"You missed a spot," said Constable Knobsmasher as he indicated the one remaining smudge in the cell. He was sitting on one end the bunk within the cell.

"Ah, thank you for pointing that out, Constable." The robot extended its left index finger, and a small quantity of cleaning solution squirted out of the tip onto the stain. It followed that with a vigorous swab with the world's most dangerous looking scrubby sponge, completely obliterating the offending globules of grease. The cell positively gleamed.

"You're very good at cleanin', you know," said Knobby. "A real professional, you might say."

"Thank you, Constable. I did warn Captain Charpe that I would be merciless in my assault upon the grime in this building if he did not accede to my employer's demands. Has he decided to hand over the phase converter yet?" The robot looked hopeful.

"No, not yet 'e asn't." He got up from the bunk. "Can't imagine why not. All this cleanliness is terrifyin' me."

"If I may say so, Constable, your Captain must have nerves of steel to run this sort of risk." The robot did a quick tidy of the cot, the end of its right arm rotating until an evil looking upholstery brush locked in place at the tip. The vacuum spooled up to full power, and quickly removed a considerable accumulation of dirt and dust from the spot where Knobby had been sitting. The robot followed this up by straightening and tucking the covers until one could bounce a half-dollar off them.

"The Captain is a tough one, there's no mistake. 'E's got a policy 'bout negotiatin' with terrorists, see. If you ask me, you're goin' to have to do some serious scrubbin' to get 'im to change 'is mind."

The robot turned back to Knobsmasher. "Well, there's nothing for it, then. I shall just have to continue on this rampage."

"I'll take you to the next cell then, shall I?"

"Thank you, Constable. That would be very helpful."

Meanwhile, Charpe and Reeves (the human one) were in the squad room, watching the robot on a security monitor as it terrorized the Yard's wide assortment of dust critters. Across the room, Chopper was using the phone at his desk.

"Sir, I couldn't help but notice that the robot's voice sounds remarkably similar to my own, and that neither you nor the sergeant seem surprised by that. I can't help but think that there is something that you haven't told me yet regarding the robot," said Reeves.

Charpe looked up from the monitor at Reeves. "Mr. Reeves, Sergeant Chopper and I met that robot at Castle Gudanov three weeks ago. It told us it was Gudanov's butler."

"Three weeks ago? That seems hardly likely, sir. I was still employed then. How would Mr. Gudanov have obtained a copy of my voice and mannerisms? It's all seems very mysterious."

Charpe nodded. "I think the problem is that we've been assumin' that your appointment at the castle was last night. Just out of curiosity, Mr. Reeves, what date do ya think today is?"

Reeves answered. Charpe slowly shook his head, then turned around the desk calendar at the station so Reeves could see it. "Just as I thought. You've actually been missin' for..."

"Twenty-four days, sir," said Chopper, returning from his desk. "At least, that's when the agency said Mr. Reeves' interview was scheduled. They also said that Mr. Reeves had been employed by Gudanov since then."

"What?" Reeves looked dumfounded for just a moment, but regained his composure quickly. "I see, sergeant."

"'Fraid so, Mr. Reeves," Chopper continued, "I just called your agency to check a few things, an' they said that Gudanov's assistant, Hans, had called to confirm your engagement as butler for one month, an' that your wages an' the referral fee had been paid in full."

"I see," said Reeves again.

"Also, Mr. Henberry would like ya to call him when ya have a moment. Ya can use my phone if ya like." Chopper pointed towards his desk.

"I see," but Reeves slowly shook his head in the manner of one whom, in fact, does not see, then stood up. "If you will excuse me, sirs." He walked over to Chopper's desk and began to dial.

Chopper looked at Charpe. "Whadda ya think, sir?"

"I think it looks like Gudanov used our Mr. Reeves as a model of some sort for his Reeves, Pit. And given that he paid him, Reeves may have agreed to it."

"Well if he agreed, sir, why the bright lights? Why leave him settin' in a dandelion patch with no memory?"

Charpe shrugged. "Mad scientists seem to be a lot like wizards. They love to put on a show." The sound of shouting began to filter in from the front desk. Charpe could easily make out Harrass's voice. "Sounds like things are getting back to normal out front."

"Aye, sir. Didn't take long, did it? Maybe we should just bolt the front door."

Reeves hung up the phone, and came back over to the two orcs. "Well then. Captain Charpe, if there's nothing more."

"Already have another job lined up for ya then?" Charpe asked.

