“Right,” he said. “She Shdoesn’t do things by half-measures when she’s pissed off.”
Surrly chuckled. He was counting objects into another sack, and Remy wondered when he’d get around to writing the reward check. Then, to his surprise, the dwarf shoved the bag toward him.
“Here you are, my friend.”
He blinked. “Okay? What is this?” He opened the drawstring and peered inside. An assortment of white and green stones gleamed at him.
“Your reward, obviously.” The dwarf grunted. His mood was sinking fast and he seemed impatient for them to leave him to his work.
Remy took a deep breath as Riley—who’d examined a gold statuette somewhat distractedly—fluttered to his shoulder. “Well…thanks. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a bag of rocks?”
Surrly shrugged. Without making eye contact, he muttered, “That’s your problem. I don’t deal in human currency. But you’re quite the intrepid detective. I’m sure you can think of something.” He pulled out a calculator and a sheaf of papers.
Effectively dismissed, the investigator nodded again and gritted his teeth as he closed the drawstring and slung the sack over his shoulder. “But of course. It was great doing business with you, Surrly old boy. Perhaps we can help you again sometime.” He turned and trudged out of the office.
As he and Riley traversed the lobby, the receptionist looked up. “Have a nice day,” she said.
He gave her a thumbs-up without speaking or turning to look at her, opened the door by bumping into it, and strode out onto the sidewalk. A couple of guys brushed past and paid no heed to his bulging sack.
Riley floated beside his face. “What’s wrong, Remy?”
They rounded the corner and he put the bag on the pavement once they were more sheltered from all the pedestrian traffic. “Well,” he whispered, “I didn’t expect my reward to be a portable rock garden. Money would have been preferable.”
“Hmm.” The fairy swooped down toward the payload. “Let me see.”
He opened it for her, and she stuck her head in, wriggled around, and jostled the contents while her ass poked out the bottom of her dress. He looked aside and pictured Mr Surrly in skimpy lingerie.
Riley did a one-eighty, her backside now sequestered within the sack and her head out the top, and draped her hands over the edge. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed and stared at him with eyes that practically glowed.
“What?” Remy asked. “Also, I don’t think I ever heard you say ‘shit’ before. Maybe you really are spending too much time around humans.”
“Remy,” she gasped, “this is a small fortune. These aren’t merely rocks, they’re gems.”
He cocked an eyebrow and considered the new information. “Well…that’s an improvement over simply being the beginnings of nice gravel lawn. The only problem is, where do we find a place that exchanges unpolished dwarven gems for cash?”
She shrugged.
A shifty-looking fellow in a stocking cap strolled past and studied the bag. Remy glared at him and the man kept walking. The investigator picked the bag up and headed to his car.
“Riley, we have extra time today. I think we ought to pay a little visit to one of my other…er, contacts upstate.”
Farmer’s Market, Tuxedo, New York
Remy sighed deeply and retrieved a handkerchief as he exited the freeway. “I cannot believe I’m doing this to myself.”
Riley had poked around the passenger-side cupholder where he kept his coins and now read the years on them out loud. She stopped at his comment and regarded him curiously. “Doing what?”
“Committing myself to nasal torture. I think the Inquisition used to do stuff like this to heretics.” He shuddered. At least he’d stopped in Hackensack, New Jersey, bought some allergy pills on the way upstate, and taken two of them immediately to fortify his sinuses against the punishment to come.
The fairy was confused. “Why would you do that?” She dropped the dime she’d been admiring and floated to the windshield to look around.
“Because I have no choice. I’m allergic to cats.” He could almost feel his nose tickling already, but it was probably merely psychosomatic suggestion. Irritably, he pushed all thoughts of feline dander from his mind.
Riley folded her arms. “Isn’t this where they have the Renaissance Faire? I have cousins who took me to that once. It was great fun, actually—seeing all the drunken humans acting sensibly for once.”
Remy bit his tongue to keep from barking with laughter at that. “Sensible isn’t the word I’d use, but fair enough. Anyway, RenFaire is in the summer, if I recall. No, we’re only going to the market.”
