The Moontown Palooka: Chapter Six

The holding cells at this precinct were much nicer than the one down near Lugosi’s Row. It may have just been the fact that it wasn’t filled with vampire roundheels and drunk gargoyles. Each cell contained a small cot chained to the wall and each was only occupied by a single individual. There were six small cells in the basement of the building, and only two others had people in them. The city of Chicago was holding a young man with a busted lip and a snoring pile of clothes in addition to Longstreet. Only upon further review did he realize there was a man in there somewhere. He pressed his head to the bars.

“What are you in for?” he whispered across the hall to the cell with the busted lip kid. The kid grinned so wide his lip started bleeding again.

“I stole a Rolls,” the kid said, “and drove it into Lake Michigan. How bout you?”

“I convinced the glass spirits in a broken bottle to take revenge on the people that broke it. That’s aggravated sorcerous assault.”

The kid’s eyes bugged. “You with the Guild?”

“Kid, if I was part of the Guild, you think I’d be here? I’d be smoking cigars with the police chief and making time with the Rockettes.”

“I thought all sorcerers were part of the Guilds.”

“That’s what they want you to think. Puts the pressure on saps like me to join the club.”

“You been strongarmed?”

“Nah. I keep my head down. I don’t get in their way and they don’t get in mine. Moontown is small enough that we know each other but big enough that we’re not tripping over each other. There have been a couple times some of Fiore’s boys have gotten excited when I’m around but cooler heads prevailed. They’re businessmen, kid. Their business is magic.”

“Can you teach me anything?”

Longstreet chuckled. “We’re not supposed to show off our secrets. One of the ways I’ve kept clear of the Guilds is by not taking on an apprentice. After all, you start slinging mojo, folks are going to wonder who you picked it up from. You do it in front of one of Donatucci’s mago, for example, they’ll ask you who you know. You give them the wrong answer; they have some interesting ways of getting you to talk. Makes the hot lights seem like a vacation in Florida.”

“Like what?”

“I knew a guy they used to call Hazy Davy. He made the carnival circuit back before Black Magic Monday. Sword-swallowing, fire-breathing, all the bells and whistles. He started levitating folks in the audience. When he started using real mojo, he started to play bigger stages. Night before he opens a run at Carnegie Hall, he jumps off a building and kills himself. The real story is the visit by one of the Guilds’ triple-breasted suits. The gargoyle smacked Davy around, threw him over its shoulder, and took off into the night. Dropped him right in the middle of Sixth Avenue. Cops never figured out why Davy jumped fell from twenty five stories when the tallest building nearby was eighteen.”

The door to the holding cells opened, and a pair of footsteps began echoing towards them. Longstreet took a few steps back and leaned against the back of the cell. The guard entered into view, followed by a uniformed officer. As the guard moved to open the cell, the officer rested his hand on his gun. The cell door swung wide.
“Captain Nathanson wants to talk with you,” said the officer. He looked like he was going to draw on Longstreet regardless of whether he cooperated or not.

“Get moving,” the guard said. Longstreet followed the cop out of the holding cells. Light streamed through the windows of the station house. As they made their way through the station, Longstreet could feel eyes on him. He had been booked quietly enough but he could tell the tale had been told about him. Magic had been around for a few years but only the folks that lived near Moontown were used to it. Even some of the weathered veterans had poked their heads out of their offices to get a glimpse of the refugee. They made it to Nathanson’s door and the guard parted to return to the cells.

The cop knocked, and a grunt brought them in. As the door opened, they saw an older man reclined in his leather chair. He was getting a shave from a lanky Italian man. The barber wiped off the cream from Nathanson’s face and he leaned forward. He was wearing a three-piece suit with a watch fob. His body was piled into the chair. He took the silver mirror that was on his lap and took a moment to check out his shave from several different angles. He ran his fingers through his graying temples and smoothed the sandy wisps of hair on the top of his head. Satisfied with the barber’s job, he picked a coin out of his pocket and flipped it over his shoulder. As the barber cleaned up, Nathanson straightened the items on the desk, making sure Longstreet could see the full face of the “Capt. Hubert Nathanson” sign. He waited to talk until the Italian exited the room.

“Speak,” said Nathanson with a final jerk of his lapels.

“I’m sorry,” muttered Longstreet, “you didn’t scratch behind my ears first.”

Nathanson folded his hands on the upper curve of his belly. “You’re awfully contemptuous for a man that’s spent the last few hours in the lock-up.”

Longstreet stewed in silence for a few moments. “Perhaps you could be more specific,” he said, finally.

“What brings you out of Moontown?” asked Nathanson.

“Business,” replied Longstreet.

“A client?”

“Business.”

“The same business that brought you into O’Malley’s bar?”

“I don’t remember,” said Longstreet as he pulled off his glasses for a cleaning. “Must be the lump on my head from the friendly locals. Are they being held at a different station?”

Nathanson’s face shifted from a sneer to a full-out scowl. “They are recovering from the vicious cuts they received from your little magic trick.”

“I’ll admit, I was a little sore with them,” said Longstreet as he swabbed his lenses, “Where should I send the get well card?”

“Amusing as this little exchange is,” growled Nathanson, “I can see you’re not ready to cooperate. Maybe a few more hours downstairs will simmer you down.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Longstreet said at he put his glasses back on, “But why the word ‘private’ was painted before the word ‘detective’ on my door.”

“I’m warning you, dick,” Nathanson said as he leaned forward, “Play nice with me or I’ll lean on you so hard you’ll think I’m Tiny Tim.”

“I’d call the fire department if I thought there was any fire to back up all that smoke,” Longstreet said to the man next to him. Zielski looked like he was seasick. “Since you know about my sorcery, I can only assume the rest of the boys at the station house do too. I can also assume that since they know, no one wants anything to do with me. They’re all afraid I’ll hex them but good. Make their eyes bleed or thumbs fall off. Wiggle my pinky and cause a car accident. Even the big buffaloes you keep around don’t want to risk it. So if you’re going to hold me, charge me. And none of this sorcerous assault hooey.”

“Mr. Longstreet,” snapped Nathanson with a crooked finger, “I would advise you not to speak to a police captain like that.”

“Hubert,” said Longstreet, “this may work on the grifters that stumble into this part of town but you apparently have forgotten where I hang my hat. My office is above a dance studio run by a succubus. I’ve worked for vampires, demons, and even lawyers. I’ve seen what happens after you die and it generally involves menial labor. I want you to know that not only are you not intimidating me, you’re insulting me.”

Nathanson tensed and moved to stand but a rap on the door stopped him. A young officer with bushy red hair opened the door and popped in his head.

“Mr. Longstreet’s lawyer is here,” the officer said. Nathanson looked at Longstreet in puzzlement. Longstreet subtly shrugged one shoulder.

“Send him in,” Nathanson said with all the joy of someone that bet on the sure thing when the long shot won.

The door swung wide and something flittered into the office. It was about the size of a toddler, its small, leathery wings working hard to keep it aloft. It was the color of day-old coffee and wore a suit that was strikingly similar to Nathanson’s. It carried a small briefcase in one claw and was looking at a watch in the other. A small pair of spectacles was balanced at the edge of its beak. As it flew past Longstreet, it placed the watch back in its pocket and fixed its red eyes on the police captain. It set down on Nathanson’s desk and humbly held its case in front of it.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” it said in a squeaky voice. My name is Killberg. I am Mr. Longstreet’s legal counsel.” Killberg reached into its case and gave Nathanson its card.

