Never the Same Again

Glynon Floom was all nerves and twitches as he tried, and mostly failed, to stand straight and speak confidently to his boss. "Sir," he began, "I'm surveilling the tavern across the road," he pointed to the tavern, "as I've had a tip that there may be," he paused to search for words, "what might possibly be alleged to be," another pause, "illicit activity."

He was desperate to impress the Inspector; Floom was a Detector Apprentice in the Bluff-on-Sea Enforcing, Detecting, and Inspecting Department. (Clumsy, overly long, redundant, and sometimes downright silly names were as common in Bluff as seagulls on the wharf.) Floom's grandfather had risen to Chief Inspector in the BS EDID, as it was known, and Floom was keen to live up to his legacy.

Inspector Deek Clave had surprised Floom, whom he'd seen crouching in a narrow gap between buildings across the street from the tavern. He'd been assigned to train the young man. He was not overly concerned that Floom was showing initiative--watching the place was not an official assignment--but he thought the rookie might require a bit of steering.

"Ah," said Clave. "Well, setting aside for the moment an important distinction between illicit and illegal activity, what sort of hanky panky do you suspect?"

"I've had it that the tavern keeper, one Mr. Jinnob Shink, proprietor of Shink's Shack o' Suds 'n Spirits," he again pointed pointlessly at the tavern, "has been receiving smuggled spirits and selling them to his customers," said Floom. "Sir," he added belatedly.

"Ah," said Clave again. "Well, Detector Apprentice Floom," Floom thought being addressed by his full, formal title was a bad sign, "the deliveries to Shink's are around back." Floom sagged. "You can tell me about this tip as we make our way there." Clave began walking.

As they walked, Floom told his boss what he knew. It boiled down to stories from a friend of a friend, who worked on the docks, and had seen crates of what appeared to be smuggled liquor loaded onto a cart bound for the tavern.

Clave was busy with thoughts of his own. The timing of Floom's interest wasn't ideal, though that wasn't Floom's fault.

"I see," said Clave. "I have to say it doesn't sound particularly strong evidence for a surveillance, but since you've started, we might as well pursue." He scrubbed at the side of his nose as if he had an itch. They turned the corner into a small alley that ran behind the tavern.

"Sir," said Floom, more enthusiastically than before.

"But Floom, there's no need to hide; when the delivery arrives, we'll just have a little talk with the cart driver." He paused. "I don't mean to dampen your enthusiasm, but best if I take the lead."

They didn't wait long before the cart came clopping and clattering down the alley. Clave approached the driver, introduced himself and Floom, and asked to see the delivery manifest. He took the paper the driver produced, walked to the back of the cart, and peered carefully at the crates. Floom was confused; Clave gave the manifest only a brief glance before telling the driver that everything looked fine. "Come, D.A. Floom," he said. "Other business awaits us."

As they left the alley, Floom apologized for leading the Inspector on a goose chase.

"No, Floom, not a goose chase at all. Something smells fishy here, but we need to know more." He pondered how much he should tell Floom as he rubbed at his nose. The rookie showed promise, he thought, but Floom's complete lack of experience, not to mention his jumpiness, worried him.

Clave asked Floom if he'd noticed anything odd about the crates; Floom had not, he admitted sheepishly. Clave explained that the nails in the tops of the crates appeared to be new, whereas nails in a crate that had been on a long sea voyage should be dull, if not rusty. "Someone's been in those crates, Floom, but we don't know who or why." He rubbed the side of his nose some more. The nascent detector in Floom noted what seemed to be a nervous tic in his boss.

It was nearing the end of the day; Clave suggested they start the next phase of the investigation the next morning. He'd decided to give the young man a bit more leash and see what happened.

The next morning, Clave gave Floom the details on which warehouse to watch, along with a description of the area around the main cart entrance and exit. Clave said, “See what you can see without being seen, if you take my meaning." Floom nodded his understanding.

Floom found that Clave had provided a remarkably accurate description of the area near the warehouse's main doors. He placed himself behind a cart with a broken axle, where he could see without being seen. He was intent on following Clave's instructions.

Floom saw nothing useful that morning; the carts leaving the building were loaded with crates that seemed to be of much different sizes than those he had seen at the tavern. His stomach began to growl, and he decided to allow himself a brief lunch break. Something odd, something he'd remember later--much later--caught his eye. As he walked the lane along the warehouses, he glanced to his left, and thought he saw a figure retreat from the space between buildings; he thought the figure looked more than a bit like Clave. He put it down to nervousness and hunger.

