by Alex P. Berg
“Skillethands?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of name is that, anyway?” Somewhere in the back, a hinge squeaked as I spoke, and heavy thuds sounded. “Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say—”
A figure squeezed through the door at the side of the front counter—literally, squeezed. Seven feet tall at least, maybe four or five hundred pounds, with long, black hair, blunted fangs poking through thick lips, dusty skin like a rhinoceros, and hands like serving platters. A full-blooded troll. Here, in Aragosto of all places.
“Holy crap,” I said.
The troll blinked, its brow creases deepening. Its mouth made an ‘o’ the size of a grapefruit. “Folton?”
Quinto turned. His consternation faded, replaced instead with a look like he’d been slapped with a mackerel. “Mom…?”
22
“Folton!” The troll surged forward, enveloping Quinto in a hug that lifted him off his feet and might’ve broken lesser mortals. When she released him, both she and Quinto started yammering, talking over each other while trying to adapt to each other’s responses on the fly.
“Mom. What the… How did you…?”
“Folton, by the gods, I can’t believe it!”
“So you’re here? In Aragosto? When?”
“Yes! What are you doing here?”
“This is unbelievable! It’s been—”
“Ages, Folton! Ages! I thought I’d lost you!”
After another round of hugging and incoherent half sentences, both of them seemed to remember they weren’t alone.
Quinto extracted himself from his mother’s grip and turned to us, his face slack from shock. “Oh. Uh. Guys. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…this is my mother. In case you hadn’t figured that out already.”
Shay waved, a warm smile on her face. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Quinto. I’m Shay. This is Jake. We’re good friends of Quinto’s. I mean, Folton’s.”
I gave a friendly wave, too, but I wasn’t able to hide my shock as well as Shay had. Quinto’s mother ran a bait shop in Aragosto? And more importantly, Quinto got his troll heritage from his mother’s side? I’d always assumed his father had been the troll, mostly because I couldn’t imagine being attracted enough to a troll to make my body participate in the reproductive deed. Then again, I’d always argued that no matter how kinky the matchup, there was someone, somewhere in New Welwic willing to play along. This only cemented the idea.
Quinto’s mother waved one of her huge mitts through the air, almost bowling me over with the resulting whoosh of air. “Please. Quinto was Folton’s father’s name. Call me Norma. But forget all that. Folton? I can’t believe my eyes. What in the world are you doing here?”
“I’m working a case,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I run the bait shop,” she said. “What do you mean, working a case?”
“Well…I’m a detective, mom. With the New Welwic PD. Homicide division. These are two of my fellow detectives.”
Norma glanced at us, then back at her boy. “Detective? You’re kidding.”
“No,” said Quinto. “Ranger’s honor. Been working for the boys in blue for a decade.”
Norma smiled as she shook her head. “My boy, a detective. I can’t believe it. I always knew you had a righteous streak in you, but I mean…wow. After you ran off with those Twelve Points thugs—”
“Mom…”
Norma threw up her hands. “You’re right. What am I doing? This calls for a celebration! I think I have a bottle of something or other in back. Either way, come with me. The shop’ll practically run itself. We can sit. Talk. We have so much to talk about…”
Beckoning with her hand, Norma turned, ducked, and squeezed through the doorway at the side of the counter, shaking the building with each of her steps. We followed her into a miniscule break room, or so it appeared with both her and Quinto in it simultaneously. A quartet of chairs sat before a round table, two of them heavily reinforced with crossbeams and metal brackets. While the rest of us seated ourselves, Norma hunched over, digging through a cabinet.
“I know I had something in here at some point. A fifth of gin, or at least a pint of whiskey. If Felix took either of those without telling me…”
“So it’s true then,” said Quinto. “Felix is here. Skillethands.”
I could’ve slapped myself. I’d thought Norma, with her saucer-like mitts, must’ve owned the nickname, but Bronmuth had referred to her separately. That’s why everyone had looked at Quinto with confusion while he asked about Johnny’s friend. Because he looked just like him. Because Skillethands was Quinto’s brother.
