by Holly Lisle
"Research assistant?" Glibspet asked.
"Ah, your ad in the Durham Morning News," Norton clarified, a little hesitation creeping into her voice. "Established, innovative detective agency seeks part-time research assistant."
"I'm afraid I haven't a clue what you're talking about, ma'am," Glibspet told her. He leaned close as she held the folded paper up to him. He took the opportunity to ease his hand through her purse and draw out her car keys. Working carefully, so they wouldn't click, he placed them on the shelf behind her. He stole a quick glance. The key fob was a plastic rectangle with a child's drawing laminated into it. The art was completely unclassifiable, but the signature read Love, Teressa.
"Right here," Norton said, "I circled it."
"May I?" Glibspet asked. He took the paper. "Hmm," he said, running his finger over the words. He thought fast for a moment, then angled the paper out of her sight and traced the ad with his finger again. Had the lights been out, Norton might have noticed a slight glow around the digit. Glibspet handed the paper back to her. "I'm sorry, Miss Norton," he said gently. "This is an ad for the Decorator Arbor and they want a retail accountant, not a research assistant, and it's on Hollow Oak Drive, not Holloway Street."
"What?" She took the paper back and looked at it incredulously. Her face fell. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I've never made a mistake like that before. It's not like me at all. I certainly didn't mean to waste your time."
"No problem, ma'am," Glibspet said kindly. "You've given society so many useful years; it's the least we can do to help you out when—ah, that is..." He stopped as if realizing there was no polite way to finish the sentence.
Norton hung her head. "I won't take any more of your time," she said, and turned to go.
"Miss Norton," Glibspet said, "you look like you could use some cheering up. You've got the day off, why don't you go see your granddaughter Teressa; I know she'd be glad to see you."
She turned back. "How did you know I had a granddaughter Teressa?" she asked.
Glibspet feigned surprise. "Why, you just finished telling me all about her."
"Oh," she said in a small voice. She opened the door and walked out, slowly and hesitantly.
Glibspet waited expectantly. Several minutes later, the door opened again. "Have you seen my keys?" she whispered.
"I believe you left them on that shelf, ma'am."
Yes, he was definitely right about age and gravity, Glibspet reflected as she walked out the front door. He was pretty sure she had been about a foot taller when she came in.
It was nine thirty-five. More prospects were bound to start showing up and Glibspet didn't want to start anything complicated. Pork rinds, he decided. Not complicated at all. There was a pound bag in his desk drawer, beside the Twinkies and on top of the Little Debbie oatmeal cakes (which were a blatant case of false advertising. There wasn't any of Little Debbie in them at all, and he hadn't had one since finding that out). The how of pork rinds escaped Glibspet, he figured it was probably the same way they made rice into Rice Krispies—Snap, Krackle, Oink!—but he was enchanted with the idea of a food with no positive nutritive value whatsoever. They were almost as good as inflight meals. He'd finished the entire bag, except for one blackened, twisted, mutant rind, when the buzzer rang again. Damn! He'd been saving that one. He licked his fingers and went out to check the next prospect.
This one was quite a change. She was young, as young as Norton had been old, and gravity hadn't had its way with her at all. Her breasts sat high and firm and her nipples made we're-happy-to-be-here points against the thin fabric of her blouse. The blouse itself left most of her midriff bare, failing to meet by a good three inches the tight jeans that hugged her perfect ass and legs. And she was a blonde. False blonde. Glibspet loved fake blondes; they were easy to manipulate. Probably the peroxide damage to their brains. This applicant looked eminently qualified.
"Hello," she said, "I'm Muffy Springer, and I am so totally stoked on this job." She held out her hand, and Glibspet shook it.
"Stoked," he said.
"Totally. It's like I told my roommate, Cindy, when she tried to get me a work-study job in the cafeteria. I am so sure, Cindy, I mean, that's like my sole goal in life, that's why I transferred from Southern Cal, so I could pick trays up off of tables. She's such a bagger sometimes. So, it's like, when I saw your ad, I'm like 'well I can do that,' I've watched all the Magnum P.I.s, and I know all about detective stuff like that. It's so, you know, self-empowering."
