A little later, while eating the scrambled eggs she'd made – yeah, I had 'em with ketchup; sue me – I filled Christine in on the latest series of crises.
She frowned into her cup, swirling around the small amount of Type A that remained in it. "So, do you figure this guy was after Karl because he's" – she made a face – "one of the bloodsucking undead, or because he's your partner?"
"Could be either one, I suppose. But there's lots of vampires in Scranton, so the odds are against him being randomly targeted as just another step toward Helter Skelter."
She nodded. "Good point."
"Besides," I said, "that bunch of goblins came after me the other night, remember? That could be more Helter Skelter too, I guess – just another human murdered by supes. But the likelihood of both Karl and me being chosen by chance for that shit is pretty damn low."
"I was thinking about that attack on you last night," she said, "when things got slow at work, and it doesn't make sense. I mean, how would a human go about assembling a goblin hit squad? You can't just stroll through Goblin Market calling, 'Hey, anybody wanna knife a cop tonight? I'll throw in all the meth you can snort'."
"Yeah, I see what you mean. Any outsider who tried that would be lucky not to get knifed himself."
"He'd have to use a middleman, wouldn't he, our Mister X? Or middle-goblin. Someone to do the recruiting for him."
I put my fork down as my brain finally started working again. "He'd have to put the word out, somehow. And whenever any kind of word goes out to the supe community, there's a guy who's sure to hear it."
"You mean Mister Castle?"
"No, he might be a little too high up for something like that to reach him. I was thinking of someone lower in the food chain."
"How low?" she asked.
"Low enough to consider human flesh a delicacy."
"Oh, ewwww."
I grinned at her. "Nice talk, for one of the bloodsucking undead."
She gave me a shrug and a grin. "Hey, everybody's gotta have standards."
"Tell Christine if she ever gets tired answering emergency calls, there might be a slot for her on the police force," McGuire said. "How did the goblins get organized – you should've thought about that before now – and so should I."
"Better late than not at all," I said. "I told you I wanted to drop by the U tonight. Father Duvall's got an office hour from eight to nine."
"Yeah, I'll be interested to hear what he has to say about these True Cross nutjobs – if that's what they are."
"Well, since Karl's gonna be tangled up with Homicide for a while, I thought before I visit Father Duvall I'd stop in at Renfield's."
"For what?" McGuire asked.
"I'm hoping to see a ghoul about a goblin."
Renfield's is Scranton's biggest bar catering to a supernatural clientele. They let humans in, of course, just as a supe can get a drink, of whatever he wants, at any other bar in town. Discrimination's illegal – the courts have been very clear on that point.
But it's not surprising that supes prefer the company of their own, even if the different species aren't always on the best of terms with each other. Vampires and werewolves, for instance, don't always get along too well – but anybody who starts trouble in Renfield's is banned for life. And for some of these folks, that can be a very, very long time.
I noticed that the volume of conversation ebbed for a few seconds when I walked in. It always does, even though I'm on pretty good terms with most of the supe community. In my job you have to be, regardless of your personal feelings. The talk had returned to its normal level by the time I reached the bar.
I ordered a ginger ale from Elvira, the bartender, then turned around to lean on the bar, facing the room. I scanned the tables and was relieved to see that Barney Ghougle was here, having a drink with his brother. Algernon keeps getting into trouble with the law – he's got a little indecent exposure problem – so Barney and I have done a certain amount of business over the years. Nobody knows the current dirt like a ghoul, and Barney is the gossip king of Wyoming Valley.
It's better that I not go walking around amongst the tables in Renfield's. Having a cop on the prowl makes some people – and a few others – nervous. So I waited until I caught Barney's eye, then made a slight nod. A few moments later he got up from his chair and made his way toward me.
Barney Ghougle looks like somebody you'd see in a painting by the great American portrait artist, Charles Addams, although Barney always reminds me of the late actor Peter Lorre – short, a little stout, with hair plastered over his head with too much gel. Barney owns a funeral home, and even in Renfield's he wears the professional outfit – black suit, dark gray tie, white shirt. I guess in that place he never knows when he'll encounter a future customer – or a former one.
As he reached me I said, "Hello, Barney – buy you a drink?"
"Certainly, Sergeant," he said, with grave formality. "A bourbon and water would be most enjoyable."
Yeah, he really talks like that. Occupational hazard, I suppose.
When his drink arrived, Barney took a sip and said, "Now, then – what pressing matter has brought you to this fine establishment tonight?"
"Goblins."
"Oh, yes?" Barney wrinkled his nose. "Unpleasant creatures." Like I said, there's not always a lot of love lost between different varieties of supes.
"You'll get no argument from me," I said. "In fact, a bunch of them were extremely unpleasant around me the other night. With knives, no less."
"Yes, I heard of that dreadful incident." Of course he had. "I was also relieved to learn that you came through the ordeal unscathed."
"Unscathed, maybe, but distinctly pissed off. I don't want something like that happening again."
Barney permitted himself a tiny smile. "My understanding is that those six impertinent goblins will not trouble you – or anyone else – ever again. My congratulations, by the way, on your prowess in combat." He raised his glass to me, then took another sip. "I did not receive any of their custom, alas – goblins bury their own."
If Barney thought I'd taken down all six greenies by myself, then let him. My reputation as a badass can always use a little polishing.