Fortunately, once he found the road, he was quickly assured of his success by a bevy of pickup trucks, some of them with trailers attached, parked all over a broad field filled with stands and wandering pedestrians.
“Well…” Remy stopped the car and studied the scene. “Isn’t this all picturesque and peaceful and shit.” He chewed the inside of his cheek a moment. “Now, how do I…” A tickle in his sinuses stopped him. With his eyes open wide, he searched desperately inside his car. Before he could locate a paper napkin—one of many that seemed to accumulate in all his vehicles—and bring it to his nose, he sneezed loudly and wetly all over his dashboard.
“Well…shit.” Finally finding the napkin, he wiped his nose followed by his dashboard and gathered the three letters while he double-checked the notes. He tossed the napkin on the floor, snatched a fresh one, and shoved it in his pocket.
Taylor did not indicate what kind of fantastical creatures he’d be dealing with this time. He looked through his car windows at the assembled crowd of marketgoers. They all looked perfectly normal.
Perhaps this delivery is for mere humans, for once?
He stepped out and shut his door, and the little beep-beep of his alarm cut through the air.
Hey. The sun feels good.
He squeezed through a couple of rows of parked trucks and cars and walked into the market itself. A good seventy or eighty people had to be milling around and there were perhaps thirty stands and tables set up in no obvious order.
An old couple in overalls passed to his left.
“Hey!” He waved and hurried over to them. “Who runs this place?” He barely managed the last word before he felt a desperate tickle, yanked the napkin out of his pocket, and shoved to his face. He sneezed loudly enough to wake someone back in the city.
The couple stopped and stared and their eyes narrowed.
Damn.
They’d pegged him as a typical rude SOB from the city and were very obviously and not necessarily politely waiting for him to recover from his attack of unexpected clean air.
The man started to speak but another sneezing fit struck him. He doubled over, spewed phlegm loudly onto the grass, and finally straightened.
He sniffed and rolled his hands in a circle, his eyes watering. “Sorry. Sorry. Please, go on.”
The old guy pursed his lips and scratched his beard. “The organizer here is a man about your age with tawny hair and a beard.” He pointed ahead. “He’s probably off at the north end of the market. His name’s Felix. He’s a nice enough fellow and very polite.”
Remy nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose to try to cut off another sinus eruption as he waved goodbye to the couple. “Awesome. Thanks. Hope you guys find some nice…uh, vegetables.” He turned and marched toward the northern extremity of the hubbub.
As he wove through the crowd and ignored the heaped piles of fresh fruits and vegetables—many of which did look as appetizing as all hell, he admitted—he sneezed twice more and wondered what the hell was going on.
The only thing he was allergic to was cats, as far as he knew, and he didn’t see any of those around. Maybe some had nested there—or whatever cats did—before they’d set the market up? Or, since he rarely ventured this far out into the boonies, perhaps it was merely an exotic flower whose pollen had never found its way into Manhattan?
Toward the north of the space was a covered pavilion where a large throng had gathered to talk. Many of them held plastic cups that seemed to contain beer.
“Hey,” he called, “I’m looking for Felix. Does anyone know where he is?”
Four or five of the people closest to him turned toward the sound of his voice. For a moment, he thought he noticed something odd about their eyes but it was gone before he could pinpoint it. They exchanged glances and one of them disappeared into the crowd. Everyone turned away and ignored him.
He continued to sniffle and tried to choke off the sneezes before they happened while he waited. This time, he succeeded.
A moment later, the guy who’d left returned beside a relatively short and thin man whose head and face were mostly engulfed in a mass of dull orangish-brown hair. His eyes were sharp and narrow but he looked kind and relaxed, nonetheless.
“I’m Felix,” he said. “How can I help you?”
Remy held up the three envelopes. “I’m from Moonlight Detective Agency. Taylor, whom I assume you know, wanted me to—” He broke off and sneezed. “Uh…to give you these.”
Felix’s eyes widened in curiosity. “Oh, Taylor has a new assistant? Well, I’m not sure how long you’ve worked for her, but I want to assure you that you’re safe here. Compared to some of the folks you’ve probably had to deal with, we pose no threat to you.” He took the letters.
“Oh…uh, good,” he responded, somewhat confused as to what the man was talking about.
The man took him a few paces aside. He wanted to simply leave but somehow, he felt that the friendly bearded guy was about to reveal something important.
“It’s true,” he went on, “that many other shifters have developed a taste for human flesh. But not us. No, we are a commune of werecats who have taken a vow of vegetarianism, the better to live in peace with—”
He stumbled back but caught himself. “Werecats—wow,” he commented. His nose was already tingling again. “I’ve never encountered any of you…uh, guys before. I never had cats as a kid, either. Unfortunately, it took me a while longer to find this place than I thought, ha-ha, so I really need to be going—”
Felix frowned slightly. He noticed for the first time that the man had oblong, vertical pupils and what looked like a tail twitched around in one of his pant legs. “Oh, sure. Some other time, when you’re not in a hurry, let me know how Taylor is doing.”