Things got interesting not long after he took up his post after lunch. A cart left the building with two crates that appeared to be about the same size and shape as the ones he'd seen the day before. There was something on the side of the crate that looked familiar also; familiar, but also different. He decided to follow.

He didn't have far to go, as it turned out; a hundred yards or so along the lane that ran between the warehouses was a small building. It was just a shack, really; it looked out of place among the sprawling warehouses. The small structure was flanked by two large warehouses, their doors only a few yards to either side of the shack.

The cart stopped near the shack, and the driver knocked on the door. Two large, burly men stepped out, looked up and down the lane, and moved the boxes into the shack; the cart driver followed them in. The door was left half open.

Floom began to move stealthily toward the shack. To him, "stealthily" meant crouching, bending, and running awkwardly in brief sprints, a form of locomotion that would've drawn far more attention than just sauntering toward the shack, had anyone seen it. He wondered if he should try to do a shoulder-roll but decided against it.

Luck was with him: he managed to get himself to the cart, which hid him fairly well from anyone inside the shack. What he saw inside confused him. The confusion turned to panic when the cart driver announced he had to "see a man about a horse" and walked quickly toward the door.

Floom cast around frantically. There was nowhere to hide that he could get to in time. He settled on an alternate plan, one which brought his heart into his throat.

He straightened and walked resolutely toward the doors of one of the warehouses next to the shack, shouting in what he hoped was a warehouseman-like voice, but which really sounded like he had a bad case of indigestion. "Load them crates, lads," he bellowed. "Stow the stowage, hoist up them heavy things." For reasons beyond any understanding, he pretended to have a profound limp. "No, not the dainty ones, the stout ones! Bigger the better!"

To his great relief, and again against all reason, the driver seemed to give him no notice, and disappeared down the side of a warehouse. Floom took the opportunity to remove himself from the area, leaving the limp behind.

He returned to the EDID building and, disheveled and out of breath, faced Clave's secretary. "I need to speak with the Inspector," he managed. "Immediately." He had a moment of panic wondering if the "immediately" had been inappropriate somehow. The secretary eyed him briefly and went to Clave's closed door. She knocked and put her head in. Floom thought he might've heard the words "flustered", "barmy", and "apprentice."

He heard Clave's response clearly, though: "must be young Floom. Send him in, Dwilla, send him in."

Floom entered in as dignified a manner as he could manage, though the doorknob somehow caught on his jacket pocket, creating a moment of unfortunate and immense awkwardness. He soldiered on as best he could.

He explained what he had seen, managing to skip preliminaries and get right to the heart of the matter, speaking so quickly he almost tripped over his own words. "Sir, they're taking them to a little shack, sir, the crates that is, and taking the labels off the bottles in the crates, and gluing on new labels. Couldn't see what they looked like, though, sir. They're also changing the picture on the sides of the crates. There's a picture of a bear on the side, burned-in like, when they go in. Then they're burning in big curly ram's horns on top of the bear's head. When they come out, it'll look like a ram, least if you don't look too close." He paused for breath. "Sir."

Clave looked at him silently and intently for so long that Floom began to squirm. "Do you know anything about what the bear or the ram represent?" he asked at last. He was vigorously rubbing his nose again.

Floom sagged a bit. "No, sir, I don't."

Clave explained that the bear was the logo—Floom didn't know what "logo" meant, but worked it out from context—used by the Spottish Bear distillery in far-off Spotland. "It's some of the cheapest whiskey made," he said. Whereas the ram was the logo for the Mountain Summit distillery, also in Spotland. "Pretty pricey hooch," said Clave, "pricey indeed. So why do you think they're doing all this, Floom?"

Floom fidgeted a bit, thinking hard. "Well, sir, I expect they want to try to fool people. They want people to think they're drinking expensive whiskey when it's really cheap." His face brightened as inspiration struck. "And they're likely charging them the expensive price," he practically crowed.

"D.A. Floom, you've done a fine bit of detecting," said Clave. "You haven't found smuggling, but you've ferreted and fished some fine fraud." For reasons Floom didn't understand, Clave chuckled and said "nice one."

