Rat-Out-Atouille

When I woke up, the room was empty.

Completely.

They even cleaned up the blood that had pooled beneath me. That might come back to bite them, literally.

I inhaled deeply, to test my lungs. At least one had gotten punctured during the fight, and I recall hearing some ribs crack in my chest.

Inhaling was a mistake. Concentrated bleach, and garlic oil, are powerful scents. Combined, it was as acrid as napalm, and could be just as deadly.

I crawled away from the creeping square of sunlight coming in the window, found a nice shady corner. Coughed painfully, and far too long.

They didn’t touch anything on my person. Too bad, the tracers I had concealed would have gone a long way to tracking them, had they stolen my stuff.

So I pulled out my cell phone, texted my partner: Situation compromised. They caught me, left me for dead. Cleaned out their den. Come get me. Bring snacks.

I got the thumbs-up emoji, so I sat back, and waited for rescue.

***

I knew the dame was trouble the minute she slid into my office.

The ones who smell delicious are the ones I have to avoid. I start imagining whole meals around that intoxicating scent… German potato salad for starters, miso soup, some roasted asparagus, showcasing the rare-cooked wagyu, maybe with a touch of roasted turnip puree…

Aaargh! Why? Why must I torture myself like this?

My stomach roared, which is never a good sign.

I blacked out.

***

I came to, eventually. Two thermoses were within easy reach. A faint scent of cinnamon, heavy musk, and fear-sweat threaded the air.

Here and gone. I was grateful. And I’d finally, even in my near-delirium, finally got over thinking “good boy.”

Old habits die hard, I guess. But still, they die.

I drank. I was careful not to spill, even though my hands were shaking. It would be best not to contaminate a crime scene.

I scrolled the stack of messages on my cell as I consumed my liquid meal. Phrases jumped out at me: four individuals… can’t hide their reek in the bleach… following the trail, you’re in no shape… morons are in a ‘93 Miata… sitting outside their new safe house, join me when you’re capable… you stink, too, get a shower and real meal…

Thanks, partner. I’ll remember that.

Honestly, he’s right. I can smell myself, and it ain’t pretty. And the bleach is still overwhelming.

Ugh.

I caught a whiff of gunpowder as I slid out the back door into the full night, so I took off. I would catch the news later, when the fireball consumed a rather large amount of non-evidence.

***

I couldn’t see the huge wolfhound concealed in the bushes, but I could smell him. I eased between thick branches, and he rustled softly, giving me room. I patted a shoulder lightly.

He sniffed my pocket, and I swear I heard a chortle. Well, the residual scent of a ‘93 Miata alternator will do that, inflame the sense of humor. I wondered idly what wine would pair well with dirt, grease, and oil, then savagely squashed the thought. Hmm, squash soup…

Stop it, brain! Or what passes for one…

Hmm, primate brain, rubbed with herbs and pan-fried…

Stop it!

A huge nose nudged me, and I looked through the nearest window.

Yep. Four. Two gents, two dames. Their faint scents were blended, I’d sniffed them at their car. I was assuming a familial relationship, not a partners-in-crime-ship.

I had a detective buddy on the force, he’d been catching rumors about these nasties. His orders were clear, all the way up the chain: do what you must. Dead or alive, makes no difference to us. I have less rules, being a private dick, who can live up to my job’s nickname when necessary.

Well, then. Maybe I can buy some turnips for roasting. Later.

They were setting up again, using all the equipment they’d cleaned out of the previous house. All that time I’d spent, patiently tracking them down! Only for them to spring a trap on me, since the dame who’d hired me was the same dame in there, laughing and cuddling with her squeeze, and chatting gaily with her crotch fruit.

Save me, she’d said. I’m being forced to be a drug mule, degraded at every turn, being traded around like a sexual favor at a party.

She was also the same one who’d shot me in the heart at their previous safe house, as I stood between her and her beau. Saving her, I thought. Damn, you’re good, I didn’t think you coppers would find me that fast. Luckily you didn’t have time to give your info to your partner, or our mole would know.

Oh, honey. Little do you know.

Hmm. Honey glaze, infused with pomegranate vinegar, homemade croutons made with bulgur wheat bread, and blood orange olive oil…

Stop it!

Partner nudged me again, and I snapped out of my reverie. I silently pulled out my pack, unwrapped another thermos for me, and a package for him. There’s a butcher I know, and he keeps the choicest cuts for us. Well, him. He's got a vat of chilled brew for me. Gave me my own passcode to the door in the back, so I can pick up a fix any time it’s needed. Saved his bacon a while back, and he swore to return the favor. We deserved it, especially tonight, and we were likely in for a long stakeout.

We were good till dawn, at least. Partner wolfed down his meal and fell asleep, and I settled in to observe, for what was left of the night.