“Since when do imps go to law school?” asked Nathanson, his brows furrowed in a mix of disgust and surprise.

“I am not a laywer,” said Killberg, “Yet. I am currently working as a clerk in the offices of Berman, Dudley, and Faust, and they sent me here to make sure our client was being treated fairly. If you have charged him, I have been authorized to pay whatever fines are necessary to remit Longstreet into our custody. If he is not charged, we would like to make sure he is not being held unjustly.”

Nathanson scoured Longstreet with a look. He handed the card back to Killberg and laced his fingers together.

“Please,” he said in almost a whisper, “get him out of here. Make sure your client is aware that should he run afoul of the police again, he should be more cooperative. I can’t be held responsible for the actions of frustrated police officers.”

Killberg nodded its head and flapped into the air. It drifted to the door as Longstreet stood. Longstreet opened the door for it, affording one last look at Nathanson. The captain curled his right hand into a fist and rested on his desk. The look on his face told Longstreet that Nathanson only wanted to uncurl it after he gave him a solid sock on the jaw. Longstreet winked at him and shut the door as he left.

By the time Longstreet made it through the front doors, the sun had already begun to play hide and seek with the buildings. Longstreet squinted for a moment but it didn’t take long to find his ride. There were half a dozen cars parked along the street but only one had a law imp hovering near the passenger door. The people on the street walked past with a mix of shocked curiosity and forced indifference. As the detective approached, Killberg opened the door.

“Who do I thank for the red carpet service?” Longstreet asked as he stepped inside.

Killberg cackled and took a seat next to him. “I trust that is a rhetorical question, Mr. Longstreet. If not, I’m afraid that we underestimated your skills as a detective.”

The law imp signaled the driver and the car pulled into traffic. Longstreet settled back in his chair. Killberg was playing tight, but it didn’t take much to connect the dots. Killberg had been sent by one of the Guilds. From the power that radiated from Killberg, Longstreet guessed it was one of the heads of the families. Like it or not, he was going to see his benefactor face to face. At least this way, he didn’t have to spring for cab fare.

The Moontown Palooka: Chapter Five

After dinner, Longstreet headed out of Moontown. He could have taken the train but sometimes the drive let him sort things out. As he wound through the streets, his brain wound through the things he had discovered so far. He didn’t think Hughes was part of the break-in. More items would have been missing from Oscar’s apartment. She could have walked in and claimed them at any time. She seemed to be surprised and off-put by Longstreet’s appearance. He expected if she was behind it, she would have been a bit unbalanced. He had told the rust spirits to keep an eye on her just in case.

That left Ernest, a.k.a. Donny. Longstreet was careful in driving when he did. By the time he hit the construction site that Oscar and Donny were employed at, it would be quitting time. He would observe Donny in his natural habitat and feel him out. If Donny didn’t pan out, he’d hopefully get a better idea on who might be a new suspect. The nap had refreshed him, but sitting behind the wheel had put weights on his arms again. Maybe he’d get a chance to visit his apartment this week.

Magic wasn’t contained in Moontown. Other folks dabbled in it throughout the city but the farther from the neighborhood you got, the more resistant folks were to the notion that magic was here to stay. Most folks still associated crooks and con men with sorcery. Most of the folks that he rubbed elbows with were just regular joes that needed to keep the water bill paid. There were a few bad seeds here and there, but the only major difference between the two was the joes he knew that ordered Bloody Marys at the Sanguine Club weren’t referring to drinks.

Longstreet blamed the Guilds for the stains on the hands of sorcery. After Black Magic Monday, the mobs were the first organization to get into magic. Not everyone that joined up became il mago, as the Guilds called them, but most folks erred on the side of caution when dealing with them. Even if the guy leaning on you for protection didn’t have mojo, there was a good chance his brother or cousin might be able kill you with a few gestures and a few spell components three blocks away. The Italian influence on early sorcerers was still felt, even four years past. Folks that didn’t like Longstreet called him a ‘magoo’, which was born from the term Guild members used for the magic-using members of their families. It had spilled into common, less-polite usage first among squabbling Guild families and then the general public.

As he drove past the site, he heard the whistle blow. The sign near the cast iron skeleton proclaimed this building to be built by “100% living workers”. Longstreet chuckled and felt bad for the living workers that were only 95% living. Packs of them poured across the street and duck into the taverns that dotted Howley Street. Most of the same taverns had existed here even during the rise and fall of Prohibition. They had served the folks that built Chicago and were continuing to do so.

It took an hour of pub crawling before Longstreet set his eyes on Donny. As he entered O’Malley’s Bar, Longstreet sucked in a heady mixture of cigarettes and liquor. The bar was sunk below the street and everything inside seemed to be made from stout oak shipped directly from the motherland. A bar snaked down the left hand side and petered out just in time for the owners to wedge a pool table in back. A thicket of blue collars and gruff laughs grew around the table, masking the clack of the 8-ball. Longstreet eased himself onto a stool toward the middle of the bar. Close enough to observe but far enough to duck out if he got caught.

The barkeep ambled over to him. He was wearing thick glasses and his blond hair was pasted to his forehead with sweat.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Beer,” said Longstreet, giving the bartender a nickel. As the bartender went to fill his order, Longstreet pulled a matchstick out of the box he kept in his coat pocket. The bartender returned with his beer and his change. Longstreet nodded and went to work on the pair of pennies the bartender had returned. He rolled the matchstick between his fingers, whispering a few curse words to anger the small wood spirit inside. The tip of the matchstick ignited on its own, and settled into a glowing orange. Longstreet carefully drew the same symbol on the tails side of both pennies. He blew on the matchstick once, and flipped one of the pennies. He drew a different symbol over the other side of the coin. He took the two coins and put them in his mouth, sucking on them like a penny candy. He wet his fingers and put out the match.

A few minutes passed before one of the workers peeled away from the pack to get a refill. Longstreet stared into his beer and carefully pulled out the penny he had scratched on both sides. He set it on the bar as the bartender pulled the glass away to fill it. The bartender returned shortly and set the drink down. The crowd of worked laughed and the one next to Longstreet turned to see the commotion. Longstreet quickly slid the marked penny along the bar and under the glass. The worker picked up the beer, unaware of the quick flash from under the mug. The sigil he had inscribed on the one side of the penny caused it to attach itself to the glass. As the worker returned to the game, Longstreet took the penny in his mouth and placed it in his ear. He could hear the boys’ conversation just as easily as if he were lying on top of the table. The sigil on the other side was working perfectly.

There were four of them gathered around the table at this point. The ringleader was a man that seemed to share his ancestry with the pool table. He was flanked by a wispy blonde with a severe lack of chin and a curly headed Irishman that had set his drink and his backside on the table. The one with the Listening Penny was the youngest, with a five o’clock shadow that looked like it was running late.

“I’m telling ya,” said Pool Table Shoulders, “everytime she bends down to pick up a paper that flies off the desk I almost rivet Charlie in the head.”

“From what I seen, it would be worth it,” the Irishman said.

“You ever seen her, Donny? The blonde on Forty?” Babyface asked.

Donny No-Chin nodded eagerly, “Oh yeah, oh yeah. She’s the bee’s knees.”

Longstreet frowned. He hadn’t heard that many hisses since the Fourth of July.

“Maybe we should send her some flowers,” suggested the Irishman.

“Maybe we should remodel her office,” suggested Pool Table.

