Once inside the Chief Constabulary, Clayton spotted a familiar figure filling out a form at the counter.
A lanky stature and a thatch-like head of hair.
It was Bruno.
Clayton had never heard of detectives and constables cooperating.
After completing the form, Bruno turned around and saw Clayton.
"I have some bad news for you. Your report has to be delayed. The assistant responsible for it, Sanders, was reported for violating Urban Public Security Regulations yesterday. He is now in detention."
"What did he do?" Clayton asked.
"God knows who identified him as a detective and reported him for illegal gun possession. I have done my best, but he has to be confined for at least another three days."
Bruno's tone wasn't laced with much annoyance. Such an occurrence was more than common in their trade.
Urban Public Security Regulations forbade people from keeping guns in urban areas, except with a license.
But guns flowed unchecked as ever into urban areas from the countryside, eventually ending up in unlicensed hands.
The paperwork could not evaporate the demand for guns into the air. Moreover, the number of constables was insufficient to protect such a sprawling city.
The detective trade was an island formed by those illegally armed.
Those well-known detective agencies surely had the means to obtain the permit. But small ones like Bruno's constituted the majority. Their work often involved dangerous individuals. Without a defensive weapon, they might risk their lives.
Also, a detective who was able to get hold of a gun would gain easier trust of their employers, for they had given proof of their ability-- including the law-breaking part.
"Why not pay the fine and get him out?"
"They charge five pounds. Paying the fine would undo his work these few days and leave him with a two-pound debt."
Clayton's hand, resting in his coat pocket, rubbed the silver-star badge. He decided to do what he could to help.
"I will see if I can have him released sooner."
Even though the purchase of the St. Alvin office building had not been finalized, his name had already been entered in the roster of constables. Perhaps he did wield such authority.
Today, he had come here in order to claim a more plain-looking weapon. The Conqueror was too eye-catching and might even give away his past, thus unsuitable to take out.
Bruno left soon afterwards. As ever, winter was the peak season for the trade.
Clayton put the silver-star badge on the counter to identify himself.
"Finally, you have decided to become a constable, Mr. Bello. I'm glad you've joined us."
The familiar receptionist was now more hospitable than ever, as he had been towards every other constable.
After becoming a constable, Clayton could be considered one of their own----at least he thought so.
"Did you register as a constable in Saint Modred Parish? Since I haven't seen you these few days, I wonder whether you have forgotten the matter that you have entrusted me with.... "
He nagged on and on. Clayton had to stop him in embarrassment. "I wouldn't forget. Anyway, when did she agree to meet me?"
They were referring to the arranged meeting between Clayton and the widow of the first man that he had killed.
"This Thursday afternoon. She couldn't give an exact time. Her work doesn't allow for one."
Clayton hung his head and drew a ten-shilling note from his wallet. "Thanks a lot. Here, get yourself a meal on me."
Claiming one's life might be effortless, but handling the aftermath was nerve-racking.
"Are you still alright?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm relieved." The receptionist took the note. "It was all a misunderstanding, please don't take it to heart. If you ask me, a lunatic shouldn't have been free to wander around. They are apt to hurt others or vice versa. Should all of them be discharged, we constables wouldn't have time to handle other matters."
His point was sound, but not to Clayton's liking.
Clayton had referred to the deceased as a lunatic just to mask the existence of monsters. Otherwise, Clayton couldn't have explained why the man had turned up in his house before perishing by his hands.
Even though the Holy Grail Society should be blamed for his demise, the Lieutenant had to account for throwing mud at him.
Every mention of this incident reminded Clayton that his forged excuse had painted the deceased in a shameful light.
"What you said is right. Now I need a gun. Where can I obtain one?"
"At the rear of the first floor. I can help write an application for you, but it will be logged under Mr. Gilead's name. Actually, you can save time by going straight to the Saint Alvin Parish division director for a firearm. Of course, you are also allowed to take your own gun on patrol."
"I have already come to the Chief Constabulary. Doing it here is more convenient."
"Alright. I have a booklet and a map for the beginners to offer. Do you need them?"
"Yes. Thanks."
