Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (3 page)

Gunther turned out to be correct.

“I don’t like the fact that it’s called The Banquet Room.” Keith’s watch buzzed gently, number three still glowing red.

Gunther glanced at it. “Is that some sort of prototype?”

“It’s a sensor. It’s coded to alert agents to the presence of extra-humans.” Keith gave Gunther the brief rundown on the prototype and its codes. “It’s meant to be more subtle than other types of sensors. The downside is having to memorize the codes.”

Gunther nodded and said, “So what’s it say now?”

“At least one goblin within fifty feet. But that is most likely you.”

“You know, R&D really needs to get on developing a way for agents of other-realm origin to avoid triggering those things before they take it out of the prototype phase. I could see how that could go really wrong in a strike force situation with limited visibility.”

“I’ll make sure to include that in my report on how it functions in the field,” Keith remarked, somewhat dryly. Strike force was never an assignment that Keith had coveted, but there was a certain inevitable comparison of masculinity that occurred between agents when one was a member and the other wasn’t.

“I’d appreciate that, thanks.” Gunther headed back into the restaurant and Keith followed with caution.

The Banquet Room had been designed when restaurants still routinely catered banquets, sometime way back in the early imitation wood paneling era. Like most banquet rooms of this ilk, it offered no windows and only one emergency exit in the back.

Essentially, a perfect space to hold a blood orgy.

Whoever had converted The Banquet Room into a bar had kept the basic fixtures and furnishings. The room seemed largely set up like a banquet room as well, with long tables lined by inexpensive, wipe-able pine green dining chairs. Large mass-produced nautical-themed paintings dotted the wall. Toward the front of the room, where head tables would have been, was a small stage, a ten-seat wet bar, and a tiny dance floor.

Few patrons were in evidence—just a few young guys at the bar watching cartoons on closed-captioned television and a couple who seemed to be hiding in the corner table. Keith gave them the once-over. But upon closer inspection, the reason for their furtive behavior became clear. He wore a wedding band and she did not.

He seated himself at the bar next to Gunther. Catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, Keith had the unfortunate experience of comparing himself with Agent Heartman physically. There was no contest whatsoever. Gunther was taller, broader, and somehow looked good slouching beneath dank, yellow light. Whereas Keith, sitting in shirtsleeves, tie slightly loosened, resembled nothing more than an off-duty county health inspector. Only the tattoos on his arms revealed that there might be any aspect of his personality that an average person could find interest in.

The bartender set a bowl of popcorn down between them. The man resembled Gunther in the powerful proportions of his body, but his coloring differed notably. He had red hair, small, narrow eyes, and a mouth that stretched too wide to be attractive, especially when he smiled.

“What can I get for you?”

Gunther ordered pink vodka on the rocks. Keith stuck with beer—microbrew. The bartender stepped aside to pour their drinks. Gunther began to amiably munch the popcorn. After a few bites he remarked, “This would be a good venue.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. No windows. Drain in the floor.”

“I was thinking more for seeing a band,” Gunther said. “The décor seems dank and lowbrow for a real goblin feast.”

“Have you ever been to one?”

“Do I not have a mother who would be disappointed if I failed to attend?” Gunther tossed a yellow kernel into the air and caught it in his mouth, then slid his gaze slyly around. “I feast every year. Not how you’re imagining it, though. My family’s feasts take the form of barbecues generally conducted in the garden. The most unsavory item generally present is my godfather’s fifth of substandard rye.”

“What protein did you cook?”

“You know, a less polite man might find that question, and its implicit assumption, somewhat offensive.” His tone shifted slightly, lowering to a near growl.

Keith bristled. “Maybe a less polite man hasn’t seen the same kinds of things that I have seen conducted in places much like this.”

Gunther folded. His easy manner returned. “I suppose not. I imagine that as the primary investigator for cases like these you’ve grown naturally suspicious of individuals of my heritage.”

Keith lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Look, last year, in Dallas, we busted a group of upper crust gourmandizing sickos who were human right down to their Manolo Blahniks. Before that we collared a real, live child-eating Russian baba-fucking-yaga. But in this particular case, I happen to suspect goblins, all right? If you can’t deal with that maybe you should request reassignment.”

The bartender turned back and plunked their drinks in front of them. Keith slid the tattered flyer out in front of him and said, “I was wondering, did you happen to be working on the night of this show?”

The bartender glanced down and grimaced. “Yeah, I was. Hell of a mess they made.” Then, with a bartender’s eerie prescience, he inquired, “You two cops?”

“I’m Agent Keith Curry. This is Agent Heartman.” He briefly opened his NIAD ID, then closed it again. For most people, just seeing a badge—any badge—was enough to get them to talk. The bartender was no exception. He nodded, stiffening only slightly. Keith continued, “And you are?”

“Jordan Lucky Greenbacks. What is this about?”

“Just a routine inquiry.” Gunther gave the bartender an easy smile. “Are the owners in?”

“No, they don’t work nights.”

Keith took over again. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Greenbacks?”

“Three years,” Jordan said.

“Tell me, does the management ever close this room for private parties?”

“Sometimes.”

“When was the last time?” Keith removed a black notebook from his pocket and flipped it open.

“Around Christmas last year there was a private party,” Jordan said.

“So around the winter solstice?”

“It didn’t have anything to do with any solstice, winter or summer.” Jordan’s tone sharpened. His expression snapped instantly into defensive hostility. He stared straight at Gunther. “It had nothing to do with…our community. It was a fundraiser for the fire department.”

Keith raised his eyebrows fractionally. Jordan could have been referring to the gay community, but Keith seriously doubted that.

