It's the kind of evening I normally lock myself in my office under the ceiling fan, with just a bucket of ice and a bottle of bourbon for company. Together, we'd enjoy the sunset through drawn blinds.
But not tonight. Tonight I'm working on a case. A missing person. Or rather, an absent one. As elusive as a greased weasle, as unpredictable as a jumping bean. He's smarter than a volleyball team of badgers, too, and has kept me guessing all evening.
This is the eleventh establishment I've visited, and despite my thick skin, my patience is wearing thin. I remember each visit, each badly-decorated joint, the nervous glances of the owners and patrons as I bullet them with questions. My last trip found me in a back room behind a kitchen, sweating out information from a nervous chef with little more than some well placed looming.
I loom well. It's my height, my species, and my gift.
The information led me here, to an curry house in the main drag of town. I check the name above the door; yes, this is the place. It has a reputation for strangeness, and a clientele to match. I'm not surprised my quarry has gone to ground here.
Straightening my hat, and adjusting the false moustache that distracts from my distinctive nose, I enter the restaurant. You have to travel incognito in this line of work.
The room is low, dark and long, seemingly endless. Mahogany tables, private booths, exotic plants and occasional lamps break up the space. Waiters voyage boldly between them, careless of their safety. The customers are huddled together in their pools of light, and there's the smell of excitement and uncertainty in the air. Either that, or it's the onion bhajis.
I'm in my element. This is what I was born for.
I approach the main desk. The maitre D', a dashing Asian figure with immaculately coiffed hair, a white suit and spats, smiles as he looks up. But the look freezes on his face. He whispers Ganesh! incredulously, and starts to sweat; I love it when they do that. His eyes swivel in an attempt to find an escape or help. I give him my best loom and hold his eye.
He's dealing with me. Alone with his god.
The fella says he wants no trouble, and I ask him if he's going to give me any. He gazes up at me in awe as I flash him my ID and the photo, and ask him where they are. He says he's not seen them tonight, but with a nervous laugh he adds that he has so many customers. He's got nerve, I'll give him that. I do the cracking thing with my neck, flap my ears at him menacingly, and place a twenty on the table between us.
As he moves to take it, I lay a flat foot upon his hand suddenly. I could crush it just my leaning forward slightly, and he knows it. I smile and ask quietly, making it clear that this second inquiry will be the last, where they are.
After a long few seconds, he folds like cheap origami paper.
As I approach the private booth, with more stealth than my size suggests is possible, I can't see the occupants. But I know I've found them. The huge pile of discarded plates, bowls, balti dishes, pint glasses and discarded napkins is unmistakable. The singing is off-key and punctated with fits of laughter. And though it's said that its an ill wind that blows no good, the wind that these two have been blowing would make a chair feel ill. And probably has.
I stand by the table and clear my throat.
After a few moments, two dishevelled, curry-stained faces slowly emerge from behind the chaos of crockery. One belches, and apologises to his companion.
May we help you? asks the one on the left politely. It's Roth.
And why, pray tell, are you disturbing our meal, Mister... begins the other. He squints at me, befuddled. Whoever you are. It's clearly iDifficult, the man I came to find.
With a sharp tug, I remove the false moustache from underneath my trunk.
They gasp in unison, It's an elephant!
Oh bugger, mutters iDifficult, nine sheets to the wind, it's my bloody parole officer. He rallies well though, gives me his best mad grin and offers a cheery, Good evening Mr. Nesh! What brings you here?
Roth turns to him and lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. S'okay, I got this. He turns and stands shakily. Elliot, good evening. I have to say, I'm a little disappointed. Just a tiny bit. He makes a this big gesture with thumb and forefinger. You're rather late, old son.Well, this is an interesting tactic. But these two are tricky bastards, resourceful and brilliant, even in this state. I mustn't get distracted.
Late? I repeat, using my reflective listening skills to play for time and information.
Yeah, late. We were expecting you two hours ago. He fumbles in his pocket and produces a scrap of paper. Here's your RSVP. He pops it on the table, knowing manual dexterity is not my strong suit.
I scan the paper. Yes, that's my signature on it. A vague memory tickles the back of my brain, and then has a nice long scratch. Waitaminute. Did this pair invite me for dinner? I frown and scratch my trunk. Well, I, erm... when did we agree this?
Roth laughs happily and moves round the table. Elliot, Elliot, Elliot. A couple of weeks ago! He eyes me with a lopsided grin, and nudges me with an elbow conspiratorially. I thought you fellas never forget?
I make a hasty mental note to start keeping a diary.
Good gravy! voices iDifficult. Did Elliot "Gan" Nesh let a memory slip through the net? He eyes a bottle of Kingfisher beer suspiciously. S'one for the books.
I slap my forehead, and regret it immediately. The first Sunday in August! They smile politely, encouragingly. Curry with you two! Two-thousand-and-twentieth birthday of... I wrack my brain, but the name won't come. Roth comes to my rescue.
Emperor Claudius of the Roman Empire!
Right! I almost cheer. Their slacking enthusiasm is infectious.
You know, mumbles 'Difficult, I think 'e was a bit bonkers, was Cladius. Myself and Roth regard him with some surprise. The part-time evil genius shrugs. You know, professionally speaking.
Roth waves a waiter over. The server gives me a wide berth. Well, Mr. Nesh, you've missed the food. He pats me gently on the back, Sorry matey. He pulls out a wicker chair for me, and I sit carefully, removing my hat. But why not relax and have a drink with us?
It sounds good, and there's a nice breeze from somewhere. Glancing up, I notice a vigorous ceiling fan stirring the air deliciously.
A large bourbon for my friend the elephant, 'Difficult instructs the waiter. In fact, bring the bottle over!
As the waiter nods and gratefully moves to leave, I catch his eye.
And plenty of ice.
Indigo
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