“I haven’t seen Ilgar in two weeks,” McGoo said. “After he sold the Tavern, he couldn’t get out of this place fast enough.”
Ilgar, the original goblin owner, was an unlikely candidate to own a bar, since he didn’t like customers, and a successful business generally requires customers. Ilgar used to sit in the back office with his adding machine, running the accounts, ordering blood and liquor supplies, working crossword puzzles—Hell, I didn’t know what he did in there all the time. He rarely came out to chat up his patrons behind the bar—a good thing, since Ilgar was a dreary fellow who complained about the business at every opportunity. It was an open secret that he’d been trying to find a buyer for the Goblin Tavern for years, though he pursued the sale only halfheartedly, as he did most things. Recently, however, an amazingly sweet deal had fallen into his lap.
In all my years in the Quarter, I had never seen Ilgar with so much as a faint smile, but on the day he announced the sale of the business he was grinning so widely that his rubbery face stretched back to expose rows of pointed teeth. “Drinks are on the house—for a period of five minutes only. I am retiring and glad to get rid of this albatross around my neck.”
The fifteen customers in the Goblin Tavern had applauded politely, some with more enthusiasm than others. Ilgar thought we were congratulating him; most, though, were happy at the prospect of a less dreary owner. And everyone was glad for the free drinks.
“Some big corporation called the Smile Syndicate bought the Tavern. They plan to make it a destination place in the Quarter, a regular stop for tour buses. They might even turn it into a nationwide chain. There may be Goblin Taverns everywhere.” Ilgar managed to squash his own joy. “And good riddance to all of it!”
He had gone back into his office and begun clacking on the adding machine keys. Exactly five minutes from the time he’d announced the free drinks, he came out and cut them off.
Now that we’d talked with Max the necromancer that afternoon, I realized that the Smile Syndicate’s acquisition of the Goblin Tavern was perfectly in line with their chain of Kreepsakes gift shops: expanding their presence in the Quarter, mainstreaming the monster business. Robin probably saw it as celebrating monster diversity, but something about it didn’t sit well with me.
Francine still had her back to me, head bowed as if she were staring at the pickled eyeballs that looked back up at her. “Don’t forget about my beer, Francine,” I called and turned back to McGoo. “I can only stay for one tonight. I have to get freshened up for a big charity banquet Robin and I are attending.”
“Freshened up?” McGoo said with a sniff. “You need a lot of freshening.”
“Ha ha.”
“What’s the big occasion?”
“Awards dinner for the Monster Legal Defense Workers. Mrs. Saldana thinks we might find benefactors for those golems we just freed. Irwyn Goodfellow himself is going to be there.”
I looked up, furrowing my brow. Francine was usually more attentive than this, and the Tavern wasn’t even busy. She was the best and most longstanding bartender the Goblin Tavern had ever had—a hard-bitten human in her late fifties, though chain smoking and a couple of divorces had added at least ten years to her appearance. She was well liked among the regulars. She chatted with unnaturals, listened to their problems, sympathized with their sob stories, and ladled out advice from her personal store of experiences. Since Francine had made enough of her own bad choices, she liked to say, “I made a lot of mistakes, so you don’t have to.”
McGoo had finished half of his beer by the time Francine finally turned to me. She hadn’t been filling the pickled eyeball jar at all—she was crying. “Sorry, Dan. I’ll be with you in a minute.” She wiped her eyes, picked up a mug, and went over to the tap. “The usual?”
I had seen Francine pissed off at unruly customers, and she had no tolerance for rudeness, but I’d never imagined her to be an emotional basket case. “What’s wrong, Francine?”
“Just not having a good day,” she said with a loud sniffle.
McGoo was also concerned. “Francine, we’ve been coming in here for years. When was the last time you had a good day?”
“Not like this. I should have seen it coming.” She handed me my beer, and