I looked at Michael—he was the expert. He said, “I intend to use the similarity test with my own piece of skin substitute to see if uncontrolled Huitzilopochtlic influences are present.” He was going to try the same test he’d used back at the dump, in other words.
I didn’t know what Vasquez would say about that—maybe start complaining about theological discrimination. But he didn’t; he just got up and said, “Come with me, gentlemen.”
I concluded he was a lot like Ramzan Durani of Slow Jinn Fizz: plenty of bluster when he was excited, but a reasonable man underneath. Fine with me; I’d had it up to here with arguments.
As soon as we left the office, the racket from the mariachi minisingers came back full force. That kind of music has its enthusiasts. Unfortunately, I’m not any of them. And the minisingers, true to their Alemanic Ursprung, gave it a slight oompah beat that did nothing to improve matters.
The workers on the factory floor glared at Michael and me as we went by. Not everybody loves the EPA. Too bad.
The Confederation would be contaminated a lot worse than it is if we weren’t around.
Squares of flayed human skin substitute lay at the bottom of vats. Even though the stuff was legal, it turned my stomach. Michael said, “Take one out for me, please.” Vasquez translated his request into Spainish. One of his men reached in and fished out a dripping sheet “It’s darker than the substitute you have in your lot,” I remarked.
Vasquez said, “This is the residue of the tanning baths.
Proper cleansing will restore the usual shade.”
Michael Manstein raised an eyebrow at that but he didn’t say anything, so I let it ride. I said, “I trust you have proper import certificates for the flayed human skin substitute?”
“I shall fetch them immediately,” Vasquez said. “Please do not let my absence delay you in your tests.” He headed back toward his office.
Michael got to work with his sheet of human skin substitute and the one the worker had pulled out of the vat. I clutched my kabbalistic amulets. I was ready for anything from his sheet of substitute starting to bleed to all hell breaking loose. I was ready for what might have been worse than hell breaking loose: I was ready for Huitzilopochtli alive and in Person and in a bad mood. I wasn’t sure I’d get out of Chocolate Weasel in one piece if that happened, but I had a chance.
Jorge Vasquez came back while Michael was still incanting. He handed me the certificates I’d asked for. Sure enough, they showed he was bringing in flayed human skin substitute produced by the law of similarity, as certified by some high sorcerer down in Tenochtitlan, the point of origin of the stuff. The certificate had Aztecian export stamps and Confederation import stamps right where they belonged. On parchment Chocolate Weasel was as legal as could be.
“Thanks very much, Mr. Vasquez,” I said. “You maintain excellent documentation.”
“I have to,” he answered, his tone bitter, “It is the only way I can protect myself from harassment because I am an Aztecian businessman serving my people on Confederation soil.” He was back to that song again. I let it alone; nothing I could say was going to make him change his mind.
Michael spoke a last couple of magical words, lifted the wet sheet of flayed human skin substitute from the one he’d taken out of his little black bag. “No skin of bleeding,” he said, sounding as surprised as he ever did—which is to say, Vasquez, who didn’t known him well, wouldn’t have noticed any change in his voice. “I must conclude that the specimen from the vat is thaumaturgically inactive with respect to Huitzilopochtli.”
“I could have told you as much,” Vasquez said. “In fact, I did tell you as much, but you chose not to listen. Are you satisfied?”
I nodded, reluctantly. I’d thought we’d surely find the pot of gold at Chocolate Weasel (which reminded me I’d have to do something one of these days about the study on naturalizing leprechauns). Michael said. The data we have obtained leave us no reason to be dissatisfied,” which struck me as damning with faint praise. He must have been disappointed, too.
“I presume you will have the courtesy to mention this in your written report,” Vasquez said with icy, ironic politeness.
“I also trust you will be making that report soon.”
I knew a hint to get out of there when I heard one. I’d have liked to stay and snoop some more, but after Michael failed to find any trace of Huitzilopochtlic influence on the flayed human skin substitute, I didn’t see how I could. I waited for Michael to finish packing the tools of his trade, then dejectedly followed Vasquez back to his office.
In front of that office, he sank another barb: “I hope you gentlemen can find your own way out. Good day.” He went inside and closed the door after him.
We found our own way out. Once again, nobody up front took any interest in us except to speed us on our way. I was ready to go, too. I’d had such high hopes everything would break open at Chocolate Weasel. But what did we get there?
Nothing, the same as we’d got everywhere else. It wasn’t just a case any more, either. Judy’s life lay on the line.
“Damnation,” I said as we scuffed our way across the lot toward Michael’s carpet “No skin of it there, not so far as I could prove,” he said,
“although, so far as I know, flayed human skin substitute, unlike the authentic product, comes in only one color and is merely toughened, not darkened, by the tanning process.”
“Really?” I said. “That’s interesting, but if you found no skin of Huitzilopochtli, it’s nothing more than interesting.”
“My thought exactly,” he said, sitting down and reaching for his safety belt A tattered old carpet on its last fringes flew slowly into the lot, settled into a parking space maybe fifty feet from us. The two guys on it were talking in Spainish, and paid us no attention whatever. One of them wore a red cap, the other a blue one.
That rang a vague bell in my mind, but no more. Then the fellow in the blue cap turned his head so I got a good look at his face. You don’t soon forget the looks of a guy who’s tried to bounce your balls—it was Carlos, the charming chap from the swap meet. And the man with him was Jose. They got off their carpet—they didn’t bother with safety belts—and went on into Chocolate Weasel.
I stood there staring after them. “Come on,” Michael said, a little querulously. “Having failed here, we may as well return to the office and more productive use of our time.”
“Huh?” He snapped me back to myself. “We haven’t failed here—your test may have, but we haven’t.” He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. After a moment, I realized he didn’t. I explained rapidly, finishing, Those are the two who sold Cuauhtemoc Hemandez his poison, full of real human skin and the influence of Huitzilopochtli. What are they doing at Chocolate Weasel if it’s really as legit as your test showed?”
“A cogent question.” But Michael was frowning. “Yet how could the similarity test I employed on the flayed human skin substitute be in error? It was conducted under universally valid thaumaturgic law.”
A dreadful suspicion was growing in me. I didn’t want to speak it out loud, for fear of making it more likely to be true—or maybe it was more the worry that comes out in the phrase. Speak of the devil. I did say, “I’m not questioning supernatural law, just the assumptions you made the test under. And I think I know how we can find out if I’m right. Come on.”
“What are you doing?” Michael said, but he unbuckled, got off his carpet, and, little black bag in hand, followed me across the street.
A salesman came up smiling when we walked into the Spells ’R’ Us store, me still a couple of paces in front of Michael. “Good morning, sir—sirs,” he said, amending things when he realized we were together. “What sort of home thaumaturgics can I interest you in today?’
I showed him my EPA sigil. A couple of seconds later, Michael got his out, too. He still didn’t know what I was up to, but he’d back my play. The salesman—he looked like a college Idd—stopped smiling and looked real Serious.
“As you see, we’re from the Environmental Perfection Agency,” I said. “We’re in the middle of an investigation and we urgently need a spellchecker. I’d like to borrow one from you and activate it for a few minutes.”
The kid gulped. “I can’t authorize that myself, sir. I’ll have to get the manager.” He fled into the EMPLOYEES ONLU section of the store to do just that.
