Speakeasies always had the same smell—booze and stale smoke—but that stench masked something far more illicit. The electric crackle of magic that hung in the air, thick as honey. It was what brought Dimble here tonight, what brought the whole damn place here.

The Vanishing Crow was a rare establishment, somewhere humans and magic-folk intermingled like it was the most normal thing in the world. Dimble ambled in, a four-foot nothing gnome, and took a whiff. It had been years since he’d been here, but it still smelled like home.

When he passed a table of elves and humans playing poker, he spotted cards stashed in an elf’s sleeve. The old saying was true, make a bet with an elf and you lose twice. Two dwarves careened into his path, brawling over something, but he skirted past them to the bar.

Dimble slid onto a barstool, flicking out his trench coat behind him. The orcish bartender was an old friend of his named Hoegak, but people called him Hop because his dancing was so lousy his partners usually limped away. Dimble rapped the bar and Hop appeared with the enthusiasm of a dentist treating a werewolf.

“Aren’t you a cop now?” said Hop.

The whole speakeasy went still and silent, every eye in the place suddenly glued to Dimble, though most had to crane their necks to see him. Wasn’t often a cop strolled into the Vanishing Crow without a warrant. But Dimble was the only gnome on the force. The only non-human, period. He just needed a stiff drink. And something he could only get here.  Something desperate. Reckless. Irredeemable.

Something the law prohibited years ago.

“Well, I ain’t one tonight,” Dimble said, rubbing his three-day growth. He felt each of his thirty-three years tonight, his breath ragged and shallow, his body heavy and tired.

The chatter resumed but with a new-found hesitancy. People turned away from Dimble but didn’t relax. Not like before. The Crow was thick with tension, patrons peeking when they thought he wouldn’t notice, but Dimble never missed a beat. Gnomes didn’t become cops in this town by letting their guard down, that’s for damn sure.

Hop’s yellow eyes bored into Dimble. “The Southpaws run this place. And they kill nosy cops. Go home to your girl before you end up dead.”

“I told you I’m not a cop tonight. Just one drink. For old times’ sake.” Hop sighed and poured a tumbler of Dimble’s favourite: sailor’s gin, neat. But Dimble pushed it away. “Something stronger.”

“Whatever you’re playing at—”

“They’ve got my girl, Hop,” Dimble whispered. Judging by his expression, whatever Hop expected, this wasn’t it. “I know you sell raw magic here. I could find her if I had some. Just enough for one spell.”

They’d been close until Dimble became a detective and Hop a dealer. Dimble couldn’t remember which of them broke contact first, but it didn’t matter. Becoming a cop was worse than being human. The community saw you as a traitor, an enforcer of the magic prohibition. Scum. But their friendship had to mean something, frayed and worn as it was.

“Please, Hop.”

Hop breathed a long sigh, then withdrew a bottle that pulsed with an amber glow. The stuff swirled like storm clouds, unable to decide if it was gas or liquid. Dimble’s eyes ached when he looked at it—that’s how he knew it was pure.

Hop poured Dimble a glass and slid it over. Raw magic. Dimble couldn’t believe that Hop had done it, given him enough of the stuff for one spell. Everyone knew you didn’t serve cops, but his old friend came through.

His friend.

A weight crushed Dimble, guilt burning the back of his neck like sunburn. He couldn’t do it. Not to poor, trusting Hop.

“You look ill,” Dimble said. “You should go home. No need to get caught up in all this.”

Hop’s eyes widened in comprehension. “This is a sting? All that stuff about your girl was a lie?”

“You don’t need to be here when it goes down.”

“You wanna put them away, then put me away too. Let’s see what’s more important to you.”

Hop’s face scrunched in anger, but Dimble didn’t break eye contact. He owed Hop that much.

“I’m sorry.” Dimble grabbed a wisp of magic from the glass, and with a razor-sharp movement, drew a rune in the air: a messenger spell, a signal for the raid team.

Officers flooded in through every door and patrons screamed, scrambling like a pack of spooked deer. Elves went for the back door, only to find a wall of cops pouring in. A dwarf tangled with the police and got whacked with a baton across the jaw. He dropped with a dull thud, out cold. It was hopeless; cops covered every exit. Months of planning went into this sting, and it all came down to whether Dimble could tug his old friend’s heartstrings.

And he’d done it. Nausea rose thick in his throat as the scene played out.

Lawmen cuffed Hop, and the disgust in his eyes seared Dimble like an open flame, burning away their last scrap of friendship.

How could Dimble explain that joining the force had always been his dream? That this was the only way other cops would believe he wasn’t corrupt. He couldn’t, instead, Dimble spoke low, so only Hop could hear as a human officer cranked the handcuffs closed. “Why couldn’t you just leave, Hop.” Dimble’s voice wavered, almost choking on the words.

“Because I’m not a traitor like you.” Hop spat at his feet. As they dragged him away, Dimble’s throat tightened with regret. But he was a cop now. He’d made his choice, and there was no going back.

Salvatore Pesaturo became a writer after realizing his dreams of being a wizard were unrealistic. His writing has been published in The Chaser Quarterly, and he recently received an honorable mention in the 2020 NYC Midnight Microfiction Challenge. He hopes to share his stories with the world and one day make enough from them to afford the occasional cup of coffee.