When she slinked over, I ordered a ginger ale for myself and a seltzer for Karl. That thing about no booze on the job may be a cliche, but it's also a rule.
Besides, if I was going to drink, I wouldn't do it in a supe bar, despite my good relations with most of the locals. There's always the chance that I'd get careless and have one too many.
A circus animal trainer may get along pretty well with the lions, tigers, and leopards in his act, but he'd be a fool to turn hs back on them.
Elvira was back within a minute. She placed our drinks in front of us, and I dropped a twenty on the bar. As she reached for it, I placed my hand on top of hers. Nothing painful – I just wanted to get her attention.
She looked at me through all the mascara and eyeliner that surrounded her baby blues. "What?"
"Seen any new faces, the last week or so?"
She wrinkled her forehead in thought. "Gosh, no, I don't think so. You guys lookin' for somebody in particular?"
I nodded. "A practitioner, gender unknown. New in town, and a real heavy hitter."
"I haven't heard about anybody like that, Stan," Elvira said. "Honest."
"Put the word out, will you?" I said. "Quiet, no drama. But make it clear that if anybody can give me a line on this new spellcaster, I'd owe them a heck of a big favor."
Yeah, I really said "heck". I'm no Boy Scout, but it's not smart to say words like "hell" in a supe bar. You never know what might be listening.
Elvira promised to let her customers know that I was in the market for information, and I told her to keep the change from my twenty.
I turned around and leaned my back against the bar. It was the signal that I was open for business, if anybody had any. I've found it's better to let supes approach me, rather than the other way around. Some of them spook easy, you might say.
Off to my left, Karl was deep in conversation with the LeFay sisters, a couple of young witches from up the line in Dickson City. He could have been asking about our wizard, or trying to set up a threesome for later. Either way, it didn't look like he was having much luck.
A few minutes later, I realized that Barney Ghougle had slipped onto the stool to my right. I hadn't seen him approach, but then nobody beats a ghoul for sneaky.
Everybody calls him Barney Ghougle, even him. His real name is something unpronounceable, except by another ghoul. Barney looks kind of like Peter Lorre used to, back when he was a young actor making films in Germany – like M, where Lorre played a degenerate child murderer. The resemblance ends there, though. I'm sure Barney would never hurt a kid.
Which doesn't necessarily mean he wouldn't eat one, if it was already dead.
I nodded in his direction. "Hey, Barney."
"Sergeant," he said in that raspy voice of his. "And how are you this fine evening?"
Even from several feet away, his halitosis made my nose wrinkle. Ghouls have the absolute worst breath in the world.
"I'm a little frustrated, to tell you the truth," I said.
"Indeed?" He took a sip of what looked like a double bourbon on the rocks. "Perhaps I might be able to assist you in some way, if I knew the cause of your distress."
Barney talks like that because he's a mortician, and I guess somber formality helps when you're dealing with the grieving. I hear that his funeral home is pretty successful, but I'd never do business with him. I like my relatives to be buried with all their parts intact.
"Maybe you can help," I said. "I'm trying to get a line on a practitioner."
He nodded sympathetically. "There are so many," he said. "And yet I would have thought you knew them all. The local ones, at least."
"That's just it," I told him. "This one might not be local. He, or maybe she, could be new in town, say within the last week or two. Somebody who's major league, or thinks he is. The kind who takes on the really hard spells."
I turned and looked at him. "Sounds like there might be a 'but' lurking in there someplace."
"How well you know me," he said with a tiny smile. "I was, in fact, about to say that I may have heard something about a new arrival to our fair city, a visitor who would seem to fit your description."
He didn't say anything else. The silence between us dragged on for a while.
"All right," I said with a sigh. "What do you need?"
Barney took another sip of his drink before answering. "My brother," he said, not looking at me.
"Algernon? Don't tell me he's been busted again."
The little ghoul nodded glumly.
"Same thing?" I asked. "Indecent exposure?"
Another nod. "It is really most embarrassing," he said.
I knew he meant it. Among ghouls, eating the flesh of the recently dead was no big deal, but having a relative who likes to wave his weenie around in front of the living is a scandal. Especially if he keeps getting caught.
"Who filed the complaint?" I asked. "Do you know?"
He nodded slowly. "Some woman in Nay Aug Park. I gather she was on a bench, tossing peanuts to the squirrels, when Algernon approached her and asked if she'd like to see some real…" He let his voice fade out, with a despairing gesture.
"I'll find out who she is," I told him. "See if maybe I can persuade her to change her mind about pressing charges. You may have to part with a few bucks to make her happy."
"Which I would do, gladly," Barney said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now, about that spellcaster…"
"Yes, of course." He gestured with his chin toward a table in one corner of the room. "It was there, in fact, that I learned what I am about to tell you. A week ago it was, or a little longer. While waiting for a friend to join me, I noticed that two of our local wizards were conversing at a nearby table. I'm afraid I may have eavesdropped."
I didn't doubt it for a minute. Most ghouls are incredible busybodies. That's why they make such good sources for information.
"And what did you hear?" I asked.
"One was saying that he had recently encountered a man downtown, bumped into him quite literally. Someone whom he had known years ago and who has since achieved quite a formidable reputation for the use of black magic. But when greeted, the man apparently said something along the lines of 'You must be mistaken,' and walked away, quite brusquely."
"Mistaken identity, maybe," I said. "It happens, you know."
"Truly it does," Barney said. "But the one recounting this tale said he was absolutely certain that the fellow was the one he'd known, especially after he'd heard the man speak. Apparently he has a rather distinct Irish accent."
"A name," I said. "Please tell me that you got a name for this guy."
"In point of fact, I did," Barney said. "Whether it's a first name or last I can't say, but the practitioner I overheard referred to him as Sligo."
The morning sun was bright, but inside this windowless place natural light never entered. It was probably too embarrassed. The cheap fluorescents in the ceiling gave off a sickly blue-white glow that made the people – Homicide dicks, forensics techs, uniforms, the rest of them – look like overflow from a zombig for a frion.
I pushed aside a couple of inflatable love dolls that were hanging from the ceiling and leaned over the counter to take a look at the guy who was lying on the floor. He stared back at me, the way corpses usually do. If I'm lucky, that's all they do.
In life he'd apparently been in his early twenties, with longish blond hair and a bad complexion. There was blood on the garish Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned to his navel, and more of it pooled under the body.
"Name's Peter Willbrand," one of the uniforms said to me. "Worked the counter last night, was supposed to've closed up at ten. The day guy found him when he opened up this morning, a little before nine."