City of Smoke and Mirrors: An Armadillo Mystery

By Nick C. Piers

The name's Dilbert Pinkerton, private detective. Friends call me Dill. I'm a mutant armadillo. I dig for the truth.

And the truth is I need to get out of the city, away from supernatural mobsters that want my carapace for a foot bath. So when some rich dame saunters into my Hovel Office with a job, I take it. Even if it's to retrieve a pearl necklace that's not here. I'm desperate enough, I don't even care the job sends me to Nevermore Bay.

Yeah, Nevermore Bay: the city where some wacko in a mask hurdles across rooftops; calls himself The Buzzard. Criminals are scared pantsless of him. 'Course, most people think he's a myth created by the police department.

If you ask me, that's a far more exciting mystery than some oyster's cough drops. Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone during this vacation. If, that is, I don't get killed by the police, Don Komodo's crew that's on my tail, some of The Buzzard's rogues gallery or the Buzzard, himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Feb 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301296347

Book preview

Chapter 1: Burn, Baby, Burn

Crack! Sss! A crackling, flaming support beam crashed in front of us. Snagging my fedora, I chucked it into Tony’s drop safe behind the bar. Thunk. Trench coat be damned, I wasn’t gonna singe the hat. Tony gave me a dirty look. It was the kind of look that said, ‘When the hell did you suss the combination?’ I shrugged and gave him my best ‘Don’t use your Mom’s birthday, moron’ expression.

Two thugs continued spewing molten red and yellow out of their flamethrowers. Hell, the tanks strapped to their backs were taller than their heads. Not many goons I knew that equipped their boys with flamethrowers. Whatever happened to Tommy guns? Y’know, that whole budda-budda-budda sound? Now, those were classy. Flamethrowers, though? That probably meant Don Komodo was tired of waiting for me to pony up. What can I say? It’d been a slow couple of months, setting myself up in a new city. The lava-launchers meant one of Komodo’s right hand men, ‘Roasty’ Ron Rawlings. Knowing ‘ol Ronny boy, he was probably waiting outside with a Molotov or two to say ‘what’s up’.

Fortunately, Tony’s other patrons had already vamoosed. Only a few minutes ago, I was yakking it with the two thugs outside. Well, by ‘yakking’, I mean heated words. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t’ve insulted the mohawk-wearing one. Then again, it was a pretty stupid mohawk.

So, it was two fire-spitting thugs against a five-foot-nothing mutant armadillo private detective and an out of shape Level 1 SPEC (which stands for Specially Powered and Extraordinary Character; you know, super folk) with dog powers.

Suffice it to say, we were screwed.

Had a good feeling why Komodo was torching the place, though. I ran through the basics: my last case got me hunting for some kind of magical whatsit. Wound up having to destroy it (long story). Turns out, Don Komodo wanted it, too. Rumour has it his ugly, scaly face is that way because he’s an ancient, medieval dragon cursed to live in human form. The whatsit was probably a way for him to get back to his normal self. Of course, I didn’t know any of this until after royally screwing up the case and costing Komodo a hell of a lotta moolah. Now he was taking it out of my carapace’d hide. It ain’t no secret that Castillo’s is my favourite watering hole. Like Tony told me once, the smart ones usually don’t come into the red light district of Integrity City. They sure as hell don’t come to Castillo’s unless they want a heart attack on a plate eating his hot wings.

You said they wouldn’t be stupid enough to come in the bar! Tony Castillo – my swill server – screamed. You promised, Dill! Dammit, you promised me!

I pointed an index claw at the thugs.

They look like thinking types to you?!

Tony spat an Italian curse at me. Cripes, did he kiss his mother with that mouth?

Well, Tony shouted, spraying the fire around us with a water nozzle. "You’re a thinking type. Think our way out of this!"

Some hero Tony was these days. Then again, his glory days were long behind him. He used to call himself Mutt; saved missing animals and related mysteries. These days, his previously six-pack abs looked more like a keg (or two). Bartending’s been too cozy a life for him. He’s let himself go. His five o’clock shadow is a permanent fixture. I’m always tempted to take a pair of scissors to that stupid ponytail. When he slicks his hair back and wears a leather jacket, I swear to Kirby, he sometimes looks like a cliché drug lord out of a movie or something.

