“What? But he’s been coming here almost every night . . .”
Lafo shook his head, a grim look on his face. “I don’t know where he’s going, Tate—but it ain’t here. In fact, I had to cut him off. He was coming in here every night, drinking on the cuff. You know I don’t grudge him that, don’t you? After all, the man saved my life and livelihood. But then he started getting stroppy with the paying customers. It wasn’t too bad, at first—just some snide remarks, here and there. But the last time he came in here, it got ugly. He picked a fight with this human—only Arum knows what about—and next thing I know they’re getting into it, throwing punches left and right! Bruno put a stop to it, quick enough—but not before the nump, uh, I mean, human punched Hexe in the eye. After it was over, I told him he’d had his last drink on the house. I haven’t seen him since.”
My mind flashed back to the night Hexe came home looking like he’d been in a fight. Although I could not believe what I was hearing, I had to admit that a lot of things were suddenly starting to make sense.
“He told me he got that black eye from fighting off a mugger.”
Lafo glanced about, as if on the lookout for spies, then leaned forward, his voice dropping down into a husky whisper. “You know I consider Hexe to be a true friend, not just another one of my customers. So I’ve got to ask: what’s going on with him? I know Hexe enjoys his drink, but he’s always known when to stop. I’ve never seen him drink like that before. He seemed like a totally different person. I hated having to cut him off like that, but he gave me no choice.”
“I’m really sorry, Lafo. Hexe has been under a lot of stress lately, what with money being tight and the baby on the way. . . .”
“The buzz I’ve been hearing is that he’s shut down his practice and handed his clients over to Madam Kuka. Why would he do that?”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself. That’s Hexe’s business, not mine,” I replied, perhaps a little too tersely. As much as I so wanted to tell Lafo the truth, I didn’t dare say anything more. It’s not that I didn’t trust the restaurateur, but if news of Hexe’s hand being broken managed to reach the Maladanti, Boss Marz could very well jump to the wrong conclusion and decide to take action.
“I didn’t mean to butt in, Tate,” Lafo said gently. “I’m just concerned about the guy, that’s all.”
“I know,” I sighed. “So—if he hasn’t been coming here every night—where is he going?”
Lafo shrugged. “I wish I could tell you, Tate—but I honestly don’t know.”
As I turned to leave, I felt a hand on my arm. It belonged to Chorea, the hostess for the Two-Headed Calf. I could tell she was still on the wagon since she was wearing a low-cut cocktail dress in place of the traditional diaphanous gown and leopard skin of her sisterhood. The maenad had joined Alcoholics Anonymous in an attempt to save her marriage to the Kymeran mover, Faro. Something about consuming raw flesh while in a Dionysian frenzy—it’s complicated.
“I heard you asking about Hexe,” she whispered. “I’d look across the street if I were you.”
“You mean the Highlander?” I frowned. “Are you sure, Chory?”
“I saw him go inside a couple of hours ago,” she replied.
I thanked the teetotaling bacchante and left the pub, setting my sites on the hookah lounge across the street. On the sliding scale of Golgotham nightspots, with the Golden Bough at the very top and the Stagger Inn at the bottom, the Highlander hovered somewhere in the lower middle. Unlike similar establishments elsewhere in the city, the Highlander’s customers weren’t there to smoke exotic tobaccos—they were there for the hashish. While there were plenty of hookah joints near Duivel Street that served human stoners looking for a hassle-free high, the Highlander’s clientele tended more toward the locals.
The wooden sign outside of the lounge depicted a hookah with a sinuous dragon in place of the hose, smoke pouring from its nostrils. Although I don’t have any issues with the idea of a hash café, I had never had occasion to step foot in the Highlander before because, well, I don’t smoke. Hell, the average Kymeran place of business was smoky enough to cure meat—I could just imagine what one of their hookah lounges was like. I paused for a moment to steel myself, taking a final breath of clean air, and then opened the door.
The interior of the Highlander was dark and surprisingly elegant, with low couches and ottomans scattered about a rambling layout. There were also curtained booths, where smokers could retire to enjoy their pipes in privacy. Everywhere I looked there was a bluish haze that smelled strongly of musk and hash-oil. I couldn’t keep from wondering how much my dry-cleaning bill was going to be once they finally got the reek out of my jacket.
There was a kiosk just inside the door, manned by a young Kymeran with green dreadlocks. Inside the booth were rows upon rows of water pipes of different sizes, including one with so many hoses radiating from its vase it was positively octopedal. “Rent a pipe, lady?” he asked helpfully.
I shook my head. “I just stepped in to see if a friend of mine was in here.”
“We’ve got a special tonight on Dragon Balm,” he said, pointing to a nearby service counter, where various blends of hashish wrapped in brightly colored foil were offered for sale alongside pot brownies and demitasses of espresso.
“That’s okay,” I said, sidestepping the suggested selling. “I’ll just go look for my friend. . . .”
I moved past the kiosk into the open social room, but did not spot Hexe among the groups of smokers lounging about, talking to one another as they listened to the acoustic hurdy-gurdy player in the corner. Trying not to look too nosy, I pulled back the curtain on the privacy booth next to me to find Giles Gruff reclining on a pillow-strewn bench, his behorned head resting in the lap of one well-endowed, naked nymph while she dutifully massaged his temples, while a second, equally busty and unclothed nymph fed him grapes. Although he was missing his vest, his monocle and ascot were still in place.
“Hello, my dear,” the satyr said, between puffs on his hookah. “Good to see you again—if somewhat unexpectedly.”
“I’m sorry, Councilman,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“That’s quite all right. I’m simply unwinding after another day of butting heads with Mayor Lash. He’s so desperate to outspend O’Fae in his reelection campaign, he’s willing to court a scheming cormorant like Ronald Chess. It’s bad enough I have to combat such recklessness amongst my own people—but to have to deal with the same trait in others is most tiresome. I am the lord of the satyrs, after all, not a congressman from Delaware. But on to a more pleasant subject: I trust my niece Octavia has settled into her new digs?”
“I suppose so, although we don’t see that much of her. She spends most of her time at the fire station.”
“Such is the life of a dedicated civil servant, I fear,” Giles said, pausing to sample another grape. “But then, the females of our species have always been industrious and civic-minded, and for that I am truly thankful, or else the satyrisci would have gone the same route as the woodwoses and ogres during the Sufferance.”
“You wouldn’t have happened to have seen Hexe?” I asked. “I was told he was here.”
“Indeed he is. You should find him in his usual spot—the far corner booth. Now, if you don’t mind, my lady friends and I have some business to attend to,” he said, gesturing to his tumescent goat-pizzle.
I quickly dropped the privacy curtain. I was going to need a lot of brain bleach to erase that particular image from my mental catalog.