Norma turned from the cabinet, her hands free of liquor and a correspondingly sober look on her face. “That’s right, Quinto. He’s here. And if he took my gin without letting me know—”
“Mom, forget the liquor,” said Quinto. “I don’t care about that. None of us do. Just have a seat. Tell me…about Felix.”
Norma settled into her chair, the support system groaning despite the reinforcements. “Well, Folton, he’s doing well. Real well. He’s safe. He works hard. Hasn’t found himself a girl, but there’s time for that. But…it all worked out. When we came here? That was a tough time, Folton. Without your father. Without you…”
Quinto shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I was an idiot back then. I should never have left.”
“It’s okay. You were fourteen.” She reached a hand out and set it upon Quinto’s shoulder, her voice softer than I thought anyone her size would be capable of. “We were all in a bad place. You, running around getting into trouble with those gangs. Me, with my drinking. I still haven’t totally kicked the habit, as you can tell. And without your dad there to provide a decent example? That’s why I left, Folton. I had to get Felix out of there. I really… I thought I’d lost you. For good. I couldn’t lose him, too.”
I’d never seen a troll cry until then. Contrary to popular belief, Norma’s tears weren’t droplets of blood or unpolished diamonds. Just wet streams of emotion, same as anyone else’s.
Quinto looked like he might be on the verge of tears, too. I thought Shay and I might be better served anywhere else, but we’d been invited in. We couldn’t sneak out now without it being awkward.
Quinto held it together. “I looked for you, you know. After I got my life back on track. After I joined the force. I couldn’t find you.”
Norma wiped her face on her sleeve, her sobbing muted but punctuated by roaring snorts as she tried to suck it all back in. “I don’t doubt it. I left everything I could behind, Folton. I wanted no part of it.”
“So how did you get here?”
“Luck? Coincidence? A miracle? It’s hard to describe. When I saw Felix trending toward the same path you’d taken, I pulled up the stakes, grabbed your brother by the ear, and started walking. We barely had more than the clothes on our backs, and even those I wasn’t sure if we’d finished paying for. I didn’t know where to go or what I’d do, but I figured I didn’t have anything to lose, just Felix, and I’d lose him anyway if I stayed, so why not try something different. We walked as far as we could that day—I don’t even remember how long ago it was. Seventeen, eighteen years? It was a winter’s day, I remember that. Cold. Blustery, and us without so much as a jacket between us. We walked until the sun started to set, with our bellies rumbling and the wind chilling us. I knew for sure I’d made a mistake then, traded a life of misery for a slow, cold death in the woods if we didn’t turn back, but that’s when the miracle found us. Our miracle. Annabell.”
“Annabell?” asked Quinto.
Norma nodded. “Our savior. She spotted us from the porch of her farmhouse, just off the main road into town. In those days, it was about the only thing there. I would’ve figured an old country-bred lady like herself would’ve run off screaming, trying to rouse the villagers to drive us away with pitchforks and torches, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. She came over
with a lantern and a blanket, told us we could sleep in her barn. The next morning she offered us bread and honey, and when she heard our story and saw what dire straights we were in, she told us we could stay in the barn as long as we needed. To this day, I’ve never met such kindness anywhere else.”
“So you stayed?” asked Quinto.
Norma rubbed her hands together, as if she was trying to start a fire between them—or remembering a certain fire on a cold winter’s night. “Annabell’s kindness didn’t end after a few days. Her husband had passed away, see. She needed help around her home, on the property. Felix provided that in exchange for meals and a roof. But Annabell needed more help than that. She owned the bait shop, this shop, or had with her husband. She tried to keep it running, but couldn’t, not at her age. So she offered me the job. At first I was mortified. I was sure the folks here would be scared to death of me, but she introduced me, showed me around. Folks took a while, but they warmed up. Soon enough, I was running the place on my own. Doing well by Mrs. Annabell. And then…”
She sighed, and it looked like she might start crying again.
“Then what?” asked Quinto.