Outside of town, he took a turn down a dirt road and his Lincoln rumbled along the muddy ruts. He’d have to go through a carwash later, he thought morosely.
They arrived at the perimeter of a rustic farmers’ market. Most other humans who stumbled upon it would notice nothing even slightly odd, nor would they know that the ongoing event was hosted and managed by a peculiar commune based nearby, right on the edge of Sterling Forest State Park.
What he didn’t know was how much longer they’d be open. Already, it was getting late in the year. He’d have to ask someone if they planned to shut down for the winter.
He pulled his car into an open space on the dying grass between a rusty pickup truck and a soccer-mom-esque SUV. Then, breathing a deep breath of the air in his car—still uncontaminated by cat-filth—he clapped the handkerchief over his face and stepped outside.
It was a grey, moist, chilly kind of day, although still warm enough for him to get away with going hatless. He waited for Riley to exit the vehicle, retrieved the bag of gems, and slammed the door.
“Now,” he mused, “where the hell is Ishmapps? His stand always seems to be at the complete opposite end of the market from wherever I park. I swear he does it on purpose. It’s almost as if he doesn’t like me.”
“What?” the fairy asked. “I can’t understand you with that cloth over your mouth.”
He lifted a corner of it to tell her, “Don’t worry. I’m talking to myself.”
They pushed into the heart of the market. Remy had been there for the first time on one of his early assignments and perhaps three times since, although it had been at least a month since his last visit.
With the weather deteriorating, there were only about half as many sellers as there had been during high autumn and perhaps a third as many buyers, even with tarps to keep out the worst of the rain and cold. The smaller crowd made it easier to study the stands from a distance.
Riley grew excited as they weaved down the makeshift aisles. “Remy!” She all but panted. “They’re selling organic honey over there. Ooh! And over there, sweet potato pie. I love sweet potato pie.”
Afraid that the fairy was about to rocket off and try to apply the five-finger discount, he said quickly, “Yes, we’ll get some, I promise.”
“Really?” She beamed and her eyes were on the verge of glistening with tears of joy.
“Really. As soon as I have some actual…you know, money.” He jostled the sack in his hand. “We’ll pick up some honey and pie on our way out. You have my word.”
She clapped her hands around the left-side base of his jaw and kissed him on the earlobe. “You’re the best, Remy.”
“Don’t mention it,” he quipped. By now, he’d noticed a few of the sellers eyeing both her and the sack with subdued curiosity. He was not alarmed, however. The farmers there looked perfectly normal but were not, in fact, human.
On the plus side, the allergy pills seemed to be working. So far, he’d had only a few tickles in his sinuses and a few half-sneezes and false alarms. Nothing catastrophic.
In the extreme rear of the market grounds, half-hidden behind a picnic table and a garbage can, he finally located Ishmapps’ stand. It was little more than an end table with a few handmade trinkets atop a plain cloth covering, although he also had a portable shelf behind him that was completely covered with
a light throw-rug. A locked case rested near his feet.
Before the man could notice him and try to escape, Remy jogged toward the little stand, waved with his handkerchief, and grinned with all his might. “Maps Cat!” he exclaimed.
The seller’s head snapped toward the sound and his eyes blazed with an odd, yellowish vibrancy. He was a thin, gangly man in early middle age, with shoulder-length reddish hair and a short, scruffy beard of the same hue.
When he caught sight of Remy, his jaw tightened and his shoulders slumped. “I told you never to call me that again,” he snapped.
“Ha, ha, good to see you, buddy!” He laughed and pretended not to have heard. “Riley, this is Maps Cat. Maps Cat, Riley.”
“Hello!” the fairy said and waved. “I thought you said his name was Ishmapps, though.”
The red-haired man gritted his teeth visibly. “It is. What do you want, Remington? What’s in the sack?”
