Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

by Alessio Lanterna

We both burst out in peals of laughter.

  “What are you doing around here? Looking for a decent beer? I was just about to pop ‘round to Otre’s.”

  He approaches with the strange swaying gait of dwarves, and crushes my hand. His thick black beard, streaked with grey, comes down as far as his belly, and is in sharp contrast with his head which is completely bald. His glasses, secured to his neck by a gold chain, peek out halfway as though involved in an exploration of the prominent belly underneath the grizzled undergrowth.

  “No, just passing by. You got rid of the plaits in your beard?!”

  “Yes,” he answers, his fingers worrying the mass of hair. “Tessa says it makes me look younger.”

  I laugh.

  “I didn’t think you cared about trying to look younger.”

  “Bah. Women. They make you do the weirdest things. When are you going to find yourself one and settle down? Then I can take the piss out of you.”

  “Never, if I have a say in the matter.”

  “All right, all right, lover boy. What can I do for you?”

  Taking my mobile out, I upload the photos.

  “Tell me what could have caused a wound like that.”

  Putting his round glasses on, he wets his lips with his tongue while he scrolls down the pictures. At the beginning he murmurs “uhmm”, and then he starts with his classic “ugly business, ugly business”. He takes his glasses off and looks me right in the eye, his tone heavy.

  “Ugly business.”

  “Well? Do you know then?”

  “In my opinion, an elf-made silk blade was used.”

  “Are you kidding? Like in the films? I didn’t know they actually existed.”

  Beron sighs and lowers himself down onto the small stool behind the till. He thinks chairs are for loafers.

  “Oh they exist all right, sonny, but only a handful of asses use them. Decades of intense training is required before you can master the art of the silk blade, and elves no longer have reason to use them in battle. They were very common before the Apocalypse, at least that’s what the few surviving hares say, the ones who deign themselves to talk to us poor mortals.”

  Dwarves can live up to seven centuries but only elves live indefinitely.

  “It’s a magical weapon, I imagine.”

  “Oh yes.” Tubgorne nods vigorously. “Maybe the most magical of all, apart from the legendary weapons of course. It has to be, otherwise it could get broken simply by taking it out of its sheath. Actually, it’s practically indestructible, and it can bend like a whip. Virtually weightless. The blade is less than half a millimetre thick. I held one once, a long time ago. One of the dynasties lent it to the Academy for a research project, but nothing good came of it. It’s enchanted with the magic of willpower, nothing at all to do with runes.”

  The mention of the Academy makes the dwarf come over all misty-eyed for a moment. A feeling of vague sadness lingers in the air. I thump my fist on his back.

  “Well, thanks a lot, Beron. Must dash now, I’ve got a dinner date. Let’s go out for a drink some time next week?”

  He nods, lost in his memories. I’m already at the door when he calls me back.

  “Sonny.”

  “What?”

  “Watch yourself. A murdering elf is ugly business. Have you still got it with you?”

  I pat my raincoat with a flat hand, in the general location of the Altra holster.

  “Always.”

  “Hmmm. Altra. What a name for a gun.”

  “I know, but I’ve never been able to get my tongue round the name you gave it” Flashing him a grin, I nod goodbye.

  I don’t think anyone would ever believe me, knowing this story and knowing me, if I said that it breaks my heart knowing that I can’t go for a drink with him next week.

  But it’s absolutely true.

  Dorisa. In my opinion, Dorisa could have been a model. Instead, who knows why, she chose the MetroPo. When I get there, late, obviously, she’s waiting for me outside Fierno and she’s wearing a knock-out dress that reveals her bare back. A discreet clutch bag, sky-high heels, long lean legs. She’s no spring chicken, but this really is irrelevant. Without even realising it, I lick my lips.

  I sneak up on her, and peeking out from behind her shoulder I plant a kiss on her cheeks.

  “Arkham!” she exclaims. “You startled me.” She smiles. Dorisa smiles all the time.

  “You’re late.”

  “As usual. I’m sorry.”

  She gives me a push.

  “It’s always the same with you. I just got here anyway.”

