by Glen Cook
‘‘The key phrase being human being, of course. I can think of a whole list of folks more cynical and manipulative than me. But they’ve all got a little nonhuman in them somewhere.’’
He did not stop smiling. ‘‘What did you want?’’ Implying that I wouldn’t be seen around The Palms unless I wanted something.
‘‘Just putting you on the spot with the guys following me around.’’
His smile vanished. ‘‘We could put a sign out. Invite them in. Help build the business.’’
‘‘So we’ve pranced around. Now what?’’
‘‘You go first. What do you want?’’
‘‘Just to put my dogs up. On the way down to the World. To find out why Alyx Weider insists it’s haunted when nobody else sees any ghosts.’’
‘‘Going to bullshit a master bullshitter?’’
‘‘How’s this, then? I want to leave a message for Saucerhead. He’s never home anymore. You’re likely to see him before I do.’’ I don’t know what it is with Tharpe. He’s no born-again vegetarian but he likes The Palms. ‘‘The Dead Man has work for him. He’s having trouble recalling who the senior partner is again.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘Where can I find me a gypsy necromancer? I could settle the ghost business in a minute with a professional.’’
‘‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’’
‘‘I thought that up on the spot. I was telling the truth about wanting to put my feet up. I haven’t been getting enough exercise.’’
‘‘You never did.’’
‘‘Your turn. How come the nice show? Give it to me straight. I can take it.’’
‘‘It isn’t that big a thing.’’
It was that big a thing.
‘‘We want to borrow Singe. For a tracking job.’’
Aha. ‘‘Singe is a free agent. Go over to the house and ask if she wants the work.’’
‘‘We were hoping you could intercede on our behalf.’’
‘‘Of course you were.’’
‘‘You know she won’t lift a paw if you don’t give her the go-ahead.’’
‘‘Then when you go see her be sure to tell her I said it’s all right by me.’’ I struggled to keep a straight face.
Morley gave me the fish-eye. Wondering if I realized that he didn’t want to talk to Singe where the Dead Man might take a gander at the circus inside his head. He decided I was smart enough to see it.
I said, ‘‘Of course I am. It’s my only joy in life.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘I’m a major pain.’’
‘‘You got that right.’’
‘‘You thought of a gypsy necromancer?’’ He knows everybody on the underbelly of society. I know a few myself but am intellectually allergic to the region of the beast’s belly where the parasites practice the sorcery trades.
‘‘Belle Chimes.’’
I managed a credible impression of a bass out of water. Mouth moving but producing no sound till, ‘‘You’re kidding.’’
‘‘Probably not a real name.’’
‘‘You think?’’
‘‘I’ve never met the guy. He’s way on the down low. He has a reputation like yours. Straight arrow in a sleazy racket. Better dressed, though.’’
‘‘Thank you. I think. The coat’s a loaner.’’
‘‘Of course it is. You’re Mr. Style.’’
‘‘You saw what your guys did to my good coat.’’
He couldn’t argue with that. He said, ‘‘Go to a tavern called the Busted Dick.’’ He offered an approximate location in the Tenderloin. ‘‘Buy yourself a beer. Talk to a barkeep named Horace. Tell him you need to talk to Bill about last week’s D’Guni tournament. Buy yourself another beer. If they decide you don’t look like a bonebreaker from the Hill or a ringer on the Director’s payroll, they might hook you up.’’
‘‘I’m not looking for a vampire.’’
‘‘A vampire might be an easier find. They don’t have Hill folks wanting to exterminate them.’’
‘‘I’m out of here, then.’’ Getting up and getting gone before he could nag me about Singe again.
If he was desperate enough he’d turn up at the house, Dead Man or no.
37
Manvil Gilbey was outside the World when I got there. ‘‘Don’t see you roaming around much anymore.’’
His frown wasn’t encouraging. ‘‘Your efforts haven’t gotten things moving again.’’
‘‘Bugs shouldn’t be a problem anymore. Goofy teenagers, I don’t know. I’m working on the ghosts nobody but Alyx believes in as we speak. How about you? Seen any? No? Hey, I met your niece, Heather. Seems to have a good head for business.’’
