Come in, we're closed.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

"You really don't have to rub it in."

Sure, he had lost the bet.
Sure, there hadn't been any evidence of trauma surrounding the heart. Sure, it was obvious that the latest victim of case 23410 (occasionally called 'The Mystery'...in Basil's mind, at least) had died of the bullet going through his head.

It didn't mean that Caden was supposed to be rubbing it in.
It was the subtle way of rubbing it in, too, where one pretends to be minding one's own business, and comments as if one knows exactly how to get at one's boss. And especially since one does know how to get at one's boss, one's boss might be more prone to spontaneous combustion than he had been previously.

And anyways, what did Caden know about investigative theories? He was just a measly little photographer who just happened to be able to pick up all of the little details that were crucial to solving cases...and since they were photographs, they were able to be used as evidence.

He did always manage to get the colour balanced perfectly in his photographs, though. And then there were the black and white ones...

Basil's frown created more creases in his forehead. Why did Caden have to be so insufferable? If only he could be just an awful person: then Basil would have no problem hating him. If Caden didn't have any talent at all, either, Basil would be fine with the loathing he almost wish he felt.
But no. Instead, he got comradely respect.

"We're here," he muttered, pulling the car into a parking space. They were, indeed, 'here'. Jeun's bookstore was where they were at, since the eccentric man had told him to come around at three. And since Basil loved exploiting loopholes, he'd decided that three in the morning was an absolutely peachy time to be dropping in on a shady bookseller with an equally shady employee.

"You should come in. I hear Jeun has excellent sources of herbal caffiene. And you'd might as well stick around so that, provided I learn any useful information, I'll have a witness to back it up. Of course, Jeun might not enjoy talking around you, but I'm sure we can convince him otherwise."

Basil got out of his car, and walked up to the front door. He decided that knocking would be the best technique to use, and as such, he proceeded to cover his fist in his coat (it wouldn't do for his hand to be all bruised: would they believe his cover story?), and then he knocked several times.
Such obnoxious behaviour would surely encourage Jeun to be more specific in his requests and information.

Basil disliked vague people.

[Camille Desmoulins]

The sphinx stared up and the ceiling, resting one hand on his stomach and letting the other dangle off the edge of the couch, his thumb still holding where he was in his novel. He wasn’t quite able to recall what the book was about, be he was certain it was very boring. There was nothing new in books these days- it was all the same stories with new faces. However he was to the point where if he didn’t keep himself occupied he’d undoubtedly fall asleep and then all of this struggling would be for naught.

The knock startled Jeun from what at the moment was as close to sleep as he could allow himself to be. He sat up and glared at the door, then looked at the clock.

It was three in the bloody morning!

He growled and got off of the couch that he’d been sprawled on, putting his book on the coffee table and stretching. He looked at himself in the reflection of the window that overlooked the street and ran a hand through his hair. After a good amount of stretching and yawning he grabbed one of his sweaters from where he’d discarded it on a chair and pulled it on.

He didn’t bother to put shoes on as he walked into the shop, still pulling his hair back into a short pony tail as he got to the door. He stared at the detective(s) outside the door of the shop for a moment, without any hint of amusement. He may not have been asleep but he still did not appreciate people calling on him at three in the morning and if this wasn't important he would not have even come downstairs. Without the sun out it was much harder to summon the willpower to keep himself consistently corporal, much less act like a normally functioning person.

“What a cruel joke,” he said, although no one could hear him, “This is why we should operate on the twenty-four hour clock. No confusions and people don’t drop by at unreasonable hours and we’d all get on much better.”

He bared his unnaturally sharp, predator-like teeth at them both in what was either a threat or a yawn or possibly both. He then opened the door and propped it open with his forearm, “Mr. Dixon,” he said, “When I said three o’clock I meant the afternoon. Not some unholy hour of the night." He shook his head and pulled his fingers through his bangs, pushing them away from his face and looking at them both for a moment and shoving the door open more, walking away from it to let it close in it's own time if they didn't catch it, "Well, come in then. I'll make some tea."

