The Case of the Singing Sword (The Billibub Baddings Mysteries)

by Tee Morris

  “You have no idea, nor do you want to know.” I motioned for her to bend down closer for a quick pinch of her cheek and a wink—my way of saying “End of Discussion.”

  “Now, time to take a break from our business of poking around other people’s business,” I announced. “I’m calling it a night. Okay, hon?”

  *****

  Between reading melodramatic Dwarven runes and receiving visits from Chicago royalty, it had been a long day for me…so long that, just shy of five, I was still craving Mick’s “Lunch Hour Hot Plate,” a special Reuben sandwich recipe and a cup of chili so hot that a cup is all you can handle.

  Even though the Lunch Special was now nothing more than a distant memory for Mick, he’d be glad to whip it up special for me. I always hated putting him out in his own place, but the craving was stronger than usual, and I thought that tonight—along with that glance down Miss Lesinger’s blouse—I’d earned myself an indulgence.

  Being a dwarf in a human world means that subtlety of any kind is hard to pull off around me. I’m a novelty in this town, whether I like it or not, and it’s just plain awkward when people try to pretend otherwise. No other way to describe it. On those rare occasions when someone does manage to pull off an act of subtlety with me, that individual earns my respect.

  So I couldn’t help but respect the two ogres standing behind me. I couldn’t turn around and get a closer look, because one of them—I think it was the ogre on the right—was pressing the barrel of a .45 into the back of my neck. Now, I had to give this guy credit because I could feel the fabric of a raincoat draped over the pistol, but still the move was subtle. It didn’t even knock my fedora out of place.

  “I sincerely hope I can help you, gentlemen,” I spoke pleasantly, the slight chill from the gun’s metal causing the hair on my arms to rise.

  “You look hungry,” the voice behind me grunted. “How’s about we treats yous ta dinnah?”

  “Hey, boys, that’s real nice of ya.” I replied with a friendly smile, my insides already churning.

  I got into the car first, giving a polite nod to the goombah already sitting in the back seat. He responded by patting me down, removing Beatrice, my pipe and weed, and the hogleg from my person. (I might as well be naked!)

  The mook behind me removed the raincoat from his piece and sandwiched me in between him and his fellow gangster. Not on purpose, mind you. I’m just a little dwarf with a big waist, and these dago-ogres were no petite sprites themselves. Yeah, you could say we got close to one another without getting to know one another.

  The last mook, still outside the car, closed the door behind us and then wiggled his fingers at me in “toodle-loo” fashion before we three sped off to destinations unknown…well, unknown to me.

  Like I said, I hate déjà vu. Always led to something bad.

  Chapter Eight

  My Dinner with Alphonse

  Nobody said anything, the tension in the car growing so thick that a two-handed broadsword would have a problem getting through it. Not that I expected stimulating conversation or anything like that; if they wanted me to know where we were going, they would have told me already. And judging by the looks of these ogres, stimulating conversation probably consisted of extremely short, single-syllable words.

  I could see the hood ornament through the windshield, and I focused all my attention on it. This was not the time to take in the sights. Right now, I just needed to keep a cool head and hope I’d not pissed anyone off too high in the Organization.

  Thanks to Chief O’Malley, I was now an instant celebrity whom everyone wanted to meet. The press kept calling to find out why a little tyke like me was the best friend of Chicago’s Finest; a Rothchild wanted to outbid a Lesinger to have me, “Snoop to the Snobs,” dig up quality dirt on her rival; and now, flanked by two palookas, someone in the Business wanted words with me on one of their fallen foot soldiers.

  If I lived to see the dawn, I planned to mark this day in my calendar as the day to close up the office and stay in bed.

  Our destination established itself as an upper-tier hotel from the moment we rolled to a stop. A doorman, sporting a polite grin, tipped his hat to each of the ogres as we followed the red carpet to the doorway. Even for this dwarf, his obligatory expression and gesture were extended. I guess I was expected to remember that so I wouldn’t stiff him on a tip when I left…provided I left on my own accord.