Clayton flipped through the booklet and soon had a picture of how things now stood with the constabulary.
They were too understaffed to exercise control over the entire city.
The downtown area was mainly under the protection of private security forces, while the constables were in charge of the other seven Parishes. Even so, they struggled to straighten out the city in a single night.
Some Parishes were in such economic distress that their Vestries couldn't even afford to purchase equipment and had to seek help from other Parishes.
But a constable's schedule was fixed. A part-time one had to work for a livelihood during the day. If their trips to work sites took too much time, their patrol coverage would become extremely limited. And these impoverished parishes' notoriety would slay any constable's work enthusiasm.
That explained the Council's effortlessness in embedding their men in.
For the Council funded the Vestries in poor Parishes.
Pocketing the booklet, Clayton was in the mindset of inquiring of Gilead about job-related matters, but was told that Gilead had asked for a leave.
As such, he could only go find Sanders alone.
...
In front of the main building of the Chief Constabulary was an execution site, where scarcely anyone had been executed; it served to spell the authority of the Constabulary.
The sight of an execution site suggested a nearby jail, which was some distance away and out of a visitor's vision.
The jail was divided into sections, corresponding to the types of crime.
The most well-known were those for tax evaders and debt defaulters.
In comparison, the cells for prisoners endangering public security were much more dilapidated. They wouldn't last too long inside. After sleeping several nights, in most cases no longer than a week, they would resume their liberty.
Clayton showed his silver-star badge to the prison guard, only to be told that no prisoners were to be freed until the fine was paid.
With no alternatives, he paid it out of his own pocket.
Soon afterwards, a stocky, tanned man walked out, his body fitting well under Clayton's shadow.
Sporting coppery-red curls, he wore a white sweater accentuating the shade of his skin. Clayton could tell at a glance that his stature was less than half the guard's. And his shoulder width was disproportionate to his height.
"Dwarf?"
Noting his three-fingered hands, Clayton raised his eyebrow.
Dwarves were a special race.
Among rogues, dwarves thrived, as in the military. Both professions favored their diminutive physique and immense strength.
"Are you Bruno's employer, Clayton Bello?"
Sanders, the dwarf, glared at Clayton with knitted brows, devoid of gratitude despite having been saved.
"Yes, I am."
"Why pay the fine for me? What else do you think makes me willing to sleep in there?"
Clayton replied, "Because you couldn't afford the fine. Bruno told me that. "
"So why did you do it if you knew that? Now I owe you!"
The angry dwarf clenched his fists, veins bulging out of his fleshy hands. As his muscles puffed up from under his fleece-lined snowy sweater, the dwarf appeared like a walking blowfish.
"There's no need to pay me back."
"Damn you, you dare look down on me!"
"No, I don't mean it!"
Clayton began to draw a consolation from the fact that he hadn't had a comrade like this back in the military. Or else, he would have suffered a great deal.
Thankfully, most of these headstrong dwarves were artillerists.
"Don't do a thing unwritten in the contract. What a waste of money. Fuck!" Sanders spat on the floor and turned to the watcher, demanding, "Return the money to him. I'm going back to jail."
The prison guard looked bewildered.
Clayton coughed twice. "I don't think it is a big deal. Just a trivial sum. All I wish is that you can go back to work as soon as possible."
In fact, five pounds still meant something to Clayton.
Chiefly resulting from his generous three-hundred-pound donation to the poorhouse, until his client mailed money to him next month, Clayton had to be frugal with his spending.
All in all, the antique dealer's living budget was not unlimited.
Sanders looked over his shoulder. " You don't think I owe you a favor, but in fact I do. Five pounds isn't worth it to me."
"That's against our rules," the gatekeeper finally reacted.
These words were badly timed, drawing a similar angered gaze from the dwarf.
Clayton organized his thoughts. "How about this? Take it that you owe me a favor, but when I end up in jail, it is your turn to pay the five-pound fine for me. By then, we're even."
Sanders held Clayton's gaze, then glanced at the gatekeeper, still mumbling some swearwords, but eventually reconciled himself to reality, however reluctantly.