Even still, the two of us oddly get along famously. We’re both surly and don’t take no crap from no one. His beer…well, it ain’t as watered down as most I’ve drank. We have a love/hate relationship. I don’t hate his beer, he loves my money, and we hate each other except when the bar’s empty.

The reflection on the mirror behind the bar showed the two thugs pushing forward. Figured it was time to end this. I’m a lousy fighter and an even worse shot. Most times, I survive by my wits or being a total prick (usually both). Fortunately, my revolver (my baby) fired big, hollow-point bullets. I pulled it out of its holster: The Daymaker, of the ‘do you feel lucky, punk’ variety. She’s a Smith & Wesson .44 calibre Magnum, custom designed just for little ol’ me. Only got three claws per hand, so my trigger finger’s the long stubby middle one. These babies are usually big in their own right, but made for me. The barrel’s longer and wider than a bull’s schlong. Others have nicknames for it, like ‘Dill’s Armour-Piercer,’ ‘The Eastwood,’ and my personal favourite, ‘The Jesus Christ, Don’t Shoot Me with That! I’ll Talk! I’ll Talk!’

Looking in front of me from behind the bar, I could see the two grinning thugs in the cracked mirror. Ugh, I hated blind shots. With the serving bar on fire, this was gonna hurt like a bitch, too. I blindly planted The Daymaker up on the bar. Ssss! The fire started searing my arm and – more importantly – my trench coat.

Ka-BLAM! Ka-BLAM! Ka-BLAM! My baby fires off three beautiful shots. The first one wouldn’t’ve angered the broad side of a barn. The other two sing right over the thugs heads. That was perfect, since I wasn’t aiming for them. For just a very brief moment, the two thugs look at each other and grin. It was the kind of grin that says, That all he had? Not quite, I want to tell them.

Boom! BOOM! The Daymaker’s big bullets whizzed right over the thugs’ heads, slicing right through the mohawk of one of them, penetrating their tanks. Bloody, charcoaled limbs flew in every direction. What little was left of them smelled like a well-done steak. It figures Don Komodo covered the bill for the fire-spitters but not the protection.

BOOM!

Me being the bright critter I was, though, hadn’t thought that the explosion – which did take out the thugs quite spectacularly – also took out the front entrance. Piles of wood collapsed on top of one another, giving me and Tony and big middle finger that told us we ain’t going nowhere.

Dammit, Dill! Tony said (something he said far too often for my liking).

What? You told me to take them out!

My bar!

It’s insured, ain’t it? I said, though I was pretty sure Tony’s insurance policy specifically excluded Dilbert Pinkerton-related incidents. I hoped Tony could get off on a technicality since I wasn’t the one doing the damage. This time, anyway.

"Dammit, Dill!"

He looked over his burning bar. I wasn’t sure if he was either crying or if it was just sweat from the heat. Probably both. Of course, we’d both be on the fried menu soon if I didn’t get us out of there soon. Tony was a wreck and useless in coming up with escape plans in the heat of the moment.

Scanning the bar, I quickly considered my options. Front door was a bust. The bathroom windows were no good since Tony installed bars on them. I swear, you dine and dash once to avoid paying your tab and everyone makes a fuss. Which meant only one, last, grimy chance at avoiding certain death.

Kitchen! I grunted.

I yanked Tony by his greasy ponytail and pulled him through the swinging doors. Good timing, too, since another flaming support beam crashed behind the bar soon after.

Never before would I think my Hovel Office could possibly be topped in terms of filthiness. Then again, Tony’s kitchen hasn’t seen a health inspector in at least five years. I’ve heard the last inspector was still in therapy.

Tony whirled around, hands on his head, pulling at his long, greasy hair. I’d seen him freak out on many occasions, but this one was worse than usual.

"God, you owe me so big for this, Dill. Your tab just doubled."

You know I’m good for it!

"You are so not! Now, it’s tripled!"

It’s been a slow couple of months!

"I’ll give you a comatose month if you don’t get us out of here!"

Trying not to slip on the grease and holding back the temptation to snack on some cockroaches, I led Tony to the back of the kitchen. Someone’d bricked off the rear exit. Tony once used it for deliveries, smoke breaks, and emergency exits from people he owed. Tony said the IRS and health inspector had discovered his emergency exit. When they started showing up in the back by default, he personally bricked it up.