***

We split duties, just like we split the money. He does the day shift, I do the night. When we have to reverse it, it usually falls apart. Like today, for fresh reference.

I was feeling much better. So much so, that I woke my partner a half-hour after they finally flopped after all their hard work. He was alert, especially after some jerky.

Crumbled into bits, mixed into gravy, add corn starch…

I snapped out of it. “Well, they alarmed the doors and windows, pretty sophisticated stuff. But not the chimney, so I’ll go in that way. I’m thinking, take out the guy, save her for later, you want the younger pair? They’re adults, I think you checked their files?

Barely imperceptible nod.

“I don’t think they’re using their own product. Unusual. But you might want booties anyway, in case they spilled some, that stuff’s rather lethal in small doses.”

A tooth gleamed in the dim light, glinting. His lip curl is impressive.

“All right, I’ve delivered my protective gear talk. Back door, or window? Which?”

A nose point showed his preference. I nodded, slipped away.

He’s sensitive about his change of form. Well, I’m not much better. He closed his eyes, and I gratefully slid into my other form.

I did some climbing before I flew to the chimney. I wasn’t about to get skunked twice.

No sensors at all. Well, that means they didn’t know – about us. All the better.

Once inside, I climbed down. No, they didn’t set a fire. Oil heating. Most modern people don’t even know what to do with a fireplace anymore, most don’t even think to block it up. Like these idiots.

No interior sensors, either. No lasers. No cameras. No trip wires. Thick, really think.

Thick cut, juicy, drippings with cornstarch…

I’m just gonna ignore that.

I watched them set up the codes to the doors, so it was a cinch to undo all their hasty work. Pulled the wires away from the chosen window, oiled hinges and slide rails. Pulled steadily till it was as wide open as it could go, then backed up so a giant wolfhound could creep inside. You know, like they shouldn’t be able to. That looks creepy as sunrise to see him undulate bonelessly over the sill.

De-boned wings, seasoned with chili and pepper…

Right. Back to the problem at hand.

I motioned left, and partner glided that way. And I caught a glimpse of the two younger ones, in the same bed, curled up in a pose that implied they’d better not be siblings. They reeked, in fact. Luckily my partner likes his food pre-tenderized and brined, so I left him to it.

Ugh. Apparently my meal did the same. The funk was unmistakable.

Well, I hoped they had fun. It was my turn.

Neither stirred when I quick snapped his neck, and miss cardamom-and-ginger didn’t begin to wake up till I had her securely gagged and tied. I’m good with knots. Lots of years of practice, not just on Thanksgiving turkeys.

Her eyes bugged out when they focused on me. I laughed softly. “Not a ghost, my dear, though you’ll wish I was. But I don’t have a heart. I should have told you that, before you double-crossed me.”

She tried to make noise, but I’d gagged her quite well.

“Now, I have a bit of feeding to do. If you ever cared for the corpse lying aside of you, I suggest not looking. It’s better that way.”

I knew my fangs were showing. She tried to scream, but couldn’t manage to make much noise.

Down the hall, I heard other noises. My partner’s hunt was successful.

I needed a fresh meal, and I was getting desperate. The fast food schtick gets old and stale real quick.

I sank in, and drank. Thick and rich, like the finest wine. Hearty, bold, with hints of musk, iron, and traces of wood smoke. Sage and rosemary, deep notes of pork and chicken…

It was a satisfying meal.

She watched anyway, tears leaking down her face.

***

My partner’s neat. I helped with the final cleanup, a proper application of bleach, from their own supplies.

My takeout meal was securely bundled into partner’s car, and I joined her in the trunk after we staged the place to look like a deal gone wrong. I’d fill in my detective buddy over a late night drink break as to what really happened, so he can close that file permanently. And set another incendiary device, this one rigged to do a slow burn. No need for impressive explosions, just hot enough to erase all traces. Permanently.

We’re thorough. We have to be.

I kept the gun, though. It’s not often you get to keep the piece that offed you.

I was nestled in darkness before dawn, and soon after I presume the sun rose, my partner was sitting behind the wheel, taking me to one of our safe houses. With an attached garage, and a huge fridge-freezer combo, where we can store stuff.

With real good security, and rooms with no windows.

Someday, I may tell you how we met, outcasts from both our tribes, and realized we made a powerful team. Took out some nasty baddies, take on regular jobs for the money, help the fuzz when we feel like it. Call it pro bono, call it good relations.

We call it access to one of the best restaurants in the country. Six million meals, no waiting.

I was dreaming of green beans, fried in garlic and shallots, paired with a blood red with hints of ginger and cardamom. Not that I can eat food anymore, but I can dream.

I also, oddly, dreamed of chicken mole. Wonder what my brain was trying to tell me.

One of the million stories in the grits-y city...