  I proffer my arm, even though we look a bit ridiculous as a couple. It’s not that I don’t have any suits good enough for Fierno, it’s just that I simply didn’t have time to go home and get changed, or have a shower and a shave. With our chins up and a solemn countenance we make our entrance, aping the dignified behaviour of the rich magnates who count Fierno as their number one eatery.

  The maître d' does not alter his deadpan expression, but he scans me from head to foot. He’s almost certainly repulsed even though he doesn’t show it. Professional.

  “Do you have a rethervathion?” he asks with his oh-so-chic lisp, safe in the knowledge that the reservation bastion will drive off this piece of trash and his inexplicably attractive companion. After all, in his eyes, it’s just inconceivable for such a person to have booked a table in his restaurant.

  “Yeth, a table for two, the name’th Arkham.”

  Dorisa is almost crying with laughter, but she manages to stifle her giggles.

  “Thir, I mutht inform you that your, erm, thuit…”

  “Lieutenant Arkham, Federal Guard, old boy.”

  He jumps, within the constraints of etiquette.

  “This way, please.” He’s already forgotten his standard-issue lisp. Not so professional after all.

  “Let’th thit, thweetheart,” I say to Dorisa, who finally collapses into a heap of giggles.

  Thursday – the early bird catches the worm

  I wake up with a rather inelegant belch. Maybe I had too much to eat at dinner last night. After a few disoriented seconds, I recognise Sergeant Xevez’s bedroom. I rub my eyes and squint at the clock on the bedside table. A quarter past one. Good morning.

  Luckily, Dorisa’s sprog is with the grandparents. I’ve never known who the father is and I’ve never wanted to. Judging by Dorisa’s relaxed attitude to sex it could be anyone.

  I sit up, mentally preparing myself for a new day at work. She rolls over on the bed to face me; still awake, she looks as though she hasn’t slept a wink.

  “Arkham…”

  “Yes.”

  A long pause.

  “Do you ever think about…stopping? Settling down?”

  “Yeah, sometimes.” I’m lying, and she knows it.

  More silence.

  “I’d really like that, you know?”

  Silence, while I think what I’m going to say next.

  “If I change my mind, I promise you’ll be the first one to know.”

  “Okay.” She’s skeptical, and doesn’t bother hiding it. “Are you going?”

  “I’ve got work to do.” I nod. One lie after another. “At one in the morning?” She sighs.

  Pause.

  “You should stop playing games.”

  “You’re probably right, but what can I do?”

  The roar of the dog track always puts me in a good mood. Originally, it had been dug out of the layer separating Seventh Level from the next level—the ceiling, or the floor, depending on your point of view. Naturally, MetroPo knows exactly where it is, but the owner, that lardball khan Ugube, has always had some very influential support which keeps any interference at bay. And so, this clandestine dog track has survived the passage of time and various council administrations. The next race starts in fifteen minutes.

  The patrons would hold their own in a social message about racial integration. There’s always a bit of everything here, with the not
able if not obvious exception of dwarves, they’d never gamble with ogres. Even a table of gremlins who, rendered senseless by the chaos of the gambling hall, always end up losing any amount of money that mysteriously materializes in their pockets.

  There are no terraces for the punters at the dog track, this problem is remedied by numerous screens fixed to the ceiling above the tables in the gambling area.

  I drink my whisky by myself, musing over my next bet, when Eton’s familiar pig-face appears before me. Half-ogre, with a furtive air, thin for his wretched sort. His smile reveals a mouth full of crooked, sharp beige teeth. Disgusting.

  “Hey, boss! You bettùng, boss?”

  “Well, well. Someone who owes me a favour.”

  A couple of weeks ago I caught Eton dealing Onirò in a lurid street packed with junkies on Seventh. After I confiscated the drugs (they never made it to the evidence room) I let the poor shit go, he scarpered promising to return the favour.

  “Hot tùp. Number four, four boss.” He shows me his hand. “You and me, ùs even, eh?” he asks hopefully, four filthy fingers still sticking up.