  As we entered the lobby, dark-wood fixtures providing the only warmth in this cavernous expanse of marble and brass, the receptionists and bellhops didn’t raise an eyebrow or give a second glance to my personal Neanderthal escorts. They did, however, nearly inflict severe whiplash on themselves when they caught a glance at the dwarf in their midst. Ditto for the guests milling about in the lounge or waiting at the reception desk. On noticing my companions, bystanders quickly retreated into their own personal solitudes, but not before I picked up on their shared thought: Better him than me.

  Now we were going up a red-velvet staircase decked out with polished fixtures and black-and-white marble panels that shone as smooth as glass. I started to hope and pray that somewhere between telling Miranda I was going home and reaching the sidewalk outside my building, I had taken an arrow in the chest and I was actually wandering through the Sacred Hall of Furrow Fillenstub, the Keeper and Supreme Guardian of the Everlasting Fields of Yernase. Here I would stand judgment for my lives in Acryonis and in America, held accountable for my deeds. Did I fulfill my duty to His Holiness, the Emperor? Did I serve as a good example to my people, never surrendering the pride of the Dwarven Empire? Would the Great Guardian grant me lands of my own in the Everlasting Fields or turn me out of door, his judgment unquestioned and final?

  My prayer was answered with “Billi, dammit, you aren’t dead. Now focus!” when I saw the kid in the elevator. He had it all: Freckles, buckteeth, and a frame so skinny that a quick look at him would break a bone. He didn’t bother to look at any of us as we got in, and didn’t say anything as he closed the door. He was no different from the doorman in the way he moved like clockwork, preferring to remain oblivious to the outcome of his actions. While I knew this elevator didn’t deliver me before the Great Guardian, it was clear I was about to face a judgment of some kind.

  Several floors later, the cage shut behind us with a loud clang that reverberated through the corridor as we walked down a carpeted hallway that closely resembled the Halls of Hurrenheim, our footsteps resounding as soft, dull thuds.

  I fixed my gaze on the distant door at the end of the corridor, figuring that was where we were headed. Instead, we stopped before a pair of double doors halfway down. One of the ogres turned to face the hallway, looking left and right with a casual pat against his jacket’s left breast lapel. Probably making sure his boom-dagger was where he last left it in case anyone stopped by for unscheduled room service.

  The other ogre opened the right-side door, and looked down at me. Guess it was my turn to take the lead.

  First I saw a desk, pristine and well-organized, second only to Miranda’s. No one was sitting behind it, so I surmised this meeting was not going to be recorded in a ledger somewhere.

  Continuing forward into the next room, I heard the footsteps behind me cease. I removed my hat as the light behind me dimmed, followed by a soft click. The only sounds I heard now were the light scraping of silverware against a plate, coming from somewhere in front of me.

  He sat by himself at a round table large enough for eight. There were a pair of guards stationed at the door behind me, a pair of guards several paces from the table, and one guard occasionally peering out from the drawn blind to catch a glimpse of the street. I couldn’t help smiling at the sight of the man enjoying his dinner in the midst of a small army. From his size, you wouldn’t think he needed guards; even seated at the table, it was pretty apparent that he could take care of anyone wanting to start trouble. It was also apparent that if you did start something with him, he’d be the one to finish it.

&n
bsp; This was a big man who obviously enjoyed his Italian food, his Italian wine, and his Italian arias, which were softly playing on a nearby phonograph. I’m not a huge fan of the fat chicks strapping themselves into costumes two sizes too small, donning a ridiculous helm, and then belting out an hour-long goodbye after being supposedly poisoned. My advice to those operatic villains: Use faster-acting poison.

  This particular aria, though, was different. Soft. Subtle. The melody was tragic but didn’t overwhelm the listener in its emotion, creating a rich tapestry of notes seamlessly woven into the orchestral accompaniment. That was nice. I needed something to relax me right now.

  This situation was a tough one to call. I could just go ahead and take a seat opposite him, showing a bit of balls…which could lead to them being removed if he perceived my hubrimaz (Dwarven word for chutzpah…) as a threat or challenge. Or I could just continue to stand here like a total mook, providing some dinner entertainment for a while until boredom settled in, and then face a quick end on an empty stomach.

  Being in his presence meant waiting on a word, so I’d have to play tonight by his rules. It was no different from the rules of royalty: Speak only when spoken to, and move only when told.

