try to sound cheerful; you know you're no good at it. I, on the other hand, am always bright and cheerful and charming because I am young and fresh and still relatively unsullied.'
She had a point. Cathy was so unrelentingly cheerful I used to think she dosed herself morning, noon, and night with every drug known to man, but no, it was just her. There ought to be a law.
'What do you want, Cathy?' I said patiently. 'You're interrupting my quality time.'
'Oh, you're not going to believe this one, boss.'
'What have you done this time?'
'Nothing! Or at least nothing you need to worry about. But you won't believe who just phoned the office, looking to hire you… An elf! Really! You could have knocked me down with a French tickler. Not only has an elf lord come to the Nightside, which is weird and scary and disturbing enough in itself, but he wants you to solve a case for him! How cool is that?'
'Which particular elf lord are we talking about here?' I said, since one of us had to be practical and professional in this conversation, and it clearly wasn't going to be Cathy.
'Says he's the Lord Screech; but you can bet good money that's not his real name. Elves lie like they breathe. They only come into our world to mess us over.'
'Of course,' I said. 'It's all they've got left. What exactly does this putative Lord Screech want me to find for him?'
'Wouldn't say,' sniffed Cathy. 'Too far up himself to discuss details with a mere underling. Says he'll be at the Dragon's Mouth for the next two hours if you'd care to drop by for a little chat. No mention of money. But… he's an elf! When did you last hear of one of them lowering himself to ask a mere human for help?'
'Never,' I said. 'Which would suggest that not only is this case going to be impossible, unethical, and quite mind bogglingly dangerous, but I'll probably end up stabbed in the back by my own client.'
'Well, of course,' said Cathy. 'I thought that was all understood when I said, Your client is an elf. But come on, boss, we are talking major bragging rights here! You could dine out on this for months! John Taylor, the private investigator so special that even the high-and-mighty elves come to him to solve their problems! We could have new cards made!'
'Still,' I said, 'why the Dragon's Mouth? That's a seriously unpleasant place, even for the Nightside. What would an elf be doing there? Or does he know… that I know the Dragon's Mouth? That once upon a time, I knew it very well.'
'You used to frequent the Dragon's Mouth, boss?' said Cathy, somehow managing to sound scandalized and delighted at the same time. 'But it's…'
'The Nightside's premiere drug den,' I said. 'You never knew me in my dog days, Cathy; when I was down- and-out and on the run from everyone, including myself. I swore I'd never go back… but if that's where the elf is, then that's where I'm going. If only because I can't have our crafty and underhanded elf lord thinking he has an advantage over me. No-one tells me there's somewhere I can't go, not even me.'
'You're weird, boss.'
I shut down the phone and put it away. I'd gone out into the night looking for changes, and it seemed I'd found some. I'd been thinking about my future, but it seemed my past wasn't finished with me yet. I thrust both hands deep into the pockets of my trench coat, took a deep breath, and headed for the Dragon's Mouth, and the deepest, darkest part of the night.
Never trust elves. They always have their own agenda.
There are places you just don't go in the Nightside. Either because they're so dangerous you know you're going to have to fight your way in, and probably out, or because they're so extreme, so shameful, and so damned sickening that no-one with any sense would have anything to do with them. There are bad places, dangerous places, and unhealthy places; and then there's the Dragon's Mouth.
Tucked away casually in a shadowy side street not far from the old main drag, the club's exterior really is a huge dragon's head, some thirty feet tall and twenty wide, its huge gaping jaws forming the entrance. Rumour had it the dragon had been petrified centuries ago by the gorgon Medusa herself. In which case, I hated to think what they were using for the back door. The wide stone head was a smooth dull grey, untouched by time or weather. The eyes were deep, dark hollows. Great jagged teeth pointed up and down, like stalagmites and stalactites. There were no exterior guards; just walk in, whenever you please. All are welcome, for as long as their money or credit holds out. Anything goes, any need satisfied, enter at your own risk, and abandon hope all ye… Well, I'm sure you know the rest.
