A good private eye needs to develop a variety of informants from all walks of life. He also requires a keen mind to compile thousands of diverse details, and a well-honed sense of intuition to put the pieces together and find the answers to mysteries.
It also helps to have skill with a lock pick.
The alley in front of Timeworn Treasures was dark and gloomy, per city ordinance. Legislation for the comfort of unnatural citizens mandated the removal of bright street lights in certain zoned alleys and side streets. Some impatient unnaturals had taken it upon themselves to smash the offending lights before city workers could get around to removing them.
A faint mist burbled up from the sewers, which made me think that the subterranean dwellers were having a barbecue down there. The Quarter’s real night life would get hopping in a few hours, but right now the pawnshop was dark and closed. Snazz had no set business hours; apparently, he worked among his treasured items whenever he liked, which made sneaking inside rather difficult. I was pleased to see the Closed sign hanging in the door next to a flat plastic clock: “Will Return At . . .” with the hands set to 12:00, although there was no indication whether that meant midnight or noon.
Ducking along the shadows—which was perfectly normal behavior around here, so I attracted no undue attention—I huddled against the locked door, removed my tool kit, and attempted to dissect the lock. I fumbled one of the picks and dropped it to the ground. No one noticed the noise. I retrieved the tool and went back to work.
Before being shot in the head, I was quite nimble, but zombies have trouble with dexterity. (You don’t see many zombie trapeze artists, for instance.) Still, I knew what I was doing, and all I required was patience; after so much practice during my regular life, I had muscle memory—the occasional rigor mortis notwithstanding.
I eased the door open, careful not to jangle the customer bell. I expected the hinges to squeak, as is the time-honored tradition, but they were brass hinges, and the gremlin pawnbroker, with his fixation for all things shiny, had polished and oiled them. The door glided open, and I slipped inside with only the slightest tinkle of the bell overhead.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom. This would be a quick in-and-out. I needed to get to the front of the store, work open the combination-locked drawer that held the ledger, find the information I needed, then slip back out with no gremlins the wiser. What could be simpler? A zombie’s heart and soul were at stake.
Moving through the pawnshop, I was surrounded by the sinister curiosities Snazz had collected over the years. It was indeed a treasure trove, if you like that sort of junk. The price on the slightly used monkey’s paw had been marked down yet again; maybe the gremlin wanted to get rid of it after all (no surprise, given the poor industry safety record of such items). I crept toward the front counter and its chicken-wire barrier.
A tingling sensation went up my back, and my uncooperative skin crawled. I sensed someone watching me, but when I turned around, I saw that it was only a jar of preserved eyeballs floating around and directing their gazes at me. Nothing to worry about. Since they couldn’t tattle on me, I let them look all they wanted.
I worked my way down the aisle, listening for movement, worried that the gremlin might sleep inside the shop, but nothing stirred. A thick spell book, written in blood and bound in human skin, gave off a dim phosphorescent glow; it was one of the Howard Phillips Publishing special limited editions.
On a row of shelves I saw a pile of new acquisitions, which were stacked without price tags. As I squinted into the dimness, I was surprised to discover costumes, theater props, and the traditional smiling and weeping masks that symbolized Comedy and Tragedy in Shakespearean plays.
I did a double take. Shakespeare’s ghost had insisted that all the props perished in the fire, but apparently the arsonist had decided to make a quick buck as well as make a point . . . which didn’t sound like Senator Balfour’s minions. At least now I could recover the lost props for the theater troupe, help them get a fresh start. A bonus.
But I could do that during the pawnshop’s normal business hours. I wouldn’t need to steal them now. Since I could prove that the props were stolen property, I could even get McGoo on my side, if Snazz proved intractable again.
As a matter of fact, if I were going to steal anything, I’d retrieve the family jewelry that Sheyenne’s brother had pawned. The very thought made my blood boil. Travis damn well better use the money to get himself out of trouble—and then get himself out of the Unnatural Quarter for good, so he didn’t bother Sheyenne anymore....
But I’m not a thief. Much as I disliked the gremlin, technically Snazz had done nothing wrong. He had acquired the items honestly, and I have my own code of ethics (let’s not count the breaking and entering). I merely wanted a glance at the ledger—no harm, no foul—before I melted back into the night. Snazz would never know, and I could get on with the process of getting Jerry the zombie back to his former vivacious self.
I moved into the deeper gloom at the back of the pawnshop. On the counter, I saw the basketball-sized crystal ball in its ornate birdbath-shaped holder, sparkling with reflected light. A set of antique bookends had been knocked sideways and lay on the countertop. Snazz’s old coffee cup, proclaiming him to be World’s Best Gremlin, was also tipped over, its pencils and pens scattered everywhere, several of them on the floor. The chicken-wire barricade had been torn loose.
Behind the counter, I found Snazz, dead—and not from natural causes.
When you discover a body, especially a murder victim, several thoughts go through your head. First is a burst of paralyzing surprise. Because the pawnshop was so quiet, I hadn’t expected to find anyone there at all, and if I did encounter the pawnbroker, I would have made some excuse, had a conversation, worked something out. But you can’t have a conversation with a dead guy.
Snazz lay sprawled there, tufts of yanked fur strewn around, his slitted eyes bulging, tongue lolling out between pointed teeth. His little paws were extended upward as if still trying to fight off an assailant....
The second thing that goes through your mind is fear. You wonder if maybe the killer is still around. So I drew my .38 and cautiously looked from side to side. I was sure I would have heard someone slipping away, or an assailant stalking me. The pawnshop remained silent, even though the shadows seemed even darker now.