I eyed the stack with distaste. "What's all that?"
Moa regarded me with surprise. "You're opening a store, Aahz bambino. All the right paperwork has to be filed. Lease applications, credit checks, a short essay about how you came to decide on The Mall as your target location, a copy of your personnel files, blueprints of your layout with elevations and color swatches, signed copies of Mall rules affirming that you have read and understood them, and, of course, a detailed description of what you're planning to sell." He pushed the heap toward me. "Do you need a pen?" "I—uh ..."
"Me do," Chumley announced, dragging the heap toward him. He glowered at Moa. "Pencil. Pleee-eeze."
"Of course, of course!" the administrator agreed, hastily going through his desk. He handed a pencil to the Troll, who gripped it awkwardly in his fist and began to form letters laboriously.
"About the merchandise," I began, "we haven't decided absolutely on what we're going to sell."
Moa's eyebrows climbed his bald forehead. "You'll excuse me for staring, but that's usually the first thing a prospective tenant knows when he's coming in here."
"I know that," I scowled. "I'm not doing this for the long term. This isn't really a retail enterprise. It's a trap. All we want is to set up a plausible-looking outlet that'll attract the pain in the butt I'm trying to catch. He comes in the door, we slam it shut behind him, and you don't ask any questions about what happens afterward. Later, we clean the place out and leave. My problem is solved, and you have your retail space back."
Moa's eyes went wide. "I shouldn't have asked. All right! Leave that part of the contract blank. You'll let me know, right?"
"Naturally," I agreed.
"Works of art," Chumley suggested, from his desk near the hearth in our room.
"No," I stated.
"Handwarmers," Eskina offered. She and Parvattani sat across from one another at the table where I tried to make a list of merchandise to sell.
I turned a blank look her way. "In here? It's hot as an armpit in The Mall. Who would buy handwarmers?"
"It was an idea," the Ratislavan exclaimed, throwing up her hands. "I have not seen anyone selling them." "Cheeble-pets," Chumley proposed. "They're cheap and cute."
"No way," I snapped. "If someone's going to start that fad here, it's not going to be us. Have you ever spent any time in a room with one of those? You'd go nuts!"
Chumley shook his head and bent to the list he was writing. "That lets out birdcalls, too."
"You bet your furry behind it does!" I agreed.
"Candles," Eskina suggested.
"Pocket knives," Parvattani added.
"No and no."
"Garters," Massha put in, tapping me on the head. She floated above us.
"Garters?" All four of us stared up at her. She shrugged.
"Same excuse as Eskina," she apologized. "I haven't seen anything like that here, either. Garters are sexy and fun. They started out as unisex stocking fasteners, you know, not just a female accessory. In some dimensions males still wear them. But, hey! What if they weren't just garters? What if they had gizmos attached to them? Noisemakers, or a little purse you could hide your house key in, or a magikal hourglass to remind you of your appointments? It could give you a little pinch to tell you you're going to be late to the doctor's."
"That's the most ridiculous thing—" I sputtered, then my initial rage petered out as I considered the impulse habits of shoppers. "That's just stupid enough to be unique. Good thinking, Massha. All right, let's add that to the list."
Unfortunately, it wasn't a long list. Chumley had suggested novelty candy. I had rejected the novelty angle as not being enough of a big ticket, but quality goodies might just pull in a broad range of clientele. Skeeve liked candy, so if the impostors were picking up his personal traits, they would be starting to get a real sugar jones at some point. Eskina's previous ideas had included scooters with anti-crash spells on the bumpers, a pet store selling flying mice, and magic feathers that gave you the power of flight. The last was so far-fetched I laughed out loud. Eskina wasn't dismayed. She had just kept on tossing out ideas. I had to give her credit for her perseverance.
Parvattani tried hard, but he didn't have much imagination. He suggested weapons, armor, healing charms, safety devices, antitheft gizmos. If I ever wanted to open a safety-products shop, I'd put him in charge of purchasing.
