Ch.270Request Log #022 – Small, Simple, Trivial Tasks (4)

“I’m assuming the Computer Workers’ Union won’t provide any support, right?”

It wasn’t even worth feeling disappointed about. People who claimed to stand with workers showing up at a detective known for union-busting already took a year’s worth of courage.

The man couldn’t properly look up, torn between the frustration of things going so wrong that they needed to hire a detective and the shame of hiring someone who had previously stood against them. He nodded.

“I came alone after briefly informing the Federation, so naturally I can’t expect any help. They won’t even know about this report, so you’re… well, how should I put it…”

“Floating free, you mean.”

This was one thing I could welcome. Though I was hired, it was only a personal engagement with no backing to discover if anyone investigated. Yet through this man, I could still access the Computer Workers’ Union’s information.

The client nodded briefly. Only in this moment did he transform from a man hiding his Computer Workers’ Union affiliation into an actual client. He looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“That’s right. You seem pleased rather than concerned about that fact.”

“Why would someone accustomed to working without support worry about floating free? If things go wrong, no one will discover who hired you—that’s something to be grateful for.”

He shuddered again. The journalist had shown the same reaction, so I paid it little mind. In their world, hiring a fixer like me was that far outside the norm.

“You seem reliable. But the fact that you’re reliable is terrifying. My comrades were crushed by people like you without even knowing it, and now with my own hands…”

It was amusing. If hiring me was a choice he’d regret for the rest of his life, he shouldn’t have done it. I decided not to worry about it.

Instead, I pulled items he hadn’t brought from my filing cabinet. I took out a basic labor movement handbook with a rough red cover and a set of business cards like those carried by Computer Workers’ Union members.

I rotated between three aliases. I’d used the name Peter Weinberg nine months ago, so this time I pulled out cards printed with Herman Mayer. They might still be looking for Peter Weinberg.

There was no need to show these to the client, but since he seemed to misunderstand the weight of his request, I opened the labor movement handbook to show him how it had been hollowed out in the shape of a gun.

He tried to look away. I slapped my palm on the desk once. He couldn’t turn away. I smirked leisurely.

“If you don’t like this, you can just report that ‘those stupid laborers failed because they were messing around.’ Would you prefer that? Or could you please stop making that disgusted face?”

Only then did he look at the book and cards I’d placed down, then raised his head to look at me. When making wishes, one should know exactly who they’re asking. He didn’t.

The job would be handled properly, but the aftertaste wouldn’t be clean. Weakness is always repaid with betrayal. I wouldn’t do it myself, but I had no reason to prevent it either.

He took a deep breath. With an expression like drinking poison, he finally started saying something I liked better.

“I’ll… leave it in your hands…”

“That’s better. Write down the factory address and any names I’ll need. Leave your contact information, and I’ll be in touch. I should go check out the situation first.”

I’d done plenty of hired muscle work before. It would be ridiculous to think someone who had worked under Clichy with the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn would avoid such jobs.

The client left my office with a completely overwhelmed expression after writing down his contact information. He rushed out, trying to ensure no one recognized him as being from the Computer Workers’ Union. Time for me to change clothes.

Dressing like hired muscle was most comfortable for movement but most inconvenient for dealing with people. Going without a suit meant giving up the treatment a suit would get you.

Matching denim top and bottom, with a leather work jacket that might stop a pocket knife, made me look sufficiently like hired muscle. Hired muscle weren’t really different from the workers themselves.

If anything, they were similar enough that they enjoyed being on the side doing the suppressing rather than being suppressed. Was I any different, watching from a distance? Perhaps a little.

I tucked the revolver I’d used today into my waistband without my usual holster harness, put a speed loader in my pants pocket, and left home. I wouldn’t be discovered. I went down to the parking garage and got in my car.

I lightly pressed the pedal to start the engine and pulled the acceleration lever. I needed to get out before entering the factory district. When in disguise, I had to be somewhat mindful of others’ gazes.

The Industrial Spirit King recognizing me moving about wasn’t a problem, but a factory thug arriving in an unfamiliar car would be.

I parked on a suitable roadside before entering the factory district. My clothes weren’t saturated with cigarette smoke, so I lit one as I got out. I’d emptied another pack, but instead of throwing it away, I put it in my pocket.

I headed toward the factory written on the client’s note. Friday morning, before workers arrived for their shift. It was still quite dark with the sun not fully risen. The factory gate was open, so I simply walked in.

Magic isn’t cast with mana alone. Appropriate clothing, gestures, and speech were more effective than magic that clumsily mimicked human appearance.

