by J. C. Staudt
“Did he mention where he was going after he left here?”
Nels Oberon tosses a glance at the ceiling, jaw askew. “I have a good memory for conversations. Most people think with their eyes, you know. Not me. I hear things. Can’t remember him saying anything about where he was off to next. Didn’t seem like he was in a hurry.”
“And what was he here for?”
“We were going over some of the preliminaries on his company.”
I pull out Nels’s business card, flip it over, slide it across the coffee table with my finger on the handwritten words. “This BI Tech. What’s it about?”
“Ah, my behavioral indicator. It’s a standardized test. It asks a series of questions to help business owners identify sticking points in their process. Helps me iron out potential problems before they cause any major setbacks.”
“You got a sample?”
He gives me an intractable smile. “The test is proprietary. For clients only.”
“What’s your sitting fee?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Say I was interested. What do you charge to let someone take your test?”
“I usually start off with a free consultation to make sure we’re a good fit before I decide to take you on. The test happens further down the line.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He sighs, rubbing the top of his shiny crown as if to stave off a headache. “The test takes two hours. My average hourly rate is $295.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So if I want to come in and take this test, you’re charging me six hundred bucks.”
He nods. “Minimum.”
“Has Lorne taken it?”
“Twice. Once for him and once for, uh—” he snaps his fingers, “—his partner. Can’t think of the guy’s name.”
Bisquick, I almost say. “Brian Biddix.”
“That’s him.”
“They each took a separate test for the same company?”
Nels spreads his hands in an I don’t make the rules gesture, though he clearly does. “The problem with corporations like this is each partner enters the business relationship with his own ideas and expectations. It’s like a marriage. You expect the other person to act in a predictable way, and to have the same goals, the same habits, the same ideals. But that’s rarely the case. And you’d be surprised how often these sorts of things go unsaid. My test helps everyone get their perspectives out in the open. It helps eliminate a lot of the bitterness that can crop up down the line when your priorities aren’t in sync.”
“You ever use it on married people?”
“I have, actually. Ones who are going into business together.”
“Did Lorne and Bisq—Biddix seem like they got a lot out of it?”
“Yeah, totally. I think people usually get a lot out of it.”
“So you’re a fortune-teller for entrepreneurs.”
Nels doesn’t laugh. “It’s more scientific than that.”
If this quack is a scientist, I’m Ace Ventura. “Who came to you first—Lorne or Biddix?”
“First time they came together.”
I’m wondering whose idea it was to hire a consultant for a company Lorne’s supposedly dreamed of starting since he was in middle school. I don’t know him well enough to speculate on why he’d need anyone to help him realize his dream—or why he’d want anyone meddling in his plans. Sounds like Bisquick’s work. I guess I know who I’m talking to next. “Was Friday the only time Lorne’s ever come alone?”
There’s something unsettling about the way Nels’s expression changes when I ask the question. “I like to have all partners present whenever possible, but as you know, life’s busy. It isn’t always feasible to get everyone in the same room at once. We do what we can.”
Again, that doesn’t answer my question, but I don’t press him on it. This guy lives in his own world. You’d have to, to think some back-of-the-napkin test you came up with yourself is worth six hundred bucks and deserves to be described as ‘scientific.’ I’ll cut my losses with Nels Oberon and hope for Lorne’s sake he’s on the up and up. “If you hear from him, let him know his sister and I are worried about him.”
“I’m sure your brother’s fine. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who gets in over his head. I wouldn’t worry.”
I stand and hand him a copy of my business card. “In case you need to reach me. Thanks for your time.”
“Not a problem. Take care.”
After surviving the rickety elevator ride to the lobby, I call Brian Biddix.
He picks up on the first ring. “Ard-Tard. What’s up, dude?”
Where’s the boxing-glove-on-spring button when you need it? “Hey, can we meet up somewhere to talk?”
“Bro, it’s kind of hard to hear you. Game’s on.”
“Where are you?”
“Sky Lounge.”
