Detective Story

The pole is hollow. When I strike it, it rings like a discordant, unusually hard and toneless xylophone. Mottled gray-silver, the iron-sand surface scored with countless marks. I run my finger across it, and it feels like the scales of a snake - ridged, overlapping, cold. The faint scent of acrid metal emanates from it, though the smell is offset by the biting wind and the chill of the winter day. I have to inhale long and hard. Not like rust. A more weathered, less tangy smell, as expected from the galvanised metal. A single black sticker, peeling at the edges and ripped clean at one side, is pasted somewhere below my field of vision. I look down, touching the smooth, cheap-feeling gloss with my finger and scrutinizing the words.
SADD in bright red, screaming type
tudents gainst runk riving in white, between the spaces
Fair enough, I muse, moving on to the torn edge. Something has picked the black away like a healing scab, leaving the subdermal layer of grainy white paper clearly visible. So as not to leave things unfinished, I touch that too. Smooth, coming away under my touch like eraser dust - until I reach the black. Then it scrapes along like rubber.
I step away, scrutinizing the whole thing. It is rather hard to write on.
Stockbroker kills the other stockbroker



The call comes at seven sharp. Like any decent hardboiled detective, I roll over the blanket, miss the phone, fumble for a few seconds, curse profusely when I drop it again, and finally manage to get the damned thing to my ear.
"Mick Scartooth, Private Investigator," I growl, trying to project the air of a hardened professional and not someone who spent the last two minutes fighting a losing battle against a telephone receiver. "Specialist in supernatural and paranormal cas-"
"Mick, thank God." The voice cuts in, oily, abrupt and desperate. It sounds like he’s sweating profusely, rubbing his little hands together and forcing an ingratiating smile. Which should be the case. I only know one toad in the Riverton Police Force, and it’s this one.
I scowl and sit up, drawing the sheets closer to me and trying to keep the pointed dislike out of my voice.
"Inspector Chops. What the hell do you want with my agency?"
He sucks in air through audibly flabby lips.
"Come on, Scartooth. Don’t be so difficult. We're old friends, aren't we? We solved the case of the Pixie Dust Anarchists together. Remember, back in ‘11?”
That rankles. I slap on the sarcasm.
“Ah, yes, the fearsome Pixie Dust Anarchists. If I recall correctly, they were just a bunch of snotty, jumped-up kids trying to gain some attention from the magical community. Also, you were trying to arrest me every step of the way until I threatened to plant my fist in your face. Didn’t mention that in the awards ceremony, did you?”
He falters. His voice takes on a distinct shade of yellow.
“Well, Scartooth, it won’t help to open up old wounds -”
I cut in. In a slippery mood, he’ll flap his gob for hours.
“Don’t give me that crap, Chops. Get to the point already. What do you want?”
That shuts him up. I almost hear him deflating. He sucks in air through his teeth. He scratches his chin. He hums and haws for a bit, as if he suddenly feels the need to emphasize that his task is one of great gravity.
“Give me a second. I have to go through my papers.”
By now, I can see him. Chins wobbling, eyes shifting, shirt and pants in pitched combat with his bulging waistline as he paces up and down his mess of an office looking for the files. He has the receiver in his right hand and he’s scratching the back of his balding head with the other. There’s an intently self-important look on his face. It’s all rather ridiculous, and I drum my fingers against the sheets to stave off the impatience.
It’s not a color image, though. I’m not that good yet, and the phone line isn’t helping. There’s a big fuzzy black space all around Chops, like he’s in a bubble of limelight that he doesn’t deserve. Which is usually the case, but this time it’s pretty literal. Can’t see anything beyond that. I shouldn’t even be learning magic like Synaesth in the first place. The aptitudes are all wrong.
Sound Faculty? Oh, are you sure you aren’t looking for Wild, Mr Scartooth sir?
But for an apprentice Lycan, I like to think that I’m doing a decent job.
“Aha!” He straightens up from his filing cabinet with great effort. “Alright, Scartooth, here’s the details. Pay attention now, this is extremely important.”
“Sure, Chops.” I sigh and reach for the pad and gnawed pencil I usually keep on the dresser.
Ten minutes later I’m dressed, half-shaven and rushing out the door.

----
As per usual, we schedule the meeting for 8 AM in the cafe half of the Declawed Lycan Pub and Cafe. I also get there about thirty minutes early.

The name’s hardly a coincidence. I helped the owner Bob find his kidnapped daughter a few years back, and he renamed his establishment in my honor and promised me free meals for life in gratitude. The place’s expanded since then, which is where the Cafe bit comes in - but I still come here every now and then, especially when I have a case to work on. Haven’t found any alfalfa burgers better than the ones they whip up here.

I glance around the rest of the tables, eliciting a few terrified ducking regulars   got used to the scruffy man in the trenchcoat and fedora a long time ago. If anyone shows surprise, they’re probably not regular enough.