I approached the security office first. Standing a step away from the lit office, I pulled out my empty cigarette pack from my pocket, showed it was empty, and held out my hand.

“Always empty when I want a morning smoke… Anything happen after your shift ended?”

Instead of trying to recognize my barely visible face or checking if my voice matched any of the hundreds working at this factory, the security guard simply offered me a cigarette.

He was an aging Orc with a protruding belly, suggesting he’d injured his leg. Large races like Orcs often had joint problems, and when they couldn’t move, they just gained weight.

“How many hours do you think pass between when you guys finish guard duty and I start my shift that you’re so worried? I told your old man in the break room not to worry either, so take it easy, kid.”

The old man must be the union leader set up by the Computer Workers’ Union. Better to poke at him. When handling two sides simultaneously, nothing worked better than setting them against each other.

I held out my empty cigarette pack, took one cigarette, and habitually struck a match against my gloved palm to light it. No mana scent left behind. I waved casually and headed into the factory.

So this company has hired muscle doing security too. That means most of the muscle are workers themselves. They probably hired just a few specialists, who would be in the employee break room.

Usually it was quite a formal space—just somewhere to eat lunch quickly, not really fulfilling the role of a break room, but places that used outsiders sometimes had them surprisingly well-furnished.

I positioned my waistband gun for easy drawing. I could see a lit annex behind the factory. That was it. I could have walked straight there, but I went through the factory instead.

I was heading to him after receiving instructions about the union leader from the factory owner. The Industrial Spirits were still sleeping. Keeping them asleep until work hours started was more efficient.

I walked among the Industrial Spirits, looking for the door leading from the factory to the employee break room. I pushed through the door. There was a Dwarf inside—a rather haggard-looking Dwarf.

His eyes were filled with anxiety. Despite being framed and lynched, he had stood against the people he’d tried to protect. There was also a sense of injustice—perhaps even stronger than the anxiety.

He was an old Dwarf. Seeing his beard braided multiple times and hanging down to his waist, he must be over fifty. For this Dwarf, the humiliation would have hurt more than the lynching.

Dwarves became physically harder as they aged, but their pride grew equally unmanageable. That pride had been shattered head-on. I assessed the situation.

If I scratched at him in the factory owner’s name, he would naturally turn against the owner. I approached with the cigarette in my mouth. The Dwarf seemed to assume I was one of the hired muscle based on my outfit.

“It’s good you came in early, but didn’t anyone teach you to greet people properly when you arrive? Non-Dwarves at least nod their heads…”

I reached out with my gloved hand and lightly grabbed his forelock. Before the Dwarf could be surprised, I stepped forward while holding his hair and lightly kneed him in the upper abdomen.

I felt the body in my grip stiffen. Hit in the upper body, he couldn’t even make a choking sound as his posture collapsed while I held him. I barked at him, just as I’d done many times before.

“Greetings my ass… Muscle is muscle. What, you think you’re some union boss for the muscle? Leave you alone? Our boss is worried every day about what shit those bastards might pull, and you’re telling me to leave them alone, old man? Can you take responsibility if they gather at dawn and pull some stunt?”

I drew the gun from inside my jacket. I pressed the bottom of the revolver handle lightly against the temple of the kneeling Dwarf. I gouged at him with that roughly finished surface. The Dwarf’s aged voice rang out.

After repeating this for a while, I threw back the Dwarf, whose face had reddened all the way to his forehead, hands trembling, voice hoarse. I brushed off the hair stuck to the bottom of the gun handle.

“I don’t want to do this to an old man either, but the boss doesn’t like you. Huh? At first you were so docile, looking like you’d chew on anything thrown in a dog bowl, but he says you’re trying to reclaim your position, so he told me to teach you a lesson. Take it easy, old man.”

I approached him as he wheezed, trying to stand up while holding the side of his head with one hand. I grabbed his hair and shoved the Dwarf’s body, easily 200 pounds, straight into a locker.

The impact was too much for the old man to endure. He lost consciousness after hitting his head against the wall. He was still breathing. He wouldn’t be in critical condition. That took care of one part.

I opened the lockers in the break room one by one, looking for the name I’d been given, and placed a business card with the Husband Detective Agency’s phone number inside, then quietly closed the door. The other part could be scratched with this.

Leaving the Dwarf unconscious with his head shoved in the locker, I brewed a cup of coffee. Around the time I finished my second cup, another hired muscle arrived for his shift. Another human.