“I got a better idea,” said Donny, his voice trailing into a hissing whisper. Longstreet leaned forward, trying to make it out. He glanced over. The beer glass had been set on the far side of the pool table and the boys had gathered closely. Longstreet strained for a few more seconds before he noticed the shotgun the bartender had leveled at him. Longstreet’s hands hovered over the bar.

“You want a better tip?” he asked.

“You got a piece? Put it on the bar,” the bartender snarled.

Longstreet made a point to show the bartender he was clasping two fingers around the butt of the gun. He eased it out slowly and set in on the bar. He could hear the footsteps coming from the pool table.

“Hey, Donny, frisk him,” the Irishman said from behind him.

“He puts his hands on me and he’ll turn into Minnie two seconds flat,” Longstreet said coolly.

“You got a lot of lead to think you can take four of us and O’Malley not drop you,” Pool Table said.

“If he fires that scattergun, you’re going to get mixed into my stew,” observed Longstreet. Pool Table, Babyface, and the Irishman had taken up positions behind him. Donny was trying to score a look like a kid at a Cubs game.

“We got a message for your Mexican friend,” Donny said. Longstreet lowered his head.

“He told you about me?”

“He said we wasn’t supposed to shove him around no more,” Donny said, his voice arcing higher in triumph. “So I guess we mess with you now.”

“I guess,” Longstreet said. He kicked his legs up against the bar, launching himself backward. He caught the Irishman completely by surprise and knocked him to the ground. Longstreet rolled to his right narrowly avoiding Babyface’s fist that came down in the Irishman’s gut instead. He closed on Donny, whose offense consisted of yelps and squawks. Pool Table wrapped his arm around Longstreet’s torso and shoved him hard into the bar. Before he could react, Donny brought a glass down on Longstreet’s head. The pieces scattered across the bar.

“Nice one, Donny,” Pool Table mused.

“I can’t believe the spic hired a detective to rough us up,” Donny said. His beaming smile melted quickly as the pieces of the glass began to hover off the bar.

“He hired me to keep an eye on you boys,” Longstreet said as he pulled himself off the bar. “Roughing you up is now on my dime.”

The shards whipped out in several directions, cutting Donny in the face and Pool Table across the arm. The biggest chunk hovered a few inches from the bartender’s eyes, keeping his shotgun lowered. The Irishman and Babyface staggered backwards as smaller pieces whirled around them like flies.

“Now that I have your attention,” said Longstreet as he dabbed the blood seeping from his lip, “tell me about why you broke into Oscar’s place, Donny.”

“I got a question, too,” said a voice from the doorway. Longstreet turned to see who it was. He cursed, raised his hands, and lowered the shards to the ground.

The patrolman in the doorway stepped into O’Malley’s Bar.

“What’s a goddamn magoo like you doing so far away from Moontown?” he asked.

The Moontown Palooka: Chapter Four

Longstreet pulled in front of Oscar’s apartment somewhere just past lunch. The building was a rectangular two-story bunker surrounded by a wooded fence that reminded him of broken fingers. The only other car outside the building looked as if the building had been built around it like a curious rock formation. Even in the strange neighborhood of Moontown, Oscar lived in one of the poorer sections. The houses across the street looked just as battered and there were no children playing in the street. It wasn’t a neighborhood so much as a place where people came to pass out and forget about their meager lives.

Longstreet got out of his car and smoothed his tie. He circled around the building to get the lay of the land. The broken finger fence also surrounded two other prominent features of the tenement, one of which was probably not envisioned by the original owners. The first was a gigantic refuse pile on the eastern side. The first was an above ground swimming pool on the western side of the building. Neither looked particularly glamorous, but the pool had fallen father from the pinnacle of beauty. Ivy of a nauseated hue had crawled up the sides of the pool. The earth was trying to cover one of mankind’s awful mistakes. The remains of a diving board poked up from one side like the mast of a ghost ship.

Longstreet ducked between two of the planks of the fence and entered the grounds. He passed the ivy-covered pool and made his way to the front door. It was unusually warm here for an October day. Because of the weird energies channeled by the citizens of Moontown, the weather was constantly changing. One block would be a balmy August day; the next would be covered in a deluge of locusts. Longstreet thought about returning his coat to the car. He turned, stopped, and felt his hand crawling across his belly for his gun.

Something in the pool was moving.

Thick green waves had begun to loll across the surface of the water. The sides began to creak and moan. The ivy began to shift, as if the thick water spilling over the sides were pennies from Heaven. Longstreet began to perform a curious three-step. His curious nature was driving him forward but his cautious nature was pulling him backward. Both were rational enough to keep his hand on his gun.

A webbed hand burst through the surface, clutching the edge of the pool. Its partner followed, each the size and thickness of catcher’s mitts. A head came out a second afterward. It was shaped like a mound, with round eyes bulging out of the side of the face and a thick set of lips that weighed down the face. Its skin was the color of dead kelp. Somewhere, Longstreet’s mind made a connection. The ivy was actually seaweed. The creature hunched over the edge of the pool. Its mouth opened, and it spat a gout of water back into the pool with a retching noise.

“Can I help you?” it asked sweetly. Longstreet blinked, bravely. It blinked back.

“Could you direct me to the caretaker?”

“That’s me,” the thing said. It seemed to manage a smile.

“Mrs. Hughes?”

“Yes?”

Longstreet’s hand crept out from under his coat. “My name’s Longstreet. I’m a private investigator.”

Mrs. Hughes face sunk again. “What do you want?”

“One of your tenants came to me and said his place had been broken into. I’d like to look around.”

“I detest snoops,” Mrs. Hughes said, lowering her head for a gulp of water.

“Ma’am”, said Longstreet, slowly walking toward the pool, “I’m just doing my job.”

“I know who hired you, and I don’t care for him. He was late with his rent last month.”

“Yes.” Longstreet pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“And he has money to hire a detective? You must not be a very good one.”

“I understand if you may not like me but I just want to look around. If you don’t want to talk to me, perhaps I can speak to Mr. Hughes?”

“There’s not one,” she said, and slits on either side of her neck flared. “Not anymore.”

“My apologies,” Longstreet said, looking at his feet.

“That bastard dragged me out of Lake Michigan,” Mrs. Hughes said, her big marble eyes fixing on Longstreet, “and told me we were going together forever. Then one day he says he’s going out for milk and never comes back. All I have to show for it is this pool and this tenement full of deadbeats, magoos, and hobos.”

“Sounds like a real raw deal, but,” Longstreet said and let his breath wrap into a sigh. “Ma’am, the sooner you let me into his apartment, the sooner I’ll be gone.”

Mrs. Hughes’ webbing tapped the edge of the pool.

“Perhaps you could use my services,” Longstreet offered.

“If I want to peep in someone’s windows I can do it myself,” Mrs. Hughes replied.

“Not as a detective, ma’am. I could help you back to the lake.”

Mrs. Hughes made a half-croaking, half-moaning sound. “I could a cab there if I wanted to go back. I can exist out of the water. It’s just more comfortable in here.”

“How about the garbage pile? I could get rid of it.”

Mrs. Hughes dipped her head back in the water. “I usually pay one of those Fiore magoos to get rid of it but they keep raising their prices. I don’t see a dump truck out there.”

“I’m also a sorcerer,” Longstreet said. “If you let me take a look around, I’ll get rid of your garbage pile and you can skip paying Eddie Fiore this month.”

Mrs. Hughes moaned and croaked again. This time, Longstreet realized that was her laugh. “Okay, sorcerer. Let me get my housecoat.”

