a group of vampires was playing darts. Ilgar, the previous owner of the Goblin Tavern, once had two pool tables there, but after an unfortunate accident involving a broken wooden cue stick and a vampire’s chest, he had removed the pool tables out of consideration for his customers. Now the vampires were throwing darts with great enthusiasm, if little accuracy, at a new board onto which they had pasted a photo of Senator Rupert Balfour’s dour face. Some of the darts struck in the general vicinity of the bull’s-eye, while others fell far short, several feet below the senator’s head. Since that would have been the approximate location of his crotch, the vampires considered it a score nevertheless.
I realized I hadn’t been listening to what McGoo was saying, then realized that he wasn’t interested in the conversation either. Both of us kept looking around the tavern, saw how it had been cleaned and redecorated, but not improved in any way. The real cobwebs had been cleared, to be replaced by kitschy strings and plastic spiders—as if real unnaturals, or anyone with eyes and a brain for that matter, couldn’t tell the difference. Framed photos of Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price, Lon Chaney (both Senior and Junior), and the great Tor Johnson had been mounted on the walls next to Peter Cushing as Van Helsing (someone had already drawn a mustache on his face) and Christopher Lee as Dracula, in addition to the Toxic Avenger (as himself). People were supposed to believe that the autographs were real.
As the night wore on, the clientele increased, mostly unnaturals coming into the Tavern out of habit, as well as a group of wide-eyed tourists. I finished two beers, but didn’t taste either one. McGoo ordered a third, not because my conversation was so scintillating, but because he didn’t have any incentive to move. He was off duty and had to go home, which was neither convenient nor appealing since he lived outside the Quarter.
Even though he spent most of his day here, McGoo kept a small apartment where “normal people” lived, and clung to it as a matter of pride, although he wasted a lot of time commuting. I’d once asked him, “Why don’t you just find an apartment here?”
“No nice places.”
“My flat upstairs from our office is nice.”
“No, it’s not. When’s the last time you actually saw your place?”
“Well, the flat itself is nice—I’m just a bad housekeeper.”
“No, the bad housekeeping just hides the fact that the place is a dump. Besides, you moved into the Quarter and look what happened to you.”
“My address didn’t have anything to do with some creep shooting me in the back of the head.”
“Everything’s a factor.”
He had a long ride home, and I didn’t want to stay in the Tavern any longer, thanks to some unofficial, and more than slightly illegal, business of my own that I had to take care of.
He and I swung off our stools at the same time. “Better get going.” McGoo glanced at his watch. “Nine o’clock, and I’ve got a delightful evening ahead of me at home, doing nothing in particular. What about you, Shamble?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said; McGoo didn’t need to know that I planned to break into Timeworn Treasures. We both sighed.
“I hate to say this, Shamble, but we might need to find another watering hole. The Tavern just doesn’t have the right ambience anymore.”
As we went to the door, Stu the bartender waved and called out a cheery “Thanks, come again—and I hope your day is a sunny one!”
We hit the street, and McGoo and I went our separate ways.
CHAPTER 22
A good private eye needs to develop a variety of informants from all walks of life. He also requires a keen mind to compile thousands of diverse details, and a well-honed sense of intuition to put the pieces together and find the answers to mysteries.
It also helps to have skill with a lock pick.
The alley in front of Timeworn Treasures was dark and gloomy, per city ordinance. Legislation for the comfort of unnatural citizens mandated the removal of bright street lights in certain zoned alleys and side streets. Some impatient unnaturals had taken it upon themselves to smash the offending lights before city workers could get around to removing them.
A faint mist burbled up from the sewers, which made me think that the subterranean dwellers were having a barbecue down there. The Quarter’s real night life would get hopping in a few hours, but right now