Severus Spade and the Dame that was Harry Potter

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Part 2: Daddy's Swinging Palace

The next thing I know we're in his car, passing Forty-Ninth and Long. Damn kid wants to play driver, too. I guess I don't mind so much. He's got a nice profile. Better than watching the scenery. He's got a Silver Wraith. An honest to God Rolls. Mint condition, too. I've never gotten close enough to spit on one before, let alone take a ride. Makes me kind of nervous. This kid's got that kind of green, he can afford the big time. What's he want my services for?

I figure I should be upfront; just come out and ask him. So I do. "Why me?" I say watching him from the corner of my eye.

"I like you," he retorts. "What've you got to complain about? Besides, it had to be somebody, didn't it? Why not you? Sure, there are a lot of men out there, but...you might as well be the one." He's flirting again.

"Uh-huh. You sure know how to make a fellow feel special." I go over the facts in my head again, but there practically aren't any, so I start asking him questions. He seems nervous at first, but loosens up as he starts talking about his godfather.

"He was a wonderful man--you would have loved him." I hate him already. "He was right about you're age, I think. How old are you? Early forties?"

"Bad manners," I chastise him. "Keep it up and you'll get a ruler across your knuckles."

"Just my knuckles? Ah, well. At any rate, his family had a habit of collecting things--any old thing, really. You should have seen that house when we went start cleaning it out--Dear God, there was a stuffed lion in the attic corner. I took down a box and came face to face with it. I just about died. I wondered what my obituary would say--I thought I was about to get eaten alive."

"You still might."

He grins at this. "I'm always open to new experiences. At any rate, he'd bragged about this text before--mostly because everyone envied it so much."

"Sounds like a swell fellow," I tell him dryly.

"He wasn't like that, really," the boy protests. "His family was a tree full of snobs, but he was actually a decent man. He loved his collection mostly because it frustrated all the other upper crusts out there. His so-called 'peers'--who hated him. It was a beautiful text, supposedly about the true passage to Shambhala. Of course, it was never translated. He wouldn't hear of it. He couldn't bear the thought of one of those 'beady-eyed academics' getting their filthy hands on it, even for a moment."

"Sounds like a well-educated man. Wait a minute, Shambhala?" Where have I heard that word before? Suddenly it hits me; the little Asian panhandler that hangs out near my building. I start to laugh. "Your godfather's prized possession was a map to Shangri-la," I chuckle. "That's priceless."

"It is, actually," he tells me a little stiffly. His pretty hands are gripping the wheel tightly. "It could be worth quite a bit to the right buyer. So what if Shambhala isn't real? The text is, and the text is valuable. If you can't appreciate its spiritual merits, you ought to be impressed with its estimated cost on the black market."

"Which is?"

"I wouldn't know. I only know they'd kill to get their hands on it." He sounds angry, at me or the crooks, I can't guess. "Is it too silly a thing for you to waste your time on?" he asks me. "Will I have to raise your pay?" he adds, and it's my turn to get hot.

"Look," I say to him, "I'm not exactly rolling in scratch, but I do all right. If all I cared about was money, don't you think I'd be a little better off than I am now? I got standards, you understand? You want your text back, I'll get your text back, whatever baloney it's about."

He looks only partly mollified, and I suggest he start naming some names to take his mind away from the argument. "Who do you think did it?"

"Voldemort," he replies.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ." Voldemort is like a newer version of Capone, only much, much worse. Capone just drove the cops crazy, ran bootlegging and gambling businesses, and murdered people. He never tortured anyone, and the 'Big Fellow,' doesn't sound nearly as ominous as the 'Dark Lord.' The Dark Lord enjoys torturing people. He's also my ex-boss. Yeah, I ran with the wrong crowd, way back when. I'm still trying to live that down. "Why would he go and do something like that?" I ask cautiously. Now I'm wondering if I shouldn't have asked for more money. Well, hell; I KNOW I should have asked for more money, but those big green eyes had me knocked for a loop. And now look what I'm into.

"I'd ask him, only most people who ask Voldemort questions have this way of ending up dead. That's one of the reasons I need you. You CAN handle this, can't you?" He sneaks a sideways glance at me, and I can see the edge of a smile on that rosy mouth.

"Me, I can handle pretty much anything."

"Cocky, aren't we?" Now he's smiling outright, and it's one of those mischievous numbers that makes my pulse race.

"You better believe it," I tell him, and wonder why I can't seem to shut my yap. I do sound kind of cocky, and that's the sort of thing that can get you noticed by the wrong people in this town.

He's quiet for a few moments, like he's thinking. Suddenly he asks me, "So, what should I call you?"

I shrug. "We have a business relationship, so you can call me Mister Spade," I suggest, knowing that he's not going to bite.

He snorts. "I'd rather call you Severus. I don't give a damn about business." People usually don't, when business is good. "We have two business relationships, one where I'm paying you, one where I'm working for you. It'd be about as appropriate to call you Boss." I glare at him, and he smiles slowly. "You don't like that, big boy? I like that. I like that a lot."

There isn't any more time for his come-ons because we've reached his godfather's house. If I were a copper, I'd want to start there because it was the scene of the crime. But I'm not, and I know better so I don't. But I don't have any better ideas at the moment, not except for a chat with old Voldie, and if I was to go right up and ask him, 'Hey, glom any rare Tibetan texts lately?' I'd be willing to bet I'd swallow a few teeth for my troubles. If I was lucky.