Remy sneezed and said desperately, “I will. She’s doing great. And vegetarianism. That’s impressive for a carnivorous species, I must say. Gotta go, sorry! Have a nice day.”
He turned and despite his desire to run, restrained himself to a fast power-walk.
In the midst of his flight, another brutal attack on his sinuses stopped him in his tracks and before he could turn away, his nose exploded again to scatter droplets all over someone’s lovely display of tomatoes.
“Hey! What the hell?” the farmer cursed, bolted to his feet, and glared.
“Oh God, sorry about that,” he muttered and inched away. “It must be the…uh, ragweed pollen out here in the country—”
Someone nearby said in a slightly jeering tone, “Maybe you ought to get yourself back to the city, then.”
“That’s the plan,” he responded and took another couple of steps toward his car. “You can send us a bill for the produce if the phlegm makes it unsaleable. My apologies.”
A few of the agriculturists began to talk in low voices and to his mind, the sounds they made were almost like the yowling of felines. He waved toward them as he opened the door of his car and climbed in.
“God,” he gasped and locked himself in. “Regular-sized cats are bad enough. These are the size of people. I don’t even want to think about the amount of dander they produce.”
He sneezed again.
Por’s Bar, Lower Manhattan, New York City
The day’s light was all but spent when Remy arrived at his last delivery of the day—someplace called Por’s Bar, all the way back in Lower Manhattan. He had no idea why Taylor had insisted on this being the final stop.
As he parked his car off to the side of the establishment in an alley that didn’t look too suspicious, he debated whether to simply go straight home from there and call her to inform her that the work was done, or whether he actually ought to go back to Westchester to punch out his timecard or whatever.
His allergies had continued to bother him for the first half of the drive back to NYC, although they seemed to have eased by now. He’d already made a mental note never again to deal with werecats if it could possibly be helped.
He dragged himself out of the vehicle
, holding the final envelope as well as Taylor’s note-sheet, which he stuffed into his pocket after reading it. Porrillage the Gnome, it said. Ignore his attitude (typical New Yorker).
“That,” he observed, “sounds nice, in comparison.”
The bar seemed to be located in the basement of a rowhouse that hosted a New Age paraphernalia shop on the ground floor and apartments or condos higher up. He walked into the alley beside the building, where a discreet sign pointed down a narrow staircase protected by a black iron railing.
After a deep, calming breath, he descended, opened the door, and stepped in.
“Hello,” he said, to no one in particular. “Special delivery, I guess.” He glanced around.
The place wasn’t exactly large but it seemed to fill most, if not all, of the basement, and could probably accommodate eighty people or so on a good night. He idly imagined the werecats from the farmer’s market crowding in there, downing screwdrivers and talking about the difficulty they’d had lately in keeping the rabbits out of their turnips.
At present, there were only three patrons—one loner at the bar itself and another two men seated at a table, discussing something in soft, gravelly tones.
Wood clacked as someone emerged from the bar area. Remy glanced toward the sound and blinked in confusion at first, wondering if he was about to have a conversation with an invisible entity. Then, he looked down.
“Oh,” he said, “there you are. Are you Porrillage?”
The little man—all three and a half feet of him— looked up sulkily. “The sign says Por’s Bar and I stepped out from behind the bar. Whaddya think?”
He nodded. “So yeah. Nice to meet you, too. I’m from Moonlight Detective Agency with a letter that apparently couldn’t wait to go through the postal service.” He waved the envelope in the air.
The diminutive man put one hand on his hip and snatched the missive with the other. “Hmph. Taylor and her ‘urgent’ messages.”
Remy raised a finger. “Speaking of urgent, before you open that, I’d like to order a beer. It doesn’t really matter what. One of those with alcohol in it.”
With a heavy sigh, Por motioned him over and retreated behind the bar. He took a seat on one of the stools as the gnome climbed a small pyramid of stools and wooden blocks to fill a glass with golden, foaming brew from one of the taps.
He watched him idly. Porrillage almost looked like a “little person” of the mundane, mortal variety, and most of the patrons probably assumed that was what he was. He wondered if the slight abnormalities were visible to them, though—the pointed ears, the greenish tint to parts of the skin, and the odd, sparkly eyes.
Probably not. No one else had seen the nests of fairies in the park, after all.
Por set the glass in front of him and the gnome tore the envelope open.
Remy drank. It had been a while since he’d imbibed anything with such a low alcohol content, but it was much appreciated and refreshing after his long, tedious, arduous, bizarre workday.
Low grumbling noises came from the gnome as he read the letter. “Hah!” he scoffed after a moment. “So Taylor thinks that some kind of plot is being hatched against her and now, she’s reaching out to everyone she knows with promises and threats in case any of us know something useful. Isn’t that typical? The people on top always think someone is eroding the foundation they stand on.”
The human raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t what he’d expected to hear at all.
Porrillage shook his head and muttered again. “No, ignore me, I’m merely in a bad mood. You never know what kind of idle chatter will work its way back to her. Well, let me assure you since you’re her errand-boy”—he wagged a finger for emphasis—“that I mind my own business here, and that’s it. I don’t plot against anyone or participate in any plots, but I’m not much interested in any counter-espionage, either.”
