Setting up shop

  I looked around the office, taking in the furniture. Desk, filing cabinets, a couple of chairs. Even a coat rack by the door. For a place that had been abandoned, it was in good shape.

  "Young Mr. Chaplin had sophisticated taste," Henry Becker said from behind me. "But I'm afraid he left in quite a hurry."

  "Yeah?" I turned to look at him. "What happened?"

  "Same thing that gets any young man moving with purpose, Mr. Donati. A woman." He let out a laugh. "The young lady he married wanted to be closer to her mother. So he packed up his practice overnight and moved them both out to Boston. The place has only been empty a couple of weeks. Mr. Chaplin left some money for us to pack up the rest of his belongings and ship them along, but he said we could keep the furniture."

  "Works for me," I said. "Saves me the trouble of finding it myself. Turns out a private investigator needs about the same setup as a lawyer."

  Henry laughed again. "Well, most professions need a good desk, a coat rack, and somewhere to file papers. It makes sense to me."

  "What's the rent on a place like this?"

  "Twenty-five dollars a month. I know it seems a bit high, but it does come furnished."

  "How about we call it thirty a month, and I'll prepay you for the first year," I said. "I like doing business that way. Less to worry about. The extra is for discretion. Privacy is important in my line of work. You understand."

  Henry's eyebrows went up. "That's very generous, Mr. Donati. I'll have to buy Cal a cup of coffee next time I see him for sending you my way." He looked around the office. "Before you open up, I'll take some liberties and finish getting things cleaned up in here. I'll have someone come by and paint your name on the windows too. I'm assuming you go by your own name for the business?"

  I stopped for a second. I hadn't thought about that.

  Jay Donati, Private Investigator.

  Hell, it was right out of a dime store novel.

  I smiled. "That's right. J. Donati, Private Investigator. Hey, that's a good deduction. Maybe you should be the PI."

  Henry laughed. "Oh, no thank you. I get enough excitement with my current day job."

  I couldn't help but smile at that.

  "Just come by my office later with the check, and we'll get everything squared away."

  "Actually, Henry, we're still building a relationship here. I can tell this is a small town. Let's build some trust. How about I bring cash instead of a check?"

  "That's fine with me if you're willing to carry it around. The property commission has a safe, so I have no problem taking that much cash."

  I reached out and shook his hand and he handed me a set of keys.

  "I might have you sign a paper or two when you come in with the money," he said with a smile. "But I'll let you get acquainted with the place for now."

  As he walked back toward the exit, I called out, "Henry, you know a place where I can pick up some clothes? Maybe a new suit? The freight company lost my belongings, and I need to get some new threads."

  "That's too bad. I'm sorry to hear that." He paused at the door. "There's a tailor shop on Seventh Street. Benson's. Tell him Henry sent you, and he'll take care of you."

  "Thanks."

  "Anytime, Mr. Donati. Welcome to St. Cloud."

  He left, and I stood there in the empty office, looking around for a moment.

  Az appeared on the desk. "Not bad, Mud. You almost sounded like a real businessman there."

  "Well, I got to be honest, Az. I always loved movies and books that had anything to do with this era. My grandfather used to give me these dime store novels. Honestly in another world I think I would have most definitely ended up being a PI.”

  Remy materialized near the window. "This is a good location. Central. Visible. It will help establish your presence in the community."

  "That's the idea," I said. "Now I just need to figure out how to actually be a private investigator. I have a feeling it's more complicated than what I read in those books."

  "You ask questions and people pay you for it," Az said. "Seems pretty straightforward."

  "It's more than that," Remy said from the window. "You'll need to build trust. Understand people. Read situations."

  "Yeah, well, let's hope I can figure it out."

  "You're forgetting something, Mud," Az said with a grin. "You don't have to be a typical investigator. You've got advantages that other detectives never dreamed of."

  I thought about that for a second. He was right.

  "The Lumen-Sight," Remy said. "Truth reveals itself in your presence. Deception withers. When someone lies to you, you'll see it."

