We approached the Reserve Channel, an inland water access that divided the southern edge of the Weird from South Boston. Summer Street crosses the channel and continues into Southie. In typically confusing Boston mapping, Summer Street also takes a right turn and runs along the channel. It makes giving directions interesting. Murdock took the right and pulled over.

Long, dark warehouses lined the street facing the channel. “What’s the address?” I asked as we got out the car.

“It’s more a location,” he said and started walking down the embankment to the bridge.

This end of the channel had had a small inlet in it at one time. Over the years, as the neighborhood went downhill, the inlet had become a dumping ground until it was mostly filled in. You could have walked across it now. Right to the bridge. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Hey, he’s a troll.”

We picked our way toward the bridge through sodden garbage. Out on the water, several boats in winter wrapping swayed at their moorings on a floating barge. Moke had a picturesque view as long as he didn’t look down.

In the summer, the channel can be fragrant, and not in a good way. The cold weather kept the odor down, but the air still had the raw, flinty smell of dirt and dirty water. We went under the bridge. An amazing amount of trash lay scattered around—clothing, slumped cardboard boxes, a mangled shopping cart, split plastic bags of household garbage. Against the retaining wall stood a collection of major appliance boxes, packing crates, and skids woven together into a shantytown. Here and there, the homeless huddled around small fires. Murdock ignored them and made for a large heap of green corrugated roofing panels. A thick stench hit my nose, two days past fetid. Murdock banged on one of the panels.

“Moke. You have company,” he said. The way he pushed back his coat, I knew he had unsnapped his holster. He banged again. “Moke! I don’t need a warrant to come in there.”

We could hear rummaging sounds and some actual growling. Murdock stepped back as a double-height panel shifted opened.

“Awright, awright. Keep yer hat on,” a deep voice said.

The panel swung out on a makeshift hinge. A troll shuffled out, his head bobbling on a long neck that protruded from a wide hunchback. His gray face held round black eyes, a number of yellow teeth protruding from between his lips, and one of the longest noses I’ve ever seen, misshapen and hooked downward. His hair consisted of several greasy strands that dangled straight down to his chin. He stank, of course. His patchwork suit looked so soiled that soap and water were clearly not part of the program.

He leaned forward onto his hands and squinted down at Murdock. “Hemph. Police. You tell that Ms. Beruthy I didn’t take no cats. She got so many, she don’t know if one’s gone anyway. And they taste terrible, too.”

“We’re not here about cats. We’re here about goats,” said Murdock.

He narrowed his eyes at us. “Hemph. Stupid joke. Older than you.”

“Are you Moke?” I said, just to confirm Murdock’s information. There might not be many trolls in the city, but too often people assume there are fewer than there actually are. You just don’t see them.

He nodded. I resisted the urge to hit him for destroying my blood evidence. But you don’t hit a troll unless you want to break a hand.

“Word is you run the T-Rats,” Murdock said.

His great head swayed between us. “Don’t like T-Rats. Hide from them.”

The hard part about interrogating a troll is that you can’t intimidate him with size or strength. Grabbing him by the neck and trying to shove him against the wall would make a scene that we’d both laugh at.

“What about Dennis Farnsworth? You know him?” I said.

He stared at me and didn’t speak. Trolls can stay incredibly still, so still it’s not unusual for someone to walk right past their large shadowed presence without even noticing them. Murdock and I exchanged a glance. Unfortunately, it was one of those glances that said this is what Murdock submitted my consulting fee invoices for.

I looked up at Moke and decided to try and provoke him into talking. “Rumor has it the T-Rats are underpaid and easy pickings. C-Note will pay double their current cut if they ally with the TruKnights.”

Nothing.

“So, Detective Murdock and I are spreading the word. Sounds like a good deal and would stop the fighting.”

More nothing.

“Everyone knows the T-Rats are in it for the money. Not a loyal one in the bunch. I’ll tell you this since you don’t like them, but one of them led me to some evidence in the Farnsworth murder.”

“That’s a lie. Was a flit that did,” said Moke.

Success. I smiled at him. Trolls don’t trust anyone easily, so they value loyalty more than most. Murdock would make a good troll, but he bathes too much.

“And you set the building on fire,” I said.

“’Nother lie. Was TruKnights.” Moke settled back on his haunches.

“I didn’t see any TruKnights. I saw T-Rats.”

“You was on my turf. Fire had elf-stench.” Another little trick trolls have. While druids can sense the essence of people, trolls can sense who manipulated essence. All fey manipulate essence and, unless they use their own, they pull it from their surroundings. If I found a ward stone, it would have essence running in it, but I’d have no idea who put it there unless whoever did it had been near it recently. Trolls can sense what kind of fey did it long after they’re gone. Sometimes even the exact person.

“Why would the TruKnights kill the kid?” said Murdock.

Moke rocked his head. “Not all runners run for joy.”

Joy was the current street slang for drugs. “Are you saying the kid was delivering something else?” I said.

Moke’s hunchback rolled in what I took to be a shrug.

“Who was he running for? Kruge?” I said.

Murdock glared at me. I have to admit it was an amateur mistake, but the guy annoyed me.

“Yeah. Kruge,” said Moke. Of course he’d say that.

“All right, I’ll play. About what?” I said.

Again with the hunchback. “Kruge not like a lot. Not a lot like Kruge.”

“A name,” said Murdock. I could sense his essence start to spark up. Not a good sign. “Give us a name, or I’ll haul in half the T-Rats, and we’ll see how long the rest of your crew survives against the TruKnights.”

Moke growled and stretched his head toward Murdock, who had the good sense to step back. No telling what might come out of the troll’s mouth, or what might end up in it. Murdock unholstered his gun. Moke cocked his head at it, probably debating whether a bullet would itch or burn. It would take more than one to slow him down.

“Kruge hate C-Note most.”

No surprise there. “So do you. What makes you think I believe that?”

He worked his tongue over his teeth. “Croda knew. Kruge told her C-Note was trouble. Needed help.”

“What kind of help?” said Murdock.

Moke rolled his shoulders. “Maybe he had a goat needed eating.”

I smirked. I couldn’t help it. Not everyone gets to throw Murdock’s sarcasm back at him. “Where’s Croda?”

Moke shifted his eyes toward me. He made no other movement, but I could feel his disposition change, a sense of anger and fear enveloping him. Anger I was used to from trolls, but fear? Trolls feared little. They could take a bolt of essence to the face and keep coming. They had few adversaries who could match them in a physical fight. And their own innate ability to manipulate essence was not inconsequential. A fearful troll is not a good thing.

“Why bother Moke? C-Note trouble, not Moke.”

“We’re bothering you because a kid is dead, and we’re not happy,” said Murdock.

He shrugged again. “Go bother C-Note. C-Note kills. Moke just make people happy.”

“Sure, happy, and occasionally battered and bruised if they don’t pay for their happiness,” I said.