  As a waiter brought in a second plate, I lowered my defenses ever so slightly to savor the sharp, tangy scent of tomatoes mingled with earthy aromas of oregano, basil, and the ambrosia of the culinary gods—garlic. A sweet tinge of cinnamon was also present, and I wasn’t used to that in a red sauce. A secret ingredient, perhaps?

  Now, the waiter was grating fresh Parmesan cheese over the dish. A simple dish for a simple taste. Sometimes, it is the simple things you crave (even when you have everything, as this man did) that make life worth living.

  Contemplating the man at the table more closely, I realized that he didn’t “have everything,” so much as he rented it for the time being. This man of girth would fall one day as would a star from the night sky, making people stop and stare in wonder, only to burn out and vanish with no fanfare. Empires like his believed themselves to last a millennium, only to fade into history tomorrow. (Yeah, not that far a stretch from my old stompin’ grounds, this place called Chicago.)

  “Your plate’s gettin’ cold. Pull up a chair.”

  My waxing philosophic immediately screeched to a halt on the sound of his voice, his chewing as he spoke giving it a casual, muffled sound. The invitation could only mean that for the time being, anyway, I was a guest.

  He didn’t hear it, but I let out a soft sigh of relief. Okay then, all bets were off. I could loosen up a bit…well, to a point. I was a guest as long as his temperament and attitude approved, but that could change in a heartbeat.

  The waiter pulled back the chair and, on measuring me up, added a couple of throw cushions from a nearby couch. I hopped up and adjusted myself to be on a decent level with the table. The pressed white linen over the waiter’s forearm was draped across my lap before he moved me closer to my dinner. With that same artificial smile the rest of the hotel staff wore, he took my hat out of my hands, gave me a nod, and then excused himself from the room.

  It was to be a lovely night of good food, good music and good conversation. Just me, the guards, and my host: Alfonse Capone.

  “This is real generous of you, Mr. Capone. My original dinner plans were for something a bit less complex.”

  He gave a chortle and glanced at me while holding a fork of pasta halfway between his mouth and the plate. “Spaghetti? Complex? Lemme tell yous, wheah I come from, dis is just comfort food, y’know? Sumtin’ I throw togeddah when I wanna fill up quick. Now if ya want complex, y’oughta have my chef whip up a tortellini dish fa yous sometime.” Alfonse shoved his mouth full of spaghetti, finishing his thought as he chewed. “I’m pahshal to da prosciutto an’ chicken he’s got down. Covah it wit Alfredo sauce. Knock ya socks off.”

  If this was the meal of a condemned man, I was not going to let it get cold. I dug into the small mountain of pasta before me, twirling my fork into the steaming noodles. Up close, I caught some of the sauce’s subtleties, a signature of his chef that distinguished him as a master. Italian food, at least for me, was always a fare that you either got right on the first try or not at all. You might go too heavy on the salt, get chintzy with the parsley, or use the wrong kind of basil and throw off the balance. (Now me, I’m a purple basil dwarf myself. It’s got a sweet aftertaste and plays well with other herbs, in particular the oregano and garlic.)

  This spaghetti, a simple “comfort food” of the Italian cuisine, was nothing less than a masterpiece. Buono pasto!

  “Your chef knows his sauce, Mr. Capone.” I nodded in approval.

  “He’d bettah,” Capone chuckled. “It’s me.”

  The guy who ran Chicago cooked, too? Damn, I was impressed! On the second bite, I chewed a bit slower. This was the best spaghetti I’d ever had. Period.

  “You missed your calling, Mr. Capone. You would have made a chef worthy of a royal entourage.”

  “Nah, nah, nah,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “My chef handles da tough stuff. I just have dose times, like t’night, when I wan’ sumtin’ simple an’ I don’ mind clutterin’ up a kitchen. Just ’cause I got off da boat an’ out heah ta Chicago don’ mean I gotta fuhget wheah I come from. Take my word fah it. Nuthin’ more important den remembrin’ wheah y’come from.”

  Capone held the dark red-purple wine underneath his nose for a moment, enjoying its aroma while eyeballing me. “Ya shortah dan I thought. Mus’ be tough bein’ a little guy like y’self in a town dis big, huh?”

  I wasn’t returning the stare, but his stare wasn’t what made me uncomfortable. It was the direction he was already taking with our dinner chitchat. “I manage.”

