The Fairyland Murders by J.A. Kazimer Page A

to control my rage.
    As I passed block after block of Easter peep shows and abandoned row houses, I kept to the shadows, hoping to lose my figurative shadow.
    The city came alive under the cover of darkness. Every degenerate prince and fairy-dust dealer crawled from his lair in search of a little dirty fun. On most nights I might’ve played along, but not tonight. Tonight I had more important things to accomplish, namely staying alive.
    Anything after that was gravy.
    At the corner of Forty-Fifth Street I pulled a pair of gloves out of my pocket, slipping them on before I climbed over the metal railing and into the depths of Troll Town.
    Most trolls lived in a commune under the bridge. It smelled of goat, patchouli, and troll body odor, which, oddly, was more pleasant than most. Colorful tents filled the commune, as did rows of freshly grown vegetables. In the daylight the grounds filled with hipsters searching for the perfect gourd. The trolls were only too happy to share their veggie wealth for a price, as well as a long sermon on the joys of ignoring joy.
    I approached Troll Town with great caution. Riled trolls spewed Zen quotes for hours, pausing only when their victims either begged for mercy or converted. I wasn’t the begging type, and I didn’t look too great bald, so conversion was out.
    â€œPsst,” a small voice said from behind a large juniper bush about a hundred feet from the center of the commune. “Reynolds, over here.” The vague outline of a troll appeared from the darkness. He wore typical troll attire: a tie-dyed bathrobe, a shiny bald scalp, and flip-flops. He looked familiar, but for the death of me, I couldn’t place him.
    â€œThe Buddha says, ‘A man’s worth is determined by the company he keeps,’ ” he said, his voice a mere whisper. His slight accent on the word “Buddha” sent a rush of electricity through me.
    I knew this guy. Knew him well.
    â€œYou must believe,” he said.
    â€œOh yeah?” I gave an exaggerated eye roll. “What else does the jolly fat guy have to say?”
    â€œThe Buddha says . . .” He paused. “Ummm . . . the Buddha says . . .”
    â€œGo on.” I gestured for him to continue.
    â€œ ‘Care enough to send the very best’?”
    â€œThat’s Hallmark.” I snatched the “troll” up and shook him until a pair of purplish wings burst from underneath his tie-dyed costume.
    Fucking fairies.
    â€œHenrick,” I addressed the fairy, keeping enough pressure on his windpipe that his face soon matched the color of his wings. “I should’ve known.”
    Henrick Wingsglow was a pain in the ass. In my years in the PI business we’d crossed paths too many times for my liking. The last time had cost me six weeks in a fey jail and a tiny bite-mark scar on my kneecap. For a second I tightened my grip, imaging how much easier my life would be without this particular fairy spawn.
    â€œGaaaawwwaaaa,” he gurgled.
    When his eyelids puckered I let go, and his fairy ass dropped to the dirt. “So what’s this all about?” I took a menacing step toward him. “Why the subterfuge?”
    From behind me, hidden behind a lush evergreen bush, a faint feminine snicker sounded. I sighed, addressing the laughing foliage who’d been following me since I left my apartment building. “I know a fifty-cent word or two. Get over it.”
    Henrick looked puzzled, his small cherubic face narrowing as if I’d lost my mind. “Are you talking to me?”
    â€œNo. Now tell me why I’m here,” I glanced at my watch, “in Troll Town, at midnight, meeting you of all fairies.”
    â€œIsabella is not the rightful Tooth Fairy. She is a fraud,” he said, his voice harsh. “And dangerous too.”
    â€œShe’s not much for following orders either,” I said.
    â€œThis isn’t a joke!” Henrick’s face grew red.