Out in the hall, with the door closed, I asked them both, “How strong is our case, really? Everybody in the Quarter knows that golems are workhorses, designed for assembly lines and menial labor. Max wasn’t exactly peddling drugs, weapons, or dangerous magical items. This is going to be a tough sell, especially if the Smile Syndicate decides to defend him with their lawyers.” I put my hand on Robin’s shoulder. “I’m not convinced the end result would be worth the time and expense of litigating this. We already got what we wanted. Max is shut down and all of Bill’s friends are freed.”
Robin was tied up in knots. “I want that necromancer punished for abusing those poor golems. I could file a civil rights suit and take him for every penny he has!” She paced back and forth, letting her legal mind take charge over her emotional reaction. “But I doubt he has more than a penny to his name.” She lifted her chin and forced herself to look on the bright side. “The most important part is that the golems are liberated, I suppose. We saved them. They can go out and live happy lives now. I’ll be able to sleep well at night.”
I put my arm around Robin’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
“Oh, he’s not getting away—we’ve got him on at least ten permit violations,” McGoo said. “We’ll put him through the wringer. Scout’s honor, Grubb will not be a happy camper when this is all over.”
We reentered the interrogation room, and Maximus Max perked up, his eyes filled with puppy-dog hope. “This is your lucky day, Grubb,” McGoo announced. “We won’t be sending you to prison—not for this. But we might squeeze your wallet dry.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Max rubbed his hands, then said in a small voice, “Um, how much is this going to cost?”
“You operated a manufacturing center without the proper permits,” Robin interjected. “Your building was not zoned for the production of souvenir trinkets. You didn’t register your business. You didn’t have regular safety inspections. I could go on, but you get the idea. Each one of those infractions carries a severe penalty and a significant fine.”
“If you pay all the fines, you’re free to go,” McGoo said.
“Oh, I will, even if it takes my last few cents.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know I needed permits for all those things, or licenses, or registrations.”
“Sounds like you don’t know a lot of things, Mr. Grubb,” I added. Robin closed her briefcase and snapped the locks shut with a pronounced click.
“Do your research before you open a business,” McGoo warned. “Next time, fill out a form for everything you can think of and file it with the clerk. Pay the required fees. Better safe than sorry. It’s a lot cheaper than what you’re going to pay now.”
The necromancer groaned and swiped a hand across his forehead, smearing his third eye into oblivion.
Chapter 7
Even though McGoo and I spent a lot of time together, we weren’t sick of each other’s company—not yet. Traditionally, or some might say habitually, we met for a beer or two after work. As a private investigator, I’ve got no time clock to punch, and as a beat cop McGoo worked odd shifts. The Goblin Tavern stayed open twenty-four hours and was a ready watering hole whenever we wanted to kick back and talk. Neither of us had anyplace better to go.
The Tavern wasn’t an upscale establishment, but rather a comfortable spot where you could just be yourself, whether natural or unnatural. It had a gleaming wooden bar polished by customer elbows, a selection of multicolored high-end and low-end liquors, potions, and other concoctions made to serve all types of patrons.
I went in early so I’d have time to get ready for the humanitarian awards banquet later in the evening. After having a rough day of his own, McGoo was already on his usual stool, which he claimed was upwind of me, even though I gave off no whiff of decay. “Shamble, you look like death warmed over.”
“I take that as a compliment.” I took my usual stool beside him. “And you look as sour as always.”
We would have had the same banter even if I weren’t undead. McGoo and I had been friends since college, and it was a mark of his character that he still treated me basically the same, dead or alive.
I called to the bartender. “Hey, Francine, how about a beer here?” She was busy at the far end of the bar refilling a large jar with pickled eyeballs.
Even though I’m a zombie, I drink to keep up appearances, to give me a sense of normalcy. I like the feel of a cold beer in my hand, the suds in my mouth, the cool taste going down, although I no longer get a buzz regardless of how much I consume. Some zombies suffer adverse reactions when alcohol interacts with certain embalming fluid formulas. They complain of headaches, or their skin turns odd shades of green or gray. Fortunately, I don’t suffer from allergies; I just don’t feel the pleasant effects anymore.
I looked past the bar to the back office, which was dark, the door closed. “Has there been an Ilgar sighting tonight?”
“I haven’t seen Ilgar in two weeks,” McGoo said. “After he sold the Tavern, he couldn’t get out of this place fast enough.”
Ilgar, the original goblin owner, was an unlikely candidate to own a bar, since he didn’t like customers, and a successful business generally requires customers. Ilgar used to sit in the back office with his adding machine, running the accounts, ordering blood and liquor supplies, working crossword puzzles—Hell, I didn’t know what he did in there all the time. He rarely came out to chat up his patrons behind the bar—a good thing, since Ilgar was a dreary fellow who complained about the business at every opportunity. It was an open secret that he’d been trying to find a buyer for the Goblin Tavern for years, though he pursued the sale only halfheartedly, as he did most things. Recently, however, an amazingly sweet deal had fallen into his lap.
In all my years in the Quarter, I had never seen Ilgar with so much as a faint smile, but on the day he announced the sale of the business he was grinning so widely that his rubbery face stretched back to expose rows of pointed teeth. “Drinks are on the house—for a period of five minutes only. I am retiring and glad to get rid of this albatross around my neck.”
The fifteen customers in the Goblin Tavern had applauded politely, some with more enthusiasm than others. Ilgar thought we were congratulating him; most, though, were happy at the prospect of a less dreary owner. And everyone was glad for the free drinks.
“Some big corporation called the Smile Syndicate bought the Tavern. They plan to make it a destination place in the Quarter, a regular stop for tour buses. They might even turn it into a nationwide chain. There may be Goblin Taverns everywhere.” Ilgar managed to squash his own joy. “And good riddance to all of it!”
He had gone back into his office and begun clacking on the adding machine keys. Exactly five minutes from the time he’d announced the free drinks, he came out and cut them off.