by Eoin Colfer
“I suppose.”
Carla patted him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Loafers. Compared to this guy, you’re a regular giant.”
Loafers perked up considerably. “Really? Just how short is Mo Digence?”
“He’s short,” said Carla. “I don’t know the exact inches, but any shorter and I’d be changing his diaper and stuffing him in a stroller.”
Loafers grinned. He was going to enjoy this job.
Mo Digence had seen better days. Less than four months ago he had been living it up in a Los Angeles penthouse with more than a million dollars in the bank. Now his funds had been frozen by the Criminal Assets Bureau, and he was working for the Chicago Mob on a commission basis. And Spatz Antonelli was not known for the generosity of his commissions. Of course, Mo could always leave Chicago and go back to L.A., but there was a police task force there with his name on it, just waiting for him to return to the scene of the crime. In fact there was no safe haven for Mo aboveground or below it, because Mo Digence was actually Mulch Diggums, kleptomaniac dwarf and fugitive from the LEP.
Mulch was a tunnel dwarf who had decided that a life in the mines was not for him, and put his mining talents to another use. Namely, relieving Mud Men of their valuables and selling them on the fairy black market. Of course, entering another’s dwelling without permission meant forfeiting your magic, but Mulch didn’t care. Dwarfs didn’t have much power anyway, and casting spells had always made him nauseous.
Dwarfs have several physical features that make them ideal burglars. They can dislocate their jaws, ingesting several kilos of dirt a second. This dirt is stripped of any beneficial minerals, then ejected at the other end. They have also developed the ability to drink through their pores, an attribute that can be very handy during cave-ins. It also transforms the pores into living suction cups, a convenient tool in any burglar’s arsenal. Finally, dwarf hair is actually a network of living antennae, similar to feline whiskers, that can do everything from trap beetles to bounce sonar waves off a tunnel wall.
Mulch had been a rising star in the fairy underworld, until Commander Julius Root got hold of his file. Since then, he had spent more than three hundred years in and out of prison. He was currently on the run for stealing several gold bars from the Holly Short ransom fund. There was no safe haven belowground anymore, even among his own kind. So, Mulch was forced to pass himself off as human, and take whatever work he could get from the Chicago Mob.
There were hazards associated with impersonating a human. Of course, his size drew attention from everyone who happened to glance downward. But Mulch quickly discovered that Mud Men could find a reason to distrust almost anyone. Height, weight, skin color, religion. It was almost safer to be different in some way. The sun was a bigger problem. Dwarfs are extremely photosensitive, with a burn time of three minutes. Luckily, Mulch’s job generally involved night work, but when he was forced to venture abroad in daylight hours, the dwarf made certain that every inch of exposed skin was covered with long-lasting sun block.
Mulch had rented a basement apartment in an early-twentieth-century brownstone. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but this suited the dwarf just fine. He had stripped out the floorboards in the bedroom, dumping two tons of topsoil and fertilizer onto the rotten foundations. There was already mold and damp climbing the walls, so no need to remodel anything there. In a matter of hours, insect life was thriving in the room. Mulch would lie back in his pit and snag cockroaches with his beard hair. Home sweet home. Not only was the apartment beginning to resemble a tunnel cave, but if the LEP came a callin’, he could be fifty yards belowground in the blink of an eye.
In the coming days, Mulch would come to regret not taking that route as soon as he heard the knock at the door.
There was a knock at the door. Mulch crawled out of his tunnel bed and checked the video buzzer. Carla Frazetti was checking her hair in the brass knocker.
The boss’s goddaughter? In person? This must be a big job. Perhaps the commission would be enough to set him up in another state. He’d been in Chicago for nearly three months now, and it was only a matter of time before the LEP picked up his trail. He would never leave the U.S. though. If you had to live aboveground, it might as well be somewhere with cable TV and a lot of rich people to steal from.
Mulch pressed the intercom panel.
“Just a minute, Miss Frazetti; I’m getting dressed.”