Massha's offerings had all been items of personal adornment. Hats that kept telepaths or wizards from reading one's thoughts sounded like a good idea, but they were too expensive and way too delicate. I wanted to be able to return for credit any merchandise we didn't sell. Jewelry would mean we were going head to head with at least a fifth of the stores in The Mall, and we were already courting resentment for going straight to the top of the list for a vacant store, ahead of at least sixty vendors who'd been waiting, sometimes years, for a spot.
Chumley's first notion was a bookstore, wishful thinking on his part. I had said no for two reasons: one, it was unlikely to attract the thieves, who liked flashy, expensive items, and books didn't really fall into that category; and two, he might become engrossed in reading some of the stock and miss that psychological moment to grab our impostor. Truth be told, so might I.
My own mind had gone blank. Over the years I had bought plenty of goods, but my specialty was selling services, magikal or protective or both. My mind was so focused on luring the card-carrying impostors into a small place that I didn't much care what we sold.
I had already made one trip back to Deva, for a talk with the Merchants' Association. After some heartfelt bargaining they were willing to give me pretty good terms for bulk buys with allowance for return of unsold merchandise, if only we could make up our minds what we wanted to buy.
"I give up," I grumbled, crumpling another list and tossing it into the nearest corner. "Give me your best idea. I'll see what I can do with the Merchants' Association." "Board shorts," Chumley led off.
"Cheeble-pets," Massha put in. At my dismayed face she burst out, "Well, you know they sell!"
"Bottled water," Eskina insisted.
"That is too stupid for words," I snarled. "Who outside of a desert would buy water? Par?"
The guard captain looked up shyly, glanced up at Massha, and blushed. "I, uh, I like-a Madama Massha's idea, Aahz. The garters. The romantic-a angle is very nice. Many ladies would like-a to buy them, to make their legs pretty, or a gentleman might-a enjoy buying one to adorn-a the leg of a lady he admires."
Another glance, this time toward Eskina, and Par's cheeks burned more bronzely than ever before. This time Eskina joined him, her face going pink. I couldn't help beaming. Par was a good kid. So was Eskina. If we could knock out Rattila and his henchcreature, who knew what might develop between those two?
"Okay," I breathed. "All in favor of Chumley's suggestion?" No hands went up. "Massha's?" Nothing. "Eskina's?" Bravely, Par raised his hand.
"Do not vote for mine," the Ratislavan chided him, though she looked pleased. "It was stupid! All in favor of Parvattani's?"
All of us, except the abashed guard captain, put up our hands.
"All right," I concluded, rising from my seat. "I'll go see what kind of a deal I can do with the Deveels."
SEVENTEEN
The razzing from the Merchants' Association over my order for fifty dozen assorted garters, a mix of magikally endowed and non, lasted just long enough for the assembled business owners to speculate on how fast they could get the same item into their shops, and how much they could undercut their neighbors.
"Of course we can help you, Aahz," Frimble, head of the Devan Marketing Association, insisted. He was a scrawny, middle-aged Deveel with a slick little black beard, which he stroked with a speculative thumb and forefinger. "Naturally there will be a surcharge for rush delivery—and set-up fees—and a percentage to ensure exclusivity for a period of say, oh, seven days—"
"Add it up," I agreed, "and cut the total by fifty percent."
Frimble
screamed. "What? You'd be cutting the throats of your friends! What kind of ingrate are you? For top quality you would have to pay double!"
"I wasn't born yesterday," I argued back. "And I doubt I'll be getting top quality anyhow."
"How dare you!" yelled Ingvir, a potbellied Deveel who sold dry goods. He hoped to supply the twill ribbons and buckles, but I intended it to be on my terms, not his. "You son of a skink! I should know better than to try and do business with Perverts!"
"That's Pervect!" I roared.
"It's Pervert if you think I sell second-rate merchandise!"
"It's Pervect, and you do sell second-rate merchandise!" I exclaimed. "Maybe I should take my business elsewhere?"
"Who'd do business with you?" His voice rose in a shriek.
I started to relax. Deveel negotiation was always conducted at the top of their lungs. After several days of the genteel hum of The Mall I had started to forget how real trading was done.