“Are you going to be there a while?”
“Dude… it’s first quarter.”
“See you in twenty minutes.”
“Yep.” He hangs up.
I take the hearse to Sky Lounge and park in the back lot. As I step out of the car, a burly orc on a fixed-gear bicycle turns into the lot and pedals toward me at speed. I square my shoulders to him and start burning my bracelet, ready to defend myself. He skids into a stop-turn, kicking frozen asphalt pebbles at my shins. “You Arden Savage?”
If I say yes, is he going to pull out a Saturday Night Special and blow off my head? I stare at him. Leather jacket, red baseball cap, spectacles. The temperature is near-freezing, but he isn’t wearing gloves. “Who’s asking?”
He produces a black silk ribbon from his jacket pocket and holds it out to me.
“What’s this?” I ask, eyeing it with suspicion.
“A message.”
“What, like the Black Spot? I’ve read Treasure Island. I’ll pass.”
“Not that kind of message. This is one you’ll want to read.”
“Sorry, I’m busy.” I shoulder past him toward the building.
He follows, pedaling lazily behind me. “Then read it later. I’m going to follow you until you take it.”
I stop.
So does he, and holds out the ribbon.
“Fine. Give it here.”
The orc dumps the ribbon in my hand, wheels his bike around, and stand-pedals down the street before I can say another word.
“Rude,” I mutter.
There’s nothing written on the foot-long, quarter-inch-thick length of silk. Figures. I stuff it into my pocket and enter the Obsidian Heights Casino Hotel, where a gold-chromed elevator whisks me to the top floor.
Sky Lounge is a swanky place, more upscale than I’d be caught dead in if it weren’t for Biddix. I find him swaying beside a stand-up table, yelling at a college basketball game on one of the bar’s many wall-mounted flatscreens. His worked-out muscles are hard under a tight-fitting t-shirt and a splash of cologne, his douchebag haircut messy-spiky with pomade. “Are you kidding me? Where’s the defense?”
I tap him on the shoulder.
He whirls, ready for a fight. When his eyes focus, his facial expression eases. “Ard-Tard. What’s up, man?”
“Bisquick.” I extend my hand.
He wraps me in a messy hug, keeping his balance with a drunken shuffle-step. “Bisquick. That one got old a long time ago, man.”
“I’m thinking about changing it to Weetabix. Or just Kix. There’s no end to the many breakfast items your name resembles.” I nod toward the TV. “Who’s playing?”
“State’s getting their asses handed to them by Nebraska. Fucking State, am I right?”
“Oh, I know. They’re terrible this season.”
He cranes his neck and blinks to get a better look at me. “You okay, man? You look, I don’t know… pale.”
“I’m alright. How about you?”
“Drunk as shit. Want something?”
“No, thanks. I’m here about Lorne.”
“I’m
pissed at that asshole. He was supposed to meet me for a round of golf at Rackham yesterday and he never showed up.”
“You know he’s missing, right?”
“Whatever, man. He’s doing his thing.”
“No, I mean he’s like, legit missing. Didn’t you talk to Carmine about it?”
“Dani called me first. She hit me up yesterday night or whatever, talking about how she hadn’t seen him and wondered if I had. I told her fuck no, he does his own thing and I don’t get involved. I’m not trying to get in the middle of that.”
“In the middle of what?”
He pulls out his cell, flicks the screen, hands it to me. It’s his text message feed with Lorne, little colored back-and-forth bubbles. I start reading at the top while Biddix turns back to watch the game.
Lorne - Friday, 2:27pm - All done. We’re officially incorporated.
Me - Friday, 2:35pm - Hells yea buddy!
Lorne - Friday, 2:42pm - Omw to Oberon’s
Me - Friday, 2:43pm - For what??
Lorne - Friday, 2:48pm - Then a quickie at Paige’s
Me - Friday, 2:50pm - Still hittin that shit?
Lorne - Friday, 2:57pm - Yah
Me - Friday, 3:06pm - Gonna keep it up?