  “Almost. Fix me up with a couple of lines and we’ll be just fùne.”

  Nodding, he melts into the crowd and returns a few minutes later and discreetly passes me a wrap of Onirò under the table. Fatso doesn’t like other people dealing in his places, but Eton likes living on the edge. Or: I’ve always thought that Eton was beaten too much as a child or not beaten enough, therefore he’s not the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer. Just to give more of an idea, he always tries to wink at me when he says hello, but he closes both eyes and confuses himself and ends up scratching his arm like a lost child. I shake my head. Who knows which drug ultimately liquefied his brain.

  I put the last bit of cash I have in my pocket on the tip he gave me, and go back to the table to wait for the race to start. Drinks are on the house for all the different kinds of cops, but when it comes to the bets, the rules are the same for everybody. Very democratic.

  There’s just five minutes to go before the start of the race when a hand as big as a boulder slams down on my shoulder in a less than polite fashion and makes me choke on my last mouthful of whisky. I’m still spluttering when I recognise the pungent tang of ogre sweat emanating relentlessly from the creature alongside me. Ugube’s efforts to give his gorillas a respectable air always have comical results. This orange-skinned beast in his double-breasted jacket resembles a pile of sausages wrapped in newspaper, while the handkerchief peeking out of his top pocket vaguely echoes a picnic blanket.

  “Khan wants talk you,” he informs me, carefully avoiding “i” and syntax.

  The office he roughly takes me to is quite elegant for the operative centre of someone from pig mafia. Ever since I met him, I’ve been convinced that Ugube suffers from an acute inferiority complex compared to human beings, which says it all. To start with he’s the only ogre who uses “i” correctly when speaking. Secondly, he’s obsessed with fashion. Thirdly, he constantly forces himself to be polite. He’s aggressive, intimidating, sometimes deliberately offensive, but always remains within the boundaries of politeness. Listening to two tons of sweaty mafia blubber threaten you courteously is ridiculous as well as bizarre. But the victims don’t usually enjoy the luxury of laughter, and if they do, not for very long.

  “Lieutenant Arkham. What a pleasure. Please take a seat.”

  Inside the office there aren’t any other chairs apart from his extra-large armchair. Fat old arsehole.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, massaging my bruised deltoid courtesy of the thug.

  The gorilla plants himself behind me with his hands behind his back. Slowly, Ugube peels his gaze off one of the security monitors and appraises me, this is accompanied by a slimy smirk while he gears up for one of his stupid fucking monologues.

  “I thought we’d cleared up the betting issue. No more bets until you pay off your debt, I thought that’s what I told you.” With excruciating slowness, he picks up a fan from the desk and starts to fan his face despite the gigantic electric fan which is ineffectually wafting air onto the contours of his body distorted by obesity.

  “I thought it was clear.”

  “It was just small change.”

  I’ve got an overwhelming desire to stick a bullet in his skull. Or in his throat, underneath that jelly-like, wobbly triple chin.

  Ugube snaps his fan shut, slamming it onto the desk.

  “Just my small change, to be exact.”

  I say nothing. What can I say? Nothing that can stop my bones from being broken. The race begins, number four breaks clean away from the others. On the last bend, the dog skids dangerously across the track, spraying dust over his competition, but he manages to stay ahead and crosses the finishing line first. Good on you, Eton, the only time you’ve ever given me a decent tip-off and I miss it. The mound of shit produces another of his sickly smiles.

  “I’ll knock your winnings off your debt, even though I shouldn’t, really. Do you want to know why I do it, Lieutenant Arkham?” He leans forward over the desk, like a bag of rubbish rolling slowly, but inexorably, out of an overflowing dumpster. The armchair creaks in exhaustion at this endless abuse. “Do you know?” he asks again, evidently expecting a reply.

  “Because I’m a nice bloke.”

  He laughs, a series of convulsions ripple through his flabby body, this sends a shudder of horror right down the length of my spine. After a delay of a couple of seconds, the thug behind me starts cackling too, maybe he felt some sort of moral obligation towards his khan. I force myself not to look at them as if they’re cockroaches, but I’m not sure I’ll have much success.

