The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant Read online

  The Case of the Pitcher’s Pendant

  A Billibub Baddings Mystery

  By

  Tee Morris

  Cover art by J R Blackwell

  Chapter One

  Diamonds Are a Dwarf’s Best Friend

  Chicago, 1930. You might think it’s tough being a four-foot-one private dick in a world of six-foot-something thugs, but I got news for you—when hard times hit, we’re all seeing eye to eye.

  The name’s Billibub Baddings, if you didn’t check the book cover. Good chance if you zipped by the name, then you probably missed the words “The Case of…” which is your clue that I’m a private eye. So now that I’ve got your attention, let me explain how you come to find a Highlands Dwarf of Gryfennos working as a private detective in the cultural cradle of the USA—Chicago.

  Now, I’m going to zip through the ugly, sordid details. Keep things on the sprite’s time clock and all that. Try to keep up. But if I were to sum it up in a word: Orcs. Goddamn Orcs. Rotten, stupid, smelly Orcs. They had this idea that the world—well, Acryonis, which was my world only a few years ago—would be a nicer place if they were calling the shots. That’s the part that makes the Orcs rotten. So the Black Orcs all gathered up in their mountain stronghold and worked out a pact with the Everlasting Darkness, which is, simply put, a prison for the darkest-down-to-the-core, baby-killing, puppy-burning, kitten-gutting evil. The realm Darkness called home makes Joliet Prison look like a summer villa in Miami, and these were the guys the Orcs thought would make great business partners. That’s the part that makes the Orcs stupid.

  And when you’re this rotten and this stupid, the body odor just naturally follows you wherever you go.

  It’s one thing to go into business with evil, but you’re really stepping across a line when you invite evil over for dinner and give it permission to put its feet up on the furniture and pick the lint out of its belly button in polite company. The Black Orcs were about to do basically this, by means of a ritual using the Sacred Talismans of Acryonis, and I was part of a fellowship that was sent to kick a little ass and finish this damn war once and for all.

  We managed to get into the Orcs’ stronghold and put a major chink in their plans, but here’s where things got complicated for me. It was a mess—I mean, a real mess—that we had stepped into. Orcs, see, weren’t big into books. The average Orc would look at a library and think, “Fuel for fire.” Somehow, though, they had read the right tomes in order to perform this ritual. The Talismans of Acryonis were all in the right place and the incantation was correct down to the last syllable. The barrier between realms began to tear apart; and the screams, shouts, and other ungodly noises coming out of the growing portal before us didn’t make us feel any better.

  Axes were cutting the air. Orc guts and arrows were flying every which way, and swords were getting up close and personal with one another. All the while, the portal was getting bigger and the folks on the other side were getting noisier. That’s when I got the bright idea of taking the Talismans of Acryonis and tossing them into the portal. They were being used to open up this breech, so why not give these talismans a big goodbye and collapse that doorway in on itself?

  It was a great idea that made a lot of sense to me. At the time.

  The problem was that to do this, I had to get closer—a lot closer than I wanted to—to this portal leading to oblivion. No cleric, necromancer, or magister’s apprentice had bothered to explain to me how “suction” works, especially on creatures as petite as Dwarves. And okay, I’ll admit it—even if they had tried to explain the concept to me, I probably wouldn’t have listened. I never really had a care or a liking for those magician-types. If their lips were moving, they were either spell-casting, or bullshitting me.

  So, Billi got his ass sucked into this Portal of Oblivion, tried to remember those prayers you’re supposed to say before you die, and hoped what he remembered was enough to get himself into the Everlasting Fields of Yearnese.

  I woke up in a public library in Downtown Chicago. Who says the Guardians don’t have a sense of humor?

  So while this story isn’t one I enjoy telling again and again…and again…I’m finding it easier to tell.

  When I got here, it was 1927. By the time I figured out what a day, month, and year was, and that I wasn’t going to be able to spend the rest of my long life in the boiler room of a public library, it was 1928. That spring I found a calling, worked to get myself on my feet, and went into business by the fall. In October 1928, it was official: the words “Baddings Investigations” were painted on the frosted glass of my office door.

