“I take it you know whom to ask?”
Hexe nodded. “His name is Quid. He’s my go-to guy for some of the harder-to-find ingredients I need in my business.”
“Do you think he can find a transmission?”
“Let me put it this way: If Quid can’t find one for you,
no one
can.”
Since Quid didn’t usually offer his services to humans, and Hexe was running low on pukeweed and screech owl blood anyway, he offered to accompany me to the Fly Market and introduce me to his buddy. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon in the city—the sky was clear, the sun was out—so we decided to skip the hansom cab trip and walk there instead.
As we headed toward the East River, I found myself surrounded by romance. Not the kind you find in soppy love stories or Julia Roberts movies, but the genuine romance of old New York, with its narrow streets and dark alleys, old buildings, hidden cemeteries, and ancient pubs. Unlike the rest of the city, which had been gradually modernized over the centuries, it was still possible to walk the streets of Golgotham and be certain that what I was seeing remained unchanged since the War of 1812. I was steeped in history, no matter where I looked.
As we crossed Water, Beekman Street became Mariner Lane. With the change in name came a noticeable increase in foot traffic. Processions of wagons drawn by Clydesdale-sized centaurs, each one wearing a Teamsters cap, jammed the cobblestone street leading down to the river. As we drew closer, I caught the scent of the East River on the breeze; it was strong, fishy, and deep. Within seconds of smelling the river, I saw the market itself.
Despite the jokes, the Fly Market wasn’t named after the insects that buzzed around the stalls; it was actually a corruption of the Dutch word for “valley.” Although it had grown and mutated since it was first opened in the eighteenth century, it remained the oldest public marketplace still in operation in the entire city.
The Fly Market was housed in an industrial Gothic loggia fashioned of brick and iron that occupied an entire city block, stretching along the quay from Mariner Lane to Perdition Street. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed above it all in the near distance, like an arcane tower raised to appease some nameless river god.
Whereas other such open-air markets in the city offered meat and produce for sale, the Fly Market sold not only the freshest comestibles suited for the Kymeran palate, but it also provided the raw materials needed in the unique commerce practiced by the denizens of Golgotham. Need a new crystal ball? A fresh deck of tarot cards? Looking for mummy dust or powdered unicorn horn to complete a certain potion? Then the Fly Market was sure to have it. It was also the biggest tourist attraction in Golgotham. Every year hundreds of thousands of human tourists flocked there to experience a taste of the “otherworldly” and bring back a souvenir of their visit to “the strangest neighborhood in America.”
We approached the market from the Mariner Lane side, ascended the steps, and passed across the corner, where bleeding sides of beef and split hogs hung alongside butchered camels and dressed-out ostrich. Then we descended into the cavernous gallery of the market’s interior, which was uninterrupted by walls of any kind and open to the elements via huge, vaulted doorways big enough to drive a forklift through. Underneath its twenty-five-foot-high ceiling were thousands of individual stalls, each of which boasted some kind of garishly painted banner advertising its wares, reminiscent of the old Coney Island freak show. Above each booth hung a ball of witchfire suspended in midair, which provided the only illumination within the building, save for what natural light managed to filter in through skylights set high in the ceiling.
Everywhere I looked, business was being transacted at a furious pace. The aisles of the market were crowded with a mixture of locals and tourists, and the noise created by the endless shuffle of the crowd passing to and fro was as unceasing as the sound of surf crashing on a beach. Boxes and crates were wrenched open, their contents strewed about haphazardly while the stall keepers bellowed orders to their subordinates at the top of their lungs.
I hastily jumped out of the way as a spider the size of a blue crab scampered along the concrete floor, only to be scooped up and dropped back into one of the many barrels lining the front of a nearby stall. Glancing inside, I saw a confused mass of writhing giant arachnids viciously attacking one another, and I quickly looked away.
As I walked past a booth crowded with charmed bits of bric-a-brac, a pair of little jade fu dogs set to either side of a glass-domed clock turned to watch me pass. Farther down the same aisle, I stopped to study the collection of bottled djinns available for sale. I picked up a pale hexagonal bottle with an elaborate ceramic stopper sealed in wax from a magic candle and stared at the elemental trapped within. The creature was made of flame, with blazing fingertips and sparks in its hair, dressed in a gown of blazing opaline. It capered about inside its container, like a puppy eager to find a new home. I shook my head and put the bottle back where I found it.