  "And you can understand any language now," Az added. "That alone is huge in a town like this. Half the people here speak German at home."

  "Plus you've got us," Az continued. "We can phase through walls and snoop around.

  "And the Arcane-Script," Remy said. "You can read wards, see magical inscriptions. When you investigate St. Marys, you'll see things no normal person could."

  "You can even create your own wards if you need to," Az said. "unlock a door, set a trap."

  I walked over to the desk and sat down in the chair. It was solid, comfortable. The kind of chair a man could spend long hours in. I leaned back in the chair, thinking it through. They were right. I wasn't just some guy asking questions. I had tools. Real advantages.

  "Just remember," Remy said quietly, "the more you use those abilities openly, the more visible you become to those who can sense such things. Subtlety is important."

  "So use what I've got, but be smart about it," I said. "Don't go waving around supernatural stuff unless I have to."

  "Exactly," Az said. "Play the part of the normal investigator. Use your abilities when no one's looking. And when you need an edge, you've got it."

  I nodded slowly. "That could actually work."

  "Of course it will," Az said. "You're basically cheating. It's perfect."

  From where I was sitting, I could see the street through the front windows. People walking by. Cars rolling past.

  Later that day after a quick trip downtown to drop off the cash for my new place, I stepped into the St Cloud General Store. The bell above the door rang when I stepped inside, and it smelled like cut lumber and machine oil. Long aisles stretched out under hanging lamps, stocked with tools and farm supplies. A glass display case ran along the right side.

  Inside it, I saw what I came for.

  I moved, browsing like I had all day. Az popped into existence on my shoulder, his tiny form perched there with his wings tucked tight.

  The clerk looked up from his ledger. Middle-aged guy, clean apron, the kind of man who knew his stock.

  "Help you find something?" he asked.

  "Just looking for now," I said.

  I made my way to the display case and stopped. There, sitting on a piece of dark cloth, were two Colt 1911 pistols. But these weren't standard issues. They were gunmetal black, not the usual blued steel or nickel plate you'd see. Matte finish, with no shine to catch light. The grips were dark walnut, checkered deep enough to give real purchase. Someone had put work into these.

  "Those are something, aren't they?" the clerk said, moving closer. "Had them customized by a gunsmith out of Minneapolis. A fella wanted a matched pair for himself, then his business went under before he could pick them up. They've been sitting here about a month now."

  I leaned in closer. The serrations on the slide were crisp, clean. The trigger guards looked slightly undercut. Small modifications, but the kind that mattered.

  "Can I see them?" I asked.

  The clerk unlocked the case and set both pistols on the counter. I picked up the first one. The weight felt right. Balanced. I worked the slide—smooth, no grinding. The trigger had a clean break when I dry-fired it.

  "Those are beauties," Az said in my head. "Big caliber too. .45 ACP. You know what that means?"

  I looked at the second pistol, picking it up. Same quality as the first.

  What? I thought back.

  "Big bullets. Flat nose. Plenty of surface area," Az said. "You can carve wards right into the rounds before you load them. Same with shotgun slugs. A ward's a ward. No reason it wouldn't work on a bullet."

  “Does that actually work?” I thought.

  "Should work just fine," Az said. a bullet. with a ward carved into it should do some real damage to the kind of things hunting you, mud. Of course you're going to have to modify the cartridge. But I'm pretty sure that's something you can handle."

  I turned both pistols over in my hands. Whoever had these made knew what they wanted.

  "Both of them," I said.

  The clerk nodded. "Seventy-five for the pair. That fella also had shoulder holsters made for them. A matched dual rig set. He never picked those up either. I could throw them in for another ten."

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  I looked at him. "Done."

  "Most folks don't need two identical pistols and a double rig."

  "I'm not most folks."

  Az grinned on my shoulder. "Damn right you're not."

  The clerk reached under the counter and pulled out a leather shoulder holster rig. Dark brown, well-made, designed to sit under a coat. Two holsters, magazine pouches on the straps.

  "I'll take six boxes of .45 ACP," I said. "And four extra magazines if you have them."

