Long Chills and Case Dough by Brandon Sanderson

Author:Brandon Sanderson [Sanderson, Brandon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dragonsteel, LLC
Published: 2023-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

6

Big Harold’s Sushi Bar. It didn’t quite fit with my scheme of the way peaching should be done—gumshoes did not eat sushi. Informants should be people you meet in alleys or by the docks, not in restaurants serving colorful raw fish. But Harold was the best go-to man in the town. He had managed to turn a sushi bar into a musty dive for miscreants and greasers. I guess even the worst slime likes a bit of cuisine diversity once in a while.

Alici regarded the place with a frown. She belonged in a holo-disco or a college classroom, not the seediest gin-mill on this side of Chicago. Still, she was the one who insisted on coming with me, so I wasn’t about to let her go flimsy on me now.

We moved into the dive, and I nodded to Big Harold, who was mixing drinks behind the bar. The entire place smelled of day-old fish heads and spilled whiskey. A couple of mugs turned my direction, their features shadowed by the dark light.

“Take a seat, doll,” I said, nodding to an empty booth.

She gave me an angry look—she didn’t like me ditching her—but she did what I said.

“Two orders of spring rolls and a couple cuts of the eel, Harold,” I said, approaching the bar. “Bourbon for me and a soda for the lady. I’d like to barber, if you’ve got the time.”

Big Harold grunted, then went back to his mixing. I joined Alici in the booth.

“You think we’ll find something here?” she asked with a dissatisfied frown.

“Harold’ll come through for us,” I promised. “He always does.”

One thing about Harold’s place: the service is quick, even if it doesn’t come with a smile. Harold didn’t have a storied sushi-making background—he’s Inuit, with no ties to Japan—but he knew how to slice a fish. He delivered my order with his characteristic grunt, slapping it down on the table next to a purchase scanner.

I picked up the scanner, added a zero to the amount listed at the bottom, and gave it my authorization code.

Big Harold humphed. “What’cha want, Dalley?”

“Camille Ball.”

“Bad news,” he replied.

“I savvied that, Harold.”

“That…event the other day. The one where someone lost their hat? That was her.”

“Really?” I asked with surprise. “I knew she was involved, but…”

“The spaghetti man is after her. He found the hat, you know.”

“I assumed,” I answered. “Why would a looker like her do something like that?”

“Argument,” Harold grumbled. “Something about a family nest that got robbed.”

“Thanks, Harold,” I said with a nod. You can understand why I liked the guy—he was perfect for the part, even if the scenery felt off. Harold wandered back toward the bar and I took a shot of corn.

“Well, that helps a little bit,” I said.

Alici gave me an annoyed stare. “All right, Derrins. Explain.”

“Ball was the one who offed Lucrani.”

“What?”

“Quiet, skirt,” I said. “Don’t get us noticed. We want to remain inconspicuous.”

Alici looked me over, noting my coat and hat, then shook her head.

“I don’t understand it completely,” I said. “It had something to do with a pot of money, though.

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