“Explosives,” he said. “Nah, I’m only messing with you, Maps Cat. It’s dwarven gems I wanted you to have a look at. Say, your stand looks almost…empty. It’s almost as if you’re not really here to sell much of anything. Well, you know”—he chortled—“aside from—”
“Medicinal plants.” Ishmapps cut him off. “You know that. Stop pretending to be an idiot. Humans, in their infinite wisdom, have made certain things illegal, even if they grow like any other vegetable and have well-proven health benefits. At least, for customers I can actually trust.”
Remy gestured to the man and looked at Riley. “They’re vegetarians, you see. All of them. The old thing about vegan pets dying of malnutrition is clearly bunk.”
Maps’ left eye bulged and an off-kilter, throaty yowling sound began to emerge from his mouth. “I’m not a goddamn pet, Remington.”
“Whoops! Sorry,” he replied. “Right. You’re a farmer. But what with your long list of discerning customers, some of whom are influential in multiple industries, you strike me as the type of man who’d know how to exchange some of these things for real money.” He set the bag down on the table.
Ishmapps stared at him and for a moment, his pupils were vertical slits rather than round black dots. Finally, he looked into the sack.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “these are dwarven gems, all right. Valuable too. What do you expect me to do, though? I’m not a bank.”
Remy glanced at the strongbox resting on the grass. “Wellllll…if you know anyone who’d buy these things you could, like, take them off my hands and give me the cash equivalent from your personal stash there.”
The man’s eyes narrowed again. “I need cash too, Remington. Finding a buyer might take a little while.”
“Aww,” he protested. “Could we trade for part of the gems? Enough for me to buy some honey, a sweet potato pie, and an office building. Please, Maps Cat. I’m counting on you.”
“Stop calling me Maps Cat!” The man almost snarled the protest. For a second, it seemed that red fur covered his entire face and body and whiskers extended from his nose. Remy swore he could see a red tail swaying behind the chair as Ishmapps puffed himself up momentarily and seemed to grow larger. He hissed.
The fairy’s eyes widened. “Oh, werecats! I haven’t seen any of you guys in a while. I didn’t know you were all vegetarians now, though.”
Ishmapps returned to normal, although he still looked cantankerous.
She turned to Remy. “You’re being kind of mean. Maybe he’ll help us if you stop making fun of him.”
He raised a finger. “On the contrary, Ishmapps deliberately stonewalled me the first time I met him, even when I tried to be polite. He only seems to cooperate when I name-drop Taylor and remind him of how displeased she’ll be if he continues to act like a mangy, bad-tempered stray.”
Remy planted a fist on his hip, risked the exposure of his nose and mouth to all the atmospheric werecat-dander, and stared philosophically into space. “Yes, and Taylor was saying something recently…about needing a new fur coat, wasn’t it? Wait, no—she wanted a pet cat. One that had human levels of intelligence so it would be more fun to play fetch with.”
Ishmapps continued to glower and he chuckled again. “The best way to do that, she said, would be to use some really, really evil magic to make sure this hypothetical smart-cat can never, ever change form and has to remain a cute widdle kitty forever—”
Maps threw his hands up and sighed in defeat. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll appraise the damn gems and trade you some of them for some of my cash.”
Remy smiled a cheery, glowing smile. “Great! Some of them now, you mean, and the rest later. Call me when you find a buyer. The sooner, the better.”
The werecat counted the gems, estimated their weight by hefting them in his hand, and jotted numbers on a pad of notepaper. As he did so, Riley buzzed around in joy.
“Honey and sweet potato pie! Thanks, Remy.”
He nodded. “Don’t thank me, thank Maps Cat.” Then, he sneezed.
Chapter Five
Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York
Remy almost rubbed his hands with glee. His head pivoted and his gaze darted like a bird or lizard to take in the sights of his new office. The leasing contract lay on the desk before him, and the leasing agent held a pen out.
“Actually,” he told the man and snatched the pen, “before I sign, I do have a few questions.”
The agent was a small, dark, wiry man who gave off a slight air of desperation, and he almost frowned. Remy could see the effort it took to maintain his game face. “Oh, right, of course. Questions. Ask away.”
