Pinocchio's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The blind clerk ran his thumb down the filed note. His white cane leaned against the cabinet drawer. He had taken Pinocchio's dollar and found the paper fast, as if the whole room lived inside his head. Geppetto stood close, nodding, confirming the note was his. The clerk read the signature aloud. The name meant nothing. Pinocchio turned it over in his mouth and found no face to attach. "Say it again," Pinocchio said. The clerk did. Still nothing. A signature was not a man. He could not knock on a name. He needed someone who had seen the smiling man, someone who could match the name to a face in town. The cricket hopped onto the counter. "A name buys you a question," he said. "But you need eyes that have met him." Then the door swung open behind them. A fox and a cat strolled in, both in sharp little suits. The fox wore a grin wider than the clerk's whole face. Pinocchio knew that grin. It belonged to the kind of people who gave gifts without reason. He stepped back on instinct. "Well, now," the fox said. "A wooden boy chasing paper." The cat laughed through its teeth. They had come straight for the clerk's counter, easy, like they knew the room. That ease was the warning. Pinocchio watched their eyes. "You know the name on this note," he said. He said it flat, not a question. The cat pulled out a worn notepad, its cover ringed with old coffee stains. He flipped pages with one gloved claw. "We know a lot of names," the cat said. "We write them down. For a price, we match a name to a face." Geppetto's hand found Pinocchio's shoulder. "Careful," the old man whispered. "These two deal in trouble." Pinocchio ignored him. He read the signature off the clerk's note and said it to the fox. He watched the mouth, the eyes. No pause. No flicker. The fox knew the name at once. "That one," the fox said. "Oh, we've met him. Smiles too much. Buys old tools." He tapped the cat's notepad. "Pay us, and we'll walk you to the very door he last used." Pinocchio felt the catch under the offer. They wanted something. They always did. But they had the one thing he lacked. A face. A place. He set a coin on the counter. "Take me to him," Pinocchio said. The fox scooped the coin and bowed. The cat snapped the notepad shut. "Follow close, little boy," the cat said. They turned for the door. Pinocchio followed. The name was no longer empty. It had a face now, and two guides who grinned too wide to be trusted. He had traded a dead signature for a live trail, and for new company that worried him more with every step.