Back Across the Bridge, prologue

Disguising is a real skill. Anyone can be invisible.

I don't mean with the potion, either. It's illegal, expensive, gives you brittle bones and above all else it tastes like a jock strap. My invisibility is permanent.

For four hours I've been following the same silver spoon private school broccoli head go about what I charitably call his business.. Watched him pick up his entourage of remoras and cheerleaders. I confirmed his identity when he took out money at the bank. Briefly interviewed his girlfriend for this evening when they went to a convenience store for pre-drinks. He never saw me. No one is more invisible than someone who you want to pretend doesn't exist.

I had eaten a meatball and bell pepper sandwich for a late lunch. I wiped my greasy fingers through my hair, wrapped myself in a blanket I had found in the trash and as a finishing touch, every time I saw him I asked if he could spare any money. From that point on I was a rusalka's fart, a politicians virtue. I never had to change my disguise. I wasn't disguised, you see. I was invisible.

Him and his friends are fixing to finish their evening at a night club called the Frisky Lich. A jazzy little joint if you like tinnitus, wipe clean surfaces and drinks you need to put a down payment on. I can tell just by looking that despite wholesale degeneracy sweating from the pores of this place that they don't admit goblins. What would the neighbours say? After they took their ball gag out, I mean.

I stow my tight five for now. If the guy I'm tailing gets into that club, he's not coming out until sun up. I'll have to tail him for all of tomorrow as well when I could be cleaning garbage cans or savagely pressing my thumbs into my eyes. It was now or never. I had to suddenly be something he wanted to see.

“Potionth, mithter?” I don't know any goblins that lisp. I don't know if that's something we do.
I do know we don't flick our tongues in and out like a lizard eating hot wings. But it's still something ankle pants here and his stupid friends expect of us. So I did it. Hunched my back and effected a crab walk when I approached them, too.

“What sort of potions, booger?” the kid smirked, waving his friends into the club. I widened one eye at him and drummed my fingers in the air. “Not the thort you'd wanna be theen buyin' on the threet , good thir. No, Ticklefinger hath the good thtuff for the right buyer.”

Ticklefinger? Whatever.

He was already walking to a nearby alley. I'd copped from his breath that he had a potion habit. And copped from his time at the bank that his pocket money was running low. He wanted the hot pots but at low prices.

“Don't try anything, booger.” he patted under the armpit of his too-small white dinner jacket. “I'm strapped.”. I bowed before flipping open the blanket I wore to reveal a collection of bottles. “Not thrapped for gold I hope?”

He crouched down and greedily eyed the bottles, chiefly filled with water and various food colouring. “I'm looking for invisibility potions. Maybe something for stamina – if you know what I mean and uuuh... some STRONG sedatives. Ideally ones that are odorless and flavorless so they can be put in a drink. If it has memory loss side effects so much the better.”

I put on the most wolfy grin I could stomach “Tho, thethe aren't jutht for you then? My man!” I did a low , clumsy bow and slipped forwards on the wet back alley cobblestones. First click. He was getting impatient. “Make with the potions, greenstuff. Do you have what I want or not?” I gestured to one of the lower potions. “With thith, you could have any girl you dethire.”

Ankle pants got a cruel grin. He patted his supposed gun again “I hope you understand my piece here gives me a discount, yeah? One hundred percent off?.” I nodded and shivered. “I no fight humanth.”

He squatted down began taking all the fake potions in my collection, eventually reaching for the low one I had gestured to. Second click. He noticed this one.

He stared at the metal cuff on his wrist with a moment of confusion which evolved very quickly into unbridled fury. Fortunately for me his first reflex was to try and stand up. His left hand got into an unexpected, brutal but mercifully short tug of war with his right ankle. Neither of them really won and within seconds the kid was on his back with some of his limbs bent up like a dying bug. I stood up straight and was finally able to shift the blanket. The sour milk smell had been getting to me.

He skittered helplessly on his back. Technically he still had one arm and one leg that weren't handcuffed but in either his panic or his fury he couldn't seem to get much co-operation out of them. “You black handed piece of back alley trash! You are so fucking DEAD!” He never made a grab for his gun despite having an arm free. Either he was lying about having one or he was just that stupid. Both made sense.

I let him exhaust himself with a few more rapid fire threats before using my spare cuffs to establish a working relationship between the his free hand and a nearby pipe. It did nothing for his mood.

I made a show of neatening myself out and luxuriously tapping a cigarette out of a soft pack before lighting it. He began to laugh. He hadn't said what I wanted him to say yet. “You are rusalka food, whoever the fuck you are!” He rasped out more laughter and stamped his free foot for emphasis. “You're finished! Do you know who my father is you piece of shit?!”
I exhaled a long plume of smoke into the night air. “Kid.” I grinned. “Who do you think hired me?” That froze him.

“You had a good thing going, junior. Your dad was happy to pay off cops and parents. Get you a job you didn't deserve at a good company. Turn a blind eye to the sexual harassment allegations that cost you that job. Settle out court with the affected parties. All to avoid scandal. That's what you don't seem to get. Your father does what he does for his sake. Not yours. So you can do all this other stuff. But the moment you start forging his signature to fund these habits...well?”

I crushed out my cigarette and put my hands in my pockets. He was defeated now. A shivering soggy human pretzel. He sniffed bitterly and whinged like he was trying to inhale his top lip.
“He was a lousy father..” he gave one last quarter-hearted stamp with his free leg.

I let that hang like I was thinking about it.
“Good client, though.”

I stepped back onto the main street where one of those fancy new automobiles was idling. The back window rolled down as I approached. A well educated voice emanated from it, like junior but thick with age, liquor and some sleeves up honest work. “Did you catch him?”

I nodded. “Confirmed all your suspicions I'm afraid. That and he might be carrying a weapon he's not old enough to carry legally.”
There was a sigh like a small avalanche. He sounded so tired I couldn't help but look sympathetic. “Your son seems to think you were a bad parent. Didn't get enough attention or something.” There was a pause. I saw a faint glow of a cigar in the darkness of the back seat. “Well, he has my attention now. Perhaps I can make up for lost time.”
I nodded. “Perhaps.”

An envelope came from the open window. The cut of the jacket said opulence but the hand at the end of it suggested at least some of it was earned. I took the envelope with both hands before placing the keys to the handcuffs in the outstretched palm of my client. We exchanged no more words. I was invisible again. I took off back up the street. The faintest of faint spring to my step.

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I'm trying a thing where a write some cheesy pulp noir from Karl's point of view. It's shaky, but I want to stick with it.