For his part, Floom looked like he might actually detonate with giddy relief and pride.

Clave said, “Tomorrow let's visit Mr. Shink and see what he says."

That evening, Clave waited in an alley a few blocks from the tavern; he arrived there just before the tavern's closing time. When Jinnob Shink passed, Clave waved him into the alley. They had a brief but intense conversation. They kept their voices low; but when a lone person passed by the alley, Shink stopped himself in mid-sentence to loudly growl, "dirty copper, what do you want from me?" The passerby quickened their pace, eager to be away from any trouble.

The next morning Clave and Floom entered the tavern. Shink glanced up from behind the bar, then eyed them keenly. He scowled as he approached. "Inspector Clave, to what do I owe the honor?" His tone showed he thought Clave's presence anything but an honor. "Has someone reported a rat in their soup? Or do you just assume we give free drinks to coppers?" He stopped just short of Clave; to Floom's eye, he was too close.

“Mr. Shink!" said Clave cordially. "I've come to introduce our new Detector Apprentice, D.A. Floom." He patted Floom on the shoulder.

Shink's scowl deepened; his eyes never left Clave. "Pleasure, I'm sure."

"We were hoping to have a word with you about your whiskey sales." Clave smiled broadly. "What's the hot sip nowadays? I hear good things about Mountain Summit. Bit pricey for Floom and me, I'm afraid. Selling well, is it?"

Shink actually leaned a hair closer to Clave. "My office," he growled.

The office was a tiny room in a back corner of the tavern. Shink and Clave took the chairs on either side of the desk; Floom stood in a corner, the only open floor space. Clave said nothing, but continued to watch Shink closely; he wore a carefully neutral expression, but was fiddling with his nose again. Floom thought that if this was a nervous tic, Clave must be very nervous indeed.

"So," said Clave at about the moment Floom thought he might be getting dizzy from the tension. "Mountain Summit."

Floom was completely unprepared for what happened next. Shink seemed to slump. His head dropped. He put his elbows on the desk and hid his face in his hands.

"You were never supposed to find out," he said in a pained voice. "Obviously."

"Young Floom here has done some outstanding detecting work," Clave said. "Seems the Ram whiskey you've been selling is really more ursine." Shink and Floom both stared at him blankly. "Bear-like, if you take my meaning," Clave added.

Shink put his face in his hands again. "None of this was my idea." He shook his head vigorously. "They came to me," Floom noted the use of the pronoun, "and told me they'd supply me with Mountain Summit at a discounted price. I thought something was fishy, told them I wasn't interested." To Floom's utter amazement, he appeared to be weeping. "They told me if I didn't buy from them I'd end up like Denly's."

Floom's eyes widened. Denly's Drinks 'n Delish Dishes had burned to the ground a few months before. It was suspicious, but as far as Floom knew, nothing had come of it.

“OK, OK, Jin, we've tortured the boy enough. Let's bring him into the light, shall we?"

Shink's expression turned from dejected to a hearty chuckle in a heartbeat. "Good to see you, Deek."

"Floom," began Clave, "you have, through good detecting work and a staggering amount of dumb luck, stumbled into a trap that has not yet sprung."

"I'm impressed, Floom," said Shink standing and holding out his hand. "This seems like a good start to your time at EDID."

Floom shook the offered hand and wondered if he'd gone mad. What in Gluff's name was going on here, anyway?

"The people you saw at the warehouse are part of a group that has been working fraud and protection rackets in Bluff for some time," Clave said. "Or, in the case of Shink's fine establishment"--a wink across the desk--"both fraud and protection at the same time. We don't know how many they are, and we don't know who's running the show. Shink has been helping us by being one of their victims. At our direction, of course," he added. "Now, like it or not, you're now part of the team trying to bust them." He paused. "Questions, Floom?"

Floom didn't know where to start, and picked rather a bad place, one which showed just how green he was. "What's a protection racket?" he asked quietly and weakly.

"They go to a business and demand money each month to protect the business from unfortunate events like, say, being robbed or, perhaps, burned to the ground." Clave sighed. "Of course, the verminous pukes who would do the robbing or the arson are the same as the ones demanding the money." He paused. "Good Gluff, rookie, I thought everyone knew that."

Floom had never been as confused as he was at that moment, but one thought cut through the confusion with crystal clarity: this was the start of things never being the same again.