"Ten percent discount," Coulbin shot at me.
He also manufactured small metal objects. The buckles he displayed were a little better looking than Ingvir's, and Ingvir knew it.
"Forty-five," I countered.
"Fifteen," Ingvir argued. "And I will cut you a deal on gold plating."
"Forty."
"Twenty," Coulbin shouted. "Gold-plating included!"
I was starting to enjoy myself, and Frimble hadn't even gotten into the fray yet. He held back, though, until the other two had made me identical offers at thirty percent off the original offer.
"Thirty," Frimble stated, "delivery included."
"You can't undercut us!" Coulbin shrieked. "You'd be buying the product from us anyhow!"
The argument started up afresh.
"Shut up!" I roared, over their voices. "Why not form a consortium?" I suggested, reasonably. "If this takes off, everybody could make a ton of money. And after a week, you can start selling them for yourselves. I won't need to have an exclusive for longer than that." The Deveels all shot one another the kind of looks that never kill when you need them to. Frimble nodded curtly.
"All right, it's a deal," he stated. "Delivery in three days."
"Fine," I assented.
Without a word of thanks or farewell they all turned their backs on me and started the argument up all over again. I wasn't offended. I had known Deveels for over a hundred years, and they were like that. Once a sale was done, you were off the radar. They were already onto the next moneymaking effort, which in this case was deciding who would get what piece of my pie. I didn't care. The goods only had to be priced so I didn't lose my shirt and pretty enough and functional enough to attract the shapechangers' attention. If the garters fell apart the day after we captured them, I didn't care.
Leaving the Deveels to their argument, I bamfed out for Flibber.
"No!" Massha yelled, hanging overhead like a huge, gaudy mobile. "Paint the walls before you put down the carpet. I thought you people did this all the time!"
The Flibberites rolling out the mauve rug rolled it back up again and returned to the buckets and brushes near the walls.
"She tell-a us to do it the other way," one of them whispered to the other.
"Yeah, but she tell-a us to do it the first way the first time!" They glanced at me over their shoulders and hastily bent to their task.
Massha noticed me and floated down to my level. "How'd it go?"
"We're all set," I assured her. "The stuff will arrive in three days. Once we get this place fixed up, all we have to do is open the door and wait."
"What kind of bags did you get?" she asked. "Bags?" I inquired blankly.
"To put sales in."
"We don't need bags!"
Massha gave me a hard look.
"All right, what about tissue paper? Tags? Gift cards? Antitheft devices? Receipts? Stationery? Business cards? And have you hired any clerks yet? I think I can train them, but it wouldn't hurt to get someone with real retail experience in here first."
"Hey!" I bellowed. "What are you trying to do here?"
Massha put her hands on her hips. "Set up a shop, sugar pie. I may never have run one, but I've been in thousands of them. Take the Bazaar. Most deals there are verbal, but even the Deveels wrap up small goods when you take them out of the store. Otherwise, how do you tell the shoppers from the shoplifters? Also, it's a courtesy for merchandise that's easily broken, soiled or"—she grinned— "a little embarrassing, like underwear. And what we're going to put on the walls falls into that category."
"I—er—I didn't think of bags," I admitted.
"Do you want me to take care of it? You'd have to take over here."
I looked around at the workers plastering, painting, and papering. The smell was already making my eyes water. "I'll do it."
I headed for the door. "And what about music?" she called behind me.
"I'm already on it!" I assured her.
"Naturally, naturally," Moa remarked, when I laid out the situation for him. "We can take care of everything for you. We do it for hundreds of the stores here. A lot of them are sole proprietors, don't have the time or expertise, or access to the right resources. I'll send a Djinn around to you at your hotel. He'll get everything you need." "Marco at your service!" exclaimed the cheerful, portly Djinn in purple robes who appeared at the door of our suite. He bowed.
"Another Djinnelli?" I asked, showing him in.
He beamed at me. "My cousin Rimbaldi said you were a sharp observer! We are so happy you decide to join our little community! Now, come, let me show you all the things we can offer."
