The usual disclaimers apply.

XXX

Chapter 6: Contact

Thanks to Dick, Mark already had a few contacts in the Dark Market. I could get most restricted ingredients that I needed with Cyril's research permit, but when I had looked into the forms I would have to fill out, the waiting periods and the paper trail it would leave I decided to let Mark take care of most of my acquisitions. Cyril had a professional reputation and a spotless record. I preferred to keep it so.

Mark had another reputation altogether. He was from Watertown, Massachusetts, and a gifted amateur at potions, which he made mostly for his own recreation. He had occasional need for restricted ingredients, for maximum recreation, and no moral qualms about obtaining them on the Dark Market. Also, he always paid cash up front and didn't talk to anyone. He was very useful to have around; I didn't want to have to burn his identity, but I needed his contacts now.

Seattle's Dark Market is always on the move. Unlike Knockturn Alley or the Maxwell Street Dark Market in Chicago, there simply is not enough of a wizarding population or money to support the graft needed to keep the market in one place. If you wanted something on the market here, you had to find it. Luckily it is not too difficult if you are known.

I began my search in the underground. Most of the wizarding quarter in Seattle is located below the skyscrapers of downtown in miles of passages under the city streets. The quarter had almost been exposed by above-ground neglect of the Pioneer Square area in the 1950s, but discovery had been headed off by some ingenious misdirection. The Seattle City Council had opened a few of the areas in worst repair to muggle tours as mere historical buildings, simultaneously sealing off the passages to the bulk of the quarter.

In its best sections the underground's cobbled streets were flanked by graceful fin de siecle columns, polished wood pediments, and shining shop windows below glass-brick skylights casting cool green or lavender light over the scene. Of course, this was no good for anyone looking for the market. I took a winding passage that sloped down towards the waterfront until I reached the flat brick facades and massive stone arches of the lights district. The skylights here had long ago been bricked over so the strip clubs and bars could exercise the best in bad taste with riots of magic lanterns in all colors.

It was still a bit early in the day, so I had to hit three bars before I saw a familiar face from the market. I sidled up to his stool.

"Hey, you seen Skeez today?"

He looked around absently. His eyes looked a little glazed already.

"Sure, Mark, sure. I think he was setting up at Gasworks." It figured. Dark wizards always love the proper atmosphere. I knew the park well as the market had been set there before. I apparated to a secluded area near the entrance then began to wander through the looming abandoned industrial equipment. I found the market behind one of the high fences peppered with toxic waste warning signs, screened from the public by concealment charms. The lookout at the edge of the fence recognized me and nodded me across the anti-apparition wards.

The market wasn't exactly bustling at this time of day. A small dark man was eagerly setting out an assortment of dodgy magic coins, amulets and a very disgruntled-looking turtle. A blond woman that everyone knew as Jansson was selling unregistered wands out of her coat pockets. Mr. Weary, a bushy-bearded regular who always wore a long fur coat no matter what the weather was quietly hawking a featureless, armless black doll. A few washed out juice whores, the cartilage of their features beginning to blur, moved from one seller to the next trying to get the best deal on the potion that kept them in business. If I ever had a need for quick cash, all I would have to do would be to bring a batch of poly to the market.

Skeez was leaning against a bit of pipeline watching the passing buyers. It could be Skiis, I supposed, I had never seen it written. It didn't matter much; no one used their real name on the market. His eyes fixed on me as I approached. He was a wiry figure with a long rectangular head. All the color from his hair and face was leached down to a uniform dull dishwater. I suspected his color had been worn away from one too many fade potions. All his life was in his flinty eyes, always alert.

"You don't have an order with me currently, Mark," he said in his usual precise way, "would you like to place an order?"

"Yeah," I hesitated, "but Skeez, I don't know if you can get this thing." Irritation played across his face. Skeez had his professional pride.

"If you think I can get it, you come to me. If you don't think I can get it, you can go to hell."

"Come on, Skeez, you know I always come to you, cash on the front end, and no problems."

"Very well, you say there are no problems, so what I don't understand is, why you talk like there are problems." He still looked huffy.

"Not problems Skeez, I just never heard of anyone having this stuff, but if anyone has it, you've got it." He finally looked a bit appeased. "I need parts for something I'm working on; it's got to be fresh hob parts, eyes." I said leaning in close to him. He sighed and looked out across the water of the bay.

"Why am I speaking to you, Mark? I am speaking to you because you come to me recommended and with cash in hand, like you say a good customer with no problems. I do not want to turn a good customer into a problem. What you are asking is the thing which puts a small time cooker – now you admit you have no organization behind you – it puts a small-time cooker in over his head."

"You know me Skeez, you got my name from Nemo, you know I don't spread talk."

"Did I say you talk? I have never known you to talk. I believe you don't have the resources to support that order."

While I might have the resources, Mark certainly didn't. I dropped my head for a moment.

"Uh listen… I've got something. I can't move it; like you say, I don't have any organization – that's how I like it," he couldn't know how true that was, "but you could, and I know nobody else's got it." He waited.

"It's Green Ointment." I let him see the vial in my palm. His face didn't move but his eyes fixed on it. He blew a little air out his nose.

"Stable."

"Stable," I agreed. "Three fingers, three hours."

Our hands met fleetingly. He stood motionless for a moment while he worked the stopper loose inside his cupped palm. His hand passed before his nose briefly, then the vial was tucked quickly away.

"Bacon?" He lifted his eyebrows at me.

"It works," I said aggrievedly.

"We'll see. You'll meet me tomorrow night at nine, I'll tell you where," he said, dismissing me. He shoved off from his pipe and moved away. I walked to the other end of the Dark Market and back out into the park before I folded the hair I had plucked from his cuff into a paper envelope.

I apparated home. I had work to do.

XXX

A/N I know this is a short one, but coming next: Dark Magic in action!