Lorne - Friday, 5:47pm - Sorry, just got out. Eh. Idk.
Me - Friday, 6:03pm - ???
Lorne - Friday, 6:07pm - Having fun.
Me - Friday, 6:09pm - Get it boi
Lorne - Friday, 6:10pm - Uh huh
There’s a break in the thread until Sunday. Two texts from Biddix, then the thread ends:
Me - Sunday, 1:23pm - Where you at bruh? We still gettin our game on today?
Me - Sunday, 2:03pm - Had to start without you dude. Sorry
“Who’s Paige?” I ask, handing the cell back to him.
Biddix snaps out of his sports-induced stupor. “It’s his sidepiece. Dani doesn’t know. One of these days that shit’s gonna blow up in his face, man. I was like him once.”
“I remember,” I lie.
“Too much drama. One chick at a time, bro.”
“So you think Lorne’s been with this Paige girl all weekend.”
“Positive. And you didn’t hear that shit from me.”
“Ten-after-six on Friday night was the last time you heard from Lorne? No calls, no emails, nothing after that?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“If he left Oberon headed to this Paige girl’s house on Friday night, I need to know who she is and where she lives.”
“I met her one time for like five minutes, dude.”
“Do you know her last name?”
He shakes his head.
“Dani mentioned some girl from an art show. Could that have been Paige?”
“That’s the chick. We were at this lame-ass art exhibit and Dani was flipping out because she thought Lorne was flirting with her, or some shit.”
“Are Lorne and Dani getting pretty serious these days?”
“She is. He isn’t. Bitch keeps trying to get him to marry her. She isn’t right for him, though. Trying her damndest, but he’s fighting it hard. She’s after that scratch.” He rubs his thumb and forefingers together.
“Dani’s family isn’t well-off?”
Biddix scrunches his face and shakes his head. “Hell no. She’s from like, Islandview.”
“Where’d he meet her?”
“Conned her way into some high-rise party. Looking for an easy target. They all are. Your brother’s head’s too far up his ass to recognize the gold-diggers.”
“What about Paige? Same story?”
“Lorne says her family’s loaded. Her dad’s an exec at some middle-grade syndicate downtown.”
“What does she look like?”
“Jesus, I don’t remember. Blonde. Average height. Decent body. Nice tits.”
“Paige, blonde, average height, no last name, executive dad. Got it.”
“You forgot the tits.”
“Your opinion of her rack isn’t going to help me find her.”
“Man, you are one creepy son-of-a-bitch, Ard-Tard. Takes a special kind of wastoid to do what you do. You’re like a fuckin’ detective, except without the badge and donuts.”
“Get bent.”
“I’m about to, if State doesn’t pick up the pace.”
“I’ll leave you to your game. Call me if Lorne gets in touch.”
“You know it,” Biddix says without looking away from the TV.
Chapter 9
The winter sun is setting by the time I drag myself into Arden’s apartment and plop down on the couch, dropping a stack of fifty-dollar bills on the cushion next to me. Ersatz slithers down from his high bookshelf with a lithe grace fit to make a cat jealous, circling a heavy green-stone statue of an elephant with a raised trunk before scuttling across the floor and climbing the couch. I can hear him breathing as he lurks on the backrest behind me.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“It’s the five hundred bucks Quim owes you for losing the bet.”
Ersatz descends to the stack of bills, nudges it with his snout, sniffs. “This is your money.”
“Felita broke up with him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he lost the bet.”
“So he thinks you have the grimoire?”
“Kinda.”
Ersatz frowns.
“Okay, yeah.”
“Just as well. Felita would’ve run him into the ground.”
“She was already starting to.”
Ersatz spreads the bills around and settles in their midst like a nesting bird. “I’ve never understood what humans find so charming about paper money. It makes for a rather uncomfortable bed.”
“Most people don’t own enough gold coins to sleep on them.”
