Wednesday

Knowing that Skinner was an early riser and that he didn't like being bothered halfway through his work day, Loki waited until the next morning to contact him. In any case, he needed the time to plan how the conversation was going to go.

At seven a.m. the next morning, Loki was up and dressed, cursing his luck at having to wake up this early two days in a row. On his holidays, no less. It just wasn't his week. He sat at a desk, surrounded by crumpled-up pieces of paper leftover from yesterday's planning process. OK, maybe he had over-analysed this just a teensy bit, but he was bored! Anyway, manipulating people was fun. He had bet himself that he couldn't make Skinner talk about giant anteaters within five minutes of answering the phone.

There were far more interesting things to trick people into, but he couldn't risk putting Skinner on edge.. Humans were very sensitive to anything out of the ordinary. Some people on the street had even said that his helmet was strange the other day. The nerve! When you look at the get-up Thor ran around wearing, and everyone loved him!

In any case, he needed to get this over with. He used Rubowski's phone to call Skinner, figuring he'd be more likely to pick up if he recognized the number.

It rang. He heard Skinner's gravelly voice.

"Rubowski? Where the fuck have you been?"

"Rubowski's dead, Skinner. It's Sanders."

Loki always used a false name when dealing with these people, and he figured an inconspicuous one was best. If someone was trying to track down the Norse god Loki on Earth, they wouldn't go looking for a Herbert Sanders. Not right away anyway.

There was a pause.

"... Sanders. How do you know he's dead?"

Skinner's voice was toneless. Giving nothing away. He could be hiding anything: surprise, guilt, suspicion.

"I found his body. More accurately, it almost knocked off my helmet while I was cycling around Manhattan, but that's another story. Anyway, what do you know about this? What was with all his missed calls from you?"

"He was on a job. I called because he was late and I wanted the stuff he was picking up... Look, Sanders, I can't be sure this is you. Let's meet in an hour in the usual place. I don't want to discuss this over the phone."

"All right. See you then."

Loki hung up and pouted. He'd lost his bet. He would have been able to do it if Skinner hadn't been so cranky.

An hour later, Loki was sitting outside a tiny café that served abysmal coffee. He took a sip of the liquid he'd been forced to buy and grimaced. Why couldn't the Mafia own a place that served nicer coffee, or fire the barista, or something? Where were their priorities?

Skinner turned up a few minutes later, looking ridiculously on edge for the occasion. What an amateur. No wonder the Big Bads had stuck him behind a desk. Loki waved cheerily at him, enjoying his squirming.

When Skinner sat down with his cup of … stuff ... Loki slapped Rubowski's phone on the table in between them. "There," he said, "now you know it was me on the phone. If you needed any further convincing. So, let's get down to it. Did you kill Rubowski?"

Skinner looked confused. "Wh … I didn't. Why do you suspect me?"

"I know you Mafia types," Loki continued. "You don't hesitate to wipe out your own if it suits you. Do you have any idea why Rubowski was killed?"

"Not by us, anyway. He hadn't done anything wrong." Skinner looked genuine enough, and he was such a bad liar Loki believed he was telling the truth. "He was on his way to London, to check out some stuff we had there. In fact, it's an inconvenience to us that he's dead."

"I see. And you've no idea why anyone would shove a poker up his ass?"

"Wh-what?"

"That was the cause of death. I've taken a picture if you don't believe me. It's there on his phone."

Skinner examined it, looking mystified. He scrolled to the next photo stored on the memory card, which was a picture of the purple leaflet.

"And do the words U-NO-POO … EVER AGAIN mean nothing to you?"

"No. Sounds like an unpleasant threat."

"It does … It does seem like the kind of murder designed to be a message, rather than a simple kill. You've no idea whatsoever?"

"None."

Well, there was nothing more to be gleaned here. Loki stood up and strode away, wondering what his next move would be.

"Wait!"

"What?" What did Skinner want now?

"You haven't paid for your coffee. And I'm not going to either. This isn't a date, I hope you know."

Loki turned, cape whipping around him, and left a pile of coppers on the table for Skinner to sort through. Immature, yes, but he was annoyed. He'd got absolutely nowhere. The murder didn't seem to have anything to do with the Mafia at all. But how could it not? How many potentially lethal things could Rubowski have been involved in?

His only lead was London. So London it was. He needed to move on anyway, to find a new joke shop. God knows he'd combed New York thoroughly enough before finding Rubowski's place. There was nothing here, anyway. An English sense of humour might be just what he needed...

After London he might try Haiti. He'd only ever dabbled in voodoo briefly in his youth, and it was always a good idea to keep one's methods fresh. Although Odin might disapprove of herbal witchcraft a bit – he always liked to keep things traditional.

Loki booked a flight to London Heathrow that evening. He did a quick Google search of U-NO-POO, but found little that was useful. Mostly catchy ads for constipation aids, which for some reason were usually accompanied by hourly rates for the higher-class kind of prostitutes. Loki shuddered. Humans.