March 4, 2016
Evening
I am a terrible detective. I have probably mentioned that before, but it bears repeating. I am not comfortable asking people tough questions, I am not particularly talented at subterfuge or skulduggery, and I am not familiar with using computers to search for information. About the only skill detectives and I have in common is the ability to sit absolutely still in one place for several hours at a time. Needless to say, when I have had need of information that was not immediately obvious, I have had to resort to less..noble methods of acquiring it. Sex and violence, I have found, are strong motivators for nearly everyone when wielded cleverly. However, neither was an option here.
Granted, I had a few more tools in my toolbox for physical harm than I had before. In addition to my cold iron sword and dagger, I now also possessed a sentient rapier as befitting my position as the squire of New Haven and the key to the Tower of Water. They were not the ?weapons of mass destruction? I have heard mentioned offhand in many news articles, but I now had more options at my fingertips than ?sneak attack? and ?slip them a Mickey Finn and cut their throat while they are insensate.? As Cadentia proved, I could hold my own fighting two or three people at a time, so long as I had a blade in hand and the key at the ready. Still, one man with a sword and dagger and magic could not hope to stand up against the might that the Courts could bring to bear on me, if they knew my location. As for sex, well...I do not need or want to debase myself anymore in order to track down my foes. I am less interested in the revenge I sought years ago in the aftermath of the Raptis incident, and more focused on getting the courts to leave me alone. Playing the role of the black widow does me no favors here.
Unfortunately, that left me at a loss. I was not surprised when the firefighters and city guard informed me that the fire that torched my apartment was arson. They asked me if I had any enemies who wished to harm me, and I decided not to tell them about the Courts. They had no reason to believe me if I told them that whole sordid story, and besides, I did not want to involve law enforcement in business that could potentially put them up against the Fae. Better to deny having enemies, and keep this feud in the ?family?, then to needlessly risk their lives on my behalf. I am not worth that level of sacrifice.
I returned to the tower in the evening, after co-hosting a makeup and face painting event with Sabine and checking out the Make-Up Artist Expo. I tried my best to stay focused, but by the end of the expo, I could feel my attention flagging. I need to find somebody in a position of power at the courts, and either convince them I am no threat to their existence, or show them that they would rather have the Fae as an enemy than me. Two contradictory impulses, to be sure, but if I could make either one stick with their leaders, perhaps I could return to a normal life. Perhaps then I could focus on what to do with Kass.
She waited near the foyer, flipping through a skateboarding magazine she had picked up at some point -- hard to say when, since I had busy with my work and not really tracking her whenever she left the tower. I could tell she was not really reading it, but using it as a prop to occupy her hands while waiting for me. She looked up as soon as she heard me enter, set the magazine down, and padded over to the coat hanger where I had just hung my jacket.
?Have you found what you?ve been looking for?? she asked, standing on the tips of her toes to try and meet my gaze more fully.
I should have lied to her and told her I was not looking for anything, but fatigue had left me too tired to try and slip one past her. Besides, she had the best ?bull-shit detector? of anyone I have ever met. I sighed, began walking towards my room, and gestured for her to follow.
?I have not. It is like searching for a needle in a haystack, or for one individual grain of sand on the beach.?
Kass puffed out her cheeks and blew a raspberry at that. ?Really, Bailey? Whatever you are looking for can?t be that hard to find. This?s RhyDin! There?s scryers and werewolves and detectives all over the place here.?
?Ones that are good at seeking out our kind?? I watched her nose wriggle at my answer. Then, she snapped her fingers.
?We could go to Cooke?s Diner!?
?...I think that place is closed, Kass.?
?How do you know??
?I...do not.?
?Well, then let?s go! Worst case scenario is it?s closed and we go somewhere else.?
?I will go.? I put more force in my voice, as I tried to double back towards the door and slip past Kass. However, she managed to block my path with her body. I rolled my eyes at her and sighed again. ?This is going to be dangerous, and I do not want you to get hurt.?
?So dangerous that you would not be better protected by having someone else with you? Besides-? She smirked as she continued, ?- I bet you don?t even remember the special order.?