“Hurry it up, Mo,” snapped Carla, her voice crackly through the cheap speakers. “I’m getting old here.”
Mulch threw on a robe he had fashioned from old potato sacks. He found the texture of the cloth, reminiscent of Haven Penitentiary pajamas, to be weirdly comforting. He gave his beard a quick comb to dislodge any straggling beetles, and answered the door.
Carla Frazetti swept past him into the lounge, settling into the room’s only armchair. There was another person on the doorstep, hidden beneath the camera’s field. Mulch made a mental note. Redirect the CCTV lens. A fairy could sneak right in under the lens, even if he wasn’t shielded.
The man gave Mulch a dangerous squint. Typical Mob behavior. Just because these people were murdering gangsters didn’t mean they had to be rude.
“Don’t you have another chair?” asked the small human, following Miss Frazetti into the lounge.
Mulch closed the door. “I don’t get many visitors. Actually, you’re the first. Usually Bruno beeps me, and I come into the chop shop.”
Bruno the Cheese was the Mob’s local supervisor. He ran his business from a local hot-car warehouse. Legend had it that he hadn’t been out from behind his desk during work hours in fifteen years.
“Quite a look you’ve got going here,” said Loafers sarcastically. “Mold and woodlice. I like it.”
Mulch ran a fond finger along a green strip of damp. “That mold was just sitting behind the wallpaper when I moved in. Amazing what people cover up.”
Carla Frazetti took a bottle of White Petals perfume from her bag, spraying the air around her person.
“Okay, enough conversation. I have a special job for you, Mo.”
Mulch forced himself to stay calm. This was his big chance. Maybe he could find a nice damp hellhole and settle down for a while.
“Is this the kind of job where there’s a big payoff if you do it right?”
“No,” replied Carla. “This is the kind of job where there’s a painful payoff if you do it wrong.”
Mulch sighed. Didn’t anyone ask nicely anymore?
“So why me?”
Carla Frazetti smiled, her ruby winking in the gloom. “I’m going to answer that question, Mo. Even though I’m not used to explaining myself to the hired help. Especially not a monkey like yourself.”
Mulch swallowed. Sometimes he forgot how ruthless these people were. Never for long.
“You’ve been chosen for this assignment, Mo, because of the outstanding job you did with that van Gogh.”
Mulch smiled modestly. The museum alarm had been child’s play. There hadn’t even been any dogs.
“But also because you have an Irish passport.”
A gnome fugitive hiding out in New York City had run him up Irish papers on a stolen LEP copier. The Irish had always been Mulch’s favorite humans, so he had decided to become one. He should have known it would lead to trouble.
“This particular job is in Ireland, which might be a problem, generally. But for you two, it’ll be like a paid holiday.”
Mulch nodded at Loafers. “Who’s the mutt?”
Loafers’ squint narrowed. Mulch knew that if Miss Frazetti gave the word, the man would kill him on the spot.
“The mutt is Loafers McGuire, your partner. He’s a metal man. It’s a two-tier job. You open the doors. Loafers escorts the mark back here.”
Escorting the mark. Mulch knew what that term meant, and he didn’t want any part of it. Robbery was one thing, but kidnapping was another. Mulch knew that he couldn’t actually turn down this assignment. What he could do was ditch the metal ma
n at the first opportunity and head to one of the Southern states. Apparently Florida had some lovely swamps.
“So, who’s the mark?” said Mulch, pretending that it mattered.
“That’s need-to-know information,” said Loafers.
“And let me guess—I don’t need to know.”
Carla Frazetti pulled a photograph from her coat pocket. “The less you know, the less you have to feel guilty about. This is all you need. The house. This photograph is all we have for the moment, you can case the joint when you get there.”
Mulch took the photo. What he saw on the paper hit him like a gas attack. It was Fowl Manor. Therefore, Artemis was the target. This little psychopath metal man was being sent to kidnap Artemis.
Frazetti sensed his discomfort. “Something wrong, Mo?”