  “That, too,” says Ugube, once he’s done taking the piss. “I couldn’t live without your witty contribution. But I also appreciate your operative support, as you know. Speaking of which, I happen to have a job for you. You’re free next weekend, aren’t you? Will you do this small favour for me, and make me happy?”

  The mere idea of giving pleasure to that…thing. Another shudder dies, unexpressed, within my imagination.

  “This is what I’m here for.”

  “Ah, I’m sure you are. Nothing…different from the usual. A lorry has to go through customs without…complications. Wave that magic badge around a little, Lieutenant Arkham. I’ll let you have the details the day before, the usual procedure.”

  There’s not a lot I can say. I keep my mouth shut and grind my teeth. The khan is very pleased with himself, and he’s not exactly killing himself to hide it. Sometimes I get the feeling that he doesn’t murder me because he enjoys having me in his power, and not because I’m useful to him. He gets his kicks seeing me running up and down like a fucking puppet.

  “Before you go, I’d like to remind you that you still owe me one hundred and seventy-nine thousand, two hundred crowns. I’ve already adjusted the balance after your…win this evening. If everything goes well this weekend, I’ll cancel the interest, as usual. You may go.”

  He dismisses me with a bored flick of his bejewelled hand. Turning round to face the guard who stands aside with a scornful grimace. I take just one step and Ugube calls me back.

  “Ah, Lieutenent…” He waits until I turn round, fixing me with that repugnant sadistic leer. “Give Rea my warmest regards.”

  On leaving the office, the only thing I can think about is that Ugube is a transparent plastic bag full of diarrhea. It almost lifts my spirits.

  The insistent chirping of my mobile pulls me out of my tormented early-morning dozing. I silence it and force my eyelids apart. It truly is morning this time, or at least it is according to the standards of this sun-less city. A dopey-looking bloke looks back at me, his eyes are a labyrinth of capillaries injected with blood, dark bags of tiredness and unshaven. It takes a while before I realize it’s my own reflection in the rearview mirror. Digging around in my pocket in search of a cigarette, I discover with horror that I’ve only got two left.

  I sift through my memory to
try and piece together last night. As a way of cheering myself up after my little trip to Ugube’s office, I treated myself to a visit to Two of Spades, one of the best places for picking up drunk girls. A redhead with an arse to die for I met at the bar told me about this innocent fantasy she had about getting screwed while being handcuffed. So, we threw back a few drinks, a couple of lines of Onirò, and I ended up cuffing her to the handrail in the disabled toilet, thus making her teenage dream come true.

  Unfortunately, by the time I left the redhead, I was totally incapable of driving, so I stopped in a semi-deserted car park a few blocks away. In response to some subconscious instinct, I even set the alarm before collapsing onto the steering wheel.

  Seeing as there’s something of a cigarette shortage, I decide to start the new day with a good old snort of magic powder. Eton went one step further than a couple of lines, this is a clear sign that he’s got a big consignment on his hands. Note to self: when I finish my stash again, go and visit Eton in the usual street, where he will undoubtedly go back to dealing, thus confirming his status as a moron.

  Onirò is fantastic for getting you back on your feet after a night like last night. A line makes you feel fine. That makes me chuckle. Very funny. Wonder if I’m just laughing in my head or out loud, too. Who knows how many junkies have laughed at the same joke; in fact, who knows how many junkies are laughing at that joke this very minute. God, I’m so hilarious, I think to myself, turning the keys in the ignition. Give me a prize. Fifty thousand crowns would do nicely.

  I join the sleepy ten-to-seven traffic, honking my horn at the slightest delay just to get on people’s nerves. Hello, average citizen, another shitty day in your futile life, it’s better I tell you now before you delude yourself.

  My next move, I muse while frantically chewing on a piece of gum, is to talk to one of the Lovl’Atherons. Find out what explanation (false, obviously) they have for her death. One way or another, asses always lie. That’s how you stay at the top of the heap for a thousand years. You lie. Always. Even when there’s no need.