Ch.91Request Log #010 – The Missing Children (8)

When you have an elf beside you, you have to act like a monk. Unable to even smoke a cigarette, I received the congressman’s address from the police officer the reporter had called, exchanged brief greetings, and got into the car.

The reporter sat down next to me, burying herself in the seat’s backrest as if tired. Perhaps thinking this was a place where she no longer needed to pretend to be strong, she spoke in her natural voice.

“I felt this last time too… Shouldn’t you be getting more than 20 dollars? Like 30 dollars a day… I don’t think anyone would complain if you took as much as a factory worker’s weekly wage.”

Though she didn’t provide the same comfort as Levi, she was pleasant enough to listen to and distract my mind. The reason for the lack of comfort was simple. Levi was completely uninvolved in this kind of business, but the reporter had now stepped into it.

I only answered after we left the crowded sidewalk full of onlookers and entered the road. While I could share some comfort with the reporter, I couldn’t become friendly with the crowds of spectators who just gathered and murmured.

“If I asked for 30 dollars a day, I’d only get jobs that cost 30 dollars a day. Union busting, or something more proper like assassination… or tracking down murderers. Most of the decent jobs have shady backgrounds and risk getting shot, and even detective-like jobs would take at least a month or two. I want to enjoy life.”

It’s not like lowering my rate to 20 dollars a day brought in proper work anyway. Looking at what I did, no one would likely call me a detective. At best, they’d call me a fixer.

No, it’s not my fault. It’s this city’s fault, where even finding a missing child requires killing about ten people to properly resolve. I knew it wasn’t true, but I blamed the city for a moment of comfort.

“Well, if these kinds of jobs come in at 20 dollars a day… I guess that makes sense. Oh, on the way back, can I continue the interview from last time? I can’t get a story from someone who’s drunk.”

Right… I did give permission last time. When she asked to be taken to a bar, I took her to the orc’s place and just killed some time. I don’t even remember how I got home that day.

Days when I couldn’t remember how I got home were generally good days. On days when I remembered inserting the key into my door and lying down on the bed, I invariably had nightmares. Even my four hours of sleep were disturbed.

The reporter took out a notebook in the shaking car, as if for a more serious interview. While the notebook was modest, the pen—likely a gift from President Clichy—was comparatively luxurious.

“So, how did you become a detective? Maybe ‘why’ would be better than ‘how,’ since it’s not exactly a respectable profession. The work is hard, and even though the pay seems good, it’s not safe.”

Another question that made me recall my childhood. At fourteen, after graduating from school, instead of continuing my education, I headed straight to the Blingkerton Detective Agency near my home. I recklessly asked the familiar detective for work.

Did I think being a detective was cool? I might have admired the detective who dressed stylishly in a trench coat and fedora every day. While six years ago feels like six years ago, ten years ago feels like a hundred.

“Yeah. I needed to make money. There was no one else to earn money at home. And if I was going to earn money, I wanted to do it in style. So I barged into the local branch of the Blingkerton Detective Agency. I was assigned menial tasks like filing papers and driving… but, well, I earned better than kids stuck in factories. I also quite liked learning how to fight. Probably.”

The reporter let out a light laugh. Though she didn’t disturb the driver, her voice suggested that if she hadn’t, she would have pushed my arm playfully, just as Levi often did.

“What’s that supposed to mean? It sounds like you’re talking about someone else, not yourself. I can’t even imagine a young you who enjoyed learning how to fight.”

“Well, I learned half of it there and the other half in the Great War—that should shut you up now. No, there’s no need for that. It’s true that I’m putting it to good use.”

The detective who taught me the detective work back then must have been the same one who left their contact information, even using words like “master” and such.

I recall what that woman said. She probably said she never thought I’d become an operative, which is why I learned in the Great War how to kick shins, gouge eyes, and drive knees into groins.

I’m acting like a proper detective when retracing my own memories, even though I don’t act like one when getting paid for work. I let out a hollow laugh.

The reporter was frozen, as expected. Though I told her she didn’t have to be, she bit her lip as if suddenly realizing this somehow connected to the Argonne Invincibles.

