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Tillyfor stared into the middle distance, looking at nothing, which was probably a better option than the dingy interior of my office. Apart from the three chairs and the battered desk - all rescued from the deeper recesses of the local thrift store - the walls were striped with the bioluminescent coating which provides most of the lighting around here, except where sporadically decorated with a few rather faded certificates and citations in dusty frames. The carpet was just something to cover the floor, and the row of battered filing cabinets were rarely opened and even more rarely contained anything of interest. I coughed discreetly. Her focus slowly returned to me. "She's called Tillykerie," she said, "She's my kid sister. Everybody says we look alike, but we're not twins. She's a lot younger than I am and I've always looked out for her, especially after Mom died." She paused for a moment, inspecting the contents of the shot glass she still held in her hand. Wisely, she declined to drink any more of it right away. "Money has been tight for a while, and Tillykerie and I have been sharing an apartment. Just a little place." "So what do you do for money?" I asked. "I'm a dancer. It's been a bit difficult to get work recently, but at the moment I'm in the chorus line at the Midnight Square Theatre." "That's a..." I hesitated for a moment, choosing my words carefully, "A burlesque show, isn't it?" She sat up straight and gave me a very cold look over the rim of the glass. "What if it is?" "Means nothing to me," I replied casually, "Everybody's gotta make a buck somehow. Is it a good show?" She relaxed fractionally. "Full house every night," she replied with a tinge of pride, "Not much by way of critical reviews, but it's very popular. Some people keep coming back night after night." I could see that. An earthy, even raunchy show featuring a great many attractive ladies in elaborate and revealing attire was unlikely to get any coverage in the newspapers - the theatre critics being a bunch of stuck-up old buffers - but it would quite a money-spinner. For the management, at least. "Pays well, this gig?" I enquired, making a note on the page in front of me. "Better than most," Tillyfor replied with a world-weary sigh, "Better that almost anything I've done before. Except advertising, of course." "So it's a good job?" "Mostly. But there's a lot of competition to get into the chorus. You need to stay on tip-top form. Watch your back. One slip and some ambitious child is in your spot like a shot." "So it's a tough job. But what about your sister? Dancer, too?" "No!" she replied, once again sounding affronted, "Nothing like that. She's a waitress." "So where's she waiting on?" "It's a restaurant, a posh place on Midhampton Terrace called the Stuffed Duck." I nodded slowly, again scribbling in my notebook. I had heard of this place from, of all things, reports in the Sunday supplements. It was one of the better places, all white starched tablecloths and overblown obsequiousness, located in a quiet side street in Cavern One, not far from the centre of government. It was the sort of place where overpaid federal servants, lackeys of big business, journalists and reporters, and other sycophants would buy each other expensive lunches, and try and pick each others' brains. "How did she land a job there?" Tillyfor shrugged. "She just applied," she said, "She applied for loads of jobs. She got offered this one." It could be true. The Stuffed Duck was the sort of place that would take on a well brought up girl who knew how to move quietly and speak respectfully to her betters. "When did you last see your sister?" She suddenly looked grey, then took another large sip from the shot-glass she still held in her hand. I wasn't sure but I doubted that somebody as athletic as she was accustomed to drinking very much. She should leave the alcohol to those who need it, and who know how to handle it - like Private Investigators.
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Part 5