"No, sir. It's quite the opposite, in fact. It appears that having one of its valets found dazed in a dandelion patch is not consistent with the image the agency wishes to project to prospective clients. They will no longer represent me."

"They gave ya the sack?" said an incredulous Chopper. "Sure an' I'm sorry, Reeves. If I'd known..."

"As you say, sergeant, and please don't chastise yourself." He paused, distracted as the shouting out front got louder for a moment, then continued. "Perhaps it's for the best. The truth is that of late I've not been totally content in my work."

"Really?" said Charpe.

"I'm afraid so, sir. I've come to find that life in service is not quite what it once was. Chances of finding a stable position have become very long indeed. That point was driven home rather forcefully when my last employer decided to chuck everything to become a physician, further reasoning that as he now would have assistants, he would have no further need for a valet."

"He became a doctor, then, just like that?"

"No, sir. He merely thinks he's a physician. He's currently confined to the Mattedown Clinic for the Bewildered in Dalrymple Gardens. I hear he's frightfully abusive to both patients and caregivers alike. It's a very sad state of affairs."

"I'm sure it is," said Charpe. "So, what are your plans?"

"I... I'm not sure, sir."

A crash, followed by the sound of breaking glass, came from the direction of the front desk, and Chopper hurriedly headed out of the room to investigate.

"Ever considered joinin' the Watch, Mr. Reeves?"

"Sir?" Perplexed would be a good description of the look on Reeves' face.

"It's a simple question. We could use someone like you."

"I fear I must point out, sir, that I have no experience in police work."

"The watch has plenty of people with experience in police work, Mr. Reeves. What the Watch needs right now is someone to handle the front desk, someone who is organized and knows how to deal with the people who walk in through the front door or who call in by phone, someone who can sort the wheat from the chaff, and then assign the proper constable for the job. In short, Greenwood Yard needs a butler. What do ya say?"

"The offer is tempting, sir, but do you think the city would look kindly on your hiring a butler?"

"Well, your title would be Desk Sergeant, but the job is pretty much as I described it. We really could use a man with your talents."

"Then, sir, I accept. When would you like me to commence my duties?"

"How about right now? Welcome to the Watch, Sergeant Reeves." He shook Reeves' hand. "Let's get you a badge."

"Very good, sir."

"Bloody Hel..." The words trailed off as Charpe entered the Yard's lobby. He'd gotten so used to muttering it as he walked through the front doors lately that it was becoming automatic, but today there was no reason. No one was complaining; no one was yelling; no one was even milling about. The lobby was empty except for Sergeant Reeves, who was calmly sitting behind the desk speaking on the telephone.

"Yes, Mrs. Desotelle, that sounds most sinister indeed. I shall dispatch a constable at once... You are quite welcome, ma'am... Good day, Mrs. Desotelle." Reeves greeted Charpe as he hung up the phone. "Good morning, sir."

"Good mornin', sergeant. Mrs. Desotelle bein' plagued by poodles again?"

"Indeed, sir." He checked the duty roster. "Constable Elphcrusher is nearest the Old Quarter. I'll have him stop in to see her directly."

"Tell him to see if he can find any of the Well Behaved to bring along with him. They're good at gettin' situations like this sorted out." Charpe looked over the desk log as Reeves was contacting Elphcrusher. "Quiet mornin', I see. Some might say too quiet. We didn't have another robot burst in and scare everybody off again, did we?"

"No, sir. Speaking of robots, sir, Constable Knobsmasher mentioned that he was running out of things for my doppleganger to clean here in the building, so I suggested to him that perhaps the statuary in Weiler Square could do with a good polish. They are over there now."

"Ah, so that's who they were. I thought they were awfully big to be pigeons. Good idea." He paused and looked around the empty room again. "Now then, Sergeant Reeves, tell me somethin'. Last night when I left, this area was mobbed with people who wished to report crimes and suspicious activity. This mornin' there's no one here. How did you manage to satisfy the public so thoroughly in such a short period of time?"

"I have to confess, sir, that I may have inadvertently driven some of the public away."

"How? Those folks weren't even afraid of Harrass."

"Well, sir, the thought occurred that since it might take some considerable time to handle all those assembled, then perhaps some refreshments would be in order. To that end I took the liberty of having Constable Dobler prepare a small selection of canapés to serve to those waiting."

"Canapés?" Charpe asked.

"Yes, sir, small savory hors d'oeuvres," Reeves explained, indicating the serving tray off to one side of the desk. "At first those present seemed most gratified by the gesture, but then a curious thing happened. People began to leave rather hurriedly, as though they had all suddenly remembered a prior dental appointment."