As she sunk beneath the surface, Longstreet turned toward the building. He guessed Hughes was one of the Goodly Folke. The stories that they were all strangely beautiful were apparently a myth. They had appeared a few years ago, primarily in Irish immigrant neighborhoods. He had one client try to hire him to chase after a leprechaun’s pot of gold, but he refused. Usually, leprechauns led those kinds of suckers down a blind alley where his less diminutive cousins like firbolgs and ogres could shake down the poor sap. He had never heard of one holding down a regular job. He also had never heard of any of them being quite so uneasy on the eyes, either.

“Follow me,” said Mrs. Hughes as she waddled past him. The housecoat she wore was a thick terrycloth robe that seemed to be held together by Mrs. Hughes’
bitterness. As she walked, her arms were set slightly forward, with her palms against her body. It reminded Longstreet of a gunslinger from a western. They made their way inside the building. The entrance hallway was lit by a pair of lights on either end. As they walked past the apartments on the first floor muffled coughs and mumbles snuck through the cracks of the doors. Hughes led him up the stairs to Oscar’s apartment.

She slid the key into the lock and paused to look at him again.

“Don’t take anything,” she croaked. Longstreet nodded, and she opened the door.
Oscar’s apartment was fairly simple. The main room was carpeted. The border between the kitchen and living room was marked by the abrupt ending of the carpet. The appliances curled around the right had wall, ending in a half-open door that Longstreet assumed was the bathroom. He had kicked over a few letters that had been dropped through the slot on the door. He bent to pick them up and cycled through them. Bills for the most part. Nothing foreboding.

“Did he tell you how someone got in?” Longstreet asked. He walked into the main room. The pull-out bed was still down from the wall. It was the only major piece of furniture in any good condition. There was a small table with a pair of chairs set near to the kitchen. Both chairs had pieces held together by wire. Oscar apparently didn’t own a radio.

Longstreet heard Hughes heavy footsteps behind him. She made an unpleasant noise. He brushed past her on his way to the kitchen.

“Did you not hear my question or do you not care?”

The kitchen was a sickly white. The cabinets were more or less bare. An old iron stove crouched in the corner. There was a pot for coffee on top. Longstreet hunched down and opened the door on the side. He poked around for a bit and pulled out a small scrap of paper that had been burned. Longstreet put in his pocket and stood.

Oscar’s bedroom had a bed hidden between piles of laundry. The piles were composed of work clothes and overalls. The bed was a single person affair. It looked like it had been purchased from an orphanage or convent or something. The headboard was decorated with crosses and angels. It was badly scratched. Apparently, the kids liked to carve up the saints. He poked around underneath the bed and found an old box. There was a kid’s baseball glove on top. He dug past it and found a couple of shirts that looked like they had been chewed up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes,” he said, turning. She was following him closely.

“You done?”

“After a question. Does he have any pets?”

“He better not.”

“I’m done here. For now.”

“And the deal?”

“Still on.”

Hughes stepped out of Longstreet’s path. They exited Oscar’s apartment and went downstairs. She led him to the other side of the building. The refuse pile almost stretched the length of the tenement and was almost as tall as Longstreet in places. Longstreet walked up and down the length.

“Well?” grunted Hughes.

Longstreet regarded her with a curious look.

“Snap your fingers,” she hissed. “Burn it up.”

Longstreet shook his head. “I can’t do that. There are no spirits here. At least, none I want to talk to.”

Hughes narrowed her eyes. “All sorcerers lie.”

“I can’t burn it up,” said Longstreet, “but I’ll get rid of it. I just need the right materials and the right spirits.”

“You a necromancer?” asked Hughes. The look in her eyes told him that he could make some pin money by summoning the dearly departed Mr. Hughes for her.

“If I had that kind of juice, I wouldn’t be a nickel and dime detective, would I? I can talk to the spirits in things and ask them to do things. I can do a lot with it, but you have to find the right spirits to talk to.”

Longstreet walked the length of the pile one last time and went around the building. Hughes stayed at her post until she heard the sound of splintering wood. She came around the corner to see Longstreet walking towards the street with planks he had broken from the fence. Longstreet came to the rusted out car he had parked next to when he had arrived. He would take one of the planks and trace it down the side of the car, like a dancer or painter. As he did this, he would snap each plan in half, and then each half piece in half as well. When he made it to the front, he would whisper and fit the pieces into the grill, sharp ends poking from the rusted metal. He did this about three or four more times. When he was finished, he took a moment and leaned into the one remaining rear view mirror that jutted from the side of the car. He paused, whispered something, and turned to face Hughes.

“All set,” he said. Hughes folded her arms.

“And what is supposed to happen now?”

“Tell it where to go,” Longstreet said and pointed at the rusted car.

“That’s going to get rid of my garbage?”

“If you ask it,” Longstreet replied. Hughes walked toward the strangely decorated car.

“Get rid of the garbage out back,” she said.

The car roared to life, suddenly, with a growl of engine and wail of something else. It hopped onto the grass and rolled past the pool, disappearing around the corner. Hughes looked back at Longstreet. He gestured and headed around the building. Hughes gasped as she came around the corner. The car rolled forward, tore off a huge chunk of garbage with its front grill, and reversed to chew it for a bit. It swallowed, rolled forward, and repeated the process.

“I told the rust spirits inside the car that they’d have a better meal with the garbage pile. Keep them fed and they’ll stay happy.”

Hughes nodded and turned away from Longstreet, eager to see the machine at work. Longstreet returned to his vehicle and drove away.

Longstreet could barely keep his eyes open as his Ford made its way through the streets. The combination of the late night and the summoning had taken their toll. He made his way back to the office.

“Louise,” he said as he took off his hat, “see what you can find on an Oswald Kier. And hold my calls. I’m going to take a nap.”

We don’t have a phone, boss.

“Then you shouldn’t be distracted too badly,” he said as he shut his office door behind him.

Longstreet slept until after sunset. His head was tilted back on his chair and his coat was draped over his chest like a blanket. A grating car horn woke him back up. His head rolled forward and he rubbed his face. He needed a drink and a chance to sleep in a real bed. He peeked out the window. The rusty car waited in the alleyway. When it saw him in the window, it winked its one working headlight at him. Longstreet was down in the alley two minutes later.

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” he asked, speaking into the rear view mirror. The headlight blinked twice.

“Your former owner, Mr. Kier, currently lives at 3318 Ghiberti Street. He’s on the second floor. Do you have anything for me?”

The car blinked once. The hood popped open with a creak. Longstreet slid his hand inside, fumbled for a moment, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper out triumphantly. The car shut its hood and backed out of the alley. Longstreet reached into his pocket and pulled out the bit of paper rescued from the fire. He held them up in the single light of the car’s lamp. They were the same type. Smiling, he flattened the larger piece out and saw the message on it.

“I know your secret, Oscar,” he read.

The Moontown Palooka: Chapter Three

Longstreet sat on the corner of Louise’s desk. The wastepaper basket was relatively empty but Louise seemed to be on pace to fill it within the next few minutes.

They had someone in to look at the elevator again. I swear with all the chanting and candles it was unsightly. It kept me from getting anything done.

“How were things last night?”

Louise paused for a moment to snap the paper out of the typewriter. Longstreet bent over to pick up the paper and toss it in the trashcan. By the time he straightened, the carriage was reloaded.

The building itself was quiet, but there was such a ruckus outside. Why couldn’t you put me in a room with a window or something?

“You can walk through walls?”

Yes, but I’d like to look out the window while I worked.