Tony looked at me, made a clawing motion in the air, twitching his head towards the wall. Ugh. You’d think I’d be comfy saving his hide from my mistakes all the time, but no. Fortunately, I’ve got me some handy tricks that other P.I.’s don’t have. Like burrowing.

Kritch, kritch, kritch, kritch!

My long digging claws started working on the wall. Plaster dust flew left and right. Surprised by how often my burrowing ability comes in handy making escapes, like that time I got framed and stuck in prison. Had to make like Andy Dufresne, but without a rock hammer or Rita Heyworth. How else was I supposed to clear my name?

Smoke seeped in fast from under the swinging kitchen door. It didn’t bother me much. I just held my breath (I can hold it for four minutes; it’d be six if I didn’t smoke) and kept going. Tony, though, was coughing up a lung. He grabbed a filthy washcloth to help breathe. Can’t imagine what he was breathing into was any healthier than the smoke, but that’s Tony for ya.

Finally, I’d tunnelled a decent-sized hole. Blue and green neon flashed from the strip joint next door. I chipped around the edges as best as I could, enough for a fat bartender to squeeze through. Don’t think I could call him Mutt anymore. Maybe the Portly Poodle.

Gotta do something, I said to Tony once he’d squeezed through. Find a way to break through the rest, will ya?

What on earth would be so impor – Then his light bulb went ‘ting!’ He sighed and rolled his eyes. He knew exactly what I was going back for. Oh, for cripes’ sake.

Tony disappeared somewhere in the alley. I burst back through the swinging doors into the front area of Castillo’s. The flaming beam looked like a ramp behind the bar, with the low end pointed at me.

Thank Kirby (or maybe Darwin) for padded feet.

Ow, ee, ah! I scurried across the beam on all fours as best I could (which really wasn’t that great; I ain’t a climber). I reached down for the drop safe and heaved it up out of its spot on the floor with ease. I kept telling Tony there’s no point in having one if it ain’t bolted in, but would he listen? Psh, of course not. And of course, just as I was thinking that –

Crack! That’s when the angled beam beneath me snapped in two. I crashed, carapace-first, down onto the filthy floor. Carapace or not, my back was gonna be sore in the morning.

Rolling to my feet, I scurried back into the kitchen like a hyperactive cat on linoleum. I started charging for the bricked wall in the back. I said a quick prayer to the big man upstairs, wishing that I could bust it down with a good, swift shoulder block.

Ker-boom! That’s when Tony came crashing through in his 1987 Dodge Shadow. The trunk’s hood was on fire. My peepers spotted shards of glass on the trunk, likely the remains of a Molotov cocktail. With nothing but metal in its path, the strong flames were already dying down.

Come on! Tony shouted from the car, backing it up.

Someone shouted from one end of the alley. Its voice was harsh, almost raspy, like a smoker who just has throat surgery and said ‘To hell with it.’ I knew those shouts could only be one guy: ‘Roasty’ Ron.

I skittered on all fours. The whole kitchen started to go up like a book of matches. The grease sure as hell wasn’t making the fire die down. Tony reared the car around and opened the backseat door. I dove in. He floored it.

I looked behind me. Roasty tossed another Molotov. Krish! It smashed in the alley, leaving a puddle of flames and burning garbage in its wake. He pulled at his scraggly beard, adjusted his goggles and shook an angry gloved fist in the air. Felt like I was escaping a shotgun wedding. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d had that feeling.

We raced down the streets of Integrity City. Well, as much as one can race in a Dodge Shadow. I finally remembered to breathe. A big mob boss like Don Komodo on my tail sure as hell weren’t good for my health.

I cradled the cooling safety deposit box in my hand. Couldn’t believe Tony listened to me and bought one of those things. Had to show him how to set the damn combination. I’d snickered when he asked me to turn my back while he set it. Surely he knew that was just tempting me to crack it. It’s like a hacker hearing a new video game system is un-crackable.

Struggling to sit up, I slammed the deposit box on the seat beside me. Didn’t take me longer than a hiccup to open it up. Though smelling a little of smoke, my precious baby, my fedora, mostly unharmed. Ah, well. It just added more character.

I grunted and slipped my fedora back over my head. My tall ears tucked through the holes I’d punched on either side (and I swear, it’s the only thing I’d ever do to ruin this treasure).

Your hat, Tony scoffed from the driver’s seat, white knuckling the steering wheel. "Your frigging hat. Tell me you didn’t go back just for that ratty P.O.S."