That didn’t improve his mood.
‘‘No worries. I’m a one-woman man these days.’’
‘‘Getting ready to settle down?’’
He meant to be sarcastic.
‘‘Maybe. Not sure the other half of the equation is, though.’’
‘‘And you’ll never know if you don’t come up with the guts to ask.’’
‘‘Voice of experience?’’
‘‘Lots. Long time.’’
‘‘So. Again. What’s your take on the ghost business?’’
‘‘I think they’re there. I think somebody besides Alyx has seen them. But they don’t want to admit it. No telling why. I think ghosts are why the workmen have been staying away. In this town it could all be just business. Somebody who wants to keep us out of the theater game maybe hired a sorcerer. Because once we’re serving our beers in our theaters we’ll have a huge competitive advantage.’’
Meaning that the Weider brewing empire wouldn’t supply competing theaters. And Weider is the main source of liquid refreshment in commercial quantities.
I didn’t dismiss that, silly as it sounded when it plunked down in the light of day. Raw capitalism goes on all the time.
‘‘There was anybody whose head had that kink, I’m sure you’d know his name, rank, and pay number.’’
‘‘Guess what, Garrett? You got rung in because Max and Ican’t put a face on that somebody.’’
‘‘I’ll figure it out,’’ I promised. ‘‘One way or another.’’
‘‘Or die trying?’’
‘‘I don’t love you guys that much. You found out anything useful here?’’
‘‘That it’s possible the workmen are scared of something nastier than ghosts. Something about spooky music. Nobody wants to talk about that, either.’’
‘‘Smells like a protection racket trying to move in. But I dealt with that already.’’
‘‘And nobody is asking for anything. The purpose of a protection scheme is to extort money. Isn’t it?’’
‘‘You’d think. You going to be around? I’ve got something to do. But I’ll be right back.’’
‘‘I’ll be here. Though all I can do is look for proof that somebody lied.’’
‘‘Whatdid they tell you?’’ I hadn’t yet seen anybody who looked like a workman.
‘‘The ones who did show up are staying out of sight. They don’t want to be seen.’’
‘‘Gilbey, you, me, Max, and every idiot on the payroll here survived the war. That should’ve taught them how to deal with fear.’’
‘‘These are construction guys, Garrett. They did their time in construction companies. If they got into fights it was because the combat battalions didn’t do their job.’’
‘‘Fire some of the people who aren’t showing up. I’ll find replacements. They might not be as skilled but they won’t run away. Hire the real guys back later, after they’ve gotten intimate with the terrors of unemployment. For now, I’m going looking for a specialist who can help us with the ghost business.’’
I headed into the Tenderloin, pursuing Morley’s instructions. I assumed I was being followed despite a lack of evidence.
I was concerned about Morley. He has a gambling problem. He’d had it controlled for a
while. I hoped he still did. It isn’t pretty when he weakens. The debts pile up, triggering ticks and irrational behaviors as he tries to get out from under.
He’d shown that style of anxiety during my visit. And was way too friendly.
Being a natural born paranoid cynic, I feared my best pal was betting on the water spider races again.
38
The Busted Dick wasn’t hard to find. Though the sign out front didn’t help. In timeworn paint it showed dice, domino tiles, and a tumble of noodles or sticks.
The tumble turned out to represent a game in which skinny sticks with writing on them are shaken in a jar, then tossed onto a tabletop. Not a game common in Karenta.
There’s a kind of fortune-telling that uses little sticks. I’d never seen that, either.
I went inside. It was your standard low-end dive. Six small tables, each attended by several rickety chairs, lined the right-hand wall. None were occupied. The bar was to the left, with ten wobbly stools. It had been something special in an earlier century. Two stools were occupied. Three empties stood between them. Neither professional drinker seemed aware of the other. Both, however, took a moment to glance at me and be impressed by my borrowed coat.
I invited myself aboard the center of the ’tween stools. It had been polished by thousands of dissolute heinies. ‘‘Beer.’’ I laid down a small silver piece. That would keep the cold barley soup coming. ‘‘Good beer.’’
They would have a special keg reserved.
A generous mug materialized. Its contents were drinkable.
