Red Iron Nights

by Glen Cook

  I was chuckling. “You wakened a memory. My little brother. We called him Foobah.”

  “Foobah?”

  “I don’t know. My mom. She called me Wart.”

  “Wart? Yeah. I can see that.” She danced away, pointed. “Wart! Wart!”

  “Hey! Knock it off.” People were staring.

  She did a pirouette. “Wart. The famous investigator, Wart.” She laughed, took off running.

  She ran because I started after her. She could run pretty good. She had the legs. They were such nice legs, I didn’t try too hard, just floated along enjoying the view.

  That started when we weren’t far from home. It swept into Macunado Street, so I caught up, said, “Couple blocks up that way. This is my neighborhood. People know me.”

  She laughed as she fought for breath. “Yes, sir, Mr. Wart. I’ll maintain your dignity, Mr. Wart.” She was still laughing and giving me a hard time when Dean opened the front door.

  49

  Belinda was in the hallway. She scowled at Candy. Candy scowled at Belinda. Wasn’t any doubt they recognized one another. Candy gave me one last jab. “Did you know his nickname is Wart?”

  “Dean,” I growled, “bring refreshments to the Dead Man’s room. Also smelling salts in case I bop this one over the head.” I had a problem suddenly. I was caught between two gorgeous women, both interesting, each eyeing the other like a cat fixing to sharpen her claws. On me.

  I was out of practice but remembered how my luck ran. When the fur started flying, most of it would be mine. They’d be happy to gang up on me.

  I heard a noise from the small front room and suffered the inspiration of my life. I popped in there before Dean’s latest stray made cover. It was a little furball so friendly that even I, if pressed, would’ve admitted it was cute. I darted back into the hall, where the ladies were exchanging killer stares. I got that kitten purring. “I guess you guys know each other.” I told Candy, “She’s hiding out here. From the killer.” I told Belinda, “The killer snatched her last night. We just rescued her. I brought her by to talk to the Dead Man.”

  “I figured. I’d heard she’d been taken.” She looked at the kitten without that sparkle kittens ignite in the eyes of their fans. Damn. Inspiration wasted.

  “Aren’t you sweet,” Candy cooed.

  Great. Halfway there, anyway. “Why don’t you hold him while I check in with my partner?” She hadn’t reacted to me calling him by name. I played pass the kitty, headed for the Dead Man’s door. As I neared it, Candy jumped, frowned in that way people do when first they hear from His Nibs direct.

  I stepped inside. “You see what I got out here? Any special way you want to handle her?”

  Just bring her in. He was vastly amused by something. I could guess what. Two women. Me panting shamelessly, trying to conjure some way to have my Belinda and Candy too. This will be a true test of your fabled charm. Especially as both women have been forewarned by your old friend Rose Tate.

  “Make fun of my misery.”

  Prepare her. She is under a great deal of stress still. My appearance may be too much for her as a surprise.

  I thought she was handling her stress pretty well, taking it out on me.

  The kitty thing did work. The women were together now, examining the cat but talking about Candy’s adventure. I said, “He wants you to come in now. I need to warn you, he’s not human. Don’t be too startled when you see him.”

  Candy didn’t seem surprised. “Is he real repulsive? Like an ogre?”

  “No. He’s just fat, mostly. And he’s got a big nose.”

  “He’s a sweetheart,” Belinda said.

  “Who is?” I demanded.

  “Can I take Josh with me?” Candy meant the kitten. Named already. Belinda nodded, never consulting me.

  “All right,” I said, as though anyone cared what the owner thought in his own home. “Good idea.” The cat could be a focus for some good feelings, good thoughts, when those might still be pretty hard to touch.

  Candy went into the Dead Man’s room. She didn’t start screaming.

  Belinda remarked. “I really do think you may be one of the good guys, Garrett.”

  “Huh?”

  She waved a hand like she’d heard things about me she didn’t want to repeat in my presence. I was baffled. How much could those two have said while I was with the Dead Man?