“I barely make enough money to keep this place open. Your only option is the view I have. If you find alleyways scenic, by all means…”

It doesn’t matter. I got the story from one of the cleaning imps. Miller staged one of his breakdowns in front of the office and his passenger almost killed him. Again.

Longstreet shook his head. “Running spook tours out of Lugosi’s Row is low but pretending the car gets a flat and having some of your buddies put the mark’s feet to the fire is even lower.”

Especially when the mark has a silver-plated penknife.

“Ouch. Is Mattias okay?”

He hasn’t has to deal with silver burns in a while but I heard him grumbling past the office this morning.

“It is cons like that that make my job tougher.”

Planning to run for office, boss?

“Hardly. I just hate having to deal with clients that think I’m gonna wiggle my fingers and make their wallets disappear.”

You ever think of giving it up and getting an office outside of Moontown?

“What, and actually pay a pretty girl to sit here and flirt with me while clients ignore me?”

The front door opened. Longstreet snapped to his feet like a lover caught by a parent. A man walked in, staring intently at a scrap of paper. He had skin the color of whiskey and a slight stoop. He was wearing a short porkpie hat, a dress shirt that had seen better days, and work trousers. His hair was short on the sides, black with the first frost of old age settling in. His build was an impressive one sliding into mud. When he realized he wasn’t alone, he put the piece of paper into a long metal lunchbox he was carrying with him.

“You must be Mister Longstreet,” the man said, with a slight nasal twang that shaved the ‘I’ in ‘mister’ to the ‘e’ in ‘me’.

“I must be,” Longstreet said, and offered his hand. The man’s shake was firm, and his hands were rough.

“I have heard good things about you,” the man said. “You are reliable?”

Longstreet found himself glancing at the typewriter and said, “Reliably is one of my best qualities. But please, if you are looking to employ me, let’s move to someplace more comfortable.”

Longstreet swept his arm broadly and opened the door to his office. He directed the man inside. As the man went inside, Louise put her two cents on paper.

Reliability? I better keep typing or he’s going to hear the landlord laughing.

Longstreet’s office seemed smaller than Louise’s, but that was due to the large oak desk in the center of the room. A pair of shaded windows offered the advertised view. There were two chairs, one on either side of the desk. Longstreet always offered the nicer chair to the clients. That chair was still well put together with no stains or stuffing trying to escape. The man sat heavily, like he was unloading a truck full of bricks. Longstreet circled to the other side and lowered himself into his chair. Longstreet’s chair had a few cuts and nicks in the finish but he always made sure to position himself in a way that hid them from the client’s view. The sun was tumbling through the window, caught by the specks of dust both men had kicked up by sitting.

“Would you care for something to drink?” asked Longstreet, leaning forward as if to stand again.

“No thank you,” said the man, “I’m here on lunch and having a drink might be dangerous.”

“You wouldn’t want your reflexes dulled when running a jackhammer,” said Longstreet as he leaned back in his chair.

“How did you know I worked in construction?”

“I am a detective,” Longstreet said with a smile. The man laughed. The ice was cracked.

“The lunch pail, mostly. But your have a decent build and a pair of work boots on.”

The office faded into quiet.

”These dealings go a lot faster once you tell me your name.”

“I’m sorry,” said the man as he removed his hat. “I am Oscar Ramirez.”

“What can I do for you, Mister Ramirez?”

“Someone has been threatening me,” Oscar said into his chest, “I would like for you to find out who it is.”

“Alright. My first question’s free. Why not go to the police?”

“I don’t trust the police,” Oscar said, glancing back to Longstreet.

“A valid concern,” Longstreet said, leaning forward a bit.

“The police aren’t very concerned with what happens to people like me. Most of them think that I’m taking my job away from a white man that deserves it.”

“I’ll bite. Second question. Why did you pick me?”

“To be frank, Mister Longstreet, your services are what I can afford.”

Longstreet rubbed his chin. Oscar fiddled with his hat.

“You won’t offend me by calling me a cheap detective. I am. Five dollars a day, plus basic necessities like food and gas. Retainer preferred.”

Oscar nodded and retrieved the metal lunchbox by his feet. It creaked open, and shortly afterward Oscar laid a twenty dollar bill on the desk.

“Will this do?”

“Nicely,” said Longstreet as he slid the bill across the blotter.

“I hope you are worth it. I won’t be able to eat out for a month.”

“We all have to make sacrifices,” Longstreet said as he placed the bill in his pocket.

“You’ve never tasted my sister’s cooking,” Oscar said with a laugh. Longstreet laughed along politely. Now was the time when he had to find the client engaging and hilarious.

“Now that you’ve paid for my time,” said Longstreet, leaning forward and planting his elbows on the desk, “you can tell me your tale.”

“It began three weeks ago,” said Oscar as he put the lunchbox back down. “Someone started calling my place late at night and would hang up. Then the same thing would happen again a few minutes later. It kept me up at night, and I would be very tired for work the next morning. After a few days, that stopped, but then the letters began.”

“Do you have one of these letters?”

Oscar shook his head sheepishly. “I threw them away. They made me angry even to look at them. They said awful nasty things about me and what I should do to myself. Then they started talking about what they were going to do to me. They would come every few days. I burned most of them.”

“And what was the last straw that made you come to me?”

“I think someone broke into my apartment,” Oscar sighed. “I’ve been working a big site uptown, which means my trek back home has become longer. These days, I usually don’t get home until after dark. When I got home a few nights ago, things were out of place. My place isn’t neat and tidy, but you know when someone goes through your piles. I don’t think anything was taken.”

“How did they get in?”

“My bedroom window, I think.”

Longstreet took a moment to lean back in his chair and swivel it slightly. He stared out the window for a few moments and let Oscar’s story sink in. He swiveled the chair back.

“Who do you think it is?”

“If I knew who it was, I wouldn’t come to you, Mister Longstreet.”

“I’m sure you still have an idea or two. If you’re smart enough to come to me, you’re smart enough to have suspects.”

“There’s a guy on the site that really rubs my nose in it. All the other guys pick on him because he’s small and he gives me the haze because they’ll back him. His name is Ernest but everyone calls him Donny because he talks like Donald Duck. It might also be my landlady Mrs. Hughes. I was out of town last month when the rent was due. I paid her right when I got back but ever since then she’s not smiled whenever I’ve said hello to her. And she was so nice.”

“I’ll bet she was lovey-dovey,” said Longstreet. He dug through the desk to find paper and quickly wrote the names on an old check from the diner.

“Do you need anything else, Mister Longstreet?”

“I’m good for now. I suggest you room elsewhere until we figure out who’s on your case besides me.”

“I’m staying with my sister for now. She’s on Nackett Street.”

“At least you’ll lose a little weight,” Longstreet said as he stood. Oscar laughed.

“They never said you were funny,” Oscar said as he shook Longstreet’s hand. The twang wrestled the ‘u’ in ‘funny’ into the ‘o’ in ‘on’.

“I save the jokes for paying customers,” said Longstreet as he escorted Oscar from his office. “Please leave your apartment’s address and how to contact you at your sister’s with my secretary.”

Oscar craned his neck around the front office. “You have a secretary?”

Longstreet stayed silent as he shut the door. A moment later, the clacking of Louise’s keys let him know she was explaining herself. He returned to his chair and spun fully toward the window, folding his hands on his chest. Ramirez was telling more of the truth up front that his other clients did. Being a detective was a game of feints and counters. People hired detectives to pry into someone’s life but hoped they didn’t pry too deeply to see the strands of web that connected back to the client. You dig deep enough, you hit a water pipe and everyone’s hot water goes away. Waving the smoke away from someone’s mystery was satisfying, but discovering a client’s motives were just as important. The more light Longstreet had at the entrance of the maze, the easier it would be to find the golden strand that would lead him back out again.