Another stall nearby displayed a miniature gravel garden where dozens of black chickens scratched for a living like so many investment bankers. Across from it was a booth with a banner that read LIVE BLACK GOATS FOR SALE. Farther down was a stall that sold beeswax for creating magic candles, while another hawked scrying-quality crystals in their uncut state. Another stall sold designer-label knockoffs scaled down to accommodate leprechauns and other members of the “wee folk.”
A Kymeran woman, her face covered by a black lace veil sewn with occult symbols, sat in her booth and carefully applied the last coat of wax to the severed hand of a hanged man so that she could sell it as a Hand of Glory. As we passed, she paused in her work long enough to bow her head to Hexe, who nodded in return without slowing his step.
“Do you know that woman?” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Then why did she nod at you?”
“Because
she
knows
me
.”
I was about to ask Hexe what he meant by that last statement when the smell of deep-fried food brought me to a dead halt. I stopped to investigate the source of the delicious aroma, which proved to be a stall with a sign advertising GATOR ON A STICK.
The vendor, a Kymeran woman who smelled of lily, rose, and sandalwood and wore her lilac-colored hair in a towering bouffant, took a length of alligator sausage and rammed a ten-inch wooden dowel down its length and immersed it in corn-dog batter. Once it was thoroughly coated, she dipped the gator-on-a-stick into a fryer full of smoking oil for several minutes, until it was a deep golden brown. She then dropped it into a cardboard tray, accompanied by a packet of mustard, and handed it to me in exchange for a five-dollar bill. Upon biting into the crunchy coating that shrouded the reptile meat, I was reminded of spicy Cajun boudin—and chicken, of course. Delicious.
As I enjoyed my snack, I scanned the vast interior of the market, only to have my heart skip a beat upon catching sight of a familiar-looking head of cotton-candy pink hair. I looked again and saw the Malandanti called Nach slowly moving through the crowd. He was still dressed in the same ill-fitting dark suit, but this time the right sleeve of his jacket no longer hung empty. The goon was carefully studying his surroundings, glowering at stall keepers and passersby alike, as if on the lookout for suspicious activity.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked, pointing in Nach’s direction with what was left of my gator-on-a-stick. “And how’d he grow his arm back?”
“He’s here as a bodyguard to Boss Marz.” Hexe scowled. “Today must be tribute day.”
I looked again and realized that Nach was walking a couple steps behind and to one side of a burly man wearing a duster-length camel hair coat dyed deepest black. I recognized Boss Marz from the glimpse of him I had seen in the scrying crystal, when Lukas had shown us his story. He was built like a bear walking on its hind legs and, like the bear, he moved with a heavy grace. His shoulders were wide and he had a barrel chest, as well as oxblood-colored hair, which he wore in a pompadour. The rings on all twelve fingers of his hands flashed like heat lightning in the glow from the witchfires.
Riding on the crime lord’s broad left shoulder was a little squirrel monkey dressed in a tiny red velvet vest with an even tinier matching fez atop its head. Sucker that I am, I thought it was cute.
As I watched, Boss Marz strolled up to a stall that sold elaborately embroidered caparisons. The vendor, an older centaur with a dappled beard, smiled nervously and placed a manila business envelope on the counter between them. Suddenly the monkey riding Marz’s shoulder gave a fierce screech and leaped down, sending the goods on display flying in every direction. The tiny primate snatched up the packet and scampered back to its master, who exchanged the envelope for a pistachio.
“The Malandanti own the waterfront of Golgotham,” Hexe explained, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice. “If you want to operate a business in the Fly Market or the surrounding area, you must pay a tribute to Boss Marz for the privilege of doing so. Come, I’ve already purchased what I need. Let’s go see Quid.”
The stall we were looking for was on the Perdition Street side of the market, and had a banner that boasted, in Renaissance Fair-style lettering, QUID’S PRO QUO: GETTING ANYTHING FOR ANYONE EVERY TIME SINCE 1989. Behind the counter stood a completely bald Kymeran with a pair of lime green eyebrows that resembled fuzzy caterpillars.