Don’t let it show on your face, thought Mulch. Don’t let them see.
“No. It’s . . . eh . . . that’s quite a setup. I can see alarm boxes and outdoor spots. It’s not going to be easy.”
“If it was easy, I’d do it myself,” said Carla.
Loafers took a step forward, looking down at Mulch.
“What’s the matter, little man? Too tough for you?”
Mulch was forced to think on his feet. If Carla Frazetti thought he wasn’t up to the job, then they would send somebody else. Somebody with no qualms about leading the Mob to Artemis’s door. Mulch was surprised to realize that he couldn’t let that happen. The Irish boy had saved his life during the goblin rebellion, and was the closest thing he had to a friend. Which was pretty pathetic when you thought about it. He had to take the job, if only to make sure that it didn’t go according to plan.
“Hey, don’t worry about me. The building hasn’t been built that Mo Digence can’t crack. I just hope Loafers is man enough for the job.”
Loafers grabbed the dwarf by the lapels. “What’s that supposed to mean, Digence?”
Mulch generally avoided insulting people who were likely to kill him, but it might be useful to establish Loafers as a hothead now. Especially if he was going to blame him for things going wrong later.
“It’s one thing being a midget monkey, but a midget metal man? How good can you be at close quarters?”
Loafers dropped the dwarf, ripping open his own shirt. His chest was a rippling tapestry of tattoos. “That’s how good I am, Digence. Count the tattoos. Count ’em.”
Mulch shot Carla a loaded look. The look said, You’re going to trust this guy?
“That’s enough!” said Carla. “The testosterone in here is starting to stink worse than the walls. This is a very important job. If you two can’t handle it, I’ll bring in another team.”
Loafers buttoned his shirt.
“Okay, Miss Frazetti. We can handle it. This job is as good as done.”
Carla stood, brushing a couple of centipedes from the hem of her jacket. The insects didn’t bother her unduly. She’d seen a lot worse in her twenty-five years. “Glad to hear it. Mo, put some clothes on and grab your monkey kit. We’ll wait in the limo.”
Loafers poked Mulch in the chest. “Five minutes. Then we’re coming in to get you.”
Mulch watched them go. This was his last chance to duck out. He could chew through the bedroom foundations, and be on a southbound train before Carla Frazetti knew he was gone.
Mulch thought about it seriously. This kind of thing was totally against his nature. It wasn’t that the dwarf was a bad fairy, it was simply that he wasn’t accustomed to helping other people. Not unless there was something in it for him. Deciding to help Artemis Fowl was a completely selfless act. Mulch shuddered. A conscience was the last thing he needed right now. Next thing you knew, he’d be selling cookies for the Girl Scouts.
CHAPTER 6
ASSAULT ON FOWL MANOR
Excerpt from Artemis Fowl’s diary, disk 2 (encrypted)
My father had finally regained consciousness. I was, of course, relieved, but his last words to me that day were chasing themselves around my mind. “Gold isn’t all important, Arty,” he had said. “Neither is power. We have everything we need right here. The three of us.”
Was it possible that the magic had transformed my father? I had to know. I needed to speak to him alone. So, at 3 A.M. the following morning, I had Butler bring me back to Helsinki’s University Hospital in the rented Mercedes.
Father was still awake, reading War and Peace by lamplight. “Not many laughs,” he commented. More jokes. I tried to smile, but my face just wasn’t in the mood.
Father closed the book. “I’ve been expecting you, Arty.
We need to talk. There are a few things we have to straighten out.”
I stood stiffly at the foot of the bed.“Yes, Father. I agree.”
Father’s smile was tinged with sadness.“So formal. I remember being the same with my own father. I sometimes think that he didn’t know me at all, and I worry that the same thing will happen to us. So I want us to talk, son, not about bank accounts. Not stocks and shares. Not corporate takeovers. I don’t want to talk business, I want to talk about you.”
I had been afraid of this.“Me? You are the priority here, Father.”