Louise’s typing stopped and the outer door opened and shut. Longstreet opened the desk drawer on his right hand side and found a cigar box. He opened it and the rank scent of cheap cigars wrinkled his nose. He whispered something, and the cigars inside disappeared, replaced with a scattering of cash, slips of paper, and matchboxes. He put in the twenty and removed some smaller bills. He shut it, crossed the office, and opened the door. The paper in the typewriter floated out of the carriage and into his hands. He leaned on the door frame and read it while Louise reloaded and began typing again.

Fantastic, boss. Looks like you’re getting paid for a case for once.

Longstreet leaned over the typewriter. “I learned my lesson after last night. I really should teach you how to frisk people for any magic items.”

No thanks. You stick with the sorcery, I’ll handle the typing.

“So what did you think of him?”

He seemed normal. Though really, if he gives you a retainer, I wouldn’t ask too many questions.

“He paid me to ask questions. Unfortunately, the first one on his dime is about him.”

What’s so strange about a guy that works hard labor for a living?

Longstreet tapped the paper he was holding. “If he’s so normal, why is his apartment located in Moontown?”

The Moontown Palooka: Chapter Two

It was the kind of October morning where God himself seemed to shrug, roll over, and pull the blankets over his head. A bitter rain streaked down the windows of the train and everyone rode without acknowledging each other. The car was filled with a steady beat of coughs and sniffles with a chorus of shrieking angels every time the train rounded a corner. Every gaze was avoided with a glance out the window, an inspection of the ceiling, or a hat pulled low to grab a few more moments of shut-eye before work. Longstreet had tipped his hat forward but knew he was going to have to get off the train soon. The shrieking began again and he returned his hat to the top of his head.

Longstreet leaned forward and stood. He grabbed one of the overhead straps and made his way to the door of the train and waited. As the car slowed, he noticed the car filling with silence. He began to feel eyes on him, and caught the hint of whispers once the brakes finished their siren song. Someone was getting off at Radwill Avenue. He exited the train with a chuckle. The diner was four blocks from his train stop but he always told the cops his walk couldn’t have been stranger if blood started oozing out of the cracks in the sidewalk. Sure enough, this morning he found himself staring at a scattering of crimson puddles as he made his way off the platform.

“Welcome to Moontown,” he sighed. At this time of day, the neighborhood didn’t look much different than any others in Chicago. The first block was a mix of brownstones, storefronts, and the occasional thick concrete of a bank or other official building. There were no signs saying where it stopped or started but even Zielski said he could feel the energy shift. When you stepped into Moontown you were entering something that couldn’t be explained by the cops, the church, or the colleges.

By the second block, the differences began. They were almost imperceptible; out of the corner of the eye or something slithering into the shadow of a doorway. The foreign patter of other ethnic neighborhoods was replaced by the sounds of chanting drifting from open windows. The corner stores had small talismans and jars filled with eye of newt next to the olives. Longstreet walked past the red velvet-lined doors of the Sanguine Club and could almost hear the skin of the gargoyle perched above the door scrape together as it turned to look at him. This was usually how far most folks that were interested in a night of living dangerously made it. There were plenty of nightclubs near the train stop that featured a menagerie of ghouls, goblins, and harmless denizens the rich could gawk at. Most of the people that lived in Moontown despised the area, but ‘Lugosi’s Row’, as it had come to be called, brought a lot of money into the area. Even vampires had to pay the electric bill, and if it had to put on a cape and hypnotize a debutante that was out with her girlfriends, so be it. Lugosi’s Row was also doing its small part to make people less afraid of the mystic energies that had seeped into the world once again.

The third block was where things got more obvious. There was a dispatch center for the Queen Bee Cab Company on the corner of Radwill and Maynard. Whenever Longstreet walked past it, his step always seemed to quicken. There were four cabs inside. Each was covered in the distinct yellow and black stripes of the company. Each was also manned by a Tenant staring glass-eyed and forward. Longstreet always had this strange feeling that one day one of the cabs was going to gun forward and run someone down. Maybe it would be him, maybe someone else. The Queen Bees were one of the first companies to try to make money off of magic, but that didn’t make what they did any less disturbing.

Longstreet breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed Maynard Street and put the cab company behind him. He was entering the heart of Moontown now, where imps fluttered by on the street and sorcery was sold on the street corner. Longstreet made his way past a window proclaiming “Suits Pressed” with “Hexes Removed” underneath in smaller lettering. The mediums that had their shops here were the real deal, unlike the 50/50 split of grifters to genuine articles on Lugosi’s Row. Of course, that meant making your way past the werewolf passed out in the doorway, or wondering if there was a spook drifting through the room that would be willing to sell your secrets to be put to rest.

Halfway down the block, wedged between the Comfy Coffin Motel and Paulo’s Grocery and Exorcism, was a simple, single worded sign. It was more of a command than an explanation of what the purpose of the establishment was. EAT, it said, and Longstreet would obey. He stopped at Paulo’s for a newspaper and entered the door underneath EAT. The diner was sparsely populated at this point in the day. Moontown didn’t sleep, but many of its residents avoided the sun for reasons ranging from the trivial to the fatal. Last night was a full moon, and he heard some of the night shift cops telling stories when he came in last night. There was a winged thing hunched over the counter, gibbering with a golem that smoked its cigarette precisely once every seventeen seconds.

“I know, I know,” said the golem as its iron arms squeaked, “but he made me. I just wish he’d shut up already about his cold, black heart and his thirst for icy revenge.”

The thing grunted something in reply, and a plate levitated from the kitchen to the counter in front of him. There was a small claw sticking out from between two slices.

“No, he always gets this way whenever a broad dumps him,” said the golem, creaking its arm again for a perfect puff.

Longstreet made his way to the back booth. He slumped along the dirty velvet back and let his head rest on the back of the booth for a moment. He had made it back to his office last night just in time for Zielski’s phone call summoning him to the precinct. He didn’t feel like driving anymore and took the train over. The cops on duty ran him through his story pretty hard but at least Zielski let him grab a nap in his office. All he wanted to do was go to the office, pull the shade, and crawl under his desk. But Longstreet knew that Louise would be chatting his ear off as soon as he stepped in the door.

The waitress appeared, covered in cobwebs.

“Why don’t you conjure some coffee for me?” Longstreet asked. The waitress rolled her eyes and did his bidding. He unfolded the paper and began to read.

It was October 7, 1936. The headline was about an inquisition into the disappearance of Al Capone from a Federal prison in Florida. Apparently, Al vanished into thin air from his cell one day. Longstreet scanned the article and shook his head. Big Al was rumored to be the founder of the Guild and the man responsible for bringing sorcery to the crime families. The Guild had started out in Chicago, and some people insisted they had been around for much longer than they had been public. The families that refused to join the Guild were wiped out with a combination of spells, guns, and treachery.

The second article that caught his eye was an editorial from an elf from Boston urging readers to give suffrage to ‘immigrants to this realm’. Longstreet had heard a few cities let nonhumans vote but most politicians were concerned that someone would whistle up a batch of Tenants to shamble down to the polls. Of course, most of the politicians were already working with the Guilds one way or the other. The new graft was charm spells before big speeches and specters spying on rivals. Boston was a perfect example of it. The Goodly Folke were running the South End like New Arcadia, and the Guild boys in the North End were getting upset. Longstreet was glad he only had to deal with the Guild in Chicago. There were a few Folke around but none of them were as organized as the Dagda family in Southie.

