The sun was a bigger problem. Dwarfs are extremely photosensitive, with a burn time of less than 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 centimetre 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 stripped out the floorboards in the bedroom, dumping two tons of topsoil and fertilizer on to the rotten foundations. Mould and damp already clung to 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 metres below ground 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 god-daughter? 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 US though. If you had to live above ground, 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 pyjamas, 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 it, even if he or she wasn’t shielded.
The man gave Mulch a dangerous squint. Typical Mob behaviour. 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. ‘Mould and woodlice. I like it.’
Mulch ran a fond finger along a green strip of damp. ‘That mould 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 and sprayed the air around her person.
‘OK, 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 hell hole and settle down for a while.
‘Is this the kind of job where there’s a big pay-off if you do it right?’
‘No,’ replied Carla. ‘This is the kind of job where there’s a painful pay-off if you do it wrong.’
Mulch sighed. Didn’t anyone talk nicely any more?
‘So why me?’ he asked.
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 NYC had run him up some Irish papers on a stolen LEP copier. The Irish had always been Mulch’s favourite humans, so he had decided to be 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.