[Maximilien Robespierre]

"I'm not trying to rub it in, you know," he muttered. You're not exactly being forthcoming on your end of the bargain. Caden was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Basil was so clearly bitter about it (more so because Caden could feel the occasional rush of pure anger). Just genuinely resentful and anger, and the feelings were somehow refreshing when they rolled over him because Basil wasn't really angry with him. It was the sort of anger that was really just personal disappointment and it had been a beautiful theory. Basil's always had the elegance of complexity, fragile like a butterfly, and Caden had crushed it, quickly and mercifully, on the sidewalk. It wasn't all that beautiful anymore. To add to his humiliation, Basil's ability to make Caden as miserable as he was would not be expanding any time soon. Surely, Caden might have to weasel his end out of Basil (the man was never cooperative), but at least, he hadn't gotten the phone number. He ought to have bargained for no late night calls —in person or otherwise—, but Basil would never have agreed to it, and if he had, he would never have been able to keep it.

"Oh, don't worry, Basil. I'm sure that Mr. Kazin knows that every detective needs a gunsel." And Caden smiled a little at the double entendre, though there was a bit fear mixing with smugness because he didn't know exactly how far through The Maltese Falcon Basil had gotten. He might have caught the meaning thousands of American fans (and writers) had put to it, and it was ironic in that sense. The second meaning— He could only hope that it would be his own private joke.

He smiled politely at the bookshop keeper's comment about the twenty-four hour clock; Basil would still have kept his own time, like it or not, but it was a lovely thought. He shivered in the onslaught of annoyance, pulling his coat closer as though it would provide some warmth against the combined forces of the two men's irritation. He caught the door before it could shut and stepped awkwardly to the side, still holding it open as though he were a butler of some sort and feeling terribly awkward. Still, he could hardly go in before Basil. It was unthinkable, but he had moved first.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

Basil cleared his throat.
"Gunsel," he muttered, fixing his best scowl on his face as he waited for the bookkeeper to come to the door. It seemed to take ages (hours, days, four point two-five minutes), but finally, Jeun was at the door.
And apparently, he was unhappy.

"I know that," Basil said, once Jeun had finished talking. He shoved his hands into his pockets in a decidedly childish manner. "I just happened to be free at this sort of three. And if we were operating on a twenty-four hour clock, Mr. Kazin, I would still have shown up at this hour. You didn't say Fifteen o'clock, you said Three. I'd have been confused either way."

He would have specified that it was an unholy hour of the morning, but he felt that berating Jeun for not specifying the hour was good enough.

Basil gave Caden his kindest glare (three ninety-five at a store near you), and then stepped inside the store. It had been infuriatingly kind of Caden to let Basil go first, although really, it was just because Basil was more important and obviously had to get on with his business more than Caden (the gunsel) did.

Stupid Caden with his frivolous dumbassery.
Going and betting and winning and making Basil's theory all...ugh.
Stupid.

Basil looked around the store, before sniffing the air. "Dusty," he muttered darkly, glad that he found something he could complain about. Before he could start sneezing out of control, he reached into his pocket, and took out two of the extra-strength allergy pills. He (very adeptly) swallowed them down, as it had been an hour or two since the last one, and he had felt the sneezes coming on anyways.

"What exactly did you want to ask me?" Basil asked, raising his voice slightly since Jeun was apparently in a different room. "Or tell me?"
He did love a good secret. And by secret, he of course meant information.

He hoped the information would pertain to the person killing off the citizens of Shawl. And that his theory was in fact, right. Of course, he could think of no possible way for his theory to be true. It wasn't even plausible, really.
He had heard of people simply dying of fright, and the bullet to his head probably hadn't hurt. The murderer had probably just...not aimed very well.
Or something...

[Camille Desmoulins]

Jeun sighed, dropping the bags of tea into each of the three mugs of hot water and walking back towards the shop front. He paused in front of the door between the back and the shop and debated for a moment, before deciding that he wasn't certain if he could take mugs of tea through the door and that it also would most likely scare the poor boy (not Basil, the other one. He doubted anything short of being a lion would intimidate Mr. Dixon.). So he opened the door with his foot and kicking it open, slipping through as the door was shutting. If either of them were any sorts of detectives they would have most likely caught a glimpse of his back room.

