Free Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets by Alessio Lanterna Page A

Normally, the well-to-do get rid of the gremlins after a few months, when they start to show all the characteristics of their personalities. They’re demons at the end of the day, many seem to forget that. Noticing my interest in the creature dressed up to the nines, the woman says smugly, “Our
Jaja
i
th
th
o elegant,
th
o polite. Right,
Jaja
?
    “Yeees… Ma-dam…” it answers, before performing a little bow. In order to be so docile, it’s probably drugged up to the eyeballs from morning ’til night. The queen of crow’s feet here is probably prepared to do anything so as not to admit defeat. All things considered, Jaja is probably better off than most who have to choose between their daily bread sor a dose, a dozen levels or so further down.
    Following a stream of bullshit about her late husband, prominent businessman and philanthropist, photograph and hagiography, the embalmed mummy finally spills the beans. It turns out that, like any good pensioner, she just adores sticking her beak in other people’s business and talking about it during her weekly bridge game with her cronies. She clearly remembers those two elves, despite it being such a long time ago, because it’s
‘th
o
’
unusual for elves to live outside of their spires. When they moved, the urge to find out where they went was irresistible, and she made a note of their new address. She got it from the removal company and wrote it down in an enormous book containing all the contact details of all the people, most of them dead, she had met during her life. Never mind the filing system at MetroPo. This rich relic’s hypothesis, brimming with artificial optimism, is that the pair needed to live in a neighbourhood which was more…
suited
to them. When she let slip about some trouble with their families, it’s clear that the old lady had sussed the pair out, pigeon-holed and discarded them. Who knows how many bitchy comments were tossed around the bridge circle about the two destitute, disowned elves. They’re probably still making fun of them today.
     
    Four levels further down, life is still worth living. It’s the heart of the city, full of offices, restaurants, theatres, classy shops. The buildings have several floors which keep the ceiling at a safe distance, lighting is a public good. Nectropis is undoubtedly a mess, but it’s still the political and financial capital of the richest and most influential state in this ball of mud floating in the cosmos.
    Nefertiti’s directions lead us to the entrance of a luxury apartment building south-east of the cross. I think the facade is illuminated during daylight hours, both because it looks as though it’s been built in relation to an aperture towards the south, and because, if it were always in the decent but timid street lights, the mirrored windows would look pretty ludicrous. At the reception desk there is an economics and business student, he’s found an easy job which pays the rent of some hole several levels further down. When we go in and I flash my badge, he comes over all diligent, puts down his gigantic tome about private law and calls the manager; the latter, who for the past twenty years has kept an extremely organised digital file on all his clients, promises to send us a fax with all the details in ten minutes. Ten mortal minutes Cohl has to fill with conversation.
    “So…”
    I look at him impatiently.
    “Are you from here? Born in Nectropis, I mean.”
    “Yes.”
    “And…”
    Oh for the love of God.
    “… your father, police officer too?”
    “Yep.”
    “Still in the force?”
    “No. He found a new job.”
    “Ah!” He thinks he’s finally found something he can continue the conversation with. “And what does he do?”
    “He fertilizes the grass in the graveyard.”
    “Oh.” His face clouds with sadness. “I’m sorry…”
    “Yep.” I kill the conversation once and for all. The next nine and a half minutes are spent in rigorous silence. I smoke three cigarettes