While Lightweasel marvels at Constable Biter’s shadow walking facility, Bill Bordersack is watching Biter overpower Lee Wung To by the simple expedient of picking him up and bouncing him off the wall of the adjacent Tropical Laundry and Snack bar. Realising he is probably the next target for Biter’s enthusiastic style of arrest, he hides the sack containing the two pistols under the walkway leading to Trade Street, and darts down a side alley, between a gnome lingerie shop, and pub called “The Leering Goblin”, observing their proximity is probably not a coincidence.
On the third bounce, the door to the establishment opens, and a tall figure, seemingly wearing a mask of a human skull, appears. “Excuse me, constable. Would mind awfully not doing that? It upsets the customers.”
“I’m terribly sorry about that, sir. I think I’m done subduing him now. The streets will be safer as result,” Biter responds as he picks up the fake Chinaman and starts to bind him with a length of rope he pulls from his jacket. “You can tell your customers everything is fine now.”
The snack bar owner sighs. “When I say customers, I’m referring to potential customers, inasmuch as my establishment here has the latent qualities that may lead to future success in gaining the custom of individuals who are in need of light refreshment while enjoying the co-occurring delights of a tropical laundry.”
“I couldn’t have better expounded on the virtues of your unique offering myself,” Biter replies while tying the last few knots. “Do you mind me asking, what exactly is a tropical laundry?”
The street they are in is one of Lundainjon’s long canals running west to east, bounded by tall warehouses, and lit by a succession of oil lamps hung from crosswires between the buildings. The few inhabitants stick to the shadows, under the overhangs, not for fear of recognition or being importuned by fellow travellers, but rather because the warehouses often flushed their waste materials straight out of the premises and on to the walkway.
“Well, I’m glad you asked. So very few take an interest these days. It’s like a Chinese laundry, only we have a slightly less invested work ethic,” the owner replies. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and produces a printed menu. “Here, have this. You can order by shell-phones and it will be ready for you when you arrive.”
Biter slings the unconscious and tightly bound Lee Wung To over his shoulder and tips his cap, “Thank you for that. I shall be sure to visit your establishment in the near future. May I enquire as to whom I am speaking?”
“That would be delightful, constable. You must try the pork-rind tea. My name is Tony. Tony Boneyface. I shall look forward to seeing you,” the man smiles a rictus grin. “Have a lovely day.”
“That’s quite an unusual name. Is that why you wear a skull mask?” Biter asks, his curiosity aroused.
“Oh, you are under a misapprehension, constable. This isn’t a mask. It’s what I look like. My name is an adopted moniker, one I assumed after an unfortunate young man made the extremely risky mistake of ridiculing my appearance,” Tony replies, again with a grin.
“Why was he unfortunate?” Biter asks with a frown.
“Well, he wasn’t, but he is now,” Tony says.
“I see,” Biter weighs up the possibility of some illegality taking place but decides it is best not to know. “You know you look rather like the Angel of Death.”
“Yes,” Tony replies, his eyes glowing like coals in the Abyss. “That’s because I am. Or rather I was. They made me redundant.”
“Really? So, who is guiding souls to their final destination?” Biter asks.
“Apparently, some young demon has automated it. They press a button and either get the trapdoor, or the elevator. He says it’s an al-go-rithm deciding their fate. I’m not sure what that is, but it’s probably some kind of hellish incantation,” Tony would have pursed his lips if he had any.
“So, you’ve come to Earth and set up shop as a laundry and snack bar?” Biter says.
“I couldn’t think of anything else and there seemed to be a gap in the market,” Tony replies. He turns to go back into his shop.
“Wait a moment, my guv’nor might like to meet you. Any chance you can call down to the station and have a chat?” Biter says.
“I’d be delighted. When should I call?” Tony seems to brighten.
“How about first thing in the morning? You need to go to…” Biter starts to say.
“It’s okay, constable. I know where to go,” Tony says. “It’s part of The Knowledge.”
“I thought that was taxi-punt drivers?” Biter says.
“Where do you think they get it from?” Tony answers as he steps back into his shop. “I’ll see you in the morning, constable.”
Biter gives a cursory salute and marches back to where Alana and Ironbell are still arguing, feeling very pleased with the day’s events. It’s not every day a troll gets to meet a bone fide superstar, and they don’t get much bigger than Death himself, albeit in diminished circumstances. And the possibility of engaging his services as an informant are too good to ignore.
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