  Women. Go figure them.

  Belinda took my arm, cuddled up to my side. “It too early for you to take me to the kitchen and buy me a beer?”

  We found Dean putting the final touches on a hot meal. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “You need to eat. And the young lady you brought home obviously hasn’t had a decent meal for some time.”

  Food is serious stuff to Dean. If he had his way, every meal would be a production. He’s appalled by my attitude, that food is just fuel—though I do enjoy good food when I eat it. I just won’t go out of my way or spend any extra. Call me a savage.

  I drew beer for Belinda. She said, “I’ve been thinking about my problem with Crask and Sadler.”

  “Good.” I hadn’t had time.

  “Can you get the door, Mr. Garrett?” Dean asked. An impressive amount of racket had broken out there. “I can’t interrupt this.”

  “Sorry,” I told Belinda.

  She just smiled and winked.

  50

  “Now what?” I groaned as I stepped aside so Block could come in. “Don’t tell me you screwed up again. I couldn’t stand it if you told me you screwed up again.”

  “Winchell got away, Garrett.”

  “I begged you not to tell me you screwed up again.”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “The hell it wasn’t. You were in charge. The guy was tied up in a gunnysack. How could he get away?”

  “Some damned fool decided he wanted to take a look, so he opened the sack.”

  I nearly screamed. “And the butterflies got after him and Winchell just politely crawled out and waltzed away. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “What I ought to do is take you and this other damned fool and tie you both up in a gunnysack and dump you in the river.”

  “This other damned fool is Prince Rupert. And he’s been quite good about not trying to shift the blame.”

  “Well, good-ee. I’ll cheer when he’s crowned. So what? Why’re you here bugging me?”

  Block sneered. “I’m not. I want to see your partner. He’s done well guessing what the killer will do.”

  “Because he has a diseased mind too. I’m sure he knows you’re here. He has somebody with him right now. Just hang out in there.” I indicated the small front room. “He’ll call you. I’m having lunch.” And you’re not invited, you incompetent sonofabitch.

  I sat down opposite Belinda. “Why don’t we kiss off TunFaire? Why don’t we get married and run off to the Carnival Islands and open a fortune-telling booth?”

  “That’s an interesting proposition. What brought it on?”

  “The Watch let the killer get away. That madman is back on the street and he’s got eight or ten hours to play his little prank.”

  “But if Candy and I are here—”

  “He’ll kill somebody else. He has to kill somebody.”

  Somehow, like it or not, my house became the tactical headquarters of the hunt for Elvis Winchell. By sunset Prince Rupert had made himself a guest. I couldn’t keep him out, but I was a hardass about his yes-men. Jumped in there with a ferocious, confrontational smile and said, “Your lordship, I haven’t the facilities to serve all those men.” When he wasn’t instantly offended enough to holler for the headsman, I went so far as to suggest, “Their numbers are attracting attention.” It was way late, but the night people were out there and they were noticing the crowd.

  We compromised. He didn’t bring anybody inside.

  This Prince Rupert was the first royal I’d met. What I saw didn’t impress me either way, though later the Dead Man did blat
her on about the good intentions he’d found in the man’s mind. At that time I wasn’t in one of my better moods, so just remarked that the road to hell was paved, and so forth.

  The sun hadn’t yet risen when word came that they’d found Emma Setlow, AKA Dixie Starr, in the usual state. The troops had arrived while the ritual was winding down. Winchell had taken another successful powder but his helper had been captured. The knives had been recovered.

  “Knives?” I asked. “What knives? We already broke the knives.”

  The knives in question turned out to be plain old kitchen knives, not the best for the job they had done.

  The Dead Man observed, Isuspect we will find that the knives were not the vehicle for the curse.

  “Hell,” I muttered, “I had that figured. Winchell wouldn’t still be on the hoof if they were.”

  The knives are broken, shattered, but the curse goes on.

  “Cute. What about the guy they caught?”