Marco waved his hands. The room filled with huge, hardbound sample books.
"Shall we begin?" he inquired.
"The visitors are doing what?" Rattila asked.
Garn timidly extended a paint chip to his master. "They're opening a shop. This is the color. I just spent three hours painting the walls. There was nothing else to steal yet except this. They don't even have a name."
Rattila rubbed his paws together. "How fitting!" he cackled. "They are going to assist me in draining the essence of their own friends, and I can use their own merchandise to do it! What are they selling?"
Garn rubbed his nose with a paw. "I dunno."
"Then go back! I want a full report. I want to see it," Rattila added greedily, "with my own eyes."
"Boxes," I decided finally, after going through dozens of packaging options.
"Good choice, Master Aahz," Marco congratulated me. He threw a hand toward the hovering examples. "Now, flat square, cubic, flat round? You have all these choices because this handsome little item"—he flourished one of our sample garters—"would look beautiful in all of them." He kissed his fingertips. "Now, which one would you like best, if you were bringing a present to a beautiful lady?"
I have always prided myself on being able to scope out the psychology of people I was dealing with. In this case, I had to guess how people I didn't know yet would think. The factors that went into the decision were subtle. Now, subtle I could do, no problem, but I wasn't sure about generally popular.
"Flat round," I announced at last.
"Very nice!" Marco agreed, jotting a note on the notepad that followed us around the room. "Out of the ordinary. I recommend two sizes, for a single item, and for two or three."
"No," I corrected him, narrowing my eyes at the floating boxes. "Just the one size. We're trying to go for the special, one-of-a-kind look."
"Then you need ribbons, or bags to put multiple boxes in."
"Ribbons," I decided at once. "Three colors. White— no, silver boxes, three colors of purple ribbon. Pink's too namby-pamby. If we're going for solid sex appeal, then let's go for it."
"It's a pleasure to do business with such a decisive personality, Aahz!" Marco exclaimed heartily. "Except for my cousins, everybody is so timid; and then they are so unhappy with the results."
"You oughta set up shop in the Bazaar," I suggested, with a grin. "We get the screaming out of the way in adva
nce there."
"And, now," Marco went on smoothly, "a catalog?"
"No," I stated flatly. "We're gonna change styles all the time."
Truth was, I had given the Deveels a fairly free hand, and I wasn't sure what they would come up with. Also, the less of a paper trail I could leave, the better. The last thing we needed was to have a catalog turn up ten years from now, and have someone bug us in the middle of an important operation in search of a size eight blue left-handed garter with marabou.
"Ah!" Marco exclaimed, enlightened. "You are an exclusive boutique. I understand."
"Yeah. A boutique." I was picking up all kinds of vocabulary as I went.
Marco made notes. "So you will want purple-and-silver tissue. Business cards—magikal will cost you a gold piece per hundred. Paper, a thousand per gold piece."
"Paper. Er, silver ink on deep purple card. Shiny." I began to picture it in my mind. "A little frilly ring in the upper right-hand corner. The store number in the bottom right."
"And the name?" Marco asked, pencil poised.
"Uh." He had me there. I hadn't even considered what we were going to call it. "Garterama?"
"Not a boutique name," the Djinn declared firmly.
I wasn't really the marketing specialist. "We Are Garters?" I grinned evilly as a thought struck me. "Garter Snake?"
Marco wiggled a hand. "Not really family appeal. A few species would respond to that favorably, but some won't. Cute is what you want. Perky. Make the buyers think they're in on something special."
"Not bad," I mused.
Good advice. But what could we let the punters in on? I had to admit that I was surprised that Massha had suggested garters in the first place. Not that she was body-shy; her normal attire was a modified harem-girl outfit. And she had a healthy attitude about love and marriage. She'd waited long enough for them, after all. I don't know why her idea took me off guard. I guess it had been a long time since I'd thought about the little things that made a relationship romantic. She knew them, and she was willing to share. "How about Massha's Secret?"
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