***
Lulu’s Flapjack Shack inhabited a space that had certainly been continuously used as a hospitality venue since linoleum had been invented. Mismatched vinyl booths lined the dining room walls and small tables filled the center space, creating the feeling of being in a pastiche of all diners that had ever existed anywhere. Keith couldn’t tell if this was sophisticated and subtle interior design or the result of buying fixtures piecemeal.
According to the sign, Lulu’s was open twenty-three hours a day—the one hour closure occurring between four and five a.m.
Presumably, this was when they mopped.
At nine thirty p.m. the dining room was at about half capacity. Mostly the patrons seemed to be in the pre-legal phase of adolescence. Groups of five or six shared plates of french fries and pretended to be adults. At the diner counter, intermittently spaced single older males competed for the lone waitress’s conversational attention in between bites of all-day breakfast.
“Where do the bands play, do you think?” Keith asked Gunther, mostly to make conversation. The notion that the goblin currently setting off his proximity alert was standing right next to him disturbed him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.
“Banquet room.” Gunther pointed down the long counter to a lighted sign at the back.
Gunther turned out to be correct.
“I don’t like the fact that it’s called The Banquet Room.” Keith’s watch buzzed gently, number three still glowing red.
Gunther glanced at it. “Is that some sort of prototype?”
“It’s a sensor. It’s coded to alert agents to the presence of extra-humans.” Keith gave Gunther the brief rundown on the prototype and its codes. “It’s meant to be more subtle than other types of sensors. The downside is having to memorize the codes.”
Gunther nodded and said, “So what’s it say now?”
“At least one goblin within fifty feet. But that is most likely you.”
“You know, R&D really needs to get on developing a way for agents of other-realm origin to avoid triggering those things before they take it out of the prototype phase. I could see how that could go really wrong in a strike force situation with limited visibility.”
“I’ll make sure to include that in my report on how it functions in the field,” Keith remarked, somewhat dryly. Strike force was never an assignment that Keith had coveted, but there was a certain inevitable comparison of masculinity that occurred between agents when one was a member and the other wasn’t.
“I’d appreciate that, thanks.” Gunther headed back into the restaurant and Keith followed with caution.
The Banquet Room had been designed when restaurants still routinely catered banquets, sometime way back in the early imitation wood paneling era. Like most banquet rooms of this ilk, it offered no windows and only one emergency exit in the back.
Essentially, a perfect space to hold a blood orgy.
Whoever had converted The Banquet Room into a bar had kept the basic fixtures and furnishings. The room seemed largely set up like a banquet room as well, with long tables lined by inexpensive, wipe-able pine green dining chairs. Large mass-produced nautical-themed paintings dotted the wall. Toward the front of the room, where head tables would have been, was a small stage, a ten-seat wet bar, and a tiny dance floor.
Few patrons were in evidence—just a few young guys at the bar watching cartoons on closed-captioned television and a couple who seemed to be hiding in the corner table. Keith gave them the once-over. But upon closer inspection, the reason for their furtive behavior became clear. He wore a wedding band and she did not.
He seated himself at the bar next to Gunther. Catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, Keith had the unfortunate experience of comparing himself with Agent Heartman physically. There was no contest whatsoever. Gunther was taller, broader, and somehow looked good slouching beneath dank, yellow light. Whereas Keith, sitting in shirtsleeves, tie slightly loosened, resembled nothing more than an off-duty county health inspector. Only the tattoos on his arms revealed that there might be any aspect of his personality that an average person could find interest in.
The bartender set a bowl of popcorn down between them. The man resembled Gunther in the powerful proportions of his body, but his coloring differed notably. He had red hair, small, narrow eyes, and a mouth that stretched too wide to be attractive, especially when he smiled.
“What can I get for you?”
Gunther ordered pink vodka on the rocks. Keith stuck with beer—microbrew. The bartender stepped aside to pour their drinks. Gunther began to amiably munch the popcorn. After a few bites he remarked, “This would be a good venue.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. No windows. Drain in the floor.”
“I was thinking more for seeing a band,” Gunther said. “The décor seems dank and lowbrow for a real goblin feast.”
“Have you ever been to one?”
“Do I not have a mother who would be disappointed if I failed to attend?” Gunther tossed a yellow kernel into the air and caught it in his mouth, then slid his gaze slyly around. “I feast every year. Not how you’re imagining it, though. My family’s feasts take the form of barbecues generally conducted in the garden. The most unsavory item generally present is my godfather’s fifth of substandard rye.”
“What protein did you cook?”
“You know, a less polite man might find that question, and its implicit assumption, somewhat offensive.” His tone shifted slightly, lowering to a near growl.
Keith bristled. “Maybe a less polite man hasn’t seen the same kinds of things that I have seen conducted in places much like this.”
Gunther folded. His easy manner returned. “I suppose not. I imagine that as the primary investigator for cases like these you’ve grown naturally suspicious of individuals of my heritage.”
Keith lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Look, last year, in Dallas, we busted a group of upper crust gourmandizing sickos who were human right down to their Manolo Blahniks. Before that we collared a real, live child-eating Russian baba-fucking-yaga. But in this particular case, I happen to suspect goblins, all right? If you can’t deal with that maybe you should request reassignment.”
The bartender turned back and plunked their drinks in front of them. Keith slid the tattered flyer out in front of him and said, “I was wondering, did you happen to be working on the night of this show?”
The bartender glanced down and grimaced. “Yeah, I was. Hell of a mess they made.” Then, with a bartender’s eerie prescience, he inquired, “You two cops?”
“I’m Agent Keith Curry. This is Agent Heartman.” He briefly opened his NIAD ID, then closed it again. For most people, just seeing a badge—any badge—was enough to get them to talk. The bartender was no exception. He nodded, stiffening only slightly. Keith continued, “And you are?”
“Jordan Lucky Greenbacks. What is this about?”
“Just a routine inquiry.” Gunther gave the bartender an easy smile. “Are the owners in?”
“No, they don’t work nights.”
Keith took over again. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Greenbacks?”
“Three years,” Jordan said.
“Tell me, does the management ever close this room for private parties?”
“Sometimes.”
“When was the last time?” Keith removed a black notebook from his pocket and flipped it open.
“Around Christmas last year there was a private party,” Jordan said.
“So around the winter solstice?”
“It didn’t have anything to do with any solstice, winter or summer.” Jordan’s tone sharpened. His expression snapped instantly into defensive hostility. He stared straight at Gunther. “It had nothing to do with…our community. It was a fundraiser for the fire department.”
Keith raised his eyebrows fractionally. Jordan could have been referring to the gay community, but Keith seriously doubted that.
He wondered if Gunther had already perceived that Mr. Greenbacks was trans-goblin as well. And if so, how did the two of them recognize each other? Psychic power? Smell?