  The helper was a retarded ratman (an oxymoron again) who admitted he’d been baby-sitting Dixie since her kidnapping, which had taken place well before the snatch on Candy. Meaning Winchell had decided to stock up on brunettes. After he had escaped from Block and the Prince he’d just run off to where he’d had Dixie stashed.

  I muttered, “I don’t like this. This Winchell sounds too damned smart.”

  “Winchell?” Block sneered. “Winchell needs help tying his shoes.”

  It is the curse, gentlemen. This time around— meaning this return to the world— it has reached some critical stage of growth. I suspect it would not be false to state that it has reached a point where it has begun to teach itself, not just to learn in the slow way a dog does, through numerous repetitions. It might behoove us to consider the horror of the possibility that it may develop an ability to reason.

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. A curse makes your cow go dry or gives you shingles or makes your kid crosseyed. It isn’t something that—”

  In the world of your village charm seller, you are correct. Probably no sorcerer alive today could cast this spell. But this spell comes down from a time when giants walked the earth.

  Giants were walking the earth right outside. Well, within a mile, anyway. But I didn’t argue. One of the earliest lessons I learned about dealing with Old Bones is: don’t get him going on the good old days. “Giants? Well, maybe. But we’re here to develop a strategy.”

  Considering the Prince and Captain Block, that strategy would be as much political as it was aimed at removing a major villain from the streets.

  The Dead Man agreed with me. Winchell will keep as short a profile as possible but he will not be able to remain hidden. He may be able to do without a helper, but his need to kill is on a short and shortening cycle. Six nights from tonight he will have to kill again. Inasmuch as Miss . . . Altmontigo . . . has been rescued, he will have to develop his next victim from scratch— assuming we can keep our two houseguests isolated. That he sent to me alone. Our guests didn’t need to know we had anyone special squirreled away. He will be hunting. If he manages to get his victim without help this time, he will still have to recruit helpers. He cannot stop killing and he cannot stop the circle of death growing smaller every time, so that he has to kill sooner.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Block said. “There a point to all this yammer?”

  Yes. Winchell’s financial resources cannot be vast. Counter his recruiting efforts by offering a substantial reward for his capture.

  “Who’s Miss Altmontigo?” I asked, regretting it before I finished speaking. Yet I wondered why he’d hesitated that instant, before and after. Because of Block and the Prince?

  Candy to you. Or Mickey.

  One very unsettling point here. The Altmontigos are an ancient and honored family from the highest heights of the Hill. What was I getting into? I had a royal prince and as high-toned a young woman as could be found visiting at the same time? Not to mention I was giving shelter to a princess of the underworld.

  All of that meant notice. I don’t like being noticed by people with that kind of power.

  The arguments went on and on. Dawn came and went. I said the hell with it. I wasn’t contributing anything and wasn’t hearing anything useful to me. What suggestions I did make were ignored. So let the great powers scope things out their own way. After they screwed up and looked like complete fools, I could lean back smugly and tell them they should’ve listened to me in the first place.

  I stopped at the foot of the stairs. Belinda was up there. Candy was up there. Dean was on the daybed in the small front room again.

  That damned kitten started rubbing up against my ankle, purring, trying to get in good. I picked him up. “Little buddy, first thing in the morning you get to learn a valuable lesson. You can’t get by on cute and the kindness of strangers. You’re going to hit the street.”

  The cat purred. And somebody pounded on the door.

  51

  I didn’t get in any hurry. I ambled toward the front door wondering if I couldn’t booby-trap the front steps, putting in something where if you didn’t trip the secret safety you got dumped into a bottomless pit.

  Wonderful idea but, unfortunately, not really practical. The practical thing to do was ignore the door. Only most people who want to see me know I have that habit and know that I’ll storm to the door eventually if they just raise hell long enough.

  This little nightmare visitor was one neglected subject slash coconspirator name of Barking Dog Amato. Just what I needed in the middle of the night. Well, morning. It had turned morning when I wasn’t looking.

