robert asprin - myth-taken identity

"No," I stated flatly. "We're gonna change styles all the time."

Truth was, I had given the Deveels a fairly free hand, and I wasn't sure what they would come up with. Also, the less of a paper trail I could leave, the better. The last thing we needed was to have a catalog turn up ten years from now, and have someone bug us in the middle of an important operation in search of a size eight blue left-handed garter with marabou.

"Ah!" Marco exclaimed, enlightened. "You are an exclusive boutique. I understand."

"Yeah. A boutique." I was picking up all kinds of vocabulary as I went.

Marco made notes. "So you will want purple-and-silver tissue. Business cards—magikal will cost you a gold piece per hundred. Paper, a thousand per gold piece."

"Paper. Er, silver ink on deep purple card. Shiny." I began to picture it in my mind. "A little frilly ring in the upper right-hand corner. The store number in the bottom right."

"And the name?" Marco asked, pencil poised.

"Uh." He had me there. I hadn't even considered what we were going to call it. "Garterama?"

"Not a boutique name," the Djinn declared firmly.

I wasn't really the marketing specialist. "We Are Garters?" I grinned evilly as a thought struck me. "Garter Snake?"

Marco wiggled a hand. "Not really family appeal. A few species would respond to that favorably, but some won't. Cute is what you want. Perky. Make the buyers think they're in on something special."

"Not bad," I mused.

Good advice. But what could we let the punters in on? I had to admit that I was surprised that Massha had suggested garters in the first place. Not that she was body-shy; her normal attire was a modified harem-girl outfit. And she had a healthy attitude about love and marriage. She'd waited long enough for them, after all. I don't know why her idea took me off guard. I guess it had been a long time since I'd thought about the little things that made a relationship romantic. She knew them, and she was willing to share. "How about Massha's Secret?"

Marco kissed his fingertips. "The delectable lady? Perfect, perfect! Yes, that will attract the visitors, you wait and see! Shall I prepare a lovely portrait of her to hang on the wall over the counter? It can wink at each person!"

I cringed. "I don't think that's what she's got in mind. But, uh, you could put a winking eye on the receipts."

Marco waved a hand, and a nice line drawing of a long-lashed eye appeared on the notepad.

"Thicker line there, and more curve in the lashes. Yeah. Substitute that for the garter on the cards, too. And you mentioned in-Mail ads. A simple line drawing in purple on white or silver posters. No text, at least not at first. Let them wonder. Then add the store number in the second round. Then add a slogan, 'Do you know Massha's Secret?' Yeah. I like that."

"You are very subtle for a Pervect!" Marco exclaimed.

I nodded with satisfaction. "I've been around. Now, what about key chains? And maybe lapel pins? Bumper stickers?"

"T-shirts?" Marco asked, writing furiously.

"No!" I exclaimed. "I don't want to go crazy on this. I'm just trying to sell garters."

Marco and I quickly agreed on the rest of the designs, colors, and quantity of each item. I thought Massha and the others would be pleased, and the intrigue ought to bring in the punters on the run. Everyone loved a mystery. Half the fun was becoming an insider before the other people you knew.

"And to prevent theft," Marco concluded, with a flourish, "the very latest in deterrents!"

He presented me with a very small wooden box. I opened it, to behold a second lid, this one of glass. Beneath the glass was a small, very angry-looking black-and-white bee. It threw itself at the lid, trying to get out at us.

"They are very hard to kill, they cannot be bought off with honey or other sweets, and they cannot be removed without the correct spell. Anyone who carries a piece of merchandise past the alarm belt, which you will place around your door, will be stung repeatedly. The bees also have a very loud buzz, which can be heard for several feet."

"Perfect," I acknowledged, handing the box back. "We'll take a hiveful."

Marco tossed the box into the air. It vanished.

"Then we are finished. Thank you for the order. You are much easier to work with than many of your species."

'Thanks, I think," I replied sourly.

"I just wonder—" the Djinn began, with a pensive look on his broad face, "because you came here to catch a thief—my cousins and I hope that your new interest in the retail industry will not take your attention away from that ambition."

"Hell, no," I assured him. "That's still our primary focus. All this is to help out with the hunt. Keep that under your turban, though."

"Of course, of course!" Marco exclaimed, overjoyed. "Then we give you the best service, and the fastest delivery!" He kissed me on both cheeks. "I will see you, tomorrow by noon! You will be very pleased, I promise."

"You look happy," Massha declared, as I strutted back into the shop.

Chumley was hammering racks into the wall with his bare hands, aided by Eskina, who passed him nails as he asked for them. The decor was about finished. Three of the walls were mauve, and one was about the same shade as Chumley's fur. The Flibberite painters, looking pale and tired, staggered out with the buckets, ladders and drop cloths. I waited until they were out of earshot before I replied.

"Come and see what I've got," I invited them. The small back room had been divided into two spaces. One of them was the storeroom, for back stock. The other was a cozy mirrored room where customers could see how they would look in a garter without having to try it on

"It's my own spell," Cire explained smugly.

"And it has nothing to do with that hairdresser on Imper who was using the same idea more than twenty years ago, huh?"

Cire looked hurt. "Mine has a lot of new wrinkles! Really!"

"Like?"

"Like," Cire echoed, a crafty expression on his broad face, "that Imp hairdresser didn't have anything in her spell that compared the customer in her chair with the list of Rattila's victims."

"If one of the misused faces enters," Chumley added, "the door will refuse to open. The room is quite secure. I have tested it myself."

"Nice. Nice," I assured them, nonchalantly. "Now, I've been doing really important work."

I spread out the boxes, ribbons, papers, sample posters, and other items on the table in the back room.

Cire goggled. "This is important?"

"You can't just throw open the doors without the right ambience in place," I snarled. "It'd look too amateurish."

I hoped Massha wouldn't toss it back in my face that it had been her idea. But she was turning over the boxes and cards with a look of delight on her face.

"Oh, Aahz, honey," Massha cooed. "They're beautiful! 'Massha's Secret'?" She went scarlet, but she leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.

"Don't get soft," I snapped. But inwardly I was glad she liked it. "Think all of this will lure the thieves in?"

"They will not be able to resist," Chumley assured me.

Massha looked it all over again, holding up the ribbons and other little knickknacks. I felt a surge of pride. Everything was coordinated and professional-looking, and, I was sure, guaranteed to appeal to the chosen market. But an expression of faintly puzzled discomfort crossed her face.

"Aahz, honey," Massha remarked at last, holding a ribbon up next to my face. "You clash."

With pride and trepidation I stood at the entrance to the shop two mornings later. Our hired musician, Gniggo, a Gnomish pianist whose keyboard hung suspended in midair, played old standards, vying desperately against the disco beat blatting from the bards just outside in the corridor and the sale music piping out good and loud from above the store facade. In spite of the protection of Massha's amulet, my ears were killing me.