JUDGE INDICTED IN
REFORM-SCHOOL SCAM
In the adjoining machine, that new tabloid, the People's Voice, was using three-inch tall letters to announce:
VATICAN TO AMERICA: GO TO HELL!
I thought I knew what that was about. Some bigwig cardinal over in Rome had said, where a reporter could hear him, that he'd be just as happy if North America sank into the sea, taking the population with it.
I don't take a lot of interest in religious politics – and if you think that term's an oxymoron, welcome to the twentyfirst century. But even I knew that the big guys in Rome have a love-hate relationship with North America, especially the USA. On the one hand, we're a big, affluent country with lots of Catholics – and a percentage of the money being dropped into all those collection plates every Sunday finds its way into the Vatican's coffers. Without America, they'd probably go broke.
But American Catholics don't always toe the party line real well. The Church says contraception's a sin, except for the rhythm method. You can always tell couples who use that approach, by the way – they usually have twelve kids. But the stats show that in the USA, Catholics use artificial birth control about as often as the rest of the population, which I'm sure pisses off the pope no end. And there are some Catholic priests who care more about social justice than the law, like the Brannigan brothers, who were always getting arrested a few years back for protesting the war in Transylvania.
So I wasn't exactly amazed to hear that there's some frustration in Rome about us, and only a little surprised that some cardinal would be indiscreet about it. But it wasn't what I'd call a big news story. The Times-Tribune had carried it last week, on page 12, I think. If the People's Voice thought they were going to make money attacking the Vatican in heavily Catholic Scranton, they were in for a hard lesson in both faith and economics.
In the rug store's big windows, I could see displayed – behind what looked like triple-thick safety glass – seven or eight gorgeous Oriental rugs. Their total price tag would probably beat what I'd paid for my house.
Karl was looking, too. "Wonder if any of 'em actually fly?" he said.
"Probably costs extra."
We had barely taken three steps into the brightly lit showroom when a trim, well-dressed guy in his thirties hurried over to meet us.
"Welcome, gentlemen, to our humble establishment," he said, probably for the twentieth time that day. "What kind of beautiful carpet may I show you this evening?" He had an accent that sounded Lebanese.
"We'd like to see Victor Castle," I said.
He nodded a couple of times, as if I'd said something profound. "Certainly, good sirs. I shall immediately determine if he is on the premises at the present time. May I say who is enquiring?"
I showed him my badge. "This is enquiring."
His head bobbed a few more times. "Of course, officers. Please excuse me – I shall return momentarily."
He vanished through a curtained door behind an antique-looking counter and a second later I heard his voice, with no accent whatsoever, yell, "Hey Chico – tell the boss that a couple of cops are lookin' for him!"
I glanced at Karl. "What d'you think – Lebanon?"
"By way of Swoyersville, haina?"
Abdul-from-Swoyersville never reappeared from the back of the store. Instead, the curtains parted and a man I assumed was Victor Castle – born Castellino – strode into the showroom area.
He was a little below average height and was wearing the vest and pants of a three-piece suit. I assumed the jacket was still in the back. The outfit was clearly expensive, but it didn't stop the beginnings of a gut from protruding under the vest's lowest button. He had thick black hair, although some of it had been replaced by a pink bald spot that reflected the glare from the ceiling lights. If he was supposed to be such a big-deal wizard, I wondered why he hadn't worked a little magic on his own appearance.
Karl and I showed him our badges while I gave him our names. He stared at Karl for a few seconds, and I realized he could tell that my partner was undead. Then he shifted his gaze to me and said, "The reason why I haven't used my magical skills to make myself tall, lean, and hirsute, Sergeant, is that while I have a number of vices, physical vanity is not among them."
I blinked at that. "I didn't think there was a spell, in white magic anyway, that allowed mind-reading."
The smile he gave me didn't reach his green eyes. "You are correct, Sergeant. In fact, I'm not even sure that black magic can confer that ability, although I am much less knowledgeable of that variety. But I did follow your gaze as I entered. Your eyes traveled the length of my form, doubtless estimating my height. Then your gaze lingered for a moment at my lower stomach and traveled upward again – not looking into my eyes but at the top of my head, which I expect appears quite shiny in this harsh light. Then you wondered why, with my much-touted magical powers, I had not employed them to correct my… physical imperfections. Correct?"
I nodded slowly. "If you really did all that without magic, then it's pretty damn amazing."
Karl murmured in my ear, "I thought it was quite elementary."
Castle gestured to my right. "As you can see, we have some comfortable armchairs, from which our customers sometimes view our wares. Perhaps we might sit down?"
He walked us over to where three upholstered chairs sat in a rough semicircle. When Karl and I were seated, Castle took the third chair and turned it toward us before sitting down. Each of these chairs probably weighed close to two hundred pounds, yet Castle had handled his the way I might move a metal folding chair. Magic or muscle? No way to know.
Castle spread his hands for a moment and said, "So, then?"
"I understand you're Ernst Vollman's successor," I said, "as… leader… of the local supernatural community."
"Ah, yes, Vollman," Castle said. "A very interesting man. He will be missed. I understand you were both present when he died?"
"Yes," I said. I had no intention of discussing with this guy the night that Ernst Vollman and his son Richard had both come to the end of their long lives. Vollman had died fighting, and the son, who was also known as Sligo, had died one of the ugliest deaths I'd ever seen.