  If you would have told me everything was about to change a year later, I wouldn’t have believed you.

  1929 had a few surprises in store for me, everything from a lucrative case with one of the most prominent families of Chicago’s upper crust to dinner with one of the most dangerous bosses of Chicago’s underworld to a nostalgic reminder of Acryonis. The biggest surprise, though, came a year after I started Baddings Investigations. On October 29, the brakes were slammed on the party that was the Roaring Twenties. Overnight, princes became paupers, businessmen became beggars, and I was back to relying on the “Waldorf” routine.

  Guess I need to explain that, too. This was one of the sordid details I had hoped I could zip by just a wee bit faster, but no matter how hard I try to keep “Waldorf, the Protector of Munchkinland” in the dungeons, that dink always manages to break out.

  Before I could open up my office for business, I had to make ends meet. The best way for a Dwarf to do that legally was to work with what I had; and since I looked like I had stepped out of some children’s bedtime story, I began a relationship with the Harvey Showenstein Talent Agency as “Waldorf, the Protector of Munchkinland.” Seems there was this book—The Wizard of Oz—and its moving picture was a huge hit a few years back, so Harv’s been playing me up for all I’m worth as the roly-poly protector of Emerald City.

  Look, I ain’t proud of it either, but my choices are this, ask for handouts, or break the law. I may be a son-of-a-bitch, but I’m a son-of-a-bitch who knows better.

  When the fragile financial bubble burst, the demand for a private eye and his talents all but disappeared; but some fat cats managed to avoid the full sting of the Crash, even after November. The well-to-do set’s desire to start up the party again was keeping the cash flow steady in February and March. Performing these events, though, proved to be a challenge. I had to make sure I wasn’t wearing that self-satisfied smirk I knew I would conjure during moments of hypocrisy. I got the gigs because these rich dinks found me to be a novelty, thought I was outrageously funny, and I fetched drinks and snacks with a smile. If I flashed the smirk, my cover would have been blown and my girl Miranda would have been tightening the purse strings even more. This smirk would come when I would get the condescending smile or backhanded comment. Only a few heartbeats after the slur was delivered by some high society dink reveling in his own cleverness, I would catch a glimpse of the very same dink slipping an extra helping of cake or pigs in a blanket into his girl’s handbag. Yeah, some of the fat cats managed to survive the crash. Not all of them did, however. Amazing how far people go to protect their pride.

  With the weather finally settling into spring and May ushering in a false feeling of optimism over a dark year, the privileged fewer were really gearing up the festive gatherings, and Waldorf was in demand. I had two afternoon teas and then a bash at the Rothchild’s. (I had to make sure my makeup was particularly heavy for that engagement. Never hurts to prepare for the worst.) A profitable but busy day.

  Miranda was worried about me. Hey, what’s new? It was my worrying about her that kept me so damn busy. I f
elt like I owed it to her to keep Baddings Investigations running, especially when she would start to say, “We’ve always got cash in the kitty,” only to catch herself.

  We were financially set after taking Julia Lesinger as a client, but neither Miranda nor I could have foreseen that one of the banks hit hardest by the crash would be ours. Our nest egg was gone. At least that was what the bank told us when they shut their doors for good. Now we were starting from the ground up, and I was determined not to have anything like that happen again. Some banks did manage to survive the bubble bursting, but instead of stashing all our remaining cash in someone else’s vault again, I chose to keep half of it hidden. One Sunday, I met Miranda over at the office and declared the First Bank of Billibub Baddings open for business. Miranda kept this second kitty hidden in her desk drawer. Still, we had barely enough saved to be worth mentioning, so Waldorf was keeping the butter on the bread.

  No, I wasn’t particularly happy about it, but as I’ve always said—a Dwarf’s got to do what a Dwarf’s got to do.