Norma sighed, a sound like a fog horn. “She passed away, Folton. Quietly, in her sleep, like she should’ve. But she left me the shop, and the farmhouse. In her will. She’d never had any kids, you see… I told you she was our miracle.”
I didn’t have any words for that, and I didn’t bother trying to find any. Norma dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve and took a deep, labored breath.
Shay smiled at the enormous troll woman. “That’s amazing, Norma. A miracle is right.”
I wasn’t sure Shay believed in that sort of thing, but she’d always been far better than me at empathizing with others.
“Mom, I’m so sorry,” said Quinto.
Norma shook her head. “No. Not now, Folton. There’ll be time for apologies, time aplenty. But right now? I want to savor the moment. Savor you, here. I still can’t believe it. Honestly what are you doing here?”
“Investigating a case, just as I said. A homicide. Johnny Nicchi. Did you know him?”
“Ah. Johnny. Yeah.” Norma nodded. “I’d heard the rumors. I didn’t know him well, not as well as Felix does. But he’d come in every now and then. Wasn’t the friendliest individual, if I’m being honest. But that wasn’t what I meant. Fates be praised that they brought us together, but I wanted to know how you got here, to this point, in life. Are you happy? Are you married? Your friends seem nice. Tell me about them.”
“They’re my coworkers,” said Quinto.
I snorted. “Hey, now. Just coworkers?”
“Friends, too,” said Quinto. “And no, Mother, I’m not married, though there is someone. Someone special. Another coworker.”
“Well, tell me all about it, Folton. Trust me, I have nowhere else I’d rather be, and if anyone comes in through the front, I’ll shout at them to leave money on the counter. Nobody around here would dare steal from me, tell you what.”
“Mom, I would, and I will, I promise,” said Quinto. “I’ll tell you every bit I can remember. What happened when I left home, how I ended up on the force and in homicide. I’ll tell you about the Captain and my girlfriend, Cairny, and everyone else, but first…where’s Felix?”
“On the docks, I suspect,” said Norma. “I think he was helping the Morrisons, the Formentis, and the Abanos today. Unloading cargo, probably. He still picks up odd jobs. Doesn’t like working the shop with his ma, which I get.”
Quinto pushed back from his chair and stood. “Thanks. I’ve got to find him, Mom. I’ve got to talk to him. I owe him that. Guys? Feel free to chat with my mother. Catch her up, if you have the time. I’ll be back. Promise, Mom. I won’t run away again.”
Before his mother had a chance to object, he turned and headed into the bait shop proper. Big Norma looked at Steele and me expectantly, smiling.
“So…you’re Quinto’s friends? Tell me all about him.”
Suddenly I felt hot under the collar. Not that I was under any pressure to give Norma a positive first impression, but in general I wasn’t the best with mothers. “Well—”
The shopkeeper’s bell sounded, I assumed from Quinto’s exit—until I heard Silverbrook’s voice. “Whoa, Quinto. Where are you—”
“Can’t talk,” came Quinto’s echoing rumble. “Steele and Daggers are in the back. Check with them.”
A moment later Bronmuth appeared in the doorway. “Hey. There you guys are. Morning, Norma. Everything alright?”
“More than alright,” said Norma. “I’m whole again.”
Bronmuth squinted. “Huh?”
“Quinto,” said Shay. “He’s Norma’s son. Felix’s brother.”
Bronmuth stared at Norma, then us. His eyes widened. “Well. Now that you mention it, I see the resemblance. With Skillethands, I mean.”
And Bronmuth thought he had the deductive instincts to solve a homicide case on his own…
“So,” I said. “You finished with Bianca?”
He nodded. “Got her squared away as well as I could. What are you up to?”
“Trying to locate Nicchi’s friends,” I said. “Quinto’s on his way to take care of his brother. Mind helping us track down Émile and Rigger?”
“Sure,” said Silverbrook. “We can try Émile first. He works on the boardwalk. You ready?”
Shay shot Quinto’s mother a regretful smile. “Sorry, Norma. Duty calls, you understand? But don’t worry about Folton. He won’t skip out on you again. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
“It’s probably for the best,” said the massive troll woman. “I could use some time to…process everything. My doors are always open—at least from seven to five. Best of luck in your investigation.”
