Victor Castle has a lot of business interests in town, but he usually hangs out at the rug store he owns on the west side. Like a lot of businesses, Magic Carpets, Mystic Rugs was usually open at night, catering to customers who didn’t come out during daylight hours.

When we walked into the store, Castle greeted us himself instead of sending one of his flunkies. Apart from the expensive suit he wore, the man who’d come into this world as Vittorio Castellino didn’t look much like the big deal he apparently was. Average height or a little less, bit of a gut on him, and a lot of bald scalp glistening in the overhead lights.

Castle never seemed to know what to do with his hands. As we approached, he was fiddling with the large gold signet ring he wore on his right pinky finger. I never knew whether the ring was some kind of badge of office or just something that Castle wore as a complement to his thousand-dollar suits.

“Sergeant Markowski,” Castle said. “Good evening.” He turned to Karl and with a slight nod said, “Detective.” There was usually a hint of tension between those two, and most of it originated with Karl. My partner was a vampire, but he was a cop first. I figured Karl was reluctant to pay homage to a guy who he might have to arrest someday.

Castle studied us for a couple of seconds, turning the ring around and around. Then he said, “Why don’t we talk in my office?”

Castle’s inner sanctum was done in dark wood, including a huge desk that looked like it might have been real mahogany. Rugs, rolled up and tied tight, were standing in three of the corners, and fabric samples of different sizes were tacked to each of the walls. Larger carpet samples, about a foot square, were stacked all around the room.

Despite the general sloppiness of the office, Castle’s desk was nearly immaculate. All that rested on it were a fancy-looking clock encased in Lucite, a closed ledger, and one of those Tiffany-style desk lamps that provided the only light in the room.

A couple of comfortable-looking chairs faced the desk, and Castle gestured for us to sit down. Then he plopped into his leather desk chair and said, “And what can I do for the Occult Crime Unit this evening?”

It’s been well established that human pupils dilate in response to sudden emotional change, and I was watching Castle’s eyes closely as I said, “It’s about HG.”

All that got me was a frown of perplexity that might even have been genuine. His pupils didn’t change at all.

“Since you seem intent on being mysterious,” Castle said, “I’ll have to ask you what HG refers to, Sergeant.”

“It’s the street name for a new drug,” Karl told him. “It’s short for ‘Hemoglobin-Plus’.”

Castle’s heavy eyebrows nearly came together as he frowned. “Plus what?”

“That’s the secret ingredient,” I said. “At least, it’s a secret for now. I take it all this is news to you.”

“You’re quite correct,” Castle said. “But why are you asking me about some street drug? Humans become addicted to such things, not supernaturals – well apart from those degenerate goblins, and I think we’ve just about got that under control now.”

“That’s what we used to think, too,” I told him. “But the evidence of our own eyes, along with a couple of interrogations, says that at least one species of supernatural is capable of getting hooked on the stuff.”

“That’s very interesting,” Castle said, the way you do when humoring somebody. He was looking at me as if I’d just told him that I’d seen a six-foot cockroach walking down Mulberry Street, wearing an evening gown and playing the bagpipes.

Castle’s gaze went to Karl – maybe to check whether he was smiling at what might be a tall tale. “What species are we talking about, exactly?”

“Elves,” Karl said. “Two that we know about for sure, anyway.”

We told Castle about how our coffee break the night before had been rudely interrupted by two elves packing heat, and what followed afterward. It took a while.

When Karl and I were done, there was a silence in the room so total that I could hear the electric clock on the desk ticking. Finally, Castle said, “I can think of no reason why the two of you would concoct a story like that. So I am inclined to take your account at face value.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “I’d hate to think we’ve been wasting our time – not to mention yours.”

“We’re not kidding around,” Karl said. “You’re right that we’ve got no reason to do that. But if it was all a big joke, I’d say you haven’t heard the punch line yet.”

“Really?” Castle looked like a man who was developing a bad headache. “Then by all means deliver it, Detective.”

Karl leaned forward a little. “There’s an unconfirmed report that at least one vampire is hooked on the stuff, too.”

Castle just looked at him. “Cross-species addiction,” he said softly. Then in a normal voice, he told us, “I was about to say, as a reflex, that such a thing is impossible. But then, until a few minutes ago, I would have held that drug-addicted elves were an impossibility, too.” It looked like Castle’s headache had taken a turn for the worse.

He sat there for a little while, staring at the banker’s lamp and drumming his fingers softly on the desk. Then, without taking his eyes off the lamp, he said, “What you’ve said concerns me on two different levels. One is the idea of a drug-addicted supernatural species other than goblins. My second concern is that until you officers told me, I had heard absolutely nothing about this.”

“Could be that none of the junkies have been driven to crime before,” I said. “Last night could’ve been the first time – hell, it must have been, otherwise I would’ve heard something.”

“You don’t understand, Sergeant,” Castle said. “It doesn’t matter whether last night’s incident was the first or the hundredth. If elves are getting addicted to this ‘HG’, then I should have known about it before it resulted in armed robbery. I am supposed to know – I am boyar.”

“Is that your title?” I said. “Some cops refer to you as the ‘supefather’.”

He smiled with half his mouth. “The Mafia term? Well, I suppose it’s not a bad analogy, as long as you keep in mind that the supernatural community is not made up of…” He let his voice trail off.

“Criminals?” Karl said.

“Yes, Detective,” Castle said, with a little more force in his voice. “Even if some of our number may have committed unlawful acts, they are not representative of our community.”

“Hell, I know that,” I told him. “If all the supernaturals, or even most of them, weren’t law-abiding citizens, there’d be chaos in this city. My job would be impossible.”

“Thank you for that,” Castle said. He sounded less pissed off as he said, “I should not speak of this to outsiders, but you two already know so much, it seems pointless to conceal the rest from you.” He folded his hands over his stomach and tilted the chair back a little.

“The fact is,” Castle said, “there have been subtle challenges to my leadership lately. Nothing concrete, no overt defiance. And yet, sometimes when I give orders they are not obeyed or not carried out correctly. There are always excuses, of course. No one meant to disobey my commands, there was a misunderstanding, amends will be made, and so forth. And yet…” He shook his head.

“Once is happenstance,” Karl quoted. “Twice is coincidence. The third time, it’s enemy action.”

Castle looked at him. “Oh, that’s right. The James Bond fan. It may surprise you, detective, but I also have read the works of Mister Ian Fleming. Mostly, I regard them as light entertainment, but sometimes, as in your present example…” The fingers were drumming again, softly as tears falling on a coffin. “Sometimes, they contain words of wisdom.”

The rest of our shift was fairly quiet, which gave Karl and me some time to talk with McGuire and the other detectives passing through about the latest scourge to afflict our fair city.