I made eye contact with the ogre and spoke to him for the first time. "Hey, how ya doin?" I said. "I'm Stan, this here's Karl." I paused to give him a chance to process the information. Ogres aren't real quick, even when they haven't put away half a bottle of tequila. After a few seconds, I went on. "What's your name, pal?"

  Another couple of seconds went by. "Igor," he rumbled.

  I didn't let any of the humor I felt appear on my face — you learn quick, on the street, not to show what you're feeling. But Igor, jeez. Ogre parents aren't usually known for having a sense of humor – or maybe they just didn't see the irony.

  "Igor, listen," I said slowly. "Why don't you let the girl go? She doesn't look like she's having a real good time, you know?"

  Igor looked at Heather. Then he lifted her up, like she was a Barbie doll – a shrieking, terrified Barbie doll – until her hair was a couple inches from his nose and sniffed a couple of times before putting her back down, his big hand still around her waist. "She smells good," he said to me, as if that explained everything. Maybe to an ogre, it did.

  Some supes have senses of smell that will put a bloodhound to shame, but not ogres. Otherwise he'd have been able to smell the fear on her, too. To the right kind of nose it was probably a stronger scent than whatever perfume she was wearing. Maybe then he'd have let her go.

  "We can't all just stand here until tomorrow, Igor," I said in a reasonable tone. "We're all gonna get pretty hungry, for one thing."

  I hoped the suggestion would encourage Igor to ask for food. We'd get it for him, too. That's standard procedure in hostage situations. I'd order him the biggest pizza in town, including every topping known to man – along with a liberal dose of horse tranquilizer. That's standard procedure, too. Once Igor was in dreamland, maybe we could get a block and tackle set up in here to lift him out of the room.

  But instead of asking for something to eat, Igor said, "You gonna take me to jail?"

  No sense lying to him about that. Even ogres aren't that dumb. "Yeah, for a while," I said. "Until you make bail, anyway."

  Igor shook his immense head. "No! No jail. I hate jail." I guess he'd been inside before. "People there are mean."

  The idea of anybody, guard or prisoner, being mean to something Igor's size was hard to imagine, but maybe he meant they taunted him through the bars of his cell. There's guys who get off on that, taunting the powerful when they're helpless. They forget that the helplessness is usually temporary, and even ogres have memories.

  There's all kinds of cells in the supe wing of the county jail. Some of them have bars with bits of silver imbedded; others have got doors made of cold iron. They've got some ogre-proof cells, too. Those rooms have some kind of magical spell on them that prevents–

  Magic. Ogres are afraid of magic. There's some kinds of magic that it's smart to be afraid of, but ogres are notoriously skittish about any kind of spells, and those who can use them. Meaning witches.

  I brought out my phone, opened it, and acted like I was looking in the directory. "I guess you're leaving us no choice, Igor," I said. "We'll have to call in Rachel Proctor."

  The immense eyebrows came together as Igor tried to parse what I'd just said. After a couple of seconds he asked, "Who's that?"

  "She's the police department's consulting witch." That much was true, but nothing else I was about to say would be. "She doesn't care for guys who frighten girls like Heather," I said. "The last time I called her out to a scene like this, we had a werewolf who'd gone a little nuts and taken some hostages. Rachel turned the poor guy into a toad."

  Igor looked at me for a couple of seconds. "She can do that, this Rachel?"

  "Saw her do it with my own two eyes," I said. "And here's the funny thing – once we got the guy to jail and she was supposed to turn him back – it didn't work."

  The ogre's eyes opened wide. "You shittin' me?"

  "Nope, it's God's truth," I said. "Karl was there, too – he saw it."

  On cue, Karl nodded several times. "Very sad," he said. "Guy had a family, too."

  "Things didn't end up too bad," I said, lying the truth right out of town. "At least they found a home for him – in the Nay Aug Park Zoo. You go to the zoo much, Igor? You've probably seen him there. Excuse me."

  For obvious reasons, I had Rachel Proctor on speed-dial. I pressed the tiny icon next to her name and brought the phone to my ear. After a couple of seconds, I said into it, "Rachel? Hi, it's Stan Markowski. How you doing?"

  I paused to listen for a moment, then said, "Listen, Rachel, I've got a problem that might be right up your alley – or in your cauldron, as the case may be. See, there's this ogre–"

  That's as far as I got before Igor the ogre bellowed, "Wait, wait! I give up! No witches – I surround!"

  I was pretty sure he meant "surrender," although Igor was big enough to surround you all by himself, if he wanted to. Fortunately, I was right. He let Heather go, then put his hands up.

  I said into the phone, "Never mind, Rachel. The problem seems to be solved," and heard Rachel's voice say "…be back until next Monday. So wait for the beep, then leave a message."

  Fifteen minutes later, Igor was in the back of a police department prisoner van, his wrists bound by chains of cold iron, on his way to County. Heather the waitress was sitting in the back of an open ambulance, a blanket around her, drinking coffee from a thermos. I asked one of the uniforms to take her statement, once she was feeling more composed.

  As Karl and I left the scene, a couple of uniforms were cordoning off the area with the yellow tape that reads Police Line. Do Not Cross.

  Leary stomped over, not looking any happier for Igor's arrest and departure. "What are they doing?" he yelled, pointing at the two cops.

  "Securing a crime scene until Forensics gets in there and does their work," I said. "If nothing else, they'll need to take a lot of photos. You might want to take some yourself, for the insurance people."

  "But what about my fuckin' bar?"

  I took a look through the open door of the tavern and the wreckage it contained.