“Struggling with sibilants, I see? The sequence of so many esses does sometimes seem silly.”
The annoyed gremlin struggled to find a sentence that did not contain the letter S. He found a good one. “What do you want?”
“My client is a zombie named Jerry who works for the Hope and Salvation Mission. He pawned his heart and soul here, and he would like to purchase it back.”
“Already thold,” said Snazz.
“That’s what I hear.”
The gremlin continued to polish his silver. “Heavy demand on the combo packth, already thold theven thetth thith month.”
“Seven sets this month? I was hoping you could tell me who the customer was. I’d make it worth your while.” I lowered my voice. “I have some sparkly and shiny things I could pass your way.”
The gremlin’s eyes lit up. “Shiny . . .” He sounded very tempted.
He bent over to a credenza next to his stool, worked a combination lock to open the drawer, and pulled out a ledger book nearly as big as he was. He propped it on his lap, taking care to keep the contents out of my sight line. He flipped from page to page, humming, gurgling, until he found the correct entry. “Yeth, I know who bought it.”
I contemplated what sparkly or shiny objects I could use for trade. Snazz seemed like the sort of person who might even be delighted with strips of aluminum foil.
“Won’t tell you.” The gremlin slammed the ledger book shut. “Not worth it.”
“I haven’t even made an offer yet.”
“Thtill not worth it.”
Either the intractable gremlin had a well-defined sense of business ethics, or he was genuinely afraid to divulge the identity of the purchaser. Why would anyone want Jerry’s heart or soul in the first place? I tried a different tactic. “You said you’ve sold seven combo packs in the past month. All to the same customer?”
“None of your buthineth.”
“Actually, it is my business, Mr. Snazz. I’m a private detective, and this is a case.”
“Private meanth I don’t have to anther your quethtionth. Thith ith a pawnshop. Buy thomething, or go away.”
I could see that traditional negotiation would get me nowhere. If McGoo got a warrant, the pawnbroker would have to reveal the purchaser, but even though McGoo and I kept a running back-and-forth of favors, I didn’t have a legitimate legal reason to request a warrant—Jerry had pawned his heart and soul, and someone had purchased it. No crime committed.
Still, I needed information from that ledger book. Maybe, I realized, if heart-and-soul bundle packs were such a hot commodity, I could spot the avid collector if I kept an eye on Timeworn Treasures.
To be polite, I perused the objects on the shelves. On one of the high displays, I actually found a coffeepot to replace the one Sheyenne had broken when her brother Travis made his surprise visit. I didn’t even want to imagine the dire circumstances that would drive a person to pawn a used coffeepot for cash.
But when I offered to buy the coffeepot for the price marked on the tag, the pack-rat gremlin couldn’t bear to part with it. “Thank you anyway, Mr. Snazz.” I tipped my hat to him, then walked out the door.
As I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets, I found the delivery paperwork I had snagged from the golem sweatshop: the address of the warehouse where the souvenir doodads were to be shipped. Even though Bill the golem and his companions had been freed, and Irwyn Goodfellow had already put Robin to work drawing up the papers for his Adopt-a-Golem charity, I sensed there was more to the case. And I was disinclined to be thrilled with the Smile Syndicate’s expansion into the Quarter.
By now it was sunset, and since I was out anyway, I decided to snoop around the warehouse. The cases don’t solve themselves. A detective has to organize information, put the pieces together, and come up with viable answers.
But first I had to collect the pieces.
Chapter 13
It was a nice night for a stroll. A dank mist curled up from the sewers, a full moon rode high overhead, bats flitted about in charming mating dances. The Quarter’s business district was hopping with nightclubs, blood bars, garment shops, red-light massage parlors, and restaurants that catered to specific clientele. I was surprised at how many wide-eyed humans strolled along, taking in the sights, anxious but thrilled. Was this the new trend in date nights?
In one shop, a big sign in the window had a little smiley face drawn beneath it: OPENING SOON. The unlit neon sign said KREEPSAKES, FINE GIFTS AND SOUVENIRS. The sign maker had even managed to include a TM after the logo. Another annoying chain brought to you by the Smile Syndicate. I cringed to imagine what they would do with the Goblin Tavern once they “improved it for a wider audience.” Further evidence that the Big Uneasy wasn’t the only civilization-threatening apocalypse people should have been worried about.
Okay, the Unnatural Quarter had never been a nice place, but I didn’t see this as an improvement. What was next? Would the Greenlawn Cemetery or Little Transylvania search for a corporate sponsor like those castrated sports amphitheaters now called Hemorrhoid Cream Park or Disposable Douche Field? I shuddered at the thought.
Leaving the bustle and groan of downtown, I made my way to the warehouse where the golem-made souvenirs were stored, a blocky building with a loading dock. Bright security lights flooded the area, shoving away the comfortable gloom. The cracked parking lot sported a fringe of weeds that struggled up through the asphalt while avoiding the actual flower bed area around the building. Could be they used a landscaping-curse service that kept the weeds away. Dim after-hours lights shone through the barred windows; otherwise the warehouse seemed empty.
A long string of incomprehensible zombie graffiti marred the side of the blank wall. You could always tell zombie graffiti because the spray paint started out with complex symbols, then degenerated into gibberish. When the undead tagger lost track of his thoughts, the letters would peter out into drooping, halfhearted squiggles.
I peered inside the nearest window and could see stacked crates of souvenirs marked as T-Shirts, Knick-Knacks, Ashtrays, Place Mats, Novelty Snacks. One entire row held plastic-wrapped packages labeled Bobbleheads. McGoo thought the unnatural bobbleheads were hilarious, zombie and skeleton dolls whose heads popped completely off if you bumped them too hard.
Hearing a car, I turned away from the barred window to see a white pickup truck with an amber flashing light on top. An old human security guard climbed out, holding a big .38 in both hands, which he pointed straight at me, trying to aim for the head. His arms trembled. “What are you doing there? Go find some other alley to curl up in. You can’t sleep here.”
I was offended. “I’m not homeless. I’ve got a good job.”
“Then why is your jacket all patched up like that?”