The waitress returned with his coffee. “The usual,” he muttered and didn’t look up from the paper. He flipped the pages of the paper with his right hand and wiggled the fingers of his left hand. The spoon on the table lifted into the air and dipped itself into the coffee. The sugar and creamer on the end of the table lifted as well and dropped their contents into the cup. The brief spiral of motion slowed and within a moment, Longstreet had a perfect cup of coffee.

A plate clattered on the table as Longstreet continued to read. The Cubs were petitioning the league to allow Byron Louis to be raised from the dead. Louis was their first-baseman and best hitter. He had died in a car crash shortly after the season ended but had remained remarkably intact. Pro sports had been gun shy when it came to sorcery since Black Magic Monday, when the world saw magic for the first time. He wondered what it must have been like to watch Oscar Rodriguez turn into a werewolf and kill Joe Louis in the ring. He even had the copy of the paper framed in the office. It was the first time regular folks had concrete proof that something had changed in the world. It had been five years since Black Magic Monday, but people were finally realizing they could make money off magic just like anything else. Longstreet had gone to a couple of fights between vampires and gargoyles and they were interesting but nothing noteworthy. The paper even had an editorial cartoon about unicorn races replacing horse races.

Longstreet finished his coffee and laid his money on the table, leaving his food and the paper. He smiled at the waitress and left the diner, tracing back along his path earlier in the morning. He turned down Maynard Street and watched one of the Queen Bee cabs roll out of the dispatch. It was still raining and he wished he had brought the paper with him. He continued for two blocks until he reached DeHut Avenue and the small office building on the corner. It was a modest building with a sparse lobby and no doorman. He walked up two flights of stairs to the third floor of the four story building. He tried the elevator once and didn’t like it. The owner had replaced the cranky mechanism with a levitation spell. The stairs emptied onto a short hallway with four doors, two on each side. As he crossed the hall, a woman bobbed into the elevator opening.

“No, three, I said three…” she stammered as she floated past.

Longstreet made his way to a frosted glass door with the words “Longstreet Investigatons” stenciled on the glass. He put his hand on the door knob and paused. He had forgotten to pick up some gum for Louise. She was definitely not going to be happy.

He entered the office and put his hat on the hat rack next to the door. There was a small metal desk with a typewriter perfectly centered on top. Next to the typewriter was a large stack of paper, a cup of pencils, and an ashtray. The desk was a well-placed barrier to the door to the inner office. The door featured another frosted glass door with “Arthur Longstreet, Owner and Operator” stenciled on it. Other than Longstreet, the office was empty.

Longstreet put his gun in the desk and draped his coat on the hatrack.

“Good morning, Louise,” he said.

After a moment, the typewriter sprang to life.

Good morning, Boss, it typed, glad to see you made it in before noon today.

The Moontown Palooka: Chapter One

The only thing visible from the highway was an elbow shaped sign curiously poking out of the underbrush. The first chill of October had settled in at the beginning of the week and the trees on the side of the road had quickly shed their leaves. The headlights had flashed past the sign quickly and Longstreet might have missed the turn-off completely if he hadn’t been here dozens of times before. He eased the wheel right and his Ford wound onto the dirt road that peeled from the pavement. The branches loomed over the road like teeth. The lights of the car shot straight down its throat. After a few moments of bouncing around, Longstreet saw a building sticking out of the forest like something lodged in its back. The Rook’s Nook Motor Lodge was a long, low building with a few cars parked along one side. Longstreet pulled the Ford into an open area near the office.

Longstreet let the engine idle for a moment and rubbed his eyes. The Ford was getting on in years and he hated to admit he almost took one of the brand new ’37s in trade for the Oliver case. He shut the engine off and looked down the line at the cars parked in the darkness. Most of them were nondescript. Dark colors, no markings. In the middle of the pack there was a cream-colored Duisenberg. Longstreet chuckled to himself. Someone was new to the game out here.

Longstreet got out of the car and stretched his legs. He was wearing a calm grey suit and had even remembered to shave today. Longstreet’s tie was a dark red gash down his torso. He crunched around on the gravel for a bit, watching his breath seep out his mouth like fog. He leaned his lanky frame back a bit and reached into his coat pocket for a handkerchief. He removed his thin glasses and breathed on each lens quickly, rubbing one for a few moments with the hankie. He held the glasses up to the moon for inspection. The disk fit perfectly into one lens. As he replaced the glasses and his hankie, his fingers brushed against the pistol he carried in a shoulder holster. Longstreet sighed, pulled his hat from the passenger seat, and began crunching his way toward the office. He was glad his client wanted to meet him at the Rook’s Nook tonight. Moontown never slept, but full moons were especially busy. Louise was going to give him an earful when he made it back to the office.

The motel office was at the head of the building. The interior was lit by a bare bulb and decorated in a hunting lodge motif. The room was as big as an afterthought. There was a long two man saw opposite of the entrance that ran the length of the wall. A dusty counter split the room in half. Longstreet noticed a bell but no register book. On the other side of the counter the clerk stood with his back to the door, motionless. There was a bear in the corner that almost mugged Longstreet as he entered. It was a good setup for this kind of place. You’d come in, pay your money, and leave. No sense hanging out in an overgrown broom closest with Benny the Bear reading the newspaper over your shoulder.

Longstreet rang the bell and plopped his hat on his head. He heard the clerk shuffle his feet and watched him turn around. The clerk’s right eye was milky and the right side of his face was pulled taut against his skull. A few stubborn shrubs of hair poked out from his scalp. His mouth opened and closed slowly, like he was chewing on something that he wasn’t sure that he liked tasting. Longstreet set his hands on the counter. The clerk’s mouth stopped.

“In or out?” the clerk rasped.

“In,” said Longstreet.

“Business or romance?”

“Business,” said Longstreet. He thought about pointing out the similarities between the two in this place, but figured the clerk wouldn’t get it.

“Blonde or redhead?”

“Blonde.”

The clerk’s mouth began moving again. “Four,” the clerk said finally, and slowly turned away. Longstreet tipped his hat and left the office. He liked the Nook for these sorts of meetings. It was close enough to Chicago that people weren’t scared to drive out to it but far enough away that the cops would never bother anyone. The fact the clerk was dead meant he shouldn't hit you up for an extra kickback to keep his mouth shut.

The clerk was what was known as a Tenant in Moontown. From what Longstreet could see, he was a fairly cheap one. Tenants were dead bodies that had spirits bound to them. Cheap ones like the clerk were used as an alternate for menial jobs. Sadly, it was one of the reasons for the Depression. Most employers would take a dead man harvesting their field over a family of Okies. On the one hand, Tenants were the first thing to make it out of Moontown and into the real world, but regular people hated and feared them. Folks were put off by the idea of dead bodies building homes and driving cabs. They had taken jobs away from people that could use it. Once you paid for a Tenant you worked it until it fell apart. No sick days, no vacations. Longstreet didn’t mind them as long as they were the ones that were preserved. The really cheap ones rotted after a while.

Number four had a light on in the window and the Duisenberg parked out front. Longstreet set his hat back on his head and sighed. He knew Zastrow relied on the kindness of strangers but a purchase like this turned his stomach. Veronica Zastrow was the type of woman that women wanted to kill and that men would die for. Somewhere, there was an old man with long green that bought her that car. Of course, there are five other just like him and if he asked her, she could probably put a name to each piece of glitter she wore. He ducked his head under the canopy and tipped his hat forward. He knocked and stood in silence for a moment.