“Perhaps, but I cannot be happy until your mother’s mind is put at rest.”
“At rest?” I asked, as though I didn’t know where this was going.
“Don’t play the innocent, Artemis. I’ve called a few of my law enforcement contacts around Europe. Apparently, you have been active in my absence. Very active.”
I shrugged, unsure whether I was being scolded or praised.
“Not so long ago I would have been very impressed by your antics. Such audacity, and still a minor. But now, speaking as a father, I am telling you that things have to change, Arty. You must reclaim your childhood. It is my wish, and your mother’s, that you return to school after the holidays, and leave the family’s business to me.”
“But—Father!”
“Trust me, Arty. I’ve been in business a lot longer than you. I have promised your mother that the Fowls are on the straight and narrow from now on. All the Fowls. I have another chance, and I will not waste it on greed. We are a family now. A proper one.
From now on the Fowl name will be associated with honor and onesty. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said, clasping his hand.
But what of my meeting with Chicago’s Jon Spiro? I decided to proceed as planned. One last adventure, then the Fowls could be a proper family. After all, Butler would accompany me. What could go wrong?
Fowl Manor
Butler opened his eyes. He was home. Artemis was asleep on the armchair beside the bed. The boy looked a hundred years old. It wasn’t surprising, after all he’d been through. That life was over now though, all of it.
“Anybody home?” said the manservant.
Artemis was instantly alert.
“Butler, you’ve come back to us.”
Butler struggled onto his elbows. It was quite an effort.
“It’s a surprise to me. I never expected to see you, or anyone, ever again.”
Artemis poured a glass of water from the bedside jug.
“Here, old friend. Just rest.”
Butler drank slowly. He was tired, but it was more than that. He had felt battle fatigue before, but this went deeper.
“Artemis, what has happened? I shouldn’t be alive at all. And if I accept that I am alive, then I should be experiencing massive amounts of pain right about now.”
Artemis crossed to the window, looking out over the estate.
“Blunt shot you. It was a fatal wound, and Holly wasn’t around to help, so I froze you until she arrived.”
Butler shook his head. “Cryogenics? Only Artemis Fowl. You used the fish freezers, I suppose?”
Artemis nodded.
“I trust I am not part freshwater trout now, eh?”
When Artemis turned to face his friend, he was not smiling.
“There were complications.”
“Complications?”
Butler sat up.“Artemis. It’s all right. I’m alive. Anything is better than the alternative.”
Artemis was not reassured. He took a pearl-handled mirror from the locker. “Prepare yourself, and take a look.”
Butler took a deep breath and looked. He stretched his jaw, and pinched the bags beneath his eyes.
“Just how long was I out?” he asked.
Aboard a transatlantic Boeing 747
Mulch had decided that the best way to undermine the mission was to antagonize Loafers until he went crazy.
Driving people crazy was a talent of his, and one that he did not get to exercise often enough.
The two diminutive individuals were seated side by side in a 747 watching the clouds shoot past below. First class. One of the perks of working for the Antonellis.
Mulch sipped delicately from a champagne flute.
“So, Slippers . . .”
“That’s Loafers.”
“Oh yes, Loafers. What’s the story behind all the tattoos?”
Loafers rolled up his sleeve, revealing a turquoise snake with drops of blood for eyes. Another of his own designs. “I get one done after every job.”
“Oh,” said Mulch. “So if you paint a kitchen, then you get a tattoo?”
“Not that kind of job, stupid.”
“What kind of job then?”
Loafers grit his teeth. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”
Mulch swiped some peanuts from a passing tray.
“No point. I never got no schoolin’. Plain English will be fine.”
“You can’t be this stupid! Spatz Antonelli doesn’t hire morons.”
Mulch winked a smarmy wink. “You sure about that?”
Loafers patted his shirt, hoping to find a weapon of some kind.
“You wait until this is over, smart aleck. Me and you will settle our differences.”
“You keep telling yourself that, Boots.”