"That is odd," agreed Charpe, as he looked over the tray, then selected an item and popped it into his mouth. "These are really quite good." He picked up another.

"I believe my mistake was in not taking into account Constable Dobler's preference for, er, non-traditional ingredients in his collations. I fear the human palate is not quite so sophisticated as that of an orc."

"That's a shame," said Charpe, wiping a crumb from his mouth. "These ratatouille miniatures are first rate. Dobler uses real rat, you know, not that fake stuff those posh human restaurants try to pass off as rat."

"Indeed, sir, aubergine is no doubt a poor substitute. At any rate, soon the only persons remaining were those who had business to discuss with the Watch that just couldn't wait. With the crowd disappated, we were able to handle those cases in short order."

"Well then, carry on, sergeant." Charpe grinned. "Well done."

"Very good, sir."

There's a pile of dead men in my living room. OK, a few dead women, too, but for some reason, the majority of the vampire population of Sang Sacre is male.

I stand over the corpse sprawled over the Persian rug. "Are you telling me that turkey narcolepsy affects the undead?"

Bob blinks up at me. There's mashed potato in the corner of his mouth. "Pi-ii-ie . . ."

"I thought it was 'Blo-o-o-od.'"

The other vampires groan in disapproval, but I'm hardly worried. None of them has moved a muscle since the last of the stuffing disappeared. Even Joey, who I banned from the table for sticking olives on the tips of his fangs and grinning at everyone. It was funny the first ten times he did it.

I nudge Bob with my foot. Gently. "I'm going shopping. If you don't hear from me in three hours, come rescue me. I'll be in the Bazaar."

He blinked again and looked as concerned as a creature who has OD's on candied yams can look.

"I'll be fine. Achmed's coming with me. If you're mobile in an hour, there's pie in the kitchen."

A greedy moan worthy of any Hammer film goes up.

"Leave the dishes in the sink. No real dead bodies on the carpet. See you later."

"I just don't get it," Constable Knobsmasher said to Catsmeat Dobler. "Why does your kind call today 'Black Friday'? It's not even a bit cloudy out, much less dark an' stormy. It's what you call an oxymoronic 'oliday, it is."

Dobler was along to observe as Knobsmasher walked a beat through the Old Quarter, Part of Dobler's training in Watch procedures. "If you're a businessman, Knobby, this is, like, the best day of the year. Perfectly sane consumers lose all reason and practically fork the cash over like it was Monopoly money. Black Friday used to be my best day. Folks are in a hurry and can't spare the time for a sit-down lunch, but you offer 'em a nice grilled sausage on a stick at a reasonable price, they'll line up." Dobler sighed. "Damn, those were good times."

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with it bein' Black an' all? There's not a cloud ina sky, no dark lords smitin' folk with flamin' swords and such, nobody runnin' 'round 'ollerin' in a panic."

"You've obviously never gotten caught between two old ladies both trying to buy the last fondue pot from a kiosk in the Medina."

"Can't say as I 'ave..." Knobsmasher was interrupted by a beep from the radio attached to his tunic. "Yeah, sarge," he answered, then cupped his hand over his earpiece to listen. After a moment he said, "We're at Roubidoux an' Deschanel in the Quarter." He listened again, then, "Right you are, sarge. We'll 'ead over an' check it out." He looked over at Catsmeat. "Sarge says a neighbor reported seeing a large number of dead bodies in an apartment in the Folly. We're to check it out."

"Just the two of us?" asked Dobler a bit nervously. "The sarge did say 'bodies', right? You know, as in multiple. Shouldn't we wait for some backup?"

"Nah, no need. Be good trainin' for you. An' you'll get to know a bit more about the neighbor'ood this way."

"How, by taking down the names of the streets along the way while some deranged axe murderer sneaks up behind and adds me to the pile of dead bodies?"

"No need to get all sarcastic like," said Knobsmasher. "I know who lives in that apartment, I does, an' I know she's got some, shall we say, unusual friends. We won't be findin' no dead bodies up there. Well, all right, theys will be dead, but there's dead, and then there is dead. You see?"

"No," said Dobler, "Not a clue." A couple of moments later he asked, "But what if they're the other kind of dead?"

"Well then, Catsy, me ol' chum, we'll 'ave us an old fashioned Black Friday, now won't we."

The door to the apartment was open a crack when the constables arrived at the apartment in question. Through the opening Dobler could see several bodies sprawled about unmoving, all looking deathly pale. "Knobby, they look awfully dead," he whispered, getting a bit pale himself.