Veronica opened the door. Mahogany lips were pursed together and shining blue eyes glanced past the detective. Blonde hair spilled onto her shoulders like falling stars. While he’d never admit it to Louise, Longstreet found himself catching his breath.

“Were you followed?” she whispered.

“Of course,” Longstreet said as he leaned on the door frame. “I would have been here earlier but I had to take the streamers and bells of my car.”

Veronica frowned perfectly. “Do you ever have repeat business, Mr. Longstreet?”

“Folks always need people to spook, spy, and dig ditches,” Longstreet said as he entered. “The fact that I’m crazy enough to go into Moontown gives me an edge over other dicks in town.”

“Please sit,” she said as she locked the door behind him. The room was decorated in autumn colors and had a leaf-print comforter on the bed. The only other furniture in the room was a nightstand with a chipped top. At least one of the three drawers looked like it was original. A heavy glass ashtray sat on top, next to a particularly deep slash in the finish. Veronica had left a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. It was pristine and white, just like the lady that smoked it.

“I’ve seen Ron with another gal,” Longstreet began as he removed his glasses. Veronica sank to the bed. Longstreet handed her the glasses.

“Put these on and I’ll walk you through it,” he said. Veronica looked at the glasses blankly.

“You don’t have any pictures?”

“I have a photographic memory and the glasses record what I see. They’re less obvious than a camera.”

“I can’t put them on,” Veronica said suddenly. “I-I don’t want to see him with that girl…”

“His wife,” Longstreet said as he took his glasses back, “That girl is his wife. It must break your heart.”

Veronica’s lip quivered but she didn’t cry. “She killed him, Longstreet. He hasn’t called me in a week.”

“Now, now, precious,” Longstreet said, patting her hand, “who’s the detective here? I hardly think there’s any foul play. Maybe he still loved his wife.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Veronica said. “It must just be my suspicious nature.”
Veronica put her hand over his. Longstreet could feel his palm begin to sweat.
“Being suspicious is what keeps me in business.”

“I’m impressed with your services so far,” Veronica said with a slight smile. Longstreet didn’t like the way it made him feel.

“I’m not sure I have what you want for sale,” he said.

“All I want is someone to look out for me. Every guy in Chicago is married, a crook, or some kind of demon.”

“I don’t think I can afford your rates, Veronica,” Longstreet said. His mouth was dry. She was leaning closer to him.

“And why is it you get to use my first name and I don’t even know yours?”

“I only tell my first name to special people.”

“Those being?” She was turning up the heat and he was melting fast.

“The cops, my mother, and intimate friends.”

“Intimate?” Closer.

“Arthur.” Closer.

Veronica’s eyes flashed with delight. She licked her lips. At this distance, they reminded him of the apple plucked right out of innocence. Longstreet swallowed hard and knew what he had to do.

Just before he kissed her, he drove his fist into her midsection as hard as he could. Veronica let out a mournful groan and curled up on the bed. There was a pretty blue knife in her left hand. Longstreet stood quickly and drew his pistol. He leveled the gun at her.

“Alright, take it off,” he said. She looked up at him and almost frosted his hat with her glance.

“Your charm, sister,” Longstreet said. “Slowly.”

She set the knife on the bed and reached for the ring on her finger. She gave it a contemptuous yank. Veronica melted away and was replaced by a pouting man in his mid-thirties. He was wearing an unbuttoned shirt and wrinkled slacks. His hair was poorly combed and he looked like someone had just taken away his balloon.

“Ron,” said Longstreet, “so good to see you. Now toss the knife to the floor.”

“How did you know?” Ron asked. He half-pouted, half-sneered.

“I am a detective,” said Longstreet as the knife clattered off the bed. “I’ll admit, when you hired me I was puzzled,” began Longstreet as he sat on the edge of the nightstand. “High class women don’t chase around a sugar daddy. But the money was good and I figured I’d humor you. Maybe one of your other boyfriends decided to clear old Ron out. But I also checked up on Veronica. She’d been playing footsie with a lot of the rich and lonely and probably built up quite a nest egg. I’m sure you wanted to dip in to your retirement fund but didn’t want to tip anyone off to your con. So you pull me out of Moontown, and get me to start checking around. You off me here, maybe start a fire that the Tenant can’t stop and the cops don’t take it any further. Just another dick killed in the line of duty and another good time girl in her new car off to spend her roll. You leave town with your money and I never have to darken anyone’s doorstep again.”

“So why did you meet me here?”

“I had to be sure. I wasn’t going to the cops with that story. I almost bought your act. It was practically perfect. You made two mistakes. First was your refusal to use my glasses. You weren’t sure if it would interfere with your illusion spell.”

“And my other mistake?”

Longstreet plucked the cigarette out of the ashtray. It was still smoking.

“That’s an amazing brand of lipstick that doesn’t rub off onto a cigarette.”

EA Chapter One

Jessica gripped her pack strap tight as the lift came to a stop. The doors opened with a whispering gush of air. She let out a hurried apology and bolted forward onto the concourse. A quick glance at the glowing readout on the shimmering ceiling would have gotten her to curse if she had the time.

Five minutes to make it across the concourse. She was going to be late. She did not care if her bags made the flight - she would wear the same uniform for a week if she had to. Her brother has pitched one of his fits, screaming and crying because he didn;t want to get dressed. It was a big one, too. Award-winning. Better than his Fifth Birthday Tatrum and The Time He Cried in His Mashed Potatoes.

Because of it, their parents got caught in traffic. Because of it, she had to leave before her mom finished her good-bye. Because of it, she was running as fast as she could, brushing past strangers and avoiding obstacles with all the grace she could muster.

Another glance at the clock. Three minutes.

This was her first time to the Moonlink. She had planned to take pictures and upload them for all her friends to see back home. She browsed up some of the restaurants and wanted to catch a meal with some of her fellow cadets. The Moonlink was built five years previous, completed on the fortieth anniversary of Countdown Day.

And here she was, moving through it like a forest with some unknown predator chasing her.

She afforded herself a final glance upward. One minute remaining.

A nauseous feeling gripped her stomach. She was not going to make it. All the running, all the applications, and she was going to arrive at Rademacher Field with black marks on her record. Her father always told her how important it was to make a good first impression. The Captain of the Exodus would never have made these mistakes. She would have to be perfect.

Jessica made it around the final corner. She could see the gate. The words “FINAL BOARDING” flashed above the doorway. She poured on the speed. Her mouth was dry. Sweat soaked her face. She lowered her head and put everything she had into her last view steps.

The door to the gate lowered with an almost sympathetic hiss. Jessica slowed, but her momentum carried her into the thick door. She pounded on it in frustration twice. Not fast enough. Not good enough. Over before it began.

Her gaze rested on the sleek winged craft visible through a nearby window. The ship was all swooping curves and shimmering metal. A smooth script written on the front of the craft declared the ship The Mayflower. Inside were fifty of the Earth’s best and brightest students. They were chosen from hundreds of thousands of applicants. Fifty children Jessica’s age, each hoping to lead humanity into the stars and find a new home for billions.

Technically now forty-nine.

Suddenly, the door hissed open. A balding Spacelink worker looked at Jessica with a concerned look.

“I thought I heard something hit the door” he said. Jessica barely had time to smile as he ushered her into the ship bound for the moon.