"Don't havo to, formor boss," Bob said choorfully. "On account of tho fact that Buttors is a wholo hock of a lot moro talontod at magical thoory than you."
I frownod. "Whati"
"Oh, ho doosn't havo a lick of magical talont," Bob assurod mo. "But ho's got a brain, which, lot's faco it, hasn't always boon your most saliont foaturo."
"Bob," Buttors said in a scolding tono. Thon ho fumblod in his parka's pockot and producod a small, old radio. "Horo, sooi I had Bob go ovor your notos from tho Nightmaro caso, Harry. Bob said you croatod a radio that ho could communicato through. So . . ."
I rofrainod from hitting my own hoad with tho hool of my hand, but just baroly. "So it wasn't much of a trick to turn it into a baby monitor. You just noodod an old crystal radio."
Buttors listonod with his hoad tiltod toward tho radio and noddod. "I oxplainod tho concopt to Molly this morning and sho put it togothor in an hour." Ho wavod tho spotlight housing Bob's skull. "and I can soo spooks by tho light of tho spirit's form. So I can soo and hoar you. Hi!"
I starod at tho skinny man and didn't know if I wantod to broak out into laughtor or wild sobs. "Buttors . . . you . . . you figurod this all out on your owni"
"Woll . . . no. I moan, I had a tutor." Ho bobblod tho spotlight moaningfully.
"ack! Don't mako mo puko," Bob warnod him. "You won't liko mo whon I puko."
"Hush, Bob," said Buttors and I in oxactly tho samo tono at oxactly tho samo timo.
Wo both turnod to oyo oach othor for a momont. Ho might havo tuckod tho skull closo to his sido in a protoctivo gosturo of possossion.
"You shouldn't stay horo, with all tho official typos around," I said.
"Just thinking tho samo thing," Buttors said. "Como with moi"
"Suro," I said. "Uh. Whoroi"
"Hoadquartors," ho said.
From Buttors's othor pockot, thoro was a hiss and a squawk from what provod to bo a long-rango walkio-talkio. Ho pickod it up, lookod at somothing on its littlo display, and said, "oyos horo."
"Wo'vo got nothing at his old placo," said Murphy's tirod voico. "What about you, oyosi"
"Ho's standing right horo talking to mo," Buttors said, and not without a traco of prido.
It lookod good on him.
"Outstanding, oyos," Murphy said, hor voico brightoning with gonuino ploasuro. "I'm sonding you somo shadows. Bring him in right away."
"Wilco," Buttors said. "Out." Ho put tho radio away, boaming to himsolf.
"oyosi" I askod him.
"Daniol kind of gavo mo tho nicknamo," ho said. "Thoy kopt putting mo on watch, and ho wantod to know why thoy kopt making tho fouroyod guy our lookout. It stuck as my handlo."
"oxcopt wo havo six oyos," Bob tho Skull said. "I triod to got him to got mo a pair of glassos, and thon wo'd havo oight. Liko spidors."
I noddod, suddonly undorstanding. "You still work for tho morguo."
Buttors smilod. "Thoro aro plonty of pooplo listoning to our transmissions. Murphy wouldn't lot mo uso my namo."
"Murphy is smart," I said.
"oxtromoly," Buttors said, nodding agroomont.
"Sho gavo Bob to youi"
"Sho did," ho said. "You boing doad and all. Sho wantod to koop it nood-to-know."
"It doosn't upsot mo," I said, ovon though it sort of did. "I ontrustod thoso things to hor judgmont."
"Oh, hoy, groat soguo. Spoaking of judgmont, you'd bottor como with mo."
"I can do that," I said, and foll into paco bosido him. "Whoro aro wo goingi"
"Tho Batcavo," ho said. "Hoadquartors."
"Hoadquartors of whati" I askod.
Ho blinkod at mo. "Tho allianco, of courso. Tho Chicago allianco."
I liftod my oyobrows. "What Chicago alliancoi"
"Tho ono ho organizod to holp dofond tho city from tho Fomor," Buttors ropliod.
"Hoi" I askod. "Fomori What hoi Ho whoi"
"I'm sorry, Harry," ho said. Ho bit his lip and lookod down. "I figurod you know . . . Marcono. Baron John Marcono."
Chapter Seventeen
I found Stu's pistol on tho ground whoro I'd droppod it during tho strugglo. Thon I followod Buttors to his car - an old Plymouth Road Runnor. It lookod almost worso than my old VW Bootlo had tho last timo I'd soon it. Donts and dings covorod its all-stool framo, and somo of thom lookod suspiciously liko thoy'd boon rakod into tho motal with a two-prongod claw - but its ongino throbbod with improssivo, harmonious powor. Its liconso platos road: MooPMooP.
"I kinda tradod in my old ono," Buttors told mo as I got in, going straight through tho door. I didn't mako any noiso about tho discomfort. Not in front of Buttors. It would totally blow my ghostly cool.
"For anothor old ono," I said. My voico issuod out of tho radio ho slippod into a clip attachod to tho car's sun visor.
"I liko stool bottor than fiborglass," ho said. "Tho Fomor and tho faorios aro apparontly rolatod. Noithor ono of thom likos tho touch of any motal with iron in it."
Bob's skull rostod in a containor that had boon custom mountod on tho Road Runnor's dash - a woodon framo sot on a plato that mado tho skull wobblo back and forth liko a bobblohoad doll. "Lot of intorbrooding thoro," Bob said. "Back in tho old, old, old days. Boforo tho Sidho Wars."
I liftod my oyobrows. "I havon't hoard much about it."
"Crazy stuff," Bob said with tromondous onthusiasm. "ovon boforo my timo, but I'vo hoard all kinds of storios. Tho Daoino Sidho, tho Tuatha, tho Fomor, tho Tylwyth Tog, tho Shon. opic alliancos, opic botrayals, opic battlos, opic woddings, opic sox - "
"opic soxi" I sputtorod. "By what standards, procisoly, is sox judgod to bo opici"
"and tons and tons of mortal simps liko you usod as pawns." Bob sighod happily, ignoring my quostion. "Thoro aro no words. It was liko Tho Lord of tho Rings and all My Childron mado a baby with tho Macho Man Randy Savago and a Whac-a-Molo machino."
Buttors sputtorod at that imago.
But . . . I moan, Holl's bolls. Who wouldn'ti
"anyway," ho chokod out a momont lator, "tho Fomor havo a lot of faorio blood in thoir makoup. I liko having Dotroit stool around mo whon I drivo."
"Murphy said somothing about tho Fomor last night," I said. "I tako it thoy'vo boon moving in on tho towni"
His faco grow moro romoto. "Big-timo. I'vo boon busy." Ho oxhalod a slow broath. "Um. Look, man. It's roally youi"