So I’m not the only one annoyed with how overbearing that woman is.
“Yeah,” he began as the warmth of the booze seeped through him, “let me tell you about the crap she’s pulled with me. I basically own the company but suddenly, she seems to think I’m her employee because I got in a little financial trouble and had my lawyer ask for the accounts. Seriously, what kind of horseshit is that?”
Por shook his head. “Hmph. It sounds to me like you’re a rich kid who screwed the pooch one too many times and now you’re complaining about merely having to work a normal job like the rest of us. It’s simply your luck you ended up with someone like Taylor as your taskmaster.”
Remy waved a hand dismissively but turned the gnome’s words over in his mind.
So what he’s saying is that someone of my status needs to be more assertive or else she’ll walk all over me. He nodded and felt confident that he’d come to the right conclusion. He set his empty beer glass down on the bar.
“Por,” he proclaimed, “you’re right. There’s no reason I should have to put up with this kind of treatment simply because this is my first actual job. I’ll go straight to Westchester to explain to her how things will be from here on.”
Porrillage cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks,” he said and was glad he had the gnome’s moral support.
Chapter Nine
Harrison, Westchester County, New York
This time, when he steered his car up the drive toward Taylor’s garage, Remy at least felt confident that he knew how to park again The sun had set not long before so despite his late start, he felt he was perfectly on time. That would show her.
Presley had already buzzed him through the front gate. Now, once more, the garage door opened for him as he approached. He drove in slowly and carefully and slid out to examine his handiwork.
“Ha!” He laughed in triumph. “I always was a fast learner. Perfectly aligned.”
The large automatic door made a grinding sound and lowered itself to the earth as he stepped out the side of the garage and strode down the walkway toward the front entrance.
This time, oddly enough, the butler did not open the door until after he’d reached the stone landing and actually knocked. The old boy must be slowing down.
The latches clacked and the heavy wooden rectangle swung inwards. “Good evening, sir,” Presley said.
“Hiya, Jeeves. I’m glad you came and all. I started to get worried and think I waited almost half a minute for you to open the door this time. Have you been hitting the brandy stashed behind the fridge?”
He stepped past the butler, noted the lack of expression on the man’s drooping face, and stretched. It occurred to him that he’d spent far too much of the day crammed into a car seat.
“Sir,” Presley intoned, “I do not answer to ‘Jeeves,’ I’m afraid, and I cannot possibly see how the joke is still funny to you. Do please call me Presley. And refrain from jokes about intoxication on the job. You may relax for the moment. Ms Steele is occupied but will see you shortly.”
Looking around as the butler wandered off, Remy saw that the light was on in a sitting room down the hall. He wondered, vaguely, if vampires truly needed light to see what they were doing or if turning the lights on was a kind of formality to help them blend in with humans.
He sat on one of the foyer’s big, old, roomy chairs and contemplated taking his shoes off but decided against it. Taylor might see that as too informal. The old-fashioned high-society types were obsessed with manners and decorum and bullshit faux-pas.
Besides, he didn’t want to look ridiculous or “compromised” in any way when he confronted her over her absurd and unfair treatment of him. He intended to win this argument.
After all, he’d driven all the way to fucking Harrison from Por’s Bar rather than skipped home from there instead of reporting back to the proverbial office. He wanted to make sure his efforts paid off.
Three or four minutes passed and Presley returned, saying, “Ms Steele will receive you now. And do be honest in describing to her everything that transpired
. She always finds out when someone lies. Always.” He stepped aside and extended his hand graciously toward the lighted sitting room.
Remy stood and walked past the man. As he crossed the threshold, he noted that the sitting room was furnished in a highly tasteful but somewhat outdated fashion, which was about what he would have expected. It reminded him of his grandparents’ old home—which they had modeled on magazine photos from even earlier in time.
Taylor was seated in a leather chair before a low oak coffee table. “Hello, David. Or Remington, rather. You did say that you’d changed your professional name to Remington Davis, didn’t you?”
He smiled a diplomatic smile. It would be best to open with friendly small talk. “I’m flattered that you remembered. And Remington as a first name does have a certain ring to it, although those fairies thought it was funny to call me Remy.”
Taylor set down the book she’d been reading. His gaze focused on the word Maths on the cover, although he didn’t catch the full title.
“Hmm,” he observed and pointed at it, “they misspelled ‘math.’ I’m not sure I’d trust a textbook that can’t even spell a four-letter word.”
“No.” She sighed and her voice took on a patronizing edge. “That’s the English spelling.”
Remy blinked. “Oh, really? I never knew that. All this time, I’d been learning about math in Hungarian.”
Taylor pinched the bridge of her nose. “English, meaning England. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The country that named the language. A sub-dialect of it is spoken here in America.”
“Ohhh,” he said and spread his hands in an over-dramatic motion, “that place. Yes. Well, at least we got rid of all those pointless extra U’s in words like ‘colour’ and so forth.”
Taylor did not visibly react. “They weren’t strictly necessary, but I thought they added character. Nevertheless, I can adapt when I must.”
Last Ditch Effort Page 9
