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 goddaughter? 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 U.S. though. If you had to live aboveground, 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 pajamas, 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 the lens, even if he wasn’t shielded.
The man gave Mulch a dangerous squint. Typical Mob behavior. 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. “Mold and woodlice. I like it.”
Mulch ran a fond finger along a green strip of damp. “That mold 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, spraying the air around her person.
“Okay, 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 hellhole and settle down for a while.
“Is this the kind of job where there’s a big payoff if you do it right?”
“No,” replied Carla. “This is the kind of job where there’s a painful payoff if you do it wrong.”
Mulch sighed. Didn’t anyone ask nicely anymore?
“So why me?”
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 New York City had run him up Irish papers on a stolen LEP copier. The Irish had always been Mulch’s favorite humans, so he had decided to become 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.
“The mutt is Loafers McGuire, your partner. He’s a metal man. It’s a two-tier job. You open the doors. Loafers escorts the mark back here.”
Escorting the mark. Mulch knew what that term meant, and he didn’t want any part of it. Robbery was one thing, but kidnapping was another. Mulch knew that he couldn’t actually turn down this assignment. What he could do was ditch the metal man at the first opportunity and head to one of the Southern states. Apparently Florida had some lovely swamps.
“So, who’s the mark?” said Mulch, pretending that it mattered.
“That’s need-to-know information,” said Loafers.
“And let me guess—I don’t need to know.”
Carla Frazetti pulled a photograph from her coat pocket. “The less you know, the less you have to feel guilty about. This is all you need. The house. This photograph is all we have for the moment, you can case the joint when you get there.”
Mulch took the photo. What he saw on the paper hit him like a gas attack. It was Fowl Manor. Therefore, Artemis was the target. This little psychopath metal man was being sent to kidnap Artemis.
Frazetti sensed his discomfort. “Something wrong, Mo?”