  "Ive got four spares. Seven rounds each. That'll be another six dollars for the magazines, and eleven and change for the ammunition."

  "That's fine."

  I grabbed a basket and started down the aisles. I grabbed a hammer, nails, a coil of twine. Normal stuff. Then I slid a hacksaw into the basket and buried it under the other tools.

  "You will need a clean cut for the shotgun barrel," Remiel said in my mind. "A poor cut will ruin the spread."

  "He knows what he's doing," Az said. "I mean don't get me wrong, mud here is mostly an idiot. but he was good at his job. You could say he's in his element."

  I found the chalk next. Big sticks of it, white and blue. I grabbed several boxes.

  “Yeah well I'm not working for the family anymore, you little prick!” I flicked him off my shoulder. “I fully intend on paying them back for the education they gave me if you know what I mean.”

  "Get a chalk line too," Remy said. "And extra powdered chalk for refilling it. It will be easier than drawing long lines by hand."

  “Listen John Wick, calm yourself down.” Az said, returning to my shoulder. I was just trying to say that you were very talented in your previous line of employment.”

  I grabbed a chalk line tool and two containers of powdered chalk, dropping them in the basket.

  Then I moved down the aisle. Sulfur caught my eye. Why the hell are they carrying bags of sulfur?”

  "It’s dusting sulfur," Az said. "Farming communities like this use it as a fungicide. You should grab a couple of the small ones but see if they can have more sent to the office."

  I took two containers and added them to the basket. Then a set of small files, and a folding pocketknife, along with an oilstone, some brushes, small glass jars, matches, and a tin of beeswax.

  "Those files," Az said. "Will be perfect for etching wards into bullets and shotgun slugs. "

  "This all seems excessive," Remiel said.

  If it keeps me breathing, I don't care what it seems like, I thought back.

  I walked back to the counter and set the basket down. "I'm going to need some bulk items delivered. Three large sacks of salt. Kerosene. Black powder if you have it. Reloading supplies—empty shells, wads, primers. Rosin, linseed oil, heavy butcher paper, leather scraps if you stock them."

  The clerk nodded, making notes.

  "I'm also setting up a darkroom," I said. "For photography work. I'll need some special chemicals."

  "Sure. What are you looking for?"

  "Silver nitrate crystals," I said. "Metol, hydroquinone, sodium thiosulfate for fixer. Potassium bromide. Acetic acid. Gelatin sheets. Some photographic plates and contact printing paper. A measuring graduate, and a light-tight storage tin."

  Remy had fed me the list smoothly. The clerk didn't bat an eye.

  "I can get most of that through my supplier," he said. "Might take a week or two for the silver nitrate. Unless the pharmacist has some in stock. Old Roland finally got a telephone so I'll give him a buzz and see if he has any. Everything else should only take a few days."

  "That's fine." That works for me and I appreciate you giving the pharmacy a call for me. It saves me a walk.

  I pointed to the shotgun rack. "I'll take that Winchester Model 1897. And the Stevens double-barrel next to it."

  He looked at me. "Geez mister, are you outfitting a hunting lodge?"

  I gave the man a genuine smile and a laugh."Something like that."

  "I'll need those delivered," I said. "Along with the bulk items and the darkroom supplies when they come in. Can you have it sent to the corner of Fifth and St. Germain? It’s the old lawyer's office."

  "I can have the first load delivered this afternoon. It’s two bits for delivery."

  "That's fine."

  I grabbed ammunition off the shelf. Buckshot, birdshot, slugs. A few boxes of each. Then I spotted a small Smith & Wesson revolver in the case. The kind of gun that fits in a boot holster.

  "That one too," I said.

  The clerk added it to the growing pile.

  “Mud we need to make some salt rounds.” Az said from his perch.

  Salt rounds? I thought while the clerk tallied everything.

  "You can load your own shells with salt instead of shot," Az said. "It won't kill a Hellhound, but it'll disrupt them. It will force them solid for a few seconds. Long enough to hurt them or get away."