  I barreled into the office, still wearing rosy cheeks and overly-bushy eyebrows. The early afternoon tea was a huge success, and I even managed to drum up some interest for the munchkin appearing at a Bat Mitzvah, so things were looking up for the day, despite the Rothchild affair looming at the end of it. Then I realized I had forgotten the address for my late afternoon tea engagement. This detour to the office was going to be a severe cramp in my expected call time. If the traffic was forgiving and the tea room was close enough to my side of town, I would make it with just enough time to touch up the war paint.

  “Heya, doll,” I said playfully, “don’t go weak in the knees now! I’m in full makeup.”

  “Billi…” Miranda began.

  “I’d love to tell you about the rich saps I just performed for, Miranda, but I’m a bit pressed,” I said, hopping into her desk chair. The strained creak it made under the weight of my armor made me freeze. I really wanted to keep office expenses to the barest minimum, and office chairs didn’t come cheap.

  “Billi…”

  Knowing full well how Miranda loves her chair to be relaxed, I stood on the seat, keeping my movement slow and deliberate, in order to see her desk better. “C’mon, honey, can’t you see I’m concentrating?”

  “Billi!” she whispered tersely.

  My head snapped up to finally make eye contact with her, and with the gentleman standing behind her, the two of them waiting for me in my office. Apparently, she had been playing the “Mr. Baddings just stepped out, but if you take a seat in his office, I’ll let him know you’re waiting,” card. This is what we do if I’m stuck in traffic, out to lunch, or on one of my Waldorf gigs. If the interested party is willing to wait ten minutes, Miranda knows they’re serious, gets a number and a name, hands them my card, and then I do a follow-up when I get back.

  I was okay with getting caught with my jerkin up, but it was when I got a closer look at who was waiting in my office that I lost my composure. My balance wasn't far behind.

  Stars were now decorating the ceiling, and Miranda’s voice sounded like it was coming from a few leagues away, across a vast valley. I think the helmet was screwing with my ears and making everything sound just a bit off, but with her voice mingling with the ringing in my ears I wouldn't have been surprised at all if she’d appeared as a wild wraith hovering over me, her outstretched arms spreading the tatters that covered her ethereal body like wings of a vulture soaring high above a battlefield of carnage. Instead of a vision of death and revenge, though, I saw an angel’s face, her expression one of embarrassment, sympathy, and a hint of frustration.

  If it weren’t for the damn crash, Miranda, you’d be getting that raise today.

  The groan I made when I returned to my feet reminded me of the chair. I glanced at it. The sucker was still intact, thank the Fates.

  When the potential client spoke, the uncertainty was there. Clear as arctic crystal. “You’re Billi Baddings?”

  Okay, I was dressed in my old battle armor, my face covered with a light sheen of white makeup, ridiculous ruby-red dots painted on my cheeks, and the last touch to this look—a singular, bushy eyebrow easily mistaken for a bogruthra that had decided to park itself across my own brow. I looked like a complete and utter hayseed. This was not going to be an easy sell.

  “Yes, Mr. McCarthy. Believe it or not, this uncoordinated but snappy dresser before you is Private Investigator Billi Baddings.”

  He nervously fumbled with his hat and then placed it on his head, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  First impressions are hard to erase, especially when they’re bad. When they are as outrageous and ludicrous as the one I was currently making on Cubs Manager Joe McCarthy, they’re unforgettable in the worst possible way. This was the kind of initial meeting that you share with the guys over a dinner table, the kind of story that no matter how many times you tell it, it just gets funnier (not to mention, crazier) with every telling.

  I hated playing this card, but I needed the common ground. I also needed to save my detective face. “Mr. McCarthy, please. I’m doing what I can to pay the bills. It’s tough times, and I’ve got people who rely on me—” I said, motioning to Miranda, “—to take care of things. If anyone understood how important that is, it’s you, sir.”

  Miranda shot me a quick glare. Yeah, I was going to owe her for that little guilt trip. She knew how much I hated the Waldorf routine, and now I was using her the way a beggar uses the missing stump where a perfectly good leg once was, in order to score some coin.

