"Kirk is an elder of the Church of the Covenant,"
Bakhtiar told me quietly. The diversity of Angels City has its advantages." "I'll say," I agreed. Ishaq Bakhtiar was one sharp operator.
The distinction between clergy and laity is much less in Protestant churches than in Catholicism; the prayers of an elder, who presumably was among the elect, were as likely to' be heard as a minister's. And Bakhtiar could hire two laymen for less than he'd have had to pay one who was consecrated.
Like I said, a sharp operator.
He was also sharp enough to say, "And if you have any doubts whatsoever, Inspector Fisher, as the whether the decontaminators are fully employed, come back to my office with me now and I will show you complete records of their activity since we moved into this building."
I had no doubts, but I went with him nonetheless. He rummaged through his files, plopped a handful down in front of me. I looked through them. They showed me what he'd said they would. This left me unsurprised: how often will the head of a business voluntarily show documents that don't paint him in the best possible tight?
But if anything was wrong at Bakhtiars Precision Burins, you couldn't have proved it by me. All his procedures were what they should have been; his decontamination team might have been unorthodox (in the nontheological sense of the word), but it was effective.
"Anything else, Inspector?" he asked when I'd worked my way through the last folder. Rather pointedly, he asked his watch what time it was.
The little horological demon's answer showed I'd already devoured fifty-five of his precious and irreplaceable minutes, where I'd promised to make do with a mere forty-five. I guess I was supposed to wail and abase myself and swear never to sin in that particular way again. Living in a large city, though, has a way of coarsening you. When I said, Tm sorry I took up so much of your time," I put just enough bureaucratic indifference into my voice to let him know I wasn't the least bit sorry.
He glared at me again. This time, I didn't bother glaring back, which only irked him more. I got up. "I think I can find my own way out."
"No, you mis-" He caught himself. If he was really rude to me, who could guess how much trouble I'd cause him?
Persians understand about revenge. He tried again: "No, Inspector, you forget the door. It is active in both directions."
So, no matter how much he didn't care for me, he had to escort me out so I wouldn't alarm his door (and in case you're wondering, I hadn't forgotten). He gave me some insincere parting pleasantries and let me walk up the hall by myself.
Cyndi Mendoza hit me with a dazzling smile when I came out to her desk (I'd forgotten about her - Bakhtiar could have won the exchange if he'd called her back to his office to bring me out, but that would have cost him an extra couple of minutes of my presence, and I suppose he was too efficient to think of it). She said, "Do you remember that opening spell?"
Which was, no doubt, intended to get around to asking if I thought it would work on her. I forestalled that, though: I said, "Tm sorry, no - I make it a point never to remember anything." I walked out while she was still staring.
When I got back to the Confederal Building and went up to my office, I found on my desk a note from Rose in big red letters: David, come up to Bea's office immediately. Wondering what sort of trouble I'd managed to get into while I was gone, I went up to Bea's office.
In the anteroom sat Rose - the real ruler of the domain - and a fussy-looking little fellow with a big nose and a loud cravat. He was looking through one of Rose's stationery catalogues, which meant he was either madly meticulous or bored stiff: the latter, if a couple of little faint spots on his shirt meant anything.
"Hello, Dave," Rose said to me, and then, "Here he is, Mr. Epstein."
The little man bounced to his feet. "You are David Fisher, Inspector, Environmental Perfection Agency?" he asked, running my name and job title together.
"Yes," I said. "Who are you?"
"Samuel Epstein, subclerk of the courts. Angels City, Barony of Angels." From under the stationery catalogue he drew out a piece of parchment so splendid with calligraphy (it's mostly done by automatic writing these days, as with the quills inscribing symbols on the silk instrument covers at Bakhtiar's, but it stffl looks mighty impressive) and gaudy with seals. "I hereby deliver unto your person this summons to appear in the court at the day and hour incvited hereon in the matter of The Constabulary of Angels City vs.
Ctiauhtemoc Hemandez." He presented it to me with such a gorgeous flourish that I half expected to hear a ruffle of drums.
I read the parchment. It was what Epstein said it was. "I'll be there," I told him. "Sorry to keep you waiting here so long. Couldn't you just have left this on my desk?"
"Not in cases involving thaumaturgy in the commission of a first-degree felony," he answered. "In such cases, the chain of transmission of summonses must be as tightly controlled as that concerning the transmission of evidence."
"Okay," I said, shrugging; he undoubtedly knew the arcana of his own field, "But you must spend an awful lot to time just sitting and waiting. Why don't you bring along something more interesting to read than that?" I pointed at the catalogue.
But he recoiled with as much horror as if I'd offered him a bacon cheeseburger. "Anticipating idleness would constitute moral turpitude on my part. Good day to you, sir." He edged around me and fled.
Rose and I looked at each other. She said, "If I spent a lot of working time waiting, I'd bring something interesting, too." That relieved my mind; if Rose doesn't think something involves moral turpitude, you can take it to the bank that it doesn't.
All the way home, I thought about what had gone on at Bakhtiai's. It was of a piece with everything else connected with the Devonshire dump case: as far as I could tell on a quick visit, everything there was on the up and up, and the boss loudly denied doing anything that could possibly make toxic spell byproducts get out of the containment area and into the environment. Somebody was lying, but who? Not knowing was devilishly frustrated.
I was going to call Judy after I finished dinner, but she called me first "Want to do something perverse?" she asked.
I know a straight line when I'm handed one. "Sure," I answered, "Do you want to fly up here, or shall I go down there?" Besides, the very male part of me panted, there was always the outside chance that was what she had in mind.
The snort she gave me said it wasn't - and also said she'd fed me the line on purpose. Maybe she wanted to see what I'd do with it, or maybe she'd already guessed what I'd do with it and wanted to see if she was right. She said, "I was thinking more along the lines of a Monday night date."
That's perverse, all right," I agreed. "Why Monday night?"
"Because I read in the Independent Press-Scryer that a new Numidian restaurant is opening up Monday night about six blocks from here. Feel like coming down and trying it with me?"
"Numidian, eh?" Jews often go to Muslim-style restaurants, and the other way round, too; no need to worry about pork on the menu or back in the kitchen. And Aside from that, I like North African food. Couscous, salata meshwiya-tuna salad with chili pepper, eggs, tomatoes, and peppers, dressed with olive oil, lemon juice, and salt- chicken with prunes and honey, the lamb soup called harira souiria, with onions, paprika, and saffron… my stomach rumbled just thinking about it. "Sounds wonderful. Only thing is, how crowded will it be?
"We can find out. Of course, if you don't want to-"