1945. New York. A not-so-great neighbourhood.
“You wanna what?”
She watches him levelly, and then says again in that genteel British voice of hers, “I’d like to rent the apartment. And the offices.” It’s the first accent he’s ever heard that has a toffee-nose. She crosses her legs, uncrosses them, crosses them again – but she’s wearing big Army boots under that trenchcoat, so he doesn’t get distracted by any of the right things.
Mort frowns. “Are you sure?”
With a bright little smile like she’s asking him about the weather, she says, “Certain.” Puts that strong chin up and looks all steady at him, like she’s readying herself up for a maybe-fight she doesn’t want.
He wants to put his palms up and tell her he’s surrendering, Jesus, put it down, but instead he just leans back in his chair and asks, “The offices as well?”
He should be jumping for joy. She looks like she’ll pay pretty much anything, sounds it too, and he gave her the full viewing and the spiel about how great the crumbling walls and the possible roaches were. He just… wasn’t expecting her to come back, that’s all. Maybe she really is nuts. He wondered it when he saw all the black stuff around her eyes, the… star – hell, he doesn’t know – under one eye that stretched to her cheek. Shame to see on such a pretty woman. Then again, it’s usually the pretty ones who aren’t quite right.
She nods, relaxing just a little, and he can’t help it: he says, “I’m pretty sure you told me, but… remind me what you want them for again?” He knows for a fact that she didn’t, but he’d rather not get her back up.
That bright, shame about the rain smile again. It should be casual, should make him relax, but he gets the feeling she’s going to say something… odd. She tells him, “I’m hoping to open a private investigative agency.”
He rubs his forehead, feeling a migraine coming on, and manages, “I… I see.”
And somewhere the credits are beginning, but we’ll get to that later.
So List said sure, I’ll do it, because Mort’s not as young as he used to be and he needs the help. And List’s seventeen and he may look like a beanpole but he can lift stuff, and he’s pretty good at shelves, just ask Mom. He’s said sure, I’ll do it a million times and he knows he should probably get paid more, but he can stretch to a million-and-one because it’s the right thing to do and it’s currently all the work he can get.
Besides, he’s a little curious. The offices too, Mort said. Who the hell would want those offices?
Then he sees the trenchcoat hanging on the door, and yeah, maybe he’s grinning, because he’d know a big, beige private-eye trenchcoat anywhere. He’s expecting someone a little Dick Tracy, tall and with a chin you could bounce a bullet off and always with a pack of smokes in his pocket.
But he opens the door and he gets no-one. The place is empty. The door creaks and a tiny cloud of dust rises from the floorboards, dances round in the sunshine. He takes a step and the floor creaks, too. Another step. Another. He’s about to turn and go, maybe ask Mort if there’s been a mistake, when someone calls from behind the inner office door, “Come in.”
Huh. A Brit.
For some reason he feels like he should be creeping, like he should have his head down and be respectful while he greets Mr. Not-Dick-Tracy’s secretary or whoever, but he opens the door and –
Well, he does see a chin you wouldn’t want to screw around with, and she’s definitely tall, but she’s a she, and he doesn’t see cigarettes anywhere, and did he mention that she’s a woman? And she’s definitely not the secretary. Secretaries don’t lean on the desk like they already own it, and they don’t look at you like they’ve already figured out all your darkest secrets. Maybe what you’ve had for breakfast, while they’re at it. She’s wearing some of the weirdest makeup he’s ever seen but that doesn’t take away from those eyes, maybe the bluest he’s ever come across. He suddenly gets the accent because by God, they don’t make them like this at home.
“Uh…” He clears his throat. “Lease is in the name of Harrigan, I was told?”
She smiles at him. All of a sudden the severity drops away and leaves something softer, and boy, that’s scary in a whole different kinda way. “Melinda Harrigan.” She offers her hand.
After a second he realises he’s staring and rushes forward to shake it. “Alister Kord. Mort – Mister Ferguson sent me.”
She nods. “You’re here to help with the repairs?”
“I sure am.” He does his best to come up with a grin. Not much else he can do. “You’re the PI, then?”
Raising an eyebrow, she says, “He mentioned that?”
Now he’s genuinely laughing. “Actually it was the coat.”
“The – ?” She straightens up. It’s the first time he’s seen her unbalanced, and it surprises him. “Oh.” She smiles and says, “I suppose it wasn’t exactly subtle.”
“Not exactly,” he agrees. They share a smile as the dust motes keep dancing, and then he says, “You wanted some chairs moving in?”
Nodding, she replies, “I do. Thank you.”
As he’s turning to leave, he swears he sees her run a hand along the desk, swears there’s a half-whisper of something and a lightening of the air like an alarm’s just been switched off. But he doesn’t know what’s given him that feeling, and he shakes it off, goes to get the chairs.
Cut to a diner. Snow is falling outside, fluffy and white like it’s in a movie. Some of it’s white on the ground too, but most of it’s grey from the fumes and the feet of New Yorkers. Mary watches it through the blinds, and she figures that if she were in a movie, too, she’d be framed in black and white, her hair falling slightly loose around her face because of a long shift, shadows cast on her face. She likes the thought.
Things have been quiet, so she’s leaning against the counter, absentmindedly reapplying her lipstick, wrinkling her nose at the smell of bacon grease. It’s not that she minds the smell per se, it’s just that it’ll be in her hair at the end of the day. Spend long enough around cooking and it gets like that. She’ll walk past people and all they’ll think is waitress and bacon. These days all she thinks is waitress too, bacon or not. This was just meant to be a stopgap, something to tide her over, but the thing about stopgaps is that they stop. She doesn’t want to go home with bacon-hair every night for the rest of her life.
There’s a version of Jingle Bells playing quietly on the radio. She thinks there’s saxophone in it, and that bugs her somehow. She can’t help but wonder why everything has to be modernised and changed and made sharper – what the hell is wrong with the classics? She likes jazz when it’s meant to be jazz. This stuff gives her hives.
The bell above the door rings, and she catches a couple of things: the rustle of a long coat, a bowed head, a fedora. The newest customer takes a corner seat, and Mary gets the feeling that it’s to keep an eye on the room. That’d make her say soldier, but the figure and the wavy hair she sees once the hat comes off tell her she’s looking at a woman. Strangely-dressed, but definitely a woman.
Mary makes her way over, and the woman looks up. Below coils of dark hair are bright blue eyes, and makeup Mary’s never seen before. The weight of the woman’s gaze almost makes Mary want to shrink, but she smiles and it fades a little. She orders black coffee in a neat British accent, and Mary spends the next half-hour pretending not to look at her and thinking, PI. British female PI?
She’ll admit it, she’s a little impressed. And she has the feeling they’ve got a new regular.
Melinda lays down the wards – the protections against intruders, the preservation spells – and then picks up her coat. She switches off the light and as she closes the door, she listens to the quiet hiss of magic fading.