However, he didn't particularly care right now. Perhaps it would impress or intimidate them or something like that.

He put the tea down on the counter and picked up his own mug, settling into his chair and curling up in it like the sleepy feline that he was. He sipped at his tea, a highly caffeinated blend of green tea that he had gotten from a contact he still had in Singapore who enjoyed visiting him and bringing him all of the things that he really loved but couldn't get here. Including excellent tea.

"Ask," he clarified, yawning (or roaring, maybe both) again and taking another sip of his tea, "And tell- possibly. It would depend on what sort of questions you ask me- as I know you will end up asking them. However, both because I want to get back to bed and because this is more of a trade I'm going to break from procedure and we're not going to go through the whole formality with riddles and money and bells and... such."

He yawned once more, and blinked a few times, looking at the Basil's goon blankly for a moment, "Oh. Right," he said, taking a moment to rebuild the mental wall that blocked off all those physic interferences and sensing that he was accustomed to putting up with his assistant/ employee was around and effectively rendering him with as much visible emotion as a dead herring. He turned his attention back to Basil and shifted in his chair, "Yes. So. I'm wondering what Ms. Braith was in your office asking about this morning," he said, getting to his point.

[Maximilien Robespierre]

Caden slipped in behind Basil, shutting the door behind him. Basil's anger was fading (or he himself was acclimating to it; he was never quite sure, especially not with Basil who quite regularly harboring lingering resentment toward the world at large), and he was catching only annoyance from the bookseller with, perhaps, the slightest hint of worry. Then, with no warning at all, there was nothing but Basil's anger. What is it with this shop and mental blocks? He again felt the surge of temptation to ask to be taught to block out other people's minds. He stopped himself only with the thought that it was another sort of block entirely and would be no help to him. Of course not. No point in embarrassing himself. He could only hope that the man didn't think he was prying —he seemed like the sort that might take offense at that— but what could he do if he did? After all, Caden was about as happy as anyone else that he was emotionally joyriding (and sometimes worryriding and furyriding, too), and he couldn't exactly turn it off anymore than you could turn off a limp.

He scooped up his cup of tea, and sniffing it, realized it was green tea. Well, not herbal, at least. He preferred his tea black, but black tea past midnight tended to keep him awake. Of course, when you have three hours of sleep, staying awake is generally something you need assistance with.

He looked around the shop and longed to have his camera. He hated to be somewhere so obviously— obviously— well, so obviously suspect without being able to photograph it. He ached to whip out his camera. The back of his neck felt exposed and naked without the strap of his camera bag. And what if someone stole it? More importantly, what was that book over there and why did it look suspiciously like there was a— If Caden was thinking about blood stains while in a bookstore, he really needed to get a grip. He bit his lip. What if it were something important? After all, the man said he had information. His fingers ran along the cell phone in his pocket, feeling for the button along the side that would take him directly to the photo-taking screen.

Caden's head shot up at the mention of Imogene Braith. What had she been doing in Basil's office? He flashed on their conversation over coffees (or rather his coffee and her hot chocolate) and wondered what the hell she was doing chatting with Basil. Sure, she was a private eye, but well, but— But what the hell? Had someone declared it official Let's Fuck With Caden Day? Was there some unwritten rule that Caden ought to be told nothing? He's not the only one who's wondering.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

Basil made his 'of course that's what you wanted to ask me' face, which was rather grim, with a subtle sort of understanding mixed in. It made sense, too: Jeun naturally liked to know everything about what was going on, and if someone with whom he made regular contact had been visiting someone else, he would want to know about it too.

Instead of answering, however, Basil pondered this as he took a sip of his tea. The bitter taste made him want to wince as much as it made him want to down the entire cup. He knew the caffeine (as small of an amount as it was) would be buzzing delightfully through his veins within minutes. Then it would be gone, of course, and he would have to stop by some sort of coffee place to replenish while he was driving towards the office.