"They are," said Knobsmasher, "but as I said..." He opened the door full, strode over to one of the bodies, and poked it with his nightstick. "C'mon there, Bob, wake up."

The body groaned and rolled over, opening it's eye a crack as it looked up at Knobsmasher. "Knobby? What the hell time is it?"

"Noon. Neighbor reported a pile o' dead bodies. Mass turkey coma, then?"

"Yeoop," came the woozy reply.

"Everyone else okay, nobody needin' a couple pints o' AB neg?"

"Well, if you're offering to go..."

"No. Just checkin' your reflexes, I was." He turned to Dobler. "Told you, I did. Nothin' to see here. Just a bunch o' vampires doped up on turkey dinners."

"Vampires?"

"Yeah, whadya expect, zombies? Now let's us go reassure Mrs. McGregor down the 'all."

Zombies. Why's it got to be zombies?

I feel glad that I've worn a nice warm hat. I know, I know, they are perfectly well restrained, and yet, I can't help but feel grateful for that extra little bit of padding between my brain and the outside world. There have been two of them following me, shall we say, avidly for a good twenty minutes, and in spite of the proprietor's reassurancess, I don't feel quite comfortable. And really, who would have expected zombies in a Dalrymple sculptor's studio? Let alone that they would, erm, hired help?

Still, there are definitely some lovely anatomical studies here.

"The new uniforms look pretty sharp," I said brightly. I said it brightly because I knew what was coming, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. It didn't help that once again I was the only member of the W.O.B. who made it to the monthly board meeting with Captain Charpe. Funny how they all begged off when they saw the final item on the agenda. Hilarious, in fact.

"They do, don't they?" said Charpe. "Your Ms. Brooks was very helpful. The woman does wonders with kevlar."

I found myself without any further topics to delay the inevitable. "We found you a detective." I handed over a dossier.

Charpe opened it and started reading. Given what was typed right there at the top of the first page, it only took a second for a scowl to appear. "His name is Tureleg?"

"Eli Tureleg, yes."

"That's an elven name."

"I believe his grandfather was an elf." Knew it for a fact, actually, but I figured a little ambiguity was best.

"I don't like elves," he said, the scowl deepening. "We've talked about this. I don't want 'em in the Watch."

"You don't have to like him," I replied. "We have talked about this. Diversity is good. Besides, he's mostly human."

"He's still part elf. You can't trust elves. He'd probably kill his own mother for a shillin'."

About this time the penguin discretely decided to continue taking minutes of the meeting from a spot beneath the far end of the conference table. I soldiered on. "In fact, he requested that we forward a portion of his retainer to his mother. We checked. We're quite certain she's still alive."

"Retainer?" Charpe asked.

"The city only hired him as a consultant. He's a private contractor. You decide when to call him in."

"He won't be joinin' the Watch?" The scowl was replaced by puzzlement.

"Nope. He prefers to remain independent." Which was true. Plus he already made more that the city could offer to pay him. "Given that we don't expect the Watch to need a detective full time, it seems a win-win situation," for values of win that don't include happy orcs, anyway.

"The Watch isn't good enough for him?" A vein in Charpe's forehead started to pulse. "He prefers to remain independent. Isn't that just like a bleedin' elf!"

"You said didn't want any elves in the Watch!" I'd raised my voice on that, which would've probably aggravated the situation with a human, but orcs tend to respect yelling. The next level of escalation with orcs is physical assault, but Mrs. Machina didn't raise no stupid kids.

"It's the principle of the thing." His own volume level dropped some, which was a good sign. Then he added, "Besides, we already have a detective."

"What? Who?" Now I was the one puzzled.

"Constable Wolfhunter"

"Has a lot of experience doing this sort of work does he?" Never ask a question you don't already know the answer to. Wolfhunter was a kid, the youngest of orcs in the Watch.

"Not as such, no," said Charpe, "but he's a good tracker, and very keen to learn."

"And who'll be training him?"

"Well... He's read quite a bit... And he's always to first to figure out who did it when the lads are watchin' the television."

"Ah, so he's good at figuring out crimes that have been scripted then?" I paused a moment. Time to appeal to Charpe's professionalism. "Look, Tureleg is a very good detective. We checked. His background is impeccable, and his references all give him high marks. Wolfhunter can learn from him. Give him a chance."

"I still don't trust elves. There has to be someone else."

I shrug. "He was the only one who bid on the contract."

"Bloody hell."