  "The carved slugs will drive them back as well," Remiel added. "But understand the only way you're going to actually kill one of those things is with a celestial or in your case an arcane blade." You just did not have the strength to do it at level one when we were in purgatory.

  Then it's a good thing I'm not level one anymore isn't it, I thought.

  The clerk finished his tally. "The total comes to just over two hundred dollars for what we have in stock. I'll get you a price on the special order chemicals once I hear back from my supplier."

  I counted out the cash and handed it over. He wrapped the pistols and holster rig carefully, along with the ammunition and the basket of tools. “Out of curiosity, I don't suppose I could buy a roll of dimes off you, could I?”

  "Sure thing mister, I'll have to grab it out of the back. Delivery should be there by three o'clock," he said, as he ventured over to a small room behind the counter.

  "Appreciated."

  I gathered the wrapped pistols, the basket, and the boxes of ammunition I could carry.

  "I'll bring the basket back in a bit," I said to the clerk. "I just need to drop this off at my place. It's on the way to the tailor."

  "No rush," he said, handing me the role of coins. "I'll have the delivery ready by three."

  Az settled back on my shoulder as I stepped out into the street.

  The walk back to Fifth and St. Germain wasn't far. My arms were full, but the weight felt good. I climbed the stairs to the apartment above the office, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

  I hadn't really looked at the place when I'd walked through it with Henry. I'd been too focused on the office downstairs to give it much thought. Now, standing in it with the door closed behind me, I actually took it in.

  The space was bigger than I expected. It had to be — it sat over the entire footprint of the office below. But where Chaplin had put real thought and money into the downstairs, furnishing it like a man who understood the impression a well-appointed office made on a client, up here he'd done the opposite. Everything was new, nothing was cheap, but none of it had been chosen with any particular care. A narrow stove and a few open shelves passed for a kitchen. A table with two chairs sat near the window. Down the hall the bedroom had a full-size bed with a simple iron frame, a small nightstand beside it, and enough open floor around it to remind you just how much empty space the room actually had.

  A washstand with a basin and pitcher sat against the wall, and directly across from the door was a single built-in closet, moderately sized, but enough space to hang some new clothes in. The bathroom off the hall was at least a real one, which was more than I'd expected from a place this stripped down. The whole apartment had the feeling of somewhere a man had furnished out of obligation rather than any real intention of making it a home.

  And then there was the couch.

  It sat in the middle of the room like it had been delivered to the wrong address. Deep green velvet, carved wooden legs, the kind of piece that belonged in a fancy parlor somewhere, not in a sparse apartment above a law office on St. Germain Street. It was immaculate. Completely and utterly out of place. I stood there for a moment just looking at it, and then I laughed.

  Chaplin had put every ounce of his taste into that office downstairs, but it looked like his new wife had gotten exactly one concession out of the man before they left for Boston. Good for her.

  I set everything down on the table and moved to the basin. The water was cold, but I splashed some on my face anyway. It helped clear my head.

  I picked up the shoulder holster rig and slid it on. The leather was stiff but well-made. I adjusted the straps until the holsters sat right under my arms, then slid the 1911s into place. The weight pulled at my shoulders, but it distributed evenly. I worked my arms, testing the draw. It was smooth enough.

  I grabbed the long coat from the chair and put it on. The holsters disappeared completely under the fabric.

  "Not bad," Az said. "You actually look like you know what you're doing."

  “Let's hope appearances aren't deceiving,” I said.

  I headed back downstairs, grabbed the empty basket, and walked back toward the hardware store.

  The clerk looked up when I came in. "Forget something?"

  "Just returning the basket," I said. I set it on the counter. "Actually, one more thing. Can you order me a holster for that revolver? Something for a boot or ankle."

  "Sure. I can have that in a few days."

  I nodded. "I appreciate it. And just so you know, I'm not up to anything nefarious.”

  “I'm a private investigator. I just opened up an office here in town. All my belongings got lost in freight, so I'm building everything up from scratch. In my line of work, it pays to be prepared."