She took a breath, and Glibspet held up his hand to forestall any more information. It didn't work. "So, I can, like be an excellent detective, and I can work afternoons and evenings, except like this Friday when there's this really bitchin' concert in Greensboro or I have to get my hair done, or maybe when my boyfriend wants to frob and we have like an event..."
Glibspet had been in pits of Hell with less effective torments. If it weren't for that body... He decided to probe one more time for traces of sentience. "Muffy," he said.
"And sometimes if maybe the Chi Alphas throw a kegger or—"
"Muffy."
"And I can drive, so I can do, like, car chases... Uh, huh?"
"I'm looking for someone to help with research, Muffy. Can you read?"
"Books are like, the tongues of Western Imperialism, you know? It's like if you see something in a book, and, like, that's not how you are, you don't actualize, and your self-esteem is like, detached. I think we should all be more holistic and like, in tune with each other. Why should we, you know, oppress each other with white male words when we can empower each other just by being an organic unit. Wouldn't that be bitchin'?"
"Absolutely," Glibspet said. "Thank you, Muffy, I'll be in touch."
"So like, when do I start?"
"I can't tell you, Muffy. I think the room may be bugged," Glibspet said.
"Gnarly! Who by?"
"It's the capitalists, Muffy—the European white male capitalists."
"So, I'll call, then."
"No," Glibspet said quickly. "My, uh, phone might be tapped. In fact, it's probably not a good idea for you to even drive too close by here again. You've seen Mission Impossible?"
"For sure."
"Well, I'll be in touch. Go now, hurry—they're probably watching the building."
She turned to go, and Glibspet watched the cheeks of that wondrous ass rise and fall. What a waste. "Muffy," he asked as she reached the door, "what's your major?"
"Multicultural gender neutral childhood education."
"Ah. I thought so. Hurry now!"
The door closed behind her, and Glibspet leaned against the wall. He felt so useless sometimes. How could Hell do any worse to these people than they did to themselves? Then he remembered Helen Norton and cheered back up.
Glibspet heard the door handle click this time before the buzzer sounded. The door swung open slowly and revealed a dark-haired young man in his late twenties. He was staring back over his shoulder at something. He stood that way a second, then shrugged and walked across the threshold. "Oh, hello," he said as he looked ahead and saw Glibspet. "Do you know what that was all about? I just ran into a girl in the parking lot and she seemed terrified of me. Called me an imperialist male pig, and drove off like someone was after her."
"I don't have any idea," Glibspet said. "We get a lot of strange types around here. And you are?"
"Oh, sorry. I'm Craig Mindenhall. I'm here about your research assistant position. I would have been here sooner, but there was some sort of terrible pile-up out on I-85, and I was stuck for forty-five minutes."
"It happens," Glibspet said. "I'm Dominic Glib."
"Pleased to meet you," said Mindenhall, shaking his hand. "I was reading your ad, and I think I might be a good match for you."
"Do you have any research experience?" Glibspet asked.
"Yes," Mindenhall said. "I know it's not exactly detective work, but I used to do trademark searches at an ad agency, to make sure we didn't name a product something t
hat already existed, like calling a new car 'The Timex.' I also worked at a newspaper, and I had to verify all the facts in the consumer reports."
"Hmm, not bad," Glibspet said. "Can you give any references?"
"I can for those two jobs," Mindenhall said, "and for my time at Clemson, but I can't give you anything recent, because I've been working for myself as a freelance designer the last several years. I plan to keep doing that, but I need some more cash coming in to keep up the house payments because I just split up with my housemate. No, wait a minute—" Mindenhall stood up straighter and looked Glibspet in the eyes. "I told myself I wasn't going to weasel. Because I just broke up with my boyfriend. Is that a problem?"