Shaggy hair, dull eyes, large frame but seemingly skinny. I couldn’t be sure if he still did, but he’d used drugs before. I clicked my tongue at his disgusting appearance.

He rushed into the break room when he saw the Dwarf with his head in the locker. He looked anxiously between me, calmly finishing my coffee, as if asking for an explanation.

“Didn’t you hear what the boss said? He said this guy’s acting like he owns the place, so teach him a lesson. Were you on morning shift yesterday too?”

“What? Well, I did hear something like that… Yeah, morning shift. Afternoon shift now?”

“I just got off the night shift and had to come back in the morning because of this bastard. Handle it yourself. The boss won’t want to admit he ordered this, so cover it up quietly. If the afternoon shift guys say the morning shift can’t even guard properly, now’s your chance to prove them wrong. Got it?”

Having downed two cups of coffee added to my credibility. While he nodded dully, I put my coat back on and left the break room through the back door.

I’d entered boldly through the front door but left through the back. I was a character who plausibly belonged there. If someone looked properly, they’d find no such person existed, but no one wanted to hear that.

The union leader Dwarf, upon hearing his attacker wasn’t actually hired muscle, would think it was the factory owner’s doing to cover things up. After all, the security guard and other muscle had clearly seen me.

Showing an employee roster would be pointless. The remote possibility that the Dwarf had connections to the Industrial Spirit King and might ask him to identify the intruder had to be ruled out.

Now there were many people dressed similarly to me on the street. I buttoned my coat and naturally blended into the crowd. I moved through the crowd, through air mixed with factory and car exhaust and cigarette smoke.

I naturally slipped out of the crowd, got into my car parked outside the factory district, and returned to my office. I’d adequately assessed the situation.

The factory owner seemed to think the union leader might be useful but didn’t fully trust him. He nodded in agreement with everything I said, even though I was just making educated guesses.

It didn’t matter if the factory owner’s true intentions differed from my words. A Dwarf trembling with anxiety would firmly believe my words—the words of the man who assaulted him—were true, even without evidence.

Thanks to that, the job became a bit easier. I waited for the phone call at home without changing out of my work clothes. I needed to retrieve that business card too—either by pickpocketing or by visiting the factory again.

Those idiots who would lynch someone without evidence probably weren’t that smart, but the moment they discovered this phone number belonged to the Husband Detective Agency, the plan would be ruined.

Thanks to rushing without taking in my surroundings, I made it home in exactly one hour to wait for the call. I wondered how they’d handled that Dwarf. The awaited call came, and I answered immediately.

From the other end of the line came a half-doubting voice. He seemed curious about how my card ended up in his clothes.

“Um, this is from the American Industrial Workers’ Federation…”

“This is Herman Mayer, comrade. I see you found the card I left! The situation at your factory is awkward for us to handle openly, so I quietly left my card and left. I’m glad you found it.”

Hearing my somewhat reassuring voice, the person on the other end seemed relieved. I could hear car sounds in the background. He must have left the factory and was using a public phone, so we could keep this brief.

“Ah, yes. That’s a relief. When I arrived at work, the old union leader was collapsed in the changing room. It was chaos, and I barely got out. May I ask what’s happening…”

“Although what our comrades did is unacceptable, how could the Federation abandon workers? The Federation has decided to support the strike. But we’ll do it quietly. We can’t let it be known that the Federation is involved. If our involvement is revealed, we could end up like the Idealists.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I heard the Federation has been struggling because of that! Whew, it’s good to be forgiven. So…”

He talks about being forgiven. His side is also filled with self-justification to cover the guilt of assaulting an innocent person. Then I could be bold. I could act like a savior granting absolution.

Could I entrust evidence elimination to this man? Probably. When would be the best time to move? Tomorrow was the weekend… Monday would likely be best.

“First, tear up that card you have and throw it down a drain or somewhere. And next Monday at dawn, we’ll send people… get the union members ready too. Understand?”

He responded with a voice that had found hope. He grabbed the flimsy rope of hope that the Federation, which had turned against him, had returned. He didn’t see that the rope had been sawed through.

“Ah, I understand! Monday… two days is a bit tight, but I’ll manage! See you Monday!”

The Computer Workers’ Union doesn’t handle things this way. They don’t suggest strikes first. They were friends of the workers, not their representatives.

Telling him to tear up the card was also strange. Without the card, and without knowing my phone number, how would we communicate over the next two days? If he thought deeply, everything would be suspicious.

But such reality meant nothing to him. Why look down at the sticky reality when there was a brightly burning hope right in front of him? He couldn’t find an answer.