I understood her intention. She seemed to want to ask about me before I was tainted by the Great War, but that wasn’t something to ask someone who wasn’t even sure if such a time had ever truly existed.

Still, the reporter didn’t give up easily. As we turned a corner, she steadied herself against the car’s motion and posed her next question.

“Then, why did you return to detective work after coming back from the Great War? I just want to know a little about you that’s not related to all that.”

“Right, you’ve changed your approach. Not bad. And… it was just a favor for someone I knew. She was certain her husband was having an affair and needed someone to look into it. She knew I’d worked at a detective agency for three years before the Great War, so I helped her out, and the pay was quite substantial. Money is always necessary, and I just found a way to earn a lot of it.”

There wasn’t much of a story to it. I always needed money, and money was always honest with me. Everyone in the Argonne Invincibles had some degree of obsession with cleanliness. I was no different.

For the Hanger of New York, who was once the Rat-Catcher, the blood of sinners was medicine; for the poet, only liberation; for the professor, responsibility; and for me, money. It was the moment when money became the only thing of value that remained.

The reporter nodded briefly. Though she held her notebook, not a single letter or punctuation mark had been written in it. Not recording meant leaving it to evaporate.

“That’s just like you. So, that was the time, right? When the only thing of value in this city…”

I could feel the reporter’s gaze, hoping I would finish the sentence. I could at least give her that much.

“Yes. When nothing remained but money.”

A smile appeared on the reporter’s face. I had clearly drawn the line at matters concerning the Great War, so there was nothing to fear. It wasn’t bad to draw out conversation without touching on things that shouldn’t be touched.

I didn’t talk about the bartender. While it was fine to think of another woman when with a woman, I didn’t want to be a man who rambled on about another woman.

As we conversed, we had already reached the vicinity of the reporter’s apartment. After parking the car in the lot, I walked up to the fourth floor with her. Inside the apartment, the aroma of delicious food wafted through the air.

When we entered using the reporter’s key, her lawyer was waiting for us at the door. She immediately unfastened the shield and its strap from her wrist and tossed it to me. It wasn’t my property.

“I’m back, Paulina! I’m fine, so don’t worry. Though, it is getting to be dinner time…”

Contrary to her usual demeanor, the reporter’s lawyer had a smile at the corner of her mouth. I had thought she was a stoic person, but apparently not with the reporter. She was more concerned with checking the reporter’s condition than accepting the shield I offered.

Even if she was a friend bought on installment, she might genuinely be a friend. Only after confirming that the reporter didn’t have even a scratch did the half-ogre accept the shield I was holding out. She gave a slight nod.

“While I never doubted your skills, I’m glad Rose is safe. But, you coming up here… Sigh… I guess it’s what I’m thinking?”

“The reporter invited me for dinner. I’m not one to turn down a free meal.”

The lawyer was uncomfortable with me. It’s fine to keep a secret to oneself, but it’s painful to be with someone who knows your secret.

She looked troubled, probably worried that I might tell the reporter what kind of person President Clichy really was. But soon she displayed a well-crafted smile and stepped aside to let me in.

There was a slight hesitation in her step as she moved aside. It seemed she didn’t dislike letting me in. She just had something she wanted to hide, as evidenced by the way her words trailed off.

“I was just making dinner since it seemed like you’d be back soon…”

At those words, I glanced briefly at the kitchen. There was too much food being prepared for just an elf and an ogre… that is, an amount that might be too much even with me included.

She’s someone who needs to work when anxious, I see. I understood a bit more. Knowledge was always power, especially in this treacherous city where there were neither eternal friends nor eternal enemies.

“You would have thrown away two-thirds of it anyway, so you should be grateful someone’s here to help finish it. Right?”

The reporter chimed in with my remark, cheerfully bombarding her lawyer with questions about whether she had made too much again. Uncharacteristically, I was facing something other than silence after work.

Embarrassed, the lawyer shifted her gaze before finally looking back at me. In uncomfortable situations, the blade always points toward the most vulnerable person.