He would also probably have to tell the secretary that Caden wouldn't be working today: that simply wasn't fair. Of course, since he was either going to be sleeping at home, or sleeping at his desk, it was entirely fair that Basil could wake him up after work was over in order to bug him with a problem or five that he had uncovered.
Which, hopefully, he would after having this information session with Jeun.

The problem with this was that Basil wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to ask Jeun.

Basil wrapped his hands around the cup, and reveled in its warmth for a moment before looking back up towards Jeun. "Fine then," he said.

“I expect that this is an intellectual trade-off, then,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “If you ask me a question, then it’s only fair that I get to ask you one in exchange.
So, riddle me this.
Do you know any people who can make a person’s heart explode in their still-living bodies?”

[Camille Desmoulins]

Jeun couldn't help but smile a bit. Perfect. He couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit smug. The feeling vanished quickly as he lurched forward, dropping his mug on the counter quickly before it fell through his hands- as it had started too. He looked at it for a long moment and frowned, mentally flinging curses at the detective for coming by at three in the morning when he hadn't had time to prepare himself to being completely solid. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair again and then quickly undid the hair binder and redid it, "You'll forgive me, I'm not entirely..."corporeal "...well at the moment."

He rubbed his hands together until he was sure he was solid again and picked up the tea once more, pausing to make sure he was solid before settling back into his chair and curling up again, "I agree to answer that question, Mr. Dixon. But I would like you to answer mine first. I can not tell you how many times I have had people run off without holding up to their end of a bargain before. And then I have to hunt them down and it gets messy," he explained, sipping his tea. He was still wary, however, of his rapidly deteriorating corporeality and made sure to not get too comfortable in order that he didn't drop the mug and get porcelain and tea all over the floor.

"Also," he said, a little sharply, "Your riddle puns are not appreciated. They are not clever."
He did not like people making puns, especially puns referring to annoying riddling sphinxes. People made them far too often for them to be even remotely amusing anymore.

[Maximilien Robespierre]

Caden realized that he had better get used to the utter tedium of his boss and this intelligence... source? Agent? Whichever. He had best get used to their dull bickering and their hashing out of deals because he was not getting to bed that night. If he were lucky, Basil would give him the day off. If he were still the same man he always was, he'd get to go forty-eight hours without sleep. More if Basil were in a particularly rambunctious mood and found something that had to be photographed immediately. He nearly groaned, stopping himself just in time. He at least had to maintain a basic level of politeness.

"I'm sure, Mr. Kazin, that Basil isn't going to go back on his word to you." He's far too fond of his own honor for that. He nursed his tea, wondering when he'd see his bed next. If he just closed his eyes for a moment— But, no, he'd likely not reopen them. He had been looking forward to a nice sleep, too, and had Basil really said they were all right? No, no, of course he hadn't. How un-Basil that would have been. He sighed. Well, what they always say about the best laid plans of mice and men...

He felt a desperate desire to humiliate his boss and ask if he could rescind that question and ask another that didn't feed his paranoid little theory. Oh, yes, the one that he, Caden, had just proved wrong? Yes, that one. "I actually rather liked it," he said, "but I quite liked the Batman comics and the TV shows as a child." He smiled politely at the sphinx who was probably affable enough in the afternoons. No one should be judged on how they behaved with Basil at three in the morning.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

Basil leaned back in his chair.

Sure, Jeun had the right to be snappish. Basil had woken him up at three in the morning, an hour considered ungodly and often unimaginable by most. That didn't mean that Jeun had to perceieve his statement as a personal attack.
So Basil hadn't chosen the words that would best please such a strange shopkeep. So he hadn't had the right idea in place for his theory: it had still been genius.

Everything he did was genius.

Requisitioning the town's policemen and turning the able ones into detectives had been a brilliant move. Now they had people investigating things, and other people using brute force, and they didn't have to do anything about the federal government.

Hiring a photographer as a detective had also been a wise move. He wasn't always able to see everything in a crime scene, and Caden's innane ability to take the msot useful photographs was inherently handy. Caden could also sense emotions: if it was a hate crime, or something that left an equally large emotional imprint, he would sense it. And now Basil had that advantage over the criminals.