***
I did not remember the special order. So it was that Kass sat beside me in a carriage, bouncing her legs, as we rode south and west through the city away from the Red Dragon Inn and towards the docks. The last I remembered, Cooke?s Diner had been located on a frontage road by one of the main thoroughfares in Dockside, a pathway that had not been paved but instead covered with gravel. Only half of the street?s lots appeared to be in use currently; vacant lots, crowded with weeds sprouting through cracked concrete, took up the remaining space. Still, a 50% occupancy rate was good for this neighborhood, and I saw signs that the old businesses that used to be located here -- a bait shop, carriage and auto body repair garages, used tire sales -- were still alive and thriving here. Not mention, to my surprise, Cooke?s Diner.
Years ago, Cooke had purchased an old Quonset hut that previously housed a plumber?s office, and converted it into a restaurant. His obsession with French culture meant that the walls were covered with moody pictures of ?dith Piaf, Serge Gainsbourg, Fran?ois Truffaut, and Jean-Luc Godard, as well as black-and-white photographs of the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-?lys?es, and the Arc de Triomphe. The only spots of color on the wall came from vibrant old cabaret posters, dominated by reds and yellows along with blacks, filled with images of women dressed in elaborate dresses, skirts, and coats. The French inspiration did not carry over to the rest of the restaurant. The white Formica tables and green vinyl chairs had been salvaged from some other long-closed greasy spoon, and many of them looked like they had not been re-upholstered or fixed up since then. More than one table had several napkins stuffed underneath a leg to balance it out, and yellow foam peaked out of rips in some of the chairs? cushions. The menu, written in a barely legible font that Kass informed me was called ?Comic Sans?, contained standard hash house fare: omelets, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles, burgers, fries, gyros, chicken tenders, club sandwiches, and the ilk.
We arrived during a lull in their service -- late enough that those who had come for dinner had already finished their meals, but too early for the crowds that poured in after the bars had closed. A man sat at the counter near the grills, dressed in nearly the same red-and-black flannel that Kass preferred, talking to the bearded dwarvish waitress as she poured him another cup of coffee. An orc/human couple and their half-orc children were settling up their bill at the mechanical cash register, while a foursome of dock workers slowly picked away at the remains of hash browns and huevos rancheros. The hostess, a young woman with gray bunny ears and a rounded face, greeted us at the stand.
?How many??
?Two-?
?And we?d like to sit by the kitchen, please,? Kass said, interrupting me.
?Certainly. Follow me.? The hostess turned around, and I could see that her apron did not hide the puffy white cottontail nestled at the base of her spine. I could not help but stare at it for a few moments, before I felt a swat on my shoulder. I turned around, and Kass was glaring at me. I shrugged my shoulders, even as I felt my face grow warmer and warmer.
We sat down, took our menus, and Kass immediately began searching for the items that made up the ?special order? -- the code that let Cooke know we were more than just the diner?s usual customers. I watched as the very tip of her tongue slipped out of her mouth, her brows furrowed in intense concentration.
?Okay, so it?s...two coffees, black. Two Gruy?re omelets. Pumpernickel toast. Strawberry jam. Canadian bacon.? Kass placed this order with the waitress, who arched an eyebrow slightly at the pair of us, but dutifully wrote it down and passed it on to the kitchen.
It did not take them long to react to the coded message. Two minutes after ordering, I watched as a tall pair of short order cooks with antler nubs coming out of their foreheads marched out of the kitchen toward us. As they came closer, they drew chef knives from beneath their aprons, pointing them at us as they arrived at our table. Shortly after their appearance, I heard a door open in the hallway between the restrooms and kitchen. My eyes followed the figure with the long and curved nose, until he stepped fully into the light. Even with less hair on his head, dressed in a ultra-slim gray suit instead of his usual white chef?s jacket, I recognized him.
?Cooke.? I locked eyes on him for a second, then glanced past him. No customers remained in view, only the bunny-tailed hostess, the waitress, and the three men right in front of me.
He responded by pulling a revolver from his shoulder holster and leveling it at my head. He spoke with an even more exaggerated French accent than before.
?That hasn?t been the special order for years...you might know that if you had gone to the Courts...Bailey.?