He wondered if Gunther had already perceived that Mr. Greenbacks was trans-goblin as well. And if so, how did the two of them recognize each other? Psychic power? Smell?

“So, are the owners of this club part of you and Agent Heartman’s community?”

“No, they aren’t,” Jordan said in an insistent whisper. “And they don’t know anything about it or about me. I haven’t broken the Secrecy Act—”

“Of course you haven’t,” Gunther said. “The reason we came here was to ask about this particular show. We want to know what you can tell us about these bands.”

“Nothing except, you know, the obvious.” He looked directly at Gunther as he spoke.

“Define
obvious
for me.” Keith took a sip of his beer.

“Some of the musicians were—” he gave another slight gesture in Gunther’s direction, “—also part of our community. Obviously you know that already or you wouldn’t be here.”

Keith allowed himself a tight smile, then said, “Did you happen to get any names?”

The bartender shook his head. “It was a popular show, I was running the whole time. I didn’t even have time for a smoke break. You could ask our booker, Samantha. She’d probably have some contact information for them.”

“Is Samantha here?”

“No, Monday’s her day off.”

“Let’s get back to the band. Did you notice anything special about any of them?” Gunther asked. “Physical characteristics? Anything?”

Jordan shrugged again. “It was just a metal show. They drank cheap beer and played really heavy, brick in your face metal but didn’t do anything…” He leaned forward, whispering to Gunther, “…anything magical. They sang in goblin during the refrain, but that was all. Hardly anybody even recognized it.”

“That and made a hell of a mess.” Keith circled back around to the front of the conversation.

Jordan paled slightly. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the white bar towel.

There it is, Keith thought, that telling expression of information that has been omitted. “What was so messy about the band?”

The bartender swallowed. “They did some theatrical stuff on stage.”

“Such as?” Gunther prompted.

“They drank some stuff that looked like blood. Poured some of it over the crowd.” The bartender busied himself with wiping the already clean bar. “A lot of metal bands do things like that.”

“Did it look like blood or was it blood?” Keith pressed.

“I don’t know.” The bartender refused to look at him. “I’m not some kind of expert.”

“You cleaned it up, right?” Keith folded his hands, prepared to wait all night for the answer. “Blood has a fairly distinct odor, color, and texture.”

“I—” Jordan looked to Gunther.

“It’s all right,” Gunther assured him. “We just need to know about this band. We don’t have any reason to believe you are connected with them. Are you?”

“I’m not,” the bartender said quickly. “They said it was cow’s blood. They poured it out of these gallon jugs that said USDA on them.”

Keith nodded. Though strange from the standpoint of an average white-bread American, beef and pork blood were standard ingredients in everything from the Filipino blood stew called
dinuguan
to
verivorst
, the blood sausages Estonians considered crucial for any Christmas feast. It was entirely plausible that the blood had its origin in livestock. It was also possible that they had simply refilled empty containers with human blood. Without a DNA sample and test, it would be impossible to tell.

“How long ago was this show?”

“Last week.”

“Has the mop head been changed since then?” Keith asked.

“I don’t think so. The laundry service hasn’t been here yet. Do you want to see it?”

Keith followed the bartender back into a dank supply cupboard. As predicted, the mop head was still attached to the mop handle, sitting in a yellow plastic bucket.

Keith detached the moist, stinking thing and crammed it into an evidence bag.

“We’re going to have to take this with us.” He wrote Jordan a receipt, returned to the bar, and sat down next to Gunther, who observed the bagged mop head with silent curiosity.

“I’m going to find out exactly what kind of blood the band was pouring out at the show,” Keith explained.

Gunther nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“Then at least we’ll know something about this case,” Keith said.

Gunther nodded again. Jordan returned to ask them if they needed another round.

“Not right at the moment,” Gunther said. “So, you don’t remember anything else about the band? Any detail at all?”

Jordan paused thoughtfully, seeming to come to some painful decision before finally speaking. “The bassist had a Portland Saturday Market sticker on his guitar case. He said he worked there. I remember it because I wanted to know if he knew my friend Spartacus, who sells hard cider in the beer garden.”

“Did he?” Keith asked. The Portland Saturday Market was one of many markets heavily run by goblins—an earth-based offshoot of the Grand Goblin Bazaar.

“He did,” Jordan said. “Everybody knows everybody there.” A man at the end of the bar suddenly hoisted his empty aloft and began, rudely, to clack his ice as a way of indicating that he’d like additional service. Jordan gave him a professional smile and a nod before saying, “Is there anything else?”

“Tables at the market here are hereditary, aren’t they?” Gunther asked.

“Of course. There’s a waiting list you can get on, but my friend Spartacus told me it’s years long. He only got in because he took over for his mother. He’s been studying with cider makers in England for the last few years. He’s really a genius. I have it on tap here. I’ll pour you one. You’ll be blown away.”

Gunther accepted Jordan’s largesse with grace and some formal-sounding word in goblin that Keith didn’t understand.

Keith eyed the cider sparkling in Gunther’s pint glass. Apart from their ritualistic taste for human flesh, goblins were well known for the astonishing quality of their fruits. Doubtless this particular cider would be the best he’d ever had. More than that, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking of it. Tasting goblin fruits ruined the flavor of all lesser fruits forever. Eating goblin fruit and then returning to mundane varieties was like having the opportunity to make love to your soul mate for one night, then forever more being relegated to meaningless one-night stands.

He’d once eaten a few slices of a goblin peach. Those soft crescents had been the most amazing flesh he’d ever put in his mouth.