“I hope you know you can’t sit at the dinner table smelling of gunpowder. Elves have sensitive noses and…”

“And ogres are sensitive about cooking. Just lend me a towel. I don’t want to eat dinner reeking of gunpowder either.”

Taking the towel the reporter tossed me, I entered the room I had used when protecting her before. It had been completely tidied up for guests again, so there was no trace of my day-long stay.

Naturally, the cloth I had draped over the bathroom mirror was also gone, but since I was feeling a bit better today, I decided to face the mirror. For the first time in a long while, I properly opened my eyes and confronted my reflection. No human face was visible.

When captured in photographs, it simply appeared distorted, but seeing it directly was a different experience. It was as if I was wearing the flayed skin of a translucent comrade. I couldn’t recognize my face.

It had been six years since I had directly seen my own face. I knew what I looked like. Other people could see my face with the naked eye, and drawings of me weren’t distorted.

It’s unavoidably stressful. I washed off the gunpowder smell in the reporter’s apartment with hot water, then walked out still wearing clothes that smelled of gunpowder. It was a meaningless act.

But life isn’t about meaning. It’s about desire. Meaning makes us sit down and think, but desire drives us forward. I decided to be satisfied with the refreshing feeling.

When I opened the door and went out, there was the reporter again with her camera. Even though any picture taken now wouldn’t come out properly, she was pointing her camera lens at me.

“Michael! Can I take a photo? I was reminded of when I took Chris’s picture. I took his photo when he was still under the influence of the ritual, but when I developed it later, it was clear. So, I’ll just take this now… and someday, someday after you break the spell, I’ll develop it and give it to you.”

For something the reporter could do, it wasn’t unpleasant. So instead of refusing, I nodded. The camera flash I had so long avoided went off. The photo was captured on film.

For now, it would be a grotesque image with a distorted face, but it wouldn’t be that way forever. I neither despaired at the fact that only a distorted image would appear now, nor did I hope that it wouldn’t always be so.

I was just… hungry, I suppose. That was about the extent of my feelings. I walked to the table and sat down in the chair where my plate was placed. For the first time since visiting the gnoll restaurant, I had a proper dinner.

There was beet soup similar to what orcs eat, skewered and grilled chicken… a typical ogre-style dinner. Since an elf would be eating too, the seasoning was mild, but the taste was excellent.

It was the perfect rest before starting work again tomorrow. The elf was satisfied with barely eating anything, so the half-ogre and I devoured all the food—an amount that would normally require at least three ogres.

The reporter was looking at me with slightly surprised eyes. Only after watching me wipe my mouth did she speak.

“You’re a much bigger eater than I thought… Is that also because of that?”

“I can get by on half of what others eat, but when I eat until I’m full, I eat twice as much as others. I’m both a light eater and a big eater.”

Her expression showed she understood what was implied by the words “half” and “twice.” Since I had no intention of staying overnight, I got up without having coffee. I put on my gunpowder-scented coat again.

“You’ve treated me for a day, so next time I’ll treat you. And I’ll contact you after the job is done. I’ll split it 70-30, including calling in police with connections, helping with the infiltration this time… and adding the information fee. If you have any objections to the ratio, say so now.”

It was the ratio I used in deals with Yehoel. If she had only provided information, 90-10. If she had given somewhat useful help, 80-20. If she had provided decisive help in handling the job, 70-30 was the principle.

She neither criticized me for talking about money in such a situation, nor asked if money matters were that important. As usual, she simply nodded vigorously.

“I don’t know how much it will be, but I’ll suddenly have a lump sum too. Yes, that ratio is fine!”

Now I needed to go home to report to my clients, and since I hadn’t been drinking, I would visit that congressman’s house, even if it meant staying up all night. I could move without sleep for three or four days anyway.

Time with helpers is always brief. Once again, I got into the car and crossed through New York City, where the rush hour had passed and the time of entertainment and glamour was approaching.

There was brilliance everywhere. All from electric bulbs. Jazz music leaked out from shops with covered windows. All just musicians hired by bars to set the mood.

For the first time in a long while, I saw New York instead of a vile city, and 1924 instead of the Roaring Twenties. My hatred for this city seemed to soften a bit. It would be fine at least until I got home.