Silverbrook nodded toward the door. Norma looked sad as we headed out, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t me she was sad to see go.
23
The problem with heading back to the boardwalk around lunchtime was that my stomach was unwilling to accept how mediocre the sausages we’d secured the night before had been, certainly not while receiving an onslaught of scents, those of fried dough and charred meats and roasted peppers. My stomach grumbled, and I might’ve echoed its concerns with a grumble of my own. Steele, of course, reminded me of the nature of the sausages, which I had no logical argument against, but luckily, Bronmuth proved his worth for once.
After expounding on our unsuccessful venture into Aragosto street cuisine, Bronmuth told us we simply had to know which stands to target and which ones to avoid. The real gems, he confided, were from the carts that offered the strangest cuisine. To prove his point, he led us to a dinky stand that sold what to my ears sounded like ‘Catch a Purry,’ which turned out to be a cheese-filled pastry brushed with hot butter and topped with a fried egg.
I could barely understand the guy working the cart, but apparently Bronmuth had worked out a system to interact with him, and good thing, too. The ‘Catch a Purry’ was as mouthwateringly delicious as something made entirely out of bread, eggs, butter, and cheese had every right to be. Steele and I devoured ours while Bronmuth took a more measured approach to his, all as he led us to our next destination—none other than Doc Fowler’s Fantastic Flying Foals and Fillies show.
If anything, the place looked even dingier in the full light of day. The faded sign over the entrance had only three real colors left, a light gray, a lighter blue, and a ‘so light it might’ve just been dirty white’ yellow. Sun glinted off the bleachers that surrounded the place, highlighting the frequent rust spots that corroded the battered metal. Past those, I still couldn’t make out more than the crane, platform, and rigging I’d spotted before, all set against a gleaming ocean backdrop that glimmered like the bleachers, an endless sea of gray liquid steel.
Of audiences, however, the show had none. Not a single butt pressed into the seats around the main stage, and no line stretched from the
kiosk that stood underneath the faded sign. A young man stood behind the counter, however, his unwashed shoulder length hair and ratty beard in perfect harmony with his thin, equally ratty t-shirt.
He noticed Silverbrook and held out a hand. “Yo, Bronmuth. How’s it hanging, my man?”
Bronmuth clasped hands with the guy, an awkward cross between a high five and a handshake. “Good, Émile. You?”
“Same as always, man. Still living the dream.”
Émile said the last part with such conviction that I couldn’t tell if he was joking. I hoped he was.
“So what brings you to my neck of the woods?” said Émile, resting his elbows on the counter in front of him. “You got, like, some hot leads on missing circus freaks or something? Or you just showing your new friends around?”
“More of the latter,” said Bronmuth. “These are Steele and Daggers. They’re detectives.”
“Whoa,” said Émile with raised eyebrows. “Cool names. Wish I had one like that. I’m just Émile. Though I prefer to be called The ‘Milester.’”
“You actually prefer that?” I lifted a brow. This guy couldn’t be for real, could he? Of course, he was working the front kiosk at a barren flying horse show. Maybe he was.
“Just a joke,” he said. “But not really. Either way is fine.”
“Émile,” said Bronmuth. “We need to talk to you about Johnny Nicchi. You’ve heard, I’m guessing.”
“Dude, that he went missing? Course I’ve heard. That was like a week or two ago. Unless you mean did I hear about him dying, in which case, yeah, I heard that too. Murdered, someone said. Damn shame, man. So I guess I’ve heard everything.”
“Silverbrook tells us you two were friends,” said Steele.
“Well, sorta,” said Émile. “We grew up together. I hung out with him and his brother. Can’t say we were that close anymore. We’d go drinking every now and then. That’s about it.”
The answer assuaged my fears a little. I’d started to fear Johnny had been a complete ignoramus like Émile, which didn’t bother me in the slightest as far as his murder investigation was concerned, but it would’ve been a bad sign for the mental aptitude of Quinto’s brother.
