Anton Strout - Deader Still

Marten Heron grabbed his hand and pumped it with great enthusiasm.

“Ah, yes, Julius. There is a third brother as well, Lanford, but he hasn’t had much time away from the booth. Not one for the socialization, you see.”

Marten continued shaking hands. This went on for several moments before the Inspectre broke it off.

“If I’m not mistaken,” the Inspectre said, “you’re one of the Romnichal, are you not?”

“Romni-what?” I said, unable to contain myself. This time the Inspectre slammed his heel down on my foot, and I stifled a cry of pain.

“ Romnichal , actually,” Marten corrected, smiling. “We’re Romany, from Downers Grove. You have a good ear.”

“It was your last name that tipped me off, actually,” the Inspectre said. “Fairly common among the nomadic tribes in America.”

“I’ve never met any gypsies before,” I piped in. “Downers Grove sounds very exotic.”

Marten shrugged. “If you consider Illinois exotic, sure.”

I scrunched my face. “Illinois gypsies?”

“For part of the year anyway,” he said. “But as your friend so astutely points out, we are nomadic, so my brothers and I do get around.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of business cards, and started sorting through them. Halfway through the pile, he stopped and pulled one free.

“If you hear of anything out of the ordinary happening at the show, please, give me a call,” he said, trying to hand it to me. I kept my hands at my side, not wanting to explain my gloves. The Inspectre reached for it instead.

I read the card over the Inspectre’s shoulder.

The Brothers Heron

Purveyors of Modern Miracles, Cure-Alls, and All Manner of Items Fantastical

Marten Heron

I noticed there was no address, but it did list a phone number.

As if he anticipated my thoughts, Marten pulled a cell phone from his pocket and waved it at me like it was doing a little dance.

“It makes being nomadic a little easier,” he said. He checked the clock on the face of his cell phone. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to be returning to my brothers now. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Come on by if you’re looking for anything special—charms, potions, whatnot.” He started to turn, then spun back around. “And again, sorry about the almost-killing-you thing.”

Marten Heron walked off into a sea of Wookiees, elves, and samurai, leaving the Inspectre and me alone once again.

“Tell me, boy,” the Inspectre said once he was gone. “Did anything seem suspicious about all that?”

A few young men drifted toward the table, picking through what we had to offer them.

“Other than him owning the device that tried to kill me?” I asked, trying to control my snark. “He seemed a little jumpy, like he was nervous about something. It makes me wonder what he’s trying to hide and if it might have anything to do with our problem at the dock yesterday. I mean, how much suspicious activity can go on in this neighborhood, right?”

I spied Connor hustling through the crowd, coming down the aisle in front of us.

“It certainly warrants a little bit of investigation,” the Inspectre said.

Connor came into our booth and threw his trench coat and bag underneath the back table. Inspectre Quimbley pointedly checked his pocket watch.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “There was another zombie scare downtown, so traffic was a bitch. Small outbreak, it looks like, but they’re getting more and more frequent lately.”

The Inspectre nodded. He turned back to me. “Why don’t you take Connor with you and see what you can find out?” he said. The stone-serious look he gave me left no doubt he was giving me Fraternal Order-level orders, putting me in charge. “I’ll man the booth by myself for a while.”

“Sure,” I said, hoping Connor wasn’t really paying attention.

I grabbed Connor and headed out in search of the short man’s booth.

“What the hell was up with that, kid?” he asked. He sounded good and pissed.

“Up with what?” I said, feigning ignorance as I dodged a pack of Live-Action Role Players dressed in fairy costumes.

“Why’s the Inspectre giving you our orders instead of me?”

“Oh,” I said, pausing to think up something. “That. It’s nothing. You were late so we just started discussing one of the Illinois gypsies who stopped by the booth.”

Somehow this seemed to mollify Connor, and he relaxed. “What did I miss?”

As we searched for the Brothers Heron booth, I explained the conversation we had had with Marten Heron. By the time I was done, Connor had spotted the sign at their booth, and the two of us walked over.

The Brothers Heron booth looked like a movie-set medicine show. Their setup consisted of an actual gypsy wagon, the kind I’d seen either in cartoons or on television shows where snake-oil salesmen would try to pawn their wares off on unsuspecting townies.

“Well, color me Romany,” Connor said with a whistle. “A bit theatric, don’t you think?”

Unfortunately, the Brothers Heron themselves were nowhere to be seen. As we approached the wagon, however, the incoherent sounds of arguing in a language I didn’t understand were coming from behind the wagon curtain, making it apparent where they were. I turned to Connor.

“Stay here,” I said.

“Excuse me?” he said, with a little bite to it.

“I just need you to distract them for a few minutes while I take a look back behind the scenes of their wagon.”

“Whoa,” Connor said. “I think we’re going to have to clear that with Enchancellors.”

“We don’t have to clear shit,” I said, feeling a little bold with power. “We don’t have time to fill out a bunch of forms or make some calls. I’m doing this under the authority of the Fraternal Order of Goodness, and that’s that.”

“And that’s what you’ll say if we get called out on breaking with Departmental procedure?”

I nodded. Connor shrugged, but I could tell that he was only feigning indifference. “Good enough for me. I’ll defer to your F.O.G.gieauthority . . . this time.”

“Thanks,” I said, uncomfortable with the strange power play that had just happened. “I’ll be right back. Shop their table. Pretend you’re interested in their wares.”

Connor looked down at the table. It was covered with stoppered bottles, vials, totems, and fetishes. “But I am interested in their wares.”

“Good,” I said, walking off. “Then it shouldn’t be such a stretch for you. I’ll be back.”

I disappeared around the corner of the booth without giving Connor a chance to speak again.

I had to see what the hell was going on. I inched my way along the blue-curtained section behind the wagon as I followed the sound of the voices. I found the nearest seam and pulled it aside slowly, praying to God that I didn’t find someone staring back out at me.

The area behind the Brothers Heron’s shop held the Oubliette and also a clutter of various-sized packing crates. Three men stood around a broken crate that reached chest height, and none of them looked happy. The balding one called Marten was there, and across from him stood two others: one was Julius, the dark-haired Penn Gillette look-alike, and the other was a man in his early twenties who looked just shy of being a total Ichabod, with the same dark hair. I thought Marten had said his name was Lanford.

Even though I might have been able to read their lips while they argued, the language they spoke was still impenetrable. My best guess was that it was probably some sort of gypsy Cant.

“Excuse me?” I heard Connor call from out in front of their wagon. “Hello?”

Marten spoke and the three of them acted as one, slipping a tarp over the broken crate before stepping into the wagon. I prayed that Connor could keep them distracted long enough, and then I darted inside the curtain toward the crates, carefully sidestepping the Oubliette. I had to see what they were so eager to hide.