McWilliams? It’s Miranda over at Baddings Investigations.” She nodded. “Yeah, someone touched the wall décor again.” She called through the open hole that once separated her from my office, “Who does he bill this time?”
Jackson turned back at me, his pistol out and pointing down at me. I was still at my desk, fingers laced and smiling wide at the somewhat befuddled government agent. I had made my point. There was no need to bring Beatrice or even her little sister into this standoff.
“The Department of War, Washington, D.C.” I sat back in my office chair, giving my beard a few strokes. I took a moment to wonder what was running through that highly militarized mind of Mr. Jackson’s. This grain-fed human knew nothing of magic, necromancers, and charmed weapons. How could Jackson, who accepted only what regulations and training had taught him, possibly reason his way through this display of sorcery before him?
I shrugged. “Go ahead. Shoot me. Shoot Miranda to cover all your tracks, if you need to, but you can tear up this office and still not find any more answers to the questions you and your crew are asking. How about you lower that heater of yours, and we talk like a couple of military types?”
Jackson was really working the brain muscle pretty hard. On one hand, he really wanted to check up on his bull-headed partner. At the same time, he didn’t want to turn his back on me for a second. The poor sap really didn’t have a clue what I was going to do next, or what I was capable of.
As far as Miranda knew, this was just a booby trap I’d rigged up in my office in case anyone tried to pinch my weapons. “So where is it?” Miranda would ask me. My reply was always, “You won’t see it coming,” and that was good enough for her. I figured the booby-trap story would be easier for her to swallow than explaining how my battle-axe’s charm worked.
“Hey, Miranda?” I asked, casually taking my eyes off of Jackson. Not like he really wanted to take a chance and lay a finger on anything else in the office, present company included. “How’s our pal looking out there?”
“He’s moving. Not much, though.”
“Give Dr. Roberts a call.” I turned back to Jackson and picked up my desk lighter. “He’s across the street. He’ll give your boy Miller the once-over, and be discreet about it. Now, you got to make a choice here, Agent Jackson. What’s it gonna be?”
He slowly returned his piece back to his shoulder holster, and I masked a relieved sigh by stretching across my desk for the pipe tree. I packed the bowl with fresh tobacco from a nearby box. Savoring the sweet mixture of leaf and earth in my bowl that I’d just ignited, I blew out a smoke ring with the second puff. Jackson wasn’t impressed.
“Now, Mr. Jackson, I’m not one for being told what I’m going to do. I’m my own boss, and I answer to only one person: me. You try to muscle your way through my office, case files, and personal details, and you got one seriously pissed-off dwarf on your hands. I extended a courtesy to you and Miller, and I’m real sorry that Miller took that header through my window. This friendly meeting didn’t have to play out like that, you know?”
“Mr. Baddings, you are making things more difficult than they should be.”
“Maybe I am,” I conceded with a long drag from my ornate pipe, “but as you witnessed with my battle-axe, I’ve got a handle on matters like Ryerson’s missing artifact, the Singing Sword. A much easier name referring to it, wouldn’t you agree?”
“That may be the way you understand the situation, Mr. Baddings, but you have no idea what you are getting yourself into.”
“Really?” I fought back a laugh. “I was just thinking it’s your War Department that’s stumbling into a dungeon without a torch and a clue.” I slid a pen across my desk. It stopped by a blank memo pad. “So how about we educate one another? I’ll give you a better idea of what exactly was stolen from the Ryerson Library, and you tell me why the United States military is so interested in this trinket.”
I watched Jackson consider the offer on the table, silently considering what would be safe to talk about with me, and what should remain under Uncle Sam’s red, white and blue top hat. After a moment or two of getting comfortable in the seat across from my desk, he finally spoke. “Since the cessation of hostilities in Europe, we have been keeping a close eye on developments overseas.”
“Not a bad thing to do. I know you guys had your hands full with the cleanup and all.”
“In every war, you always have a losing side, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah,” I replied, a bitterness forming in my mouth. “All part of war.”