He stood and made a show of surveying the premises while he tapped his lips with the head of the pen. “Hmm…” He knew what he wanted to ask but stalling the guy was a good intimidation tactic. “Could we do one more quick tour? I forgot half of what you told me earlier. Sorry! I was thinking about the money.”
The agent—his name was Khachaturian, he recalled—grimaced and glanced at the nearest clock. “Yeah, fine. But do me a favor and pay attention this time, okay?”
“But of course.”
They strolled through the halls and offices as the man quickly summarized the essential features of the real estate once again. Remy nodded every few seconds to show he was paying attention—which he was.
The place was almost perfect. It had stood empty for a while so it could use basic maintenance, cleaning, and perhaps redecorating, but it would serve nicely. It came with desks, chairs, functional utility infrastructure, and basic equipment like a push-chart, paper cutter, and even a nice red stapler.
There were no computers, though, but they’d probably only need one or two to start with.
“So,” Khachaturian rambled on, “you’ll have to contact the power company yourself, and set up—”
“I have a question,” he interrupted. “To what extent would you say the doors are reinforced? Like, how much punishment could they take before being broken down?”
The man blinked. “Uh, they’re steel, I know that much. I dunno if they’re reinforced, though.”
Remy shrugged. “Steel is better than wood. Oh, also…how many other potential entries are there? Extra routes by which someone could sneak into this place. Including air ducts and stuff like that.”
Khachaturian’s mouth moved for a second before any sound came out. “Only the front entrance and the fire escape. I dunno about air ducts. That seems a little far-fetched. Listen, Bushwick’s safer than it used to be. It ain’t exactly Chappaqua, but I mean—”
“Right, safer,” he went on. “Still, what do we have here in the way of security systems? Obviously, I’d have to install one myself after the power is turned on, but are there any for the entire block?”
The agent frowned. “I’d have to call and ask the landlord. But a private system would probably be your best bet.”
He chewed on the tip of the agent’s pen as they walked toward one of the larger offices. “Another question. Local ordinances. What kind of rules does this neighborhood have on loud nois
es in the middle of the night? How…uh, fastidious are they about reporting suspicious figures prowling around?” He paused. “Oh, and are the walls bulletproof? I’m merely curious.”
Khachaturian now actively squirmed. “Why are you asking me all this stuff, man? You’re not planning to run some kind of illicit business here, are you? We don’t want to be involved with that shit.”
Pretending to be surprised by the inquiry, he protested, “Of course not. We simply deal with highly sensitive information on behalf of our clients, which might be susceptible to identity theft, blackmail, and that kind of thing. Not to mention good old-fashioned burglary since we sometimes handle large sums of money. For example…”
He fished in his pocket and produced a massive wad of banded cash and set it onto a desk in front of the agent, who stared at it.
“That,” he stated, “ought to completely cover the down payment. Plus, I could be mistaken, but I believe there’s a little extra, as well. Why don’t you take all of it?” He smiled.
Khachaturian’s thick eyebrows again rose in surprise, although of a more pleasant kind. “Yes, sir, Mr Davis.”
Once he’d pocketed the money, Remy told him, “I think we’re ready to sign that lease contract now.”
The agent shrugged. “Okay. I hope it works out for you. Whatever problems you might have, well, the place isn’t my problem anymore.”
Soon, he departed, along with the signed forms, the money, and even his pen. Remy stood in the center of the lobby, basked silently in triumph, and imagined how the location would look once he was through with it.
He remembered something. “Riley,” he called, “you can come out now.”
A file cabinet creaked and shuffled as one of its drawers opened. Seconds later, the fairy hovered before his face.
“It’s all ours now?” she asked. She’d put on a little weight after all the sweets she’d eaten recently, but it hadn’t really affected her figure. If anything, she looked cuter.
“All ours,” he replied. “Well, technically, we’re only renting it, but close enough. Ours as long as we don’t miss a payment or fuck anything up and make them come over here to actually enforce the rules.”
Diamond In The Rough (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 2) Page 6