“Hello, Quid. How’s business?” Hexe asked as he clasped his friend’s hand.
“Passing fair, I don’t mind saying,” the vendor replied. “You just stop by to chew the fat, or you looking for something in particular?”
“It’s not me,” Hexe explained. “My friend here is the one in the market.”
Quid studied me for a long moment as he thoughtfully stroked his right eyebrow. He smelled pleasingly of papaya, jasmine, and green tea, with eyes that matched what facial hair he had left. “Human, eh? Are you a psychic, my dear?”
“No. I’m an artist. Hexe said you might be able to help me, but I’m not so sure. ...”
“Don’t you worry about that! I assure you there’s nothing ol’ Quid can’t hunt down.”
“I need an automobile transmission. And it has to be brand-new. I can’t use something that’s been rebuilt.”
Quid nodded his head, still stroking his eyebrow. “I see. Any particular make or model?”
“I just need it to be a passenger car transmission. As long as it’s in perfect working condition, I don’t care if it’s for a Ferrari or a Hyundai. And I need it delivered within three days. Think you can do it?”
“Easy-peasy,” Quid assured me. “As to the matter of my fee ...”
“I’m willing to pay up to four thousand, cash,” I said, reaching for my purse.
“You misunderstand me, Miss—?” Quid’s left eyebrow crawled halfway up his head as he waited for me to supply the needed information.
“Tate.”
“I do not traffic in goods, Miss Tate. As my banner proudly states, this is ‘Quid’s Pro Quo.’ I am a dealer of favors.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “Inside my brain is a database of who owes a favor for what, for how long, and to what magnitude. Thanks to this bartering system, I have not paid hard coin for food, drink, clothing, or housing since I was a boy.”
“Let me get this straight—you don’t want money?”
“You are correct. Mine is a cash-free business.”
“Then what do you want in exchange?”
“Are you a mechanic, perhaps?”
I shook my head. “No. But I’m a skilled welder.”
“Excellent!” Quid said, clapping his hands in delight. “Do you have your own tools?”
“Of course.”
That particular bit of news made him practically giddy. “Even better! You’ll make an excellent addition to my phone tree. All I require is that should I call upon your services in the future, that you ask no questions and respond no matter what, even if it means rising up from your deathbed.”
“I don’t have to sign anything in blood, do I?” I asked cautiously.
“Of course not,” Quid assured me, spitting into his palm. “We’ll just shake on it.”
“Agreed,” I said, spitting into my own hand as I grasped his. His grip was oddly trustworthy.
“Now that everything’s settled between us, let me put in a couple of calls, and I’ll be able to give you an exact delivery time.” Quid pulled a BlackBerry out of his breast pocket and started paging through his contacts list in search of the right numbers.
“Are you sure this guy can come through with the goods?” I asked, whispering behind my hand so Quid wouldn’t overhear.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Hexe assured me. “Quid is the only person I know who could loan someone a cigarette lighter at breakfast and end up owed a yacht by dinnertime.”
Suddenly there was a distinctly sharp, metallic smell, like that of a scorched saucepan, accompanied by a voice that was deep and smooth, yet somehow threatening, like caramel poured over the blade of a knife.
“Good afternoon, Hexe. I did not expect to see you here today.”
Boss Marz loomed over me, his shadow sending me into partial eclipse. Underneath his coat he wore a bespoke Armani suit, tailored to accommodate his prodigious frame. He had a sardonic smile on his face and was clearly taking sadistic delight in forcing Hexe to acknowledge his presence.
“Good day, Marz,” Hexe said reluctantly.
“That’s
Boss
Marz to you,” Nach snarled, taking a half step forward.
Marz calmly held up a beringed hand and waved his bodyguard back. “Now, now, Nach! Since Hexe and I have known each other for a
very
long time, I consider us on a first-name basis.” Suddenly his massive head swiveled in my direction, like a tyrannosaurus spotting a trembling mouse hiding amid the ferns at its feet. “Ah! And who might
this
lovely young lady be?”