You’re one to talk about pee-oh-esses with this hunk of junk!

It wasn’t just a hat. My mentor in solving mysteries gave me the hat. Doc Crimson might be long gone, but he sure as hell taught me everything I know. Well, except for how to play dirty in fights and interrogations. I learned that on my own.

Reaching a claw into the drop safe again, I pulled out a manila folder. I lobbed it over and into the front seat beside Tony.

Might want these, too, I said.

Tony looked down at the deed to Castillo’s, along with his insurance papers. Honestly, I would’ve taken a quick detour to his office and backed up any important files on a flash drive for him, too, but Tone was old school like me. We preferred the feel (not to mention security) of paper.

He let out a heavy sigh. Swear I saw him smirk from the rear-view mirror.

You’re welcome, I said and grinned back at him.

Dammit Dill, he said with mostly anger, but with just a dash of relief.

Said you’re welcome.

He only shook his head. His exhaustion and frustration meant he wouldn’t bother arguing with me. ‘Specially when he knew he’d lose. Where to now, you bastard? he asked.

The office, I answered. Don’t think Komodo and his crew know where it’s at. Not yet, anyway. Gives us some place to crash for the night.

Chapter 2: Beady Eyes

Tony crashed at the Hovel Office that night. His place – a basic bachelor – was above the bar. We figured there wouldn’t be much left of it, now. It ain’t like he had much to his name, anyway. Another thing Tony and me had in common was living a basic life. Maybe not quite paycheque-to-paycheque, but always having enough set aside for a couple of drinks and a pack of smokes. Well, in Tony’s case, always having some cash set aside to buy the latest comics. I’m always teasing him about his funny books.

When we staggered into the office last night, I had to clear a bunch of crap off the top bunk. He was snoring loud enough to wake Sleeping Beauty as soon as his head hit the pillow. Neither of us was much for hygiene, so he didn’t even complain about the mess. Just before passing out, Tony mumbled something about getting out of the city; go somewhere without mobsters. There ain’t too many spots like that. Well, maybe Nevermore Bay. Either way, we’d both had a rough night and desperately needed the sleep.

Me? I’d closed my thick curtains around my cave-like bottom bunk, lying still, and thinking. Don Komodo had a real mad-on for me. Sending Roasty and his blaze-blowing punkers was usually Don K’s way of saying, ‘You’re a dead man.’ Subtlety wasn’t his forte. Not like waking up with a dead horse’s head in your bed or something. Maybe Tony was right. Getting out of Integrity might be the best course of action.

Where could I go, though? I sure as hell didn’t like Integrity City, certainly not as much as its sister city, St. Ligeia. ‘Course, some nutcase went and and dropped a neutron bomb on it, wiping out most of North America’s SPEC population, leaving the city an irradiated ghost town. Great Kirby, how I missed St. Ligeia. It was all brick and art deco style architecture. It made me feel like I’d been transported back to the 40s. Integrity City is all glass and girders: modern, sleek – not to mention dull and boring. It’s got more three-piece suits than an all-male wedding party.

At least this new Hovel Office ain’t much different than the last one. Tell you this much, I sure missed the noodle place across the street in St. Ligeia. This place, though? Basement office with little sunlight...and a huge freaking mess to everyone but me. My haven was Heaven. I’ve had thugs come to search the place and assumed somebody’d already beat them to it.

So, where could I go? Where was Tony thinking of going? Heh. Not that he’d want me tagging along. I think. I know I’d miss our poker or chess afternoons when Castillo’s was quiet. Don K would hunt me down soon enough. Hitting the road sounded like the best idea. Where to, though?

Knock, knock, knock. Mr. Armadillo?

The knock was soft, but firm on my office door. The voice was equally quiet, almost demure, yet confident. Could've been a potential client. Could've been a very polite assassin from Don Komodo. I scratched at my muttonchops, still trying to wake up. Well, I don’t know if you’d call them muttonchops, but I do. They’re the hairs dangling under my bottom jaw. Close enough to be muttonchops for me.

Expecting any trouble, Tone? I asked, knocking on the ceiling of my bunk.

Mum-buh-fuh-bah! he groaned incoherently, and rolled over.

Tony ain’t exactly what I call a morning person. Neither was I, for that matter. After nearly getting flame-broiled last night, I wasn’t in the mood for an unexpected wake-up call.