“As you are a civilian and unfamiliar with the aftermath of a war, Mr. Baddings, I don’t expect you to truly understand the reconstruction of a nation. Germany has been slow in putting itself back together since the end of the war. These past few years, however, have shown developments requiring our attention. There is this fringe party that appears to be pushing somewhat radical platforms. The followers of this movement seem to have very particular, if not peculiar, attitudes toward race, politics, and national pride. According to the limited intelligence we’ve gathered, their party leader is a charismatic individual, harping on the vision of what Germany was in its heyday,” he ended with a scoff.
“I’d keep an eye on this guy, then,” I replied. “Take it from me: When all you have left is pride, you can build a lot more than a nation.”
That wiped the ignorant smirk off his face. Not bad for a “civilian,” eh, Jackson?
“So what does all this have to do with the Singing Sword?” I asked.
“Our intelligence also reports that this individual shows a preoccupation with historical artifacts of a supernatural nature.”
Now it was my turn to scoff, listening to him try and explain the Singing Sword in terminology he could understand. “Historical artifacts of a supernatural nature?”
Jackson looked away for a moment. “Do you read the papers, Mr. Baddings?”
“In my business, you got to.”
“Do you recall in last week’s paper an article concerning the Smithsonian?”
Ah, the Smithsonian: an institution of higher learning that would make bard, mage, cleric, and sage alike clap with glee and believe it was Christmas every day. While the Ryerson was the gem of Chicago’s academia, The Smithsonian was considered the gem of the whole country, the kind of place that had everything under one roof. And when I say everything, I mean everything!
“Yeah, I know the place. Was thinking about taking P.S. 35 out there for a field trip. You know, do my good deed for the local kiddies here.”
Nope, still no rise or reaction from Jackson. He was a tough crowd in himself.
“Do you recall a story about its temporary closing to the public for cataloging new artifacts?” he asked.
“Yeah, buried in the national news section. Not much to tell.”
I pushed myself free of my desk and hopped out of the chair as I watched old Doc Roberts arrive with his trusty black bag in hand. He took one look at Miller, and then looked over at me through the broken pane with a hint of a scowl. For a second, I thought I was going to get a scolding. Instead, I got a rueful shake of his silver-haired head as he knelt by the groaning patient. Chances were I’d get an earful from the Doc at the next change of the seasons, when my knee always acted up.
I returned my attentions to the dink in my office. “As I recall, the article was to inform tourists and the like that if they were going to D.C., they’d better not plan a visit to the Smithsonian.”
Since Jackson was seated, we were seeing eye to eye. His voice dropped to a level only I could hear. “What the article didn’t report were the murders of several Smithsonian staff.”
I took my pipe out and cast a casual glance at Miranda, who caught it better than Kiki Cuyler out in Right Field. Continuing to file those nails of hers, my girl struck up a
conversation with Doc Roberts. The Doc needed to be preoccupied not only with his patient, but with her as well. It was for privacy’s sake. A bit of a challenge right now on account of Miller’s quick flight through my office window.
I motioned with my head for Jackson to join me by the window. The rain still came down steadily, the pip-pippty-pap-pap-pip symphony now giving our conversation a little cover.
“Several staff members, huh?” I couldn’t mask the surprise and confusion in my low voice. This news, if not a front-page item, should have been at least a lead story in the national news. Instead, it ran as more of a side story for the folks who read a Tribune or Chronicle from beginning to end, and apparently the story was incomplete.
“How did the news wire miss that little detail behind the Smithsonian’s closing?”
“Because, unlike you, they were cooperative,” Jackson answered. “What I am revealing, I am doing so with discretion. Mr. Baddings, you have given me no reason to trust you unconditionally, but with this collection you have on display here, I cannot completely dismiss your knowledge on this matter. I will warn you that if these facts I share with you are made public, I will practice the same discretion in how I make you, your business, and your staff disappear.”
Back to threats, are we? Jackson, I must admit, did have something that could scare the bathtub gin out of me. He had resources even Capone wouldn’t be able to call on. And while Capone’s displays of enforcement were usually public, messy, and downright nasty, this chump was the G. Jackson could make Baddings Investigations a front for organized crime and vilify Miranda and me to a point where the general public would scream for us to make an appearance at Chicago’s answer to “Executioner’s Square.”