  “I bet ya do, ya little sprite ya!”

  My fork paused for a second. That dig didn’t ruin my appetite or the taste of the spaghetti, but I didn’t want to see this pleasant scene go bad. I’m sure he caught my hesitation, so now he knew what button to push if he wanted to get in a last word, or just see what a pissed-off dwarf looked like.

  “Yeah, I bet ya do,” he went on, “an’ y’know what? I respect dat. I do. Ya facin’ an uphill battle, Short Stuff, an’ ya not lettin’ anyt’ing slow ya down.”

  I’m not much for the wine. It’s an elf’s drink. As I took a sip to wash down the spaghetti, though, I couldn’t deny it: The wine suited the sauce. One exceptional table Capone set. Come on, Al, don’t spoil this dinner with the height jokes.

  Capone nodded with a smile, waving a beefy finger. “Yoooouuu. You are very good, you. Y’got balls, an’ y’got heart, an’ dat is worthy of my respect.”

  I inclined my head modestly. “You’re making a great wall out of pixie bricks, Mr. Capone.”

  He shook his head after the wine glass left his lips. The same finger he just waved at me pointed up, to let me know something important was about to be said. “Nah-nah-nah, I jus’ said y’earned my respect. Please, honah me by callin’ me Al.”

  Ho-boy, did I really want to cross this line?

  Hastily finishing my mouthful of pasta, I lifted my glass in a toast. “Only if you return the favor and call me Billi,” I replied with a grin.

  “Heah’s ta you, Billi,” he smiled, returning the toast.

  It amazed me that I could enjoy this meal under the circumstances. The wine was good, as I said, but after that last exchange, I really wanted something stronger. I was not only having dinner with Alphonse Capone, but now I was on a first-name basis with him. I think a bullet to the head would have been easier to deal with than this.

  “No, Al, you honor me.” By the Fates, that just felt wrong in so many ways. “You’re treating me to a terrific dinner you yourself cooked, with good wine, and I would be the last one to flout this honor by not being an appreciative guest.”

  “Flout?” Capone chuckled. “Flout? What? Sumtin’ in dat sauce givin’ ya gas?”

  “No, Al, I mean, throw it back in your face.” As if I couldn’
t make this dinner more awkward, I had to pull out a word from the library stacks and teach it to a gangland boss. “Far be it from me, a working-class dwarf, to break bread at a king’s table and then take a battle-axe to the hand that’s feeding me.”

  He nodded, I thought, in reply to my comment, but then he said it again. “Flout.” He kept nodding. “Flout. I like dat. Dat’s classy. Flout.”

  “Seriously, Al,” I continued, “I’m just a working stiff. I do what I do ’cause no one else is gonna do it, or wants to do it. I was just telling my secretary that today—”

  He sat back in his chair with a long, contented sigh. At first I thought it was in response to the wine or the meal, but then I caught the leer on his face.

  “Aww, now dat Miranda Tanner is one nice piece, Billi. I’m s’prised she didn’t get inta pitchuhs, or sumtin’ like dat.”

  No. No, he didn’t just do that.

  Humans—in particular, the really menacing ones—love to play this game. I feel the same way about it here as I did back in Acryonis. It’s a coward’s ploy. Face me in the field like an equal. That’s a code we dwarves live by. You touch my family or those close to me, and I got only three words for you: better be sure. Better be sure I don’t get up. Better be sure I don’t get over a severe case of death. Better be sure I can’t find you.

  “She’s a good girl, Al.” My voice was calm, but my intent was as crystal-clear as the Jewel of Shri-Mela. “I love her like family.”

  That was going to be his only warning.

  “Yeah.” Capone nodded, my tone clearly registering with him as he paused for a moment. “An’ bein’ a little big man like y’are, I can’t help but respect how ya comin’ up in da world. Front page of three newspapuhs? My hat’s off t’ya, brownie.”

  With the mention of the newspapers, I knew we were finally getting around to what he wanted to know: My connection. To deal with the “brownie” insult, I just shoveled more pasta in my mouth to shut myself up. (I was just silently hoping dessert was going to something other than cannoli. Too much cheese gives me the kind of gas that would make a rock dragon turn around and shout, “All right, that wasn’t me!”)