But when I offered to buy the coffeepot for the price marked on the tag, the pack-rat gremlin couldn’t bear to part with it. “Thank you anyway, Mr. Snazz.” I tipped my hat to him, then walked out the door.
As I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets, I found the delivery paperwork I had snagged from the golem sweatshop: the address of the warehouse where the souvenir doodads were to be shipped. Even though Bill the golem and his companions had been freed, and Irwyn Goodfellow had already put Robin to work drawing up the papers for his Adopt-a-Golem charity, I sensed there was more to the case. And I was disinclined to be thrilled with the Smile Syndicate’s expansion into the Quarter.
By now it was sunset, and since I was out anyway, I decided to snoop around the warehouse. The cases don’t solve themselves. A detective has to organize information, put the pieces together, and come up with viable answers.
But first I had to collect the pieces.
CHAPTER 13
It was a nice night for a stroll. A dank mist curled up from the sewers, a full moon rode high overhead, bats flitted about in charming mating dances. The Quarter’s business district was hopping with nightclubs, blood bars, garment shops, red-light massage parlors, and restaurants that catered to specific clientele. I was surprised at how many wide-eyed humans strolled along, taking in the sights, anxious but thrilled. Was this the new trend in date nights?
In one shop, a big sign in the window had a little smiley face drawn beneath it: OPENING SOON. The unlit neon sign said KREEPSAKES, FINE GIFTS AND SOUVENIRS. The sign maker had even managed to include a TM after the logo. Another annoying chain brought to you by the Smile Syndicate. I cringed to imagine what they would do with the Goblin Tavern once they “improved it for a wider audience.” Further evidence that the Big Uneasy wasn’t the only civilization-threatening apocalypse people should have been worried about.
Okay, the Unnatural Quarter had never been a nice place, but I didn’t see this as an improvement. What was next? Would the Greenlawn Cemetery or Little Transylvania search for a corporate sponsor like those castrated sports amphitheaters now called Hemorrhoid Cream Park or Disposable Douche Field? I shuddered at the thought.
Leaving the bustle and groan of downtown, I made my way to the warehouse where the golem-made souvenirs were stored, a blocky building with a loading dock. Bright security lights flooded the area, shoving away the comfortable gloom. The cracked parking lot sported a fringe of weeds that struggled up through the asphalt while avoiding the actual flower bed area around the building. Could be they used a landscaping-curse service that kept the weeds away. Dim after-hours lights shone through the barred windows; otherwise the warehouse seemed empty.
A long string of incomprehensible zombie graffiti marred the side of the blank wall. You could always tell zombie graffiti because the spray paint started out with complex symbols, then degenerated into gibberish. When the undead tagger lost track of his thoughts, the letters would peter out into drooping, halfhearted squiggles.
I peered inside the nearest window and could see stacked crates of souvenirs marked as T-Shirts, Knick-Knacks, Ashtrays, Place Mats, Novelty Snacks. One entire row held plastic-wrapped packages labeled Bobbleheads. McGoo thought the unnatural bobbleheads were hilarious, zombie and skeleton dolls whose heads popped completely off if you bumped them too hard.
Hearing a car, I turned away from the barred window to see a white pickup truck with an amber flashing light on top. An old human security guard climbed out, holding a big .38 in both hands, which he pointed straight at me, trying to aim for the head. His arms trembled. “What are you doing there? Go find some other alley to curl up in. You can’t sleep here.”
I was offended. “I’m not homeless. I’ve got a good job.”
“Then why is your jacket all patched up like that?”
I brushed at the black threads that repaired the bullet holes. “I’ve been told it adds character.”
His pistol kept wavering, and I supposed that if he fired enough bullets, he might actually hit me by sketching out a wide target circle. “Can’t you see the signs—No Trespassing?”
Actually, I hadn’t seen any signs. I looked around. “Where?”
The old security guard muttered a curse under his breath. “Damn, I meant to put those up.” Then he raised the gun again. “Still, there’s no trespassing. Were you vandalizing the place?”