  “Alms for the stupid-looking Dwarf,” I wanted to cry, “Alms for the Dwarf.”

  Joe McCarthy was a Pixie’s heartbeat away from leaving, but those words made him think. I knew they would. Common ground.

  Go on, Joe. Break the ice. Take a look at the pictures.

  He cleared his throat again and then turned to the wall where my shrine to the pastime was. “I see,” Joe spoke finally, taking his hat off, “that you’re a fan.”

  “One of the biggest, Joe,” I said, smirking. “Height not withstanding.”

  He chuckled as I picked up my helm and satchel. I gave a heavy sigh when I passed by him and started hanging my various props and costume pieces on a sturdy wooden tree. “Sorry about the get-up. It’s tough enough being me, but right now, I’m something straight out of a bad batch of bathtub gin.”

  “What the hell is this get-up anyway?”

  “A necessary evil,” I said, a hint of loathing in my voice. “The Crash hasn’t been a complete end-of-the-world for all the social elite, and there’s a lot more demand for a novelty act than for a private dick.” When I stripped down to the sleeveless undershirt and pants, Joe’s laughter abruptly ended. I looked down at my body hair. Hey, Gryfennos gets cold in the winter. “Should I put the jerkin back on?”

  Joe blinked. Apparently, that’s not a term you hear in the Cubbies’ locker room often. Well, not referring to clothes anyway.

  “Um, no, no, Mr. Badd—”

  “Billi,” I interjected, stretching my arms casually. “You can call me Billi.”

  “Joe.”

  Poor guy nearly leapt out of his suit when the phone rang.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. Harv was such a creature of habit. “Miranda, let Harv know I won’t be making the afternoon tea.”

  “He’s not going to be too happy about that, Billi.”

  “He’ll be a lot unhappier if I’m quitting.” Over the angry ring of the phone, I continued, “I’ve got the Rothchild’s tonight, the Abistair’s tomorrow night, and the Loudon’s next week. Remind him of that.”

  The echo of the phone’s bell faintly lingered in the office after Miranda took the call. Minutes later, the sparring with Harv commenced. “Now hold on, Harv,” I heard her say, “You know Billi’s been reliable in the past. This is one of those—you know—unexpected things.” She paused. “There’s no reason to get snippy about this, Harv.” Another pause, and then, “Now, Mr. S
howenstein, I hardly think our discussion merits such language, nor do I think we are going to accomplish anything on a professional level if we continue such discourse.”

  Poor Harv. He thinks he can take on my girl Miranda. You’re charging into a line of Orcs armed only with a toothpick and a smile, I thought with a snort. Good luck, you dink.

  “You’d be talking to Harv instead of me if you wanted my Waldorf routine out at Wrigley for a few games,” I started, partially closing the door to muffle Miranda’s responses. Her words were not so quiet that I couldn’t keep track of her progress with my agent. “But something tells me you’re not interested in my Waldorf routine.”

  “I can’t believe I’m here, to be frank with you, Billi.” Again, he fiddled with the hat. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “How about you start by taking a load off the loafers?” I suggested, motioning to the chair in front of my desk.

  I climbed up the small crate in front of the sink and mirror, and started returning my face to something closer to the real thing. “Take a deep breath,” I winced while removing the bogruthra from my brow, “and start from the top of your story. I’ll be able to hear you over the magic I’m performing in this cauldron.”

  The warm water began to rush with a single slap of the faucet. I dipped my hands into the rising level of steaming water, working up a lather with the soap and vigorously applying the sweet smelling bubbles to my face. In the mirror I could see the deep red circles reducing to non-descript smears of pink, like blood soaking into your clothes when it rains on the battlefield.

  “Well, it’s early in the season and there’s this team that’s coming up in the league. They’re out of Baltimore and they call themselves the Mariners.”

  “New team, right?”

  “Yeah. For a first season, they’re good.”

  I splashed water on my face, and gave a huff as I unscrewed my eyes open. “So what’s wrong with that?”