Sirgrus Blackmane Demihuman Gumshoe and the Dark-Elf by William Schlichter

Author:William Schlichter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: noir, mystery, detective stories, fantasy, private detectives, alternate history, murder mystery
Publisher: BHC Press
Published: 2021-03-17T00:00:00+00:00

“Where to, Mac? Back to the Quarter?” Even the cabbies think it best to keep us in our section of the city.

Taxi drivers know the dives, right? They must, to make jack. “If I wanted to kick the gong around, where would be the best place?”

Affronted, he snips, “Hey buddy, what kind of person do you think I am?”

I drop a five over the seat. “The kind who’ll take their fare out of that bill.” If he wants the majority of the change, he’ll be prompt. He doesn’t ask if I desire to hit the pipe in the Quarter. I’ve one idea and only one. If this doesn’t work, I might have to beg the Dragonborn to explain why he hired my partner.

“I don’t know of such a place. You want a beer before they serve eggs? I know seven places you can chew, but no opium.”

It dulls the pain—and the memories—but it will burn up my last day. “Take me to my office.” My jaw throbs.

He doesn’t ask for directions. Like most cabbies in this part of town, he knows who I am.

The Dark-Elf is hours from opening. At my current rate, I’ll be drinking in Hell’s hottest night spot tomorrow evening. If I’m going to keep up my momentum, I need meat. “Wait. Take me…”

Human clubs, like the Hotel Claridge or Peppermint Twist Lounge, likely won’t even allow me entrance without Mason. They’re never as colorful as those in the Quarters. Steakhouses are worthy locations—manly joints. I never thought the human-only clubs would lose out to the demihuman dives.

The human city remains heavily segregated, and yet the speakeasies in the Quarters welcome all, and demis love the human women.

No reason to hash out why I don’t care for human girls.

“Where, Mac? It’s your nickel, but the meter’s running.”

The more thought I put into it, the more I consider returning to the mountain, enjoying a dwarf woman and preparing for whatever muscle Medrash throws at me. But I don’t have the days I needed to enjoy a dwall before the thugs show up. It’s a beautiful, week-long process, not like the five-minute whores the humans rent.

If I did have access to a female, I might invest in a larger apartment, but as it stands, my city hovel is for sleep only—when I make it home.

“Where’s the best steak in the city?”

“In the Human Sector or the Quarters?”

“Best. It matters not what species the chef is.”

“I know a place.”

He swings around the block twice, but it’s clear he intends to drop me off at The Landmark Tavern, open long before the Eighteenth Amendment. They serve food, but I don’t know if they serve dwarves. If I’m going to catch a catnap, I need to fill my gullet and get back to the office.

I slide out. The cabbie gets his fee.

The maitre d’ accepts my fedora before he notices I’m not human.

He backpedals. “Uh, sir, I believe—”

“That there’s an empty table in the back. The light being burned out doesn’t even bother me, and that close to the kitchen, my steak will be fresh and hot.

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