Making nice chat with an information collector while his defenses were down was also a brilliant idea. Basil didn't have to necessarily exploit the fact that Jeun's defenses were down: he was more than happy to sit idly by while the man pulled himself together. But now Jeun knew that Basil was able to come at any hour. Would that information be passed onto someone else? Would Basil show up at a more appropriate time the next time Jeun requested a visit?
Only time would tell, really.

"I see no point in lying, Jeun," he said finally. "Really, what use would you be to me if I could extract no information from you? Running off without fulfilling my end of a bargain would ensure that your trust, however slight, in me would be broken. And then I would be at your mercy.
And I am not ready to be at anyone's mercy, lion or no."

Caden.
Being polite.
Insufferably, horribly - Basil thought about Gordy, and a wicked smile played across his lips. Horrible, disgusting, revolting Gordy. Gordy who inspired such feelings of hate, and anger, and a horrible feeling of spiders crawling around on his neck and having clammy hands, and...

Basil stopped.
Oh he had so many things which he hated that he could draw on.
So much pent up anger and bitterness.

But he wasn't really angry with Caden, and hurting Caden's poor brain wouldn't really do Basil much good.
And if he was feeling really spiteful later, he could just throw that potted plant out of his window.

No, it would never come to that. Violence against flora?? Unimaginable.

[Camille Desmoulins]

Jeun just gave Basil a look. It wasn't quite clear what the look read, but it was a bit complacent, rather annoyed, and overall somewhat exasperated.

However, before he could continue with whatever comeback he had been about to use something on the other side of the street caught his attention. He looked blankly there for a moment, and then stood up, "I think we need cake," he pronounced, almost cheerfully, and walked through the door to the back room. At this point he figured it was no use trying to pretend that he was alright, since he wasn't. Anyways, he didn't feel like bothering with the lock and key.

He came back only a few moments later with three plates, each with a slice of pound cake. He opened the door this time with his feet, since he was still not sure how dishes and food would fare against the titanium door. He set all three down on the counter and curled back up in his chair after taking his slice, "Now, what were we saying?" he asked seeming much more collected now, although still rather annoyed at being up this late (or early, depending on how you look at it). He glanced out the window again. Whatever had been there was now gone.

"Right," he said, eating a bite of his cake, "You, Mr. Dixon, make a good point. However, I would appreciate it if you would humor me. For both our sakes."

[Maximilien Robespierre]

Caden's head throbbed. He caught the most fleeting glimpse of something he couldn't put his finger on —it was revolting and oily and seemed to momentarily overwhelm him— before he settled back into the dizzying spin of Basil's doubtless spiteful anger directed at the world in general but meant entirely for Caden. He ought to have known better than to try to be polite. It had been rather silly of him, but he liked to think that they were dignified men who could settle their disputes without physical or verbal threats.

Put frankly, Caden liked to lie to himself.

He gratefully accepted the piece of cake and stabbed a forkful of it. He slid it into his mouth and tried to concentrate on the flavors, hoping that happiness from eating cake would leech a little of the potency out of Basil's anger. It was already subsiding, though, and only the painful memory remained along with Caden's desperate desire to tell Basil exactly what he thought of his little show. He would grab hold of the man's wrist and twist it and hiss, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He smiled a little to his pound cake as though it were a joke the two of them would share alone, and he buried the thought in another bite.

"He's not the only one who's wondering, Basil. Surely, you aren't afraid to confide in Mr Kazin," he said. Because the most trustworthy man I know is the one who sells secrets to the highest bidder. To tell the truth, Caden had a lingering admiration for Kazin. Sure, he sold other people's secrets and reputations for petty cash, but really, the man had brought a surprising ethic to the whole business. And was it not just as fair to sell secrets as anything else? After all, Caden spent a good deal of his own time finding out who had sold out their friend, so that he could end up with his blood on the sidewalk.

[Louis de Saint-Just]

Basil offered Caden a murderous glare, before turning back to Jeun. He hadn't touched his pound cake just yet, because what he was ready for was something full of meat. It had been three hours since he had last eaten, and quite frankly, he was sure that his stomach was eating itself.