Well, that put an interesting spin on things, Glibspet thought. He generally sought out women, but he wasn't averse to a little equal-opportunity work—and the guy was attractive. Setting him up might be a worthwhile project. Especially if he could help Glibspet find Averial during the process. "No," he said, "in fact, I'm gay myself."
"A gay P.I.?" Mindenhall said.
Glibspet shrugged, "Hey, we're everywhere. You know that."
"Yeah, somehow I just hadn't thought about P.I.s before."
"Believe it," Glibspet said. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at his shoes for a minute, trying hard to appear deep in thought. When he looked back up again, he sighed and smiled. "Okay. I've decided. I'm going to offer you the job."
Mindenhall blinked in surprise. "Just like that?" he asked.
"Just like that."
"But, my references, my school record..."
"Anyone can get references," Glibspet said, "And fake out a professor. I go on my instincts, and they say you're my guy."
Mindenhall frowned. "You're not offering me the position just because I'm gay, are you, Mr. Glib? I don't like quotas, even reverse ones."
"Not at all," Glibspet said. "I won't lie to you, Craig. Your being gay is a minor plus, but I run a business here, and I'm going to pick whoever can help me do it best. Come into my office and we'll talk about salaries and job descriptions, and you can decide whether you want the position." He opened the office door, glanced in, and turned back to his new hire. "By the way, you'd better wheel one of those chairs over there in—the one I've got in the office right now isn't very good. Oh, and call me Dom."
It didn't take very long to come to terms with Mindenhall on salary. Glibspet was determined to have him, and was willing to go to the far side of generous to get him. Job duties took a little longer.
"I understand all that, Dom," Mindenhall said, "but do we really have to lie about what we're doing?"
"Sometimes, yes, absolutely," Glibspet said. "There are a lot of people who will spill their guts to anyone—except a detective. Can you handle that?"
Mindenhall looked troubled. "I guess so," he said finally. "I try to be a good Catholic, and I think lying is wrong. But as long as we aren't working to hurt someone, I think I can do it."
A good Catholic—better and better. "I only take on the best causes, Craig," Glibspet assured him. "Finding runaway children for their parents, locating missing wives or husbands for spouses who need to know what has happened to the people they love. You're going to be doing public service work." He pressed his fingers together and gave Mindenhall his best sincere smile. "Sometimes it's a mission."
The young man took that in, mulled it around for a moment, and smiled at last. "Then we have a deal, Dom."
"Marvelous! I don't suppose you'd care to seal it over dinner this evening?"
Mindenhall looked surprised, then conflicted. "No. I'd... rather not," he said. "It's just too soon after Frank and I split. I need some time by myself."
Glibspet took Mindenhall's hands and held them between his. "It's all right, Craig," he said. "I understand about loss. I lost Mike several years ago, and there hasn't been anyone for me since then. If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, just let me know."
With a thoughtful expression, Mindenhall said, "It's... difficult to lose someone. I appreciate your concern." He stood up. "I've got some things I have to take care of. You'll call when you need me?"
"Count on it."
Mindenhall stopped halfway out the door. "The Yellow Pages' ad for Glibspet Investigations made it look like the boss was a demon."
"Devil," Glibspet corrected. "Is that a problem?"
Mindenhall frowned. "You tell me."
"Frankly, he rarely comes in. He's tired of the place and looking to sell. If he makes the right offer, I'm looking to buy. Otherwise—nah, he's no problem."
Mindenhall nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, then. I admit I still worry about those guys." He shrugged and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Glibspet waited until he heard the outer door close, too. Then he smiled. "You should," he whispered. He started humming "Time is on My Side." This was going to be fun.
Chapter 17
Thirty-Seven Injured in North Carolina Concert Fracas
Raleigh, NC—UPI
Tragedy struck the Walnut Creek Amphitheater Thursday as a mob of three to four thousand stormed the stage during the first public performance of the band Precipitous Descent. Thirty-seven trampling injuries resulted, six of them serious.
The violence broke out during an unrequested encore featuring songs associated with Barry Manilow and concluding with "Having My Baby," originally recorded by Mac Davis.