  “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “No. Me? I haven’t been to bed yet. I was just heading there. It’s been a nasty day in a nasty week in a nasty month.”

  “The girl killer? I heard there was another one.”

  “That’s on the street already?”

  “Word gets around when people are interested.”

  “I guess. Come back to the kitchen.” I jerked a thumb at the Dead Man’s door. “Your old pal Block is in there cooking up something with His Nibs.” I settled Amato at the kitchen table. “Beer?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s up?” I asked as I drew two.

  “Well . . . It’s an imposition, I know. I got up, it was raining out, I was sick of doing signs and handbills. So I got out and started walking. My feet brought me here.”

  What the hell? I didn’t need sleep. Who needs sleep when you lead a righteous life? “Some leftover apple pie here. Want some?”

  “Sure. I don’t get much decent food. What did you think the other day?”

  “You made a hell of a start. I didn’t get to see it all, though.”

  “I noticed you disappeared.”

  “Not by choice. Some of Chodo Contague’s thugs came around, told me the man wanted to see me.”

  “I thought I saw some of those guys just before you disappeared.”

  “You know Chodo’s people?”

  “Not by direct experience, thank heaven. But I’ve watched the outfit for years, gathering information. They haven’t tried to profit at my expense yet, but when they do, I’ll be ready.”

  Which meant what? There was someone inside the outfit who suffered from mercy and tolerance? Not hardly.

  Belinda walked in. Candy was right behind her. Neither was formally attired. Barking Dog immediately proved that he wasn’t all crazy. His eyes bugged. He drooled. If the moon had been up, he would have howled at it. He squeaked, “Who are these lovely ladies, Garrett?”

  “They’re involved in the serial-killer thing. This one is Belinda and this one is Candy. Guys, this is Kropotkin Amato.”

  Belinda wasn’t impressed but Candy practically jumped out of her underwear. She just had to ask: “Barking Dog Amato?” Looking me right in the eye, “Sas’s father?”

  In two blinks Amato was a changed man. “Sas? Like in a nickname for Lonie? You know Lonie Amato?”

  Belinda caught on, grabbed Candy
’s hand. Candy was chalk pale but, apparently, Belinda’s move wasn’t fast enough to stifle her. She said, “Sure. We work with Sas. Don’t we?” So, I thought. You girls have wasted the night away having a hen session upstairs. I hoped a guy named Garrett hadn’t played too prominent a role.

  Barking Dog said, “Lonie is my daughter. Not many people know . . . I haven’t seen her since she was five. My wife . . . She never believed in what I was doing. She thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. She took off. With Lonie. You know Lonie? You really know Lonie?”

  Even crackpots get to shed their tears.

  The girls didn’t know what to say. I waved them off. I said, “Old buddy, I guess I owe you a little confession. The reports we’ve been doing? They’ve been going to your daughter through Hullar. Yeah. He was a nominee but not a villain.”

  “Lonie? Really? You know my daughter, Garrett?”

  “I’ve seen her, that’s all. I don’t know her.”

  “Is she all right? Tell me about her. Tell me everything.”

  “I’m going to break your heart, old buddy. I can’t. We get along and we’ve worked some things together, but you aren’t my client. Hullar is, for your daughter. I can’t tell you anything unless they say it’s all right. I will tell you that she’s healthy. She ain’t up in the world, but she’s a long way from down. You want to know more, I’ll see what Hullar says.”

  Belinda said, “I’ve changed my mind. You’re a real shit, Garrett.”

  “What if I was working for you? Would you want me telling your business without permission?”

  She grumbled. She made noises. She understood. Barking Dog might well be enthusiastic about news of his daughter, but would the daughter be eager to have him intrude upon her life?

  Lonie’s wishes had to be consulted.

  Barking Dog reached that conclusion too. Maybe faster than I did. He said, “Garrett, you talk to her. See if she’ll meet me. You work that out, where I can see her, I’ll be your slave for life. Anything you want, it’s yours. I loved that girl. And I haven’t seen her since she was practically a baby.”