Irregulars

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?
“So, are the owners of this club part of you and Agent Heartman’s community?”
“No, they aren’t,” Jordan said in an insistent whisper. “And they don’t know anything about it or about me. I haven’t broken the Secrecy Act—”
“Of course you haven’t,” Gunther said. “The reason we came here was to ask about this particular show. We want to know what you can tell us about these bands.”
“Nothing except, you know, the obvious.” He looked directly at Gunther as he spoke.
“Define obvious for me.” Keith took a sip of his beer.
“Some of the musicians were—” he gave another slight gesture in Gunther’s direction, “—also part of our community. Obviously you know that already or you wouldn’t be here.”
Keith allowed himself a tight smile, then said, “Did you happen to get any names?”
The bartender shook his head. “It was a popular show, I was running the whole time. I didn’t even have time for a smoke break. You could ask our booker, Samantha. She’d probably have some contact information for them.”
“Is Samantha here?”
“No, Monday’s her day off.”
“Let’s get back to the band. Did you notice anything special about any of them?” Gunther asked. “Physical characteristics? Anything?”
Jordan shrugged again. “It was just a metal show. They drank cheap beer and played really heavy, brick in your face metal but didn’t do anything…” He leaned forward, whispering to Gunther, “…anything magical. They sang in goblin during the refrain, but that was all. Hardly anybody even recognized it.”
“That and made a hell of a mess.” Keith circled back around to the front of the conversation.
Jordan paled slightly. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the white bar towel.
There it is, Keith thought, that telling expression of information that has been omitted. “What was so messy about the band?”
The bartender swallowed. “They did some theatrical stuff on stage.”
“Such as?” Gunther prompted.
“They drank some stuff that looked like blood. Poured some of it over the crowd.” The bartender busied himself with wiping the already clean bar. “A lot of metal bands do things like that.”
“Did it look like blood or was it blood?” Keith pressed.
“I don’t know.” The bartender refused to look at him. “I’m not some kind of expert.”
“You cleaned it up, right?” Keith folded his hands, prepared to wait all night for the answer. “Blood has a fairly distinct odor, color, and texture.”
“I—” Jordan looked to Gunther.
“It’s all right,” Gunther assured him. “We just need to know about this band. We don’t have any reason to believe you are connected with them. Are you?”
“I’m not,” the bartender said quickly. “They said it was cow’s blood. They poured it out of these gallon jugs that said USDA on them.”
Keith nodded. Though strange from the standpoint of an average white-bread American, beef and pork blood were standard ingredients in everything from the Filipino blood stew called dinuguan to verivorst, the blood sausages Estonians considered crucial for any Christmas feast. It was entirely plausible that the blood had its origin in livestock. It was also possible that they had simply refilled empty containers with human blood. Without a DNA sample and test, it would be impossible to tell.
“How long ago was this show?”
“Last week.”
“Has the mop head been changed since then?” Keith asked.
“I don’t think so. The laundry service hasn’t been here yet. Do you want to see it?”
Keith followed the bartender back into a dank supply cupboard. As predicted, the mop head was still attached to the mop handle, sitting in a yellow plastic bucket.
Keith detached the moist, stinking thing and crammed it into an evidence bag.
“We’re going to have to take this with us.” He wrote Jordan a receipt, returned to the bar, and sat down next to Gunther, who observed the bagged mop head with silent curiosity.
“I’m going to find out exactly what kind of blood the band was pouring out at the show,” Keith explained.
Gunther nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“Then at least we’ll know something about this case,” Keith said.
Gunther nodded again. Jordan returned to ask them if they needed another round.
“Not right at the moment,” Gunther said. “So, you don’t remember anything else about the band? Any detail at all?”
Jordan paused thoughtfully, seeming to come to some painful decision before finally speaking. “The bassist had a Portland Saturday Market sticker on his guitar case. He said he worked there. I remember it because I wanted to know if he knew my friend Spartacus, who sells hard cider in the beer garden.”
“Did he?” Keith asked. The Portland Saturday Market was one of many markets heavily run by goblins—an earth-based offshoot of the Grand Goblin Bazaar.
“He did,” Jordan said. “Everybody knows everybody there.” A man at the end of the bar suddenly hoisted his empty aloft and began, rudely, to clack his ice as a way of indicating that he’d like additional service. Jordan gave him a professional smile and a nod before saying, “Is there anything else?”
“Tables at the market here are hereditary, aren’t they?” Gunther asked.
“Of course. There’s a waiting list you can get on, but my friend Spartacus told me it’s years long. He only got in because he took over for his mother. He’s been studying with cider makers in England for the last few years. He’s really a genius. I have it on tap here. I’ll pour you one. You’ll be blown away.”
Gunther accepted Jordan’s largesse with grace and some formal-sounding word in goblin that Keith didn’t understand.
Keith eyed the cider sparkling in Gunther’s pint glass. Apart from their ritualistic taste for human flesh, goblins were well known for the astonishing quality of their fruits. Doubtless this particular cider would be the best he’d ever had. More than that, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking of it. Tasting goblin fruits ruined the flavor of all lesser fruits forever. Eating goblin fruit and then returning to mundane varieties was like having the opportunity to make love to your soul mate for one night, then forever more being relegated to meaningless one-night stands.
He’d once eaten a few slices of a goblin peach. Those soft crescents had been the most amazing flesh he’d ever put in his mouth.
Barring Gunther’s flesh, that is.
But again, that didn’t bear thinking about.
Now before them sat a glass of goblin cider. If he drank it no other cider would be enough ever again. Disappointment would be frequent and yet the temptation of goblin fruits pulled at him. The desire to have the best in the world, even just one time, was one of the very personality traits that had attracted Keith to cooking in the first place.
And somehow, even though his suspicion about food had grown to what could rightfully be called paranoia since he’d joined NIAD, alcohol remained the chink in his armor—especially when he’d just had other alcohol.
Temptation won.
Keith asked, “Mind if I try your cider?”
“Not at all. It’s really good, but I’m not much of a hard cider man.” Gunther slid the pint over. Keith wondered if the taste of goblin fruits actually affected goblins.
As he suspected, the cider was amazing. Better than amazing. A feeling very much like orgasm zinged over his tongue, electrifying every taste bud with tangy, juicy sweetness. He laughed for no reason. Tears had filled his eyes. He closed his eyes and gave an involuntary groan of pleasure.
“If I’d known you were going to like it that much I’d have brought one with me to the hotel,” Gunther remarked.
Keith opened his eyes to find Gunther gazing at him with the sort of openly homosexual public appreciation that Keith found nerve-wracking, even though he’d been out since he was twenty. Reluctantly, almost involuntarily, Keith found himself returning Gunther’s smile.