With a Garnish of Wages

The man stares at the half-arch jutting from the east wall of the building. "Vhat ist da point…" , mouth agape between a large, triangular mustache, and a small teardrop beard.

That mouth agape, tracks down the arch, like a bat gasping for sight, at the brutalist chunk of concrete arch-support. A large swooping architectural structure looms over his metal-wire chair and temporary desk. Papers lay in front of him with case notes scribbled: Consistent exponential growth… missing funds… off-book meetings…

He leans back and runs his fingers through his hair. Suddenly, papers and mottled-gray trilby hat gust. With a swing of his arm, he catches his hat, but sends his papers for a swim with his drink. He jerks upward and takes a saving swipe at his wetting trench coat and suit pants. A few more brushes, then a look upward catches a small void in the ledge. Stepping over, he retrieves a small unmarked, black notebook.

The man slumps hard into the metal chair and winces at nearly denting his back. Ignoring the pain-throbs, his hands slip off the elastic closure and the book flops open to the front page. The contact information is blank. So is the first page, and the next one, and the next one… "Excuse me, sir," says a server standing next to him.

"Oh, hallo!" the seated man replies.

"Sorry, to bother you, but are you ready for your check?"

"Dat ist in right. Bitte… please," he says, as he removes his wallet and forfeits his card to the table. Eavesdroppers nearby wince at the incorrect preposition usage. “I also found dis notebook,” he adds.

The waiter places the check on the table. “Normally we’d hold onto that, but perhaps you should take care of it,” motioning at the wallet laying aspread, displaying its constable-badge undergarments.

The man laughs with a nod and gestures for the server to take his card. Accepting it, the server adds "Oh! Would you like any dessert?"

The man's eyes widen as the waiter begins to list off the array of treats. His lips pucker with determination, though his lower lip quivers, wavering along with his resilience. "I suppose, I could have... ein brownie."

The waiter hesitates, card still in hand.

"Just load it all now, bitte" the man says.

Assuming the man meant to charge his card the server replies "Okay, it'll be an additional 4.32 credits. I'll have that right out for you Mr..." he glances at the card, "Burchard." He walks away, shaking his head.

Burchard checks his pocket-screen.

-4.32 credits

-1.27 credits

-32.45 credits

-21.30 credits

-5.49 credits

-18.38 credits

He sighs, replaces his screen, and returns to the notebook.

He resumes flipping through empty pages until the book flops open to the last page, revealing a bookmark and the words ‘2pm Grave's.’ He pulls out the bookmark and sees that it's two bookmarks. They are both ‘10,000 credit bills.’

He chuckles to himself as the server returns and places the brownie in front of him. “Look hier, such silly bills.”

The server returns the chuckle. “Not sure why they’d bother making bookmarks of those. It’s not like anyone would recognize those big bills.”

“Vait, dere are bills dis big?!” Burchard exclaimed.

“I think they might go up to one thousand at least.”

Burchard reacts by checking his pocket-screen and then gasping. “Oh mein Gott!”

“Is there any name written in the book?”

“Nein, just dis,” he gestures to the ‘2pm Graves.’ “Perhaps das ist ein code for a meeting place. Not an actual cemetery, but somevhere to meet. Vhere?”

“Well there are a lot of restaurants around town: Leafley’s, the Swan Song, Tombey's, there’s also that jazz cafe…” the server says, tapering off.

"Oho!" Burchard exclaims, his face lighting up. "TOMB-bey"

"Ah, like Graves."

"Genau!"

The server looks down at his pocket screen and remarks, “it’s almost two, now. Better hurry, that’s across town.” A sudden flash of light, and a whirlwind of leaves make his head snap up to an empty chair and plate full of crumbs.

* * *

A flash of light illuminates the dark innards of Tombey’s as Burchard steps through the doorway. He walks up to the bar and sits down. He checks his watch. 2:02 p.m. His hand holds the spot where the notebook is in his trench coat, and he squirms; never having held close to this much legal tender in his life.

The bartender places a glass of water in front of him, which Burchard sips, then begins to look around. Two business people sit rigid like soldiers, yet fumble with the pens, papers, and technology in front of them.

A man walks in with disheveled hair, and a rumpled mint green dress shirt with vertical black stripes. The two business people perk up, and the man waves to them. He walks over and sits down.

They start to chatter and Burchard loses focus until he hears: “We need at least another four hundred thousand to increase profits from last quarter.”

“Here let me get something to write this down,” the mint-green man replies. He rummages through his bag and fails to find anything. “I seem to have misplaced my notebook,” he says while the woman in front of him hands him one.

Burchard’s eyes glint.

“Okay, that shouldn’t be hard to do,” the mint-green man continues.

“Will we be able to get that much without any notice?”

“Of course!” comes a cry in reply.

“Quiet down,” one hisses, looking around. Burchard averts his gaze.

“I mean everyone has a different number of hours every week, and I’ve never met anyone who actually does the math. Nobody’ll notice,” the mint-green man finishes. The two business people nod then take their exit.

Burchard sits down at the table. He pulls out the book and opens it to flash the cash. “I vas looking for da owner of dis notebook I found, und overheard dat you might be missing one.”