Actually, the pound cake seemed absolutely lovely. But he had to ask questions first.
"I too have had people skip out on their ends of bargains.
But since you asked so nicely," here, Basil rolled his eyes, "I suppose I can go first. It isn't as if my information is exciting at all."

He lifted up a piece of pound cake, and leaned back in his chair.
"Ms. Braith wished for me to take on a case this afternoon. Apparently, some idiot walked into the path of a hungry vampire."

Did Basil really need to tell Jeun that Imogene had thought the whole case important enough for his tastes because the man had been involved in suspicious activity? No.
In fact, if Jeun wanted that information, he was just going to have to ask a whole new question.

He realized that Jeun wasn't going to answer his question in the fullest either, but that was the nature of these sorts of exchanges. "Now," he said, getting ready to put the pound cake in his mouth, "It's your turn."

Basil glanced over at Caden, and allowed himself the smallest, most grim smile he could muster. Stabbing his cake.
Probably wishing he could be stabbing Basil right about now, or some other equally awful thought concerning pain and Basil's person.

So long as there was no more kissing involved in those thoughts.
Surely, if nothing else would, this had gotten rid of those kinds of disturbing images.

Basil chewed on his cake.

[Camille Desmoulins]

Jeun looked thoughtful for a moment, "Mr. Crowley, wasn't it?" he asked, rhetorically. He already knew just who it was, "Hmn," he looked vaguely interested, "Smart woman," he said off handedly, taking a bite of his cake.

He smiled a little, and anyone in the room would have gotten the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Kazin knew much more then he was letting on. This was to be expected though, since he generally knew more then he let on. It was his job and his nature.

"I suppose it is my turn," he said, yawning and stretching out picking up his cup of tea and sipping at it. He sighed and turned the question over in his mind, "Hmn... The power to explode a heart in a person's still living body?" He paused for a while, thinking about the best way to phrase it without leading to any wild goose chases. These people were on his relative side after all.

"Yes," he said, taking a bite of his cake, "I've heard of the power to explode a heart in a still living body existing, and powers similar that cause the same effects. It's rare though, only seen in about one in twenty trillion people or so- I've seen it only once and that was..." he paused, trying to figure out the time equivalents, "Six...teenth century? And it was in a pocket dimension so it hardly counts." He wove a hand to dismiss this, as if the sixteenth century was just yesterday and pocket dimensions were just lying around for anyone to hang around in.

"I'm interested though," he said, "In knowing why Ms. Braith thought Peter Crowley's case was important enough to bring to your attention." He paused and added, "Oh, and if you answer that you may ask another question of your own."

[Maximilien Robespierre]

Caden hated living in Shawl. He hated that it destroyed everything that made his universe seem nice and orderly. Sixteenth century? The hell? So maybe the bookkeeper was a little bit immortal. All right. All right. Caden could deal with that. He ought to have guessed there was something odd about him. What sort of man served pound cake? What sort of man was in his shop at three in the fucking morning?

This, actually, was quite a good point.

Of course, it was clear that Kazin was not just a bookshop owner, but well, even devious informants who sold other people's souls for cold, hard cash had to sleep sometime and he was clearly quite irritated by Basil's interruption. Perhaps, he simply lived in the back or above the shop. It was unreasonable. Well, all right, it was. Just a little. But, hey, there had to be a nice logical explanation because there always, always was and if there weren't a nice logical explanation, it would be, well—

Like the rest of Shawl. Mother-fucking inexplicable. Pocket dimensions sounded like the sort of shit he'd never understood when he had taken Physics in high school. Sciences were a goddam abomination, though, so that was all right. From what he'd seen in Shawl, they were pretty inaccurate, too. There was a huge amount that they had ruled out that was perfectly practical and just a part of life. Oh, of course, your boss can turn into a shadow. Sure, your colleague is some sort of crazy thing from another crazy fucked-up God-knows-where. What were you saying about him being immortal? Oh, that's just normal. Silly boy, don't get worked up about it.

"Well, in most places, vampire killings are a tad out of the ordinary," Caden put in helpfully.