So that leaves Daddy Warbucks and his swinging palace. Of course, Daddy Warbucks is dead, but the palace is still a palace. A mansion, the real McCoy, and I'm telling you, it SPRAWLS. We walk across the grounds, and I'm still asking every question that pops into my pretty little head.

"What did Pops do for a living?"

He shrugs. "Inherited, mostly."

Figures. Now I REALLY hate the bastard. "How did he die?"

He hesitates. "Heart stopped. Must not have been living right; you know? A guy his age, he ought to have gotten out and exercised, instead of being trapped in this old monstrosity. Do you get enough exercise, Severus?"

Out comes Mister Wise-Guy again. I ignore him. The place really is a monstrosity, dark and dirty and overgrown with ivy. The black windows peer out at us like soulless eyes. The yard's a mess, and the whole outfit could do with a lick or two of paint. "Why's it such a dump?" I enquire tactfully. Well, diplomacy never was my strong suit. That's why I didn't make it on the force. Didn't kiss enough ass. Or maybe, didn't kiss the RIGHT asses. Or maybe it was because I did kiss the WRONG ones. Or I suppose it coulda been the hooch. It doesn't matter; it's all the same, now. "Don't tell me he couldn't afford to keep the place up?"

He looks at me, kind of excited, like. "That's the thing! He never even let people on the grounds. He didn't trust anyone--outside of me, that is. And one or two others; Lupin, his cousin Tonks. And he was friends with the Chief, of course, but I don't suspect HIM. Do you?"

"Not of stealing your godfather's text," I tell him, trying to sound noncommittal. We're greeted at the door by a wrinkled old geezer--I swear, one puff of air could send him skittering along like a dead leaf. He's just a tiny, shriveled up old man, and he gives us a glare that rivals my own. I'm almost impressed.

"Little hoodlum Potter, come home to steal more of our precious family treasures?" he sneers at the boy, mocking him snidely.

"Shut your trap, Kreacher," the boy responds sternly. The old man wanders away into the house, muttering under his breath. "I apologize about him," he gives me an awkward smile. "He came with the house; family will says so long as he lives, he lives here. Sirius didn't much like him either."

The man would have made a good suspect--if he could even lift the text. I doubt he could, even if it was as ancient and dried up as him. We walk around the house, and I ask some more questions. The joint is mostly cleared up, but there's still flotsam and jetsam here and there. He shows me where they kept the item--on a real, live pedestal. There just isn't anything to be gained here--it may look like the wreck of the Old 97, but the place is actually about as secure as Fort Knox. There are locks everywhere. Harry tells me there was also a big damn guard dog, but that went when the master died. I just don't get it. This place is practically airtight. So where did this famous Tibetan literature go?

We hear the front door open, and Harry leads me into the front hall, where a gray-haired man is hanging up his hat. He's got a face like a newspaper that got wadded up before someone decided to try smoothing it out to read it, and big dark pits under his eyes. He don't look like he's been sleeping well--hell, if it wasn't for the digs, the look on his face would make me think he's got more creditors than I do. Maybe he does. Just because he's livin' in a nice place don't mean anything.

"Lupin," Harry says, and actually goes to hug the guy. I bite my lip to keep from snarling at the sap. Easy tiger. "How're you doing?"

The man gives a tired smile. "I'm just fine, thanks." We all know he's lying. I don't know what he's in, but he's in it deep. He reaches out to shake my hand, and he has a grip like a gorilla. For a scrawny fellow, he sure can crush knuckles. "Remus Lupin," he tells me, and I nod.

"Severus Spade," I reply. He's looking me over, seeing where I don't fit. Considering the location, everywhere pretty much covers it.

"Friend of Harry's?"

"Actually, he's a private dick. He's going to see if he can help track down the relic, and help us find the thief, " Harry reveals, and I curse the kid, even though we haven't covered any of that.

I watch the man warily, and realize his eyes are as yellow as daisies, and nowhere near as friendly. If this man has a mouth that opens at the wrong time, the Dark Lord will put me six feet under by the end of the week. I give him as hard a look as he's giving me.

"Harry..." is all he says, but I can hear the question. 'Why the hell are you hanging around with this slimeball? Why don't we find ourselves a real professional?'

"Don't, Remus. Dumbledore recommended him." The man's shoulders sink a little at that, admitting defeat. I've been there. Have I ever.

"Well...do be careful, Harry. Look; last night was a long one, I need to get some sleep. You let me know if you need any help, any at all," he tells him. Harry smiles and waves him off to bed.

As we're walking back to the car, Harry confides in me; "He was my godfather's best friend. Ever since they were kids. He's taking it pretty hard."

He might be, or he might just have taken it; I haven't made up my mind yet. "Can you think of anywhere else we might want to have a look around?"

"Nah."

"Then let's head back downtown. I wanna put my ear to the ground, see what the word on the street is." He looks eager to try this, and I wipe the smile away that's trying to take root on my face. 'Don't get sweet on this kid,' I tell myself as we drive away. He's a looker, all right, but the lookers are always heartbreakers.

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