Strange Trades by Paul di Filippo

its life-size golden statue of an elk positioned on a pedestal outside. Honeyman was trying to show Addie how he had ridden the Baroness when the cops came. Honeyman dug his heels into the golden elk to spur it to greater speed. He went nowhere fast. The cops dragged him off while Addie rolled on the sidewalk clutching her sides.
    “Straighten up, buddy, you’re coming with us down to the station.”
    “Hold on a minute, Charlie. It’s that guy on the money.”
    “Mister Honeyman? Listen, you shouldn’t be cutting up like this so late. You’re gonna get in trouble. Lemme show you home.”
    Late the next morning Honeyman arrived at the sandwich shop with a tremendous headache. The busyness of the place depressed him. Why did there have to be such things as commerce and money anyway? Couldn’t we all live naked in the forest and eat nuts and berries?
    Honeyman instructed Nerfball to tell his crew about the new policy: no spondulix accepted. A sign was lettered and hung proclaiming same. Honeyman waited eagerly for business to drop off. Perhaps a wave of panic would spread through the community, causing people to abandon spondulix as quickly as they had embraced it.
    No such luck. People shrugged off the change as an eccentricity of Honeyman’s, and paid for their sandwiches in U.S. cash. If this place wouldn’t accept spondulix, there were hundreds of others that would.
    Discouraged, Honeyman left the shop around three. He went to find Erlkonig, intending to admit defeat. He left Nerfball behind to conduct a class in Sandwich Construction Methodology:
    “Pay attention now, guys and gals. Hold the slice of bread squarely in your palm and spread the condiment of choice toward you, not away.…”
    Erlkonig was on the roof of the Brewery, supervising workmen who were constructing a kind of crow’s-nest high atop the tall smokestack that rose from one corner.
    “How do you like it?” he asked Honeyman. “We’ve put a spiral stairway inside the chimney. It’s going to be my executive penthouse.”
    Honeyman was too discouraged to rebuke Erlkonig for his delusions of grandeur. He related what had happened.
    Erlkonig clapped Honeyman heartily on the back, nearly causing him to lose his footing on the slippery slates of the roof. “Great, moll, I told you it would all work out for the best. There’s great things ahead for us, I can feel it in my bones.”
    An unseasonably cold wind blew in off the river, making them both shiver.
    “So can I,” said Honeyman.
     
    7.
    Taking the Big Dive
     
    A late September breeze brought the aroma of roasting coffee to Honeyman’s nose as he stood before the door to the Old Vault Brewery, wondering whether to enter. Suddenly, he was gripped by an enormous and melancholy sense of déjà vu . Had he not stood thus a mere four months ago, when his life was relatively simple and uncomplicated, that day he had come looking for Nerfball? And had he not experienced a premonition of all the grief and travails that would come his way, should he enter? If only he had heeded this inner voice. Too late, though. He was in this mess up to his neck, with no apparent escape. All the regrets in the world wouldn’t suffice to extricate him now. And there was no point in hesitating outside here any longer.
    Honeyman laid a hand on the medium-sized door inset in the largest one. At that moment he felt something butt up against his shins.
    He looked down.
    It was the head of Beatbox, emerging from the pet door.
    “Oh, sorry, man,” said Beatbox.
    “That’s okay,” replied Honeyman, stepping aside to let the fellow crawl completely out. Contrary to expectations, Beatbox did not immediately stand up.
    “What’s happening?” asked Honeyman.
    “Cardinal has been missing for three days now, and we’re trying to trace him. We figure, you wanna find a cat, you gotta act like a cat.”
    Suiting actions to words, Beatbox crawled off, pausing in his progress down Fourteenth Street to let off a