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"Look, it's like this," he said, softly, distractedly, looking around the office, "I've built up a good business here. It's been a lot of hard work, and it's taken me more decades than I care to think about." He stood up suddenly and strode around the desk, then spun on his heel to face me. "And I'm not having it taken away from me now!" he bellowed. I leaned back in complete surprise. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so surprised. Broxden had already shown himself to be a Goblin of some complexity, a person of many parts. "Look, Mister Gask," he went on, more calmly, "The Stalactite Saloon is built and operated to entertain a certain class of person. It's a place where otherwise-sensible and mature Goblins with well-paid jobs can come and party, and relax in friendly company. They don't really expect very much, for all their money - just a little uninhibited fun and games, but nothing sleazy. And of course the other advantage of this type is that they are likely to pay their bills without quibbling at the end of the evening." I could see his point. A joint with a reputation for disreputability, where relatively well-off professionals have what they consider to be a wild time drinking over-priced booze and ogling the performers on the stage, but nevertheless where they come to no more harm than a heavy hangover and a lightened wallet. I said nothing. Broxden seemed to have a story, a tale to tell to me regardless of what I might say or do. Some clients are like that, in my experience: they have rehearsed their lines so thoroughly in their heads before they get to speak them to me that the whole thing comes out sounding false. I'd just have to separate the truths from the falsehoods later on. Just part of the usual process, I guess. "We have certain standards at the Stalactite Saloon," he said, suddenly speaking so quietly I had to twist my ears to follow his words, "We have quality acts, true professionals with a career in front of them. They expect - and their agents expect, for that matter - that standards are kept up and that their privacy is expected." "All very laudable," I interjected, "But what has this to do with me?" "Somebody has been spying on my performers, Mister Gask," he said coldly, "Taking pictures in the dressing rooms, unclothed pictures of the dancers - including my fiancé."
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Part 3