The first signs of trouble came earlier as the band opened with a medley featuring the Eagles' "Desperado" and "Tequila Sunrise," America's "Horse With No Name," and Debbie Boone's "You Light Up My Life." The audience began to boo the band, and escalated to throwing things when they performed a trio of Olivia Newton-John songs beginning with "I Honestly Love You," and ending with "Please, Mister, Please, Don't Play B-17."
Eighteen thousand hard-core and death metal fans had waited in line for as long as forty-eight hours to get tickets for the first stop in Precipitous Descent's much-hyped Tour from Hell. Expectations had been so high because all the band's members are devils, and as the leather-clad band first took the stage, the crowd roared approval and hundreds of young women near the front ripped blouses and bras to throw at the band.
When the riot broke out, the members of Precipitous Descent teleported from the amphitheater; none were harmed during the incident. Reached later for comment, band leader Slash Malendel said, "Well, what kind of music did they think we play in Hell?" Malendel could not confirm any further concert dates for the band.
Rhea pulled her car into the driveway and parked under the old oak tree. She shut the motor off and gave a sigh of relief. Roberts was apparently fighting an epic guerrilla action at TRITEL, but no money had come down the pike yet. Jack was still blowing circuit boards, and starting to get really tense, and she knew probably half of her troops had résumés out. On top of that, she had a briefcase full of papers she was supposed to care about. She sat in the car a moment, letting it all slough off. She was home now, and she wasn't going to let it get to her.
Rhea grabbed her briefcase and shoved open the Triumph's door, stepping out into the mild April night. She could see stars up through the delicate lace of the oak's budding branches. The leaves would be all the way out in another week, and by June she'd be glad for the shade. She walked up the steps to the front door and let herself in. The cozy den welcomed her and she decided that the briefcase could wait. Some quality time was decidedly in order. All she really wanted now was a cup of hot tea and good music on the stereo. Laurie Anderson's Big Science and Horowitz in Moscow should take care of the latter, and she'd been saving some Ceylon Select for the former.
She slipped off her shoes, popped the audio ROMs into the player, sequenced them, and clipped the tracker to her collar. The mechanical rhythms of "Oh, Superman" filled the room, and she tapped her toes in time for a few seconds, then headed for the kitchen to heat some water. As she moved, the music followed her, staying perfectly balanced. Instant relief.
Except it was too good to last.
As soon as she felt the supernal barrier laid across her kitchen threshold, Rhea knew she was not going to have a relaxing evening. It could have been worse. The barrier could have been composed of negative energy—that would have been bad. This was so blatantly benign and cheerfully upbeat it almost hurt... and that was bad enough.
"All right," she said, "I know you're here. Come on out and show yourselves." The air shimmered and suddenly there was a glowing angel sitting on her counter over the dishwasher. It had been a long time, but she still remembered the energy, and the face. Miramuel.
"Hello Aver—" Miramuel started when something inside the refrigerator crashed and the door flew open. A large angel stumbled out amidst a shower of cold cuts and vegetables. He got his balance and began frantically reshelving things. Finally he looked at her sheepishly. Remufel. Some things never changed. "Hello, Averial," he said.
"Long time, no see, Remmy," Rhea said. She was startled to discover that she'd missed both of them. She hadn't thought about either of them in millennia, but now that they were in her kitchen, her heart felt like a huge hole had been filled. They had been her dearest friends once, but where she had sided with the right of free expression, however mistaken that expression might be, they had taken the more conformist line. Maybe they'd been right. She found, however, that the fact that they didn't take her side during that first big disagreement still hurt. The smile that had started to cross her face at the sight of them died, stillborn. Instead of the joyous greetings she'd almost given, she said, "I didn't mean you had to show yourself right at that exact instant, you know. You could have come out of the refrigerator first."
He hung his head, "I'm sorry, Avy," he said, "I just get so deep in thought sometimes that I get flustered."
"Deep in salami, more like." Miramuel arched an eyebrow.