  The clerk's expression shifted. Understanding replaced curiosity. "That makes sense. Photography work too, I'd imagine. Developing your own photos, keeping things private for clients."

  "Exactly."

  "Well, welcome to St. Cloud, Mr. Donati. You need anything else, you know where to find me."

  "Thanks."

  I stepped back out and headed toward Seventh Street.

  The tailor shop sat between a barbershop and a small grocery. A painted sign above the door read "Benson's Fine Tailoring." I pushed the door open and a small bell chimed.

  The shop smelled like fabric and starch. Bolts of cloth lined the walls. A middle-aged man stood behind a cutting table, measuring out a length of dark wool. He looked up when I entered.

  "Good afternoon," he said. He had the careful hands of someone who worked with precision. "Can I help you with something?"

  "Henry Becker sent me," I said. "I need some clothes made.I’m afraid I lost everything in freight."

  His eyebrows went up. "Everything?"

  "Yea, Everything unfortunately."

  He set down his measuring tape and came around the table. "Well, we can fix that. Mr?”

  “Donati. But please, call me Jay.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr–” He caught himself. “Jay. What are you looking for?"

  "Im thinking a couple of suits. A few good shirts. Trousers. Long coats." I opened my jacket slightly, showing the shoulder holsters. "Need them tailored around these."

  Benson's eyes lit up. "Now that's interesting work." He moved closer, examining the rig without touching it. "Dual holsters. You don't see that often. Are you law enforcement?"

  “No” I laughed. "I’m a private investigator."

  "Even better." He grinned. Pulling out a couple of clean glasses from behind the counter. "I love a challenge Jay.” He said, pouring a finger into a glass and pushing it in my direction. “You'll want the jackets cut with enough room so the guns don't print through the fabric. Reinforced seams at the shoulders to handle the weight. Maybe some inner pockets for extra magazines?"

  I smiled, reaching down for the glass."That'd be perfect."

  "And the trousers—you'll want them tailored for an ankle holster too, I'd guess."

  "Yeah. The holster is coming in a few days."

  Benson grabbed a measuring tape and a notebook. "Let's get your measurements. Long coats, vests, the whole thing?"

  I thought about those dime store novels. Dick Tracy. Sam Spade.

  "Yeah," I said. "The whole thing."

  He started measuring. Shoulders, arms, chest, waist. He worked fast, calling out numbers and scribbling them down.

  "I can do three suits to start," he said. "Dark gray, charcoal, and navy. Classic cuts, nothing flashy. Two long coats—one lighter weight for warmer days, one heavier for winter. Four shirts, two vests. I'll add inner pockets to the vests and jackets. Magazine pouches, maybe a pocket for a notebook or camera film."

  "How long?"

  "Two weeks for the first suit and coat. The rest will follow."

  Benson circled me, still measuring. "You're going to trash these, aren't you? Your line of work, I mean. Climbing fences, getting into scrapes. I've made clothes for men like you before."

  I smiled. "Probably."

  "Good. Means you'll keep coming back." He grinned. "I'll reinforce the seams, and use tougher fabric on the knees and elbows. You'll still wear them out, but they'll last longer than most."

  "I appreciate that."

  He finished measuring and set the tape down. "Come back in two weeks. I'll have the first suit and coat ready for a fitting. You can pick up the shirts then too."

  "Sounds good. What do I owe you?"

  "Fifty dollars down. We'll settle the rest when everything's done." Why don't we call it a hundred down. And fifty on top of the rest if you can get it done sooner.

  I counted out the cash and handed it over. Benson tucked it into a drawer and made a note in his ledger.

  "Welcome to St. Cloud, Mr. Donati," he said with a huge smile. "I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other real soon!"

  "I have that feeling too," I said with a laugh.

  I stepped back out onto the street. The sun was starting to drop lower, casting long shadows across the buildings. I had an office, supplies on the way, guns under my coat, and clothes being made.

  For the first time since stepping through that aperture, I felt like I was actually building something.

  Now I just had to figure out how to survive long enough to use it.

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