The man’s face reddens and begins to sweat. He runs his fingers through his hair, “Hey, mister I wouldn’t know anything about that.” The man gets up, attempts to straighten his shirt and quickly scampers away. Burchard intently stares after him.

* * *

A room holds many desks. The desks in turn hold many papers, monitors, and badges. This room is loudly quiet with tapping keyboards and fidgeting papers. A flash of light and change in air pressure are followed by Inspector Burchard who walks over to a brown-haired woman. She looks up, as Burchard places a black book next to a fedora on her desk and instructs, “Detective, look at da vages.”

“The wages?” she posits. The inspector nods. She nods back, as he turns and steps out of the room.

* * *

Burchard sits at a desk, feet up, cup of Oolong in hand when a woman with a fedora walks in. “Inspector?”

“Ja, detective?”

“We found evidence.”

“Das ist excellent!”

“The arrests are being made now.”

He nods, “Gut.”

“Also, they'd like to see you down at evidence. About the notebook you turned in.”

“Danke…” he says as he quickly stands up. “...tank you.” he adds sheepishly.

“Bitte,” she replies with a smile.

Burchard’s smile spreads to his eyes with appreciation as she exits his office.

* * *

A flash of green illuminates the evidence-room doorway. Burchard walks up to the desk. The man on shift, raises his head from a propped arm. "Inspector. I have this for you." His outstretched arm yields a little black book.

Burchard takes it and flips it open. 2pm Graves. The two bills still lay inside. "Vhat ist dis?"

"It cleared."

"Da money?"

"It came from his personal funds."

"Dey didn't benefit monetarily?"

"HE didn't directly benefit monetarily." The man inhales, struggling to keep focus. "He withdrew twenty-thousand in cash from his personal bank account. It was clean. Plus, we cannot know if that...," he points to the bills in the book, "...is even the same money."

"But certainly he vould come claim it…"

"He declined the money," the man interjected.

“Vhat?!” Burchard exclaimed.

"Yeah,” the man guffaws. “It’s been unclaimed past the standard holding period, so it’s up to your discretion as to what we do with it." He pauses, looks around, and lowers his voice. "If I were you I'd just keep the money."

“Und mach das gleiche?!”

The man throws his hands up, "Hey, I'm just saying. It's not every day that you walk into twenty thousand, no strings attached. I'd consider it a bonus for all the hard work you did."

The inspector's brows furrow, as he stares through the floor, rubbing the bills between his fingers.

"Well Inspector, my shift is over," the man says with a click of the lock to the back room. Stepping around the inspector he adds, "Don't let me find you standing here in the morning." He walks out of the room, the inspector unmoved.

* * *

A flash of green catches the attention of a bank teller as Burchard steps up to the counter. “I vould like to deposit dese funds,” he says.

“Certainly sir!” the teller replies. “It will take up to three business days for the funds to clear.”

“Tank you. I also need more checks, bitte.”

“Of course,” she replies and steps away.

The inspector pulls out a black notebook. He adds a number to a long list of other numbers, and looks up as the teller returns to the counter.

“All set, sir!” She smiles as she hands him a receipt and book of checks.

Burchard beams back and takes his leave.

* * *

Burchard feels the warmth of the sun through the glass next to his face. Like a child he enjoys the sudden jostle and sway as the train stops and then starts up again. He smiles as he lays a list of days and tasks onto the pages of the black notebook upon his knees.

* * *

Outside a shop and rightside a flowing river, sits Burchard. A large sign says Leafley’s Tea. The river spurtles and gurgles. Warm Darjeeling in left hand, he taps a pen in his right. Unintentionally making dot after dot on the pages of a black notebook, he stares at the river beside him. On the page:

Glitzernde Wellen

Wie sich das Wasser bewegt...

Several small plates with crumbs lay stacked in front of him. His pocket screen vibrates. Without moving his gaze, he pulls it out of his pocket and sets it on the table. He mouths out syllables until his face perks up. A few jerks of his pen and he smiles.

Glitzernde Wellen

Wie sich das Wasser bewegt

Während ich sitze

He glances at his pocket screen. BANK ALERT: DEPOSIT…

Burchard’s smile deepens as he snaps the notebook shut.

* * *

A whipping whirlwind catches a bundle of loitering leaves on the street. Burchard stands in front of a large gate in a dirtied stone wall. Stems of ivy race each other up the metal balusters of the gate. He steps up and pushes a button in the stone wall. A buzzer sounds and the gate screeches open.

Burchard’s steps resound as he walks a cobble drive. Stone-faced little humans stop bouncing a ball back and forth. With hollow head-lamps they observe the Inspector as he gives a beleaguered smile and briskly walks on.

A woman sits at a desk in an office with peeling walls and grimy window panes. She rocks back and forth in a squeaky chair, as she tries to find a comfortable position. She hears footsteps in the office, as suddenly a check slides onto her stack of paperwork.

Her head snaps up as she catches a glimpse of a man in a trench coat and trilby hat pass through the doorway with a flash of bright white light.

She looks back down at the check.

Pay to the Order of Harmon Orphanage

20,000 Credits

Signed: Augustav Burchard