The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

Courts in Angels City open at half past nine. At exactly 9:37 the next morning (I asked my watch afterwards), I got a call from Sublegate Higgins. "We have the warrant," he said. It was so fast, I wondered if he'd used Maximum Ruhollah. Maybe not; he operated out of the St. Ferdinand's Valley substation, and he'd be sure to have a local judge up there under his spell. He went on, "We're moving out at ten-thirty. If you're not here by then, you'll be late."

"I'll be there," I said, and got off the phone. Miserable cowboy, I thought: everything had to be his way. But I headed for my carpet as fast as I could; when you're dealing with people like that, you don't want to give them any excuse to mess you up.

Just as well I did, too - I made it to the substation with only about three minutes to spare. Traffic up through the pass was just ghastly Don't ask me how, but when a big longhaul transport carpet broke down and had to land, a unicorn got out of its cage. People on carpets and others riding pegasi were trying to herd it back to where it belonged, and weren't having much luck.

As my carpet crawled through the gawkers' block, I wondered if they'd have to go to a nunnery to find someone who could calm the beautiful beast. Given Angels City's reputation, they might have had a tough time finding a virgin outside of one. Catching the unicorn, thank God, was not my worry.

When I finally did get to the constabulary station, Higgins gave me a disapproving look so perfectly flinty he must have practiced it in the nun-or. He introduced me to the SWAT team, who looked more like combat soldiers than highly trained mages. I nodded to the thaumatech. "We've met before."

"So we have." It was Bomholm. "You came up to the Thomas Brothers fire."

"That's right. I still envy you your spellchecker."

"Enough chitchat," Higgins said. "Let's fly."

I'd never ridden on a black-and-white carpet before. Let me tell you, those things are hot. As we shot up the flyways to the curandero's place, I reflected that the sylphs in the constabulary carpet could have used a little discipline themselves. A couple of turns would have tossed me off on my ear if I hadn't been wearing my belt But we got there in a huny.

Hemandez's house was on O'Melveny, a couple of lots east of Van Nuys. I hadn't known whether he had a storefront for his death shop, but no, it was just a little old house with a hand-lettered skin - in green and red, as Lupe Cordero had told me - that said CURANDERO nailed onto the front porch.

Watching the SWAT team operate was something else, too. Police carpets aren't bound by the governing speBs that restrict ordinary vehicles to their flyways. The mages drew an aerial ward circle around Hemandez's establishment from above before anybody landed. Whatever he had in there, they weren't about to give him a chance to use it. Constables don't live to enjoy their grandchildren by taking risks they don't have to.

Sublegate Higgins used an insulated umbrella (same principle as the footbridge at the Devonshire dump, but applied upside down) to penetrate the circle. With him came four of the SWAT team wizards, Bomholm the thaumatech with her fancy spellchecker, and, bringing up the rear, yours truly. All the firepower that preceded me - the constables were armed for any sort of combat, physical as well as magical - made me wish I was one of the mild-mannered bureaucrats the public imagines all government workers to be; I wouldn't have minded falling asleep at my desk just then.

Bomholm said, "The spellcheckers already sniffing some thing nasty up ahead."

Higgins rapped on the door. Now the boys from the SWAT team stood on either side of him, ready to kick it down. But it opened. I don't know what I'd expected Cuauhtemoc Hemandez to look like, but an Aztecan version of your well-loved grandfather wasn't it He had white hair, spectacles, and, until he took in the crowd on his front porch, a very pleasant expression.

That faded in a hurry, to be replaced by bewilderment.

"What you want?" he asked in accented English.

'You are Cuauhtemoc Hemandez, the curandero?" Higgins said formally.

"S{, but-" The old man smiled. "You need what I got, senor? Maybe you have trouble keeping your woman happy?"

From the way the back of Higgins' neck went purple and then white, maybe he did have trouble keeping his woman happy. But he was a professional; his voice didn't change as he went on, "Mr. Hemandez, I have here a warrant permitting the Angels City Constabulary to search these premises for substances contravening various sections of city, provincial, and Confederal ordinances dealing with controlled sorcerous materials, and another warrant for your arrest on a charge of dispensing such materials. You are under arrest, sir. Anything you say may be used against you."

Hemandez stared as if he couldn't believe his ears.

"Senor, you must be mistaken," he said with considerable dignity. "I am just a curandero; I don't hardly do no magic worth the name."