Ersatz sniffs me. “You’ve been with Brian Biddix today, haven’t you? His perfume is the stuff of nightmares. Is he still an incorrigible halfwit?”
“A thousand times yes. He’s the last person who heard from Lorne, though, so I needed to talk to him. So far I’ve been able to put together a vague picture of Lorne’s day on Friday. He left his apartment that morning, filed a trademark at the PTO, met with his consultant, and headed to his mistress’s house around six p.m. That’s when he texted Bisquick.”
“His mistress?”
“Apparently he’s seeing someone on the side. Between his girlfriend, his business partner, and his two-timing ways, I’d say he’s got the worst judgment on the planet. When I was over there talking to Dani, I found this in his kitchen garbage can.” I produce the greasy slip of paper with the name Giga Motts on it.
Ersatz smells it. “Vinaigrette. Part of a shopping list?”
“I wish it were that simple. Giga Motts is an alias for Gilbert Mottrov, head of Mottrov Multinational and leader of a social activist group called the Order of the Raven. He’s a vampire; his guys outbid Buster and won the grimoire at Throgmorton’s last night.”
“A stunning coincidence,” says Ersatz.
“Nothing this big is ever a coincidence. There’s something going on here, and it’s sitting about as well with me as the burrito I bought from that street vendor two days ago. I need to talk to this Paige woman, see if Lorne made it to her place Friday night. She’ll be hard to find, though. All Bisquick knows about her is she’s got blonde hair and her dad’s an exec with some downtown syndicate.”
“Why don’t you have Quim look into her?”
“He’s in one of his moods. I distracted him from his work this morning and he can’t be bothered.”
Ersatz raises his eyebrows knowingly. “He admires you, Cade. He would do anything you ask of him. And in return, you tell him lies.”
“I know. I don’t deserve him.”
“You should tell him what you know about this Paige person.”
“When he comes around to talking, I will. In the meantime, check out all the neat stuff I got today.” I empty my pockets onto the coffee table; ten vials of blood from Durlan’s Pawn Shop, Ca
lyxto’s Nerve Ring, and the black silk ribbon I accepted from an orcish cyclist.
Ersatz scans the vials. “I thought we agreed to stay away from blood magic.”
“You agreed with yourself that I would stay away from blood magic.”
Smoke curls from his nostrils, but he says nothing more about it and turns his attention to the ring. “That’s an odd-looking device.”
“The way it works is even odder. I’ll get into that later. Suffice it to say Calyxto’s got major issues. The strangest item of the day by far is this one.” I lay the black ribbon flat on my thigh.
“A ribbon?”
“An orc rode up on a bicycle and gave it to me. I’m not making that up. He said it’s a message.”
“Is there nothing written on the other side?”
I flip it over. Blank.
“Curious. Perhaps the ribbon itself is meant to serve as a symbolic message.”
“Like the Black Spot from Treasure Island, right? That’s what I thought.”
“Have you tried magic?”
“What kind of spell would I use?”
“One that reveals invisible writing, obviously.”
“Alright, smartass. Why don’t you demonstrate?”
Sure enough, when he casts a spell and breathes along the ribbon’s length, words appear. It’s a short message, but it freezes my blood just the same:
We know who you are. Canton and East Jefferson. Midnight.
The ribbon disintegrates, black silk crumbling to ash and littering the couch cushions. Now I’m freaked out. If these words can only be read using magic, whoever sent the ribbon must know I’m a wizard.
We know who you are. Does that mean they know I’m an impostor for Arden Savage? Or does it mean they know Cade Cadigan is the son of a king? More importantly, who’s they? “Orcs and goblins hang out together, don’t they?”
“Sometimes, I suppose,” says Ersatz. “Why?”
“This must be from Buster and his goblin buddies in the Warrendale Crew. I don’t know who else it could be.”
“They want to meet at midnight, eh? Nothing good ever happens at midnight.”
“It’s when all the shady people schedule their meetings.”
“Will you go?”
“Someone’s claiming to know who I am. Doesn’t that alarm you in the least?”