Mr. Armadillo! the dame’s voice exclaimed from behind the glass door. It was sounding a little less polite, still refined, and a little more impatient. It is of the utmost importance that I speak with you!

Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, I grumbled under my breath.

Throwing open the heavy blanket that hung over my bunk like curtains, I clumsily rolled out of bed. I hadn’t even had coffee yet and cripes, I could use a smoke. I wondered where in the blue hell I put my latest pack.

A big cockroach skittered from underneath a pile of paperwork, Chinese take-out, and raggedy clothes. I stamped it with my foot, scooped it into my claws and scarfed it down. Well, at least I’d had a light breakfast. Oh, don’t be such as weak-stomached pansy. Can’t ignore my innate appetite all the time, now can I? Besides, bugs are nutritious…and I can’t always afford a nice, juicy burger, so I need my protein somehow.

The dame’s knocking persisted and her voice was getting louder. "Mister Armadillo, I can hear you in there."

One sleepy eye still shut tight, I unlatched the lock and swung open the door. The coffee stained loose-leaf paper with Armadillo Investigations (I dig for the truth) scrawled in marker fell to the floor. Dammit, I really should call Henry, my sign guy, to paint me a new sign. Then again, he kept upping his rate. I had a bad habit of throwing guys through the window or getting thrown through it, myself. Eh, maybe keeping the paper was cheaper for now.

As I crouched down to pick up my incredibly professional sign, my beady eyes caught high heels below a pair of very finely sculpted tanned legs. My eyes trailed up to a short, black pencil skirt, kept going to a grey business jacket over a white shirt unbuttoned a little too far down to expose the finest and most bountiful cleavage that man could possibly manufacture. They didn’t look the slightest bit real, but that hardly stopped me from staring. I started getting an itch where I think I should get an itch. The docs had me fixed long before I even mutated, so I ain’t ever done the horizontal polka. No wonder I’m so easily prone to violence.

The dame cleared her throat.

Right, sorry, I stuttered and stood to attention.

What stood in front of me was the youngest-looking old broad I’d ever laid eyes on. I say ‘youngest-looking’ ‘cause she was so plastic, she could've been sold by a toy company and no one would bat an eye. She must've been pushing seventy, but the work done on her made her look more like mid-thirties. She had short, curly blonde hair that would’ve left Shirley Temple jealous. I couldn’t spot a single grey hair that wasn’t dyed. Her ears had a pair of incredibly rich-looking gold and diamond earrings. She had the look of a lady who was about a trillion times better-off than I could dream. One thing bothered me, though. She smelled rich. She smelled the kind of rich that only rich people could afford to smell. And she sure as hell smelled very rich. Chanel and Trump would've stopped her in the street, begging her for change.

She turned her nose to me, stuck her chest out not to show it off, but to intimidate me like a bird sticking out its feathers in a territorial fight. She made a point to stand up straight so her near six-foot-two stature towered over me. Pfft. With her ridiculously perfumed stench, I should've been the one turning my nose.

Mr. Armadillo, she said proudly, My name is Gloria Adeline Charbar. You’ve no doubt heard of me?

Groggily, I blinked at her several times. This was the kind of wake up call I neither wanted nor needed. After a rude, acknowledging grunt, I turned my carapace’d back on her and stumbled into the office. I was nice enough to leave the door wide open for her, though.

Coffee, I muttered. I need coffee.

For a dame like this, I was gonna need lots and lots of caffeinated dirt. Now, where’d I put that pot, again? I remembered the filters were somewhere under the Rizzo file in the back corner, by the desk. Or were they on the desk? Under the desk?

Mr. Arma –

Pinkerton.

I beg your pardon?

Last name’s Pinkerton. Dilbert Pinkerton.

But you’re advertised as –

Most folks know me as The Armadillo. Can’t likely put that on a government form, now can I? Can’t exactly pay my taxes calling myself The Armadillo.

Mind you, I don’t pay my taxes. Not that I’d tell her that.

"Fine. Mr. Pinkerton, I –"

Lady, if I had a dime for every dame that strolled into my office, assured that I knew them, I’d have enough moolah to hire thirty house keepers to ruin my perfectly organized office.

I looked at her from the reflection of my framed and spit-polished private detective license. That wall-hanging baby's the one clean thing in my office. Oh, she was miffed all right. She was