I strolled unhurriedly between the two long rows of teeth and descended the winding stone stairs into the belly of the beast, the huge stone chamber spread out beneath the street. It was years since I'd last been here, a lifetime. It was yesterday. Sometimes you do things to yourself so bad that the memories have barbs and never let you go. I'd known what the place was, all those years ago, and what it could do to me, but I'd descended into hell anyway. I had come here because what it offered… was what I wanted. The slow, sweet suicide of addiction.
I was so much younger then, and beset on all sides by threats and questions and destinies I couldn't face any more. So I ran away, from friends and enemies alike, buried myself in the delightful depths of the Dragon's Mouth, and gave myself to a very harsh and demanding mistress. I'd still be there, if Razor Eddie hadn't come and got me out. No-one says no to the Punk God of the Straight Razor. I stayed with him a while, with all the other homeless who washed up in Rats' Alley. I'd thought I couldn't fall any further. Until Suzie Shooter came looking for me, for the price on my head; and I ran headlong from the Nightside and everything in it, with Suzie's bullet burning in my back.
I thought I was done with the Nightside forever, but destiny called me home, where I belonged, with all the other monsters.
I descended the smooth stone steps into the great cavern below, and it all looked just as I remembered. As though I'd merely stepped out for a moment, and all the last years of my life had been only another smoke dream. I stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked about me, fighting to keep my face calm and unconcerned. The stone chamber was packed with people, standing and sitting and lying down, but the whole buzz of conversation was little more than a susurrus of whispers. You didn't come to the Dragon's Mouth to talk.
The air was thick with a hundred kinds of narcotic smoke, and already my lips and nostrils were going numb. You could experience a dozen different highs just strolling round the room, and long-buried parts of me stirred slowly, awakening, remembering. I took a deep breath. The smoky air smelled of sour milk and brimstone. I smiled slowly, and I knew it wasn't a pleasant smile.
Some of the people there recognised me. They smiled and nodded, or scowled and made the sign against the evil eye; and some crept further back into the concealing shadows. But nobody said anything, and nobody did anything. Held tightly in the jealous arms of their own particular mistresses, they trusted the club's staff to see that they remained undisturbed. There was never any trouble in the Dragon's Mouth because on the few occasions anyone was stupid enough to start anything, old Mother Connell would take measures. Very extreme and unpleasant measures.
She sat where she always sat, behind an ornately carved Restoration desk, right at the bottom of the entrance steps. You couldn't see the top of the desk for all the piled-up currency, gold, jewels, and credit cards. Mother Connell sat at her ease in a frighteningly huge padded chair; four hundred pounds of overwhelming femininity wrapped in a purple toga topped off with a long, pink feather boa, draped loosely around her huge, wattled neck. Sometimes the boa stirred, as though it were alive, or dreaming. Mother Connell dominated anywhere she was, just by being there, through the sheer force of her appalling personality. And her complete willingness to make use of her mallet-sized fists at the first hint of any unpleasantness.
Harsh and sweaty under an obviously fake curly blonde wig, her wide red face was marked by heavily mascaraed eyes and a scarlet gash of a mouth, along with heavy jowls that disappeared into the pink feather boa. I always thought she looked like she'd just eaten half a dozen drag queens for breakfast. She had a smile for everyone because a smile cost nothing; but it wasn't a pretty sight. Her huge hands moved restlessly over the piled-up wealth before her, endlessly counting and sorting and rearranging it. In a rare moment of companionship, she'd once told me that when the cash really came rolling in, there was so much that she didn't have time to count it; so she weighed it.
She looked up and caught my eye. Mother Connell never forgot a face and never took any good-bye as final. Her scarlet lips pulled back to reveal yellow teeth, and she beckoned me over with one meaty hand. Her voice was deep and harsh, like a dog growling.
