The first address of the ones that had been hit by whatever it was that trashed Lucky’s stockroom was a textile warehouse just outside of Hell’s Kitchen in the Garment District. As Celeste left the neighborhoods of Lucky’s bar behind, she marveled at the way the five-story brownstones gave way to towering thirty-story buildings. The first floors of many were devoted to showrooms for fashion houses, bespoke tailors and textile merchants. 

The address she had from the police blotter was for the lattermost. A yellowed and faded, hand-lettered sign over a buzzer proclaimed Textre in faded ink. 

Celeste pursed her lips in thought as she squinted at the soaped-over windows. Was “Textre” the business name, or someone’s job description?

The only way to know was to push the button, so she did. 

After a short wait, a being answered the door. 

Celeste found herself staring up at a creature that had to be a giant lizard wearing a human suit very badly and an impeccable pinstripe business suit very well. 

She blinked, trying to make sense of what she saw. Everything about this creature could be considered pointed and sharp. A long, thin nose looked like it could put her eye out if it just leaned forward. Old-fashioned glasses balanced on the bridge in front of its own beady eyes. Canine teeth protruded from thin lips. A ribbon of smoke curled from the corner of the mouth. 

Suddenly, Celeste knew what the creature was. 

“You’re a dragon!” She clenched her fists in excitement. Then she remembered that dragons didn’t like attention. Or loud noise, for that matter. 

“Sorry!” She whispered as she flattened her hands out and waved them in a placating motion. “Sorry! Sorry!   I just never thought I’d meet a dragon.” 

The dragon looked at her as if considering whether to shut the door in her face, or possibly let her in and then devour her. “Why are you leaning on my buzzer, girl?”   He asked in a sibilant voice. 

“Right,” Celeste shook her head as if trying to shake off her distraction. She tucked her hands behind her back while she introduced herself in order to direct her brain away from mindless flailing and back into the headspace of a serious investigator. 

As succinctly as possible, she described the incident that happened in Lucky’s basement stockroom. Concluding with: “We’re going down into the tunnels below the bar to investigate what happened. But before we do, I’m here on a fact-finding mission. You filed a report with the New Orange police about a similar incident?”

The dragon stared at her impassively for a moment longer. Celeste looked down, running the toe of her boot along a crack in the sidewalk, rather than face that reptilian gaze. Finally, the dragon stepped aside and waved her in. 

Celeste followed him through a warren of brightly-lit rooms filled with polished wood and brass, fancy carpets and white, plush upholstered chairs. A sliding panel in the back led her to a black, wrought-iron spiral staircase that descended into a yawning black void. Cold, dry air wafted up, bearing the smell of mothballs, lavender and musty cotton. 

The creature touched a switch with long, sharp-nailed bony hands, and the stairwell lit up to reveal pitted brick walls. The concrete recessed and the brick slightly rounded at the corner with age. 

Celeste followed the dragon down the stairs. The creak of the old iron reverberated off the walls. When she cleared her throat, it sounded unnaturally loud. 

“So, is Textre your title, or . . . ?”

“It’s what you may call me.   Or more specifically, The Textre.” The dragon said nothing more as he continued his descent.

“Okay, cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.”

The stairs seemed to go on forever. Celeste wondered if they were going to climb straight through the center of the earth and wind up in China. That would certainly explain where a dragon came from, and what he was doing in New Orange. But at last, they reached the landing. 

The Textre touched another light switch. This time illuminating a cavernous warehouse filled with bolt after bolt of fabric. It looked like a fabric library. The bolts were stored on shelves that formed rows.   Each looked like they were separated by fabric type, color and age. 

Celeste’s hand flew to her mouth to hold in a delighted gasp. “This is your hoard, isn’t it?” She said around her fingers.

“Indeed.” This time the dragon looked amused. He started off down an aisle, beckoning her to follow. “This way.”

He led her past filing to a desk with a computer. He leaned over the chair and typed at the keyboard. Then he squinted behind his spectacles, frowning at what he read on the screen. Without another word, he turned and started down an aisle between two racks of silk. 

She reached out her hand absently to run it along the racks, but before she could make contact with the shelf, The Textre grasped her wrist in an iron grip. 

“Oils from your hands will damage the fabric,” he hissed, frowning at her. 

“Oh! Sorry,” Celeste grimaced. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“Indeed,” The dragon released her hand. She made a show of tucking her thumbs into her belt loops to keep them from wandering away again. 

They made one last turn around a set of shelves, arriving at the back wall where a rack of linen garment bags hung neatly in a row. The Textre made a sweeping motion with one hand, as if the damage should be obvious. 

Celeste scanned the row of bags, but couldn’t see anything out of place. 

“What am I looking at?”

Seeing her bewilderment, The Textre pointed to a grate in the wall. Celeste knelt for a better view. Upon closer inspection, she could see that the metal was twisted on one side where it bolted to the wall. 

“Something incredibly strong pushed its way in through this grate.” She looked up. From this angle, she could see stains on one of the linen garment bags. Another was torn on the side facing the wall. Through the bag’s tear, she saw what looked like rabbit fur. 

“Was anything damaged?” She asked. 

“I heard them come in,” The Textre said. “By the time I arrived, they had fled, so it was only this one rack. Still, furs are dreadful to clean.” 

”Were any of them taken?” Celeste asked. “None of the alcohol was missing from our place.”

”No,” The Textre said. “If they didn’t take the fur when it was right there, then I have no idea what they might have wanted.”

Celeste wondered as well.