My change reflected the quality of my purchase.
The Busted Dick must get a few up-class drop-ins, using it as a way station when sneaking toward or away from the Tenderloin.
I pushed a copper back to the barman. He nodded his appreciation. I doubt my companions ever tipped. I relaxed, enjoyed the barley nectar.
No local barman made anything that fine in a thirty-gallon tub in a room in back. The small guys don’t have the patience to do the water right. They don’t boil it long enough; then they don’t fine all the chunks out. They don’t have time. They can’t store and age their product. They’ve got to turn it over.
I raised my mug. ‘‘I need a refill.’’ Like a serious drinker.
My flanking competitors hadn’t raised their mugs twice between them while I drained mine.
Having delivered the new trooper, made change, and pocketed his tip, the barman failed to go back to cleaning mugs, which seems compulsory whenever they’re not separating a customer from his cash.
He leaned back and waited for my pitch.
It was obvious that I wasn’t some derelict who had wandered in looking to build a quick buzz. My coat gave me away.
I enjoyed half my second mug before I asked, ‘‘You know Horace?’’
‘‘Why do you want to know?’’
‘‘Because I need to talk to a guy named Horace who works at the Busted Dick. A name I’d like explained almost as much as I’d like to connect with Horace.’’
‘‘A busted dick is the worst possible throw of the sticks in the game of points. Like snake-eyes, shooting craps. Only worse. I take it you’re not a points player.’’
‘‘I never heard of it. From context, I’d guess it’s a gambling game.’’
‘‘You catch on quick. It came from Venageta. Prisoners of war brought it back. I’ve never figured it all out. The rules go on and on. There’re thirty-six sticks. They have symbols on all four sides and the ends are colored. None of them are the same. You shake them in a jar, then dump them out. There’s a million ways they can fall. Come in some night, there’ll be games at every table. Used to be dominoes. Them that gets into the game get into itseriously . The only reason they aren’t at it now is, we don’t let them in till nighttime. On account of, everybody’s got to get some sleep sometime.’’
‘‘Horace?’’
‘‘There a reason?’’
‘‘Yeah. He can put me in touch with my old Army buddy, Belle Chimes.’’
The barman’s eyes narrowed. He glanced past me, toward the door. He was caught in the forked stick of the underground economy. You’re there, you need customers. But you can’t know for sure who they are when they come round jingling silver. Sometimes not until it’s too late.
I could be some guy sent out from the Al-Khar to fish for people looking to cut costs and corners by hiring uncertified specialists.
Same trap is right there waiting for the consumer.
‘‘I can probably get you in touch with Horace. What would you want with this Bill?’’
‘‘Weider Brewing is building a theater a little ways from here. Some of the workmen say the site is haunted. I hear tell Belle can maybe help me find out if that’s true.’’
The barman stared over my shoulder.
I finished my beer. ‘‘I could use a refill.’’
That stirred him. He took my mug to the quarter keg filled with the good stuff. He brought it back full. So distracted that he forgot to take my money. He said, ‘‘The loo? Back there. Through that door. Take your beer with you. Unless you want it to disappear while you’re gone.’’
He did take my money then.
So much for him being rattled.
I took my beer.
The loo wasn’t. As I’d expected. For places like the Busted Dick the jakes is just the alley out back.
The barman joined me. ‘‘Be quick. Those two will drain the taps.’’ He kept a foot inside so the door wouldn’t close all the way. He could duck back in and leave me holding my own if he wanted. Or he could see his clients if an impulse toward larceny brought them back to life.
‘‘I told it. I’ve got a purported ghost problem. I need an expert without conflicting motives to check it out. To tell me if it’s true. And how to cope with it if it is. And to tell me why people think it’s true if it isn’t. I’ll pay a reasonable fee for the service.’’
I was impatient. But I knew the romance was necessary.
You don’t find independently operating sorcerers hanging out on street corners. Folks on the Hill have no qualms about getting lethal while enforcing their monopoly. But they won’t come out to back up your everyday kind of guy. Somebody like Mom Garrett’s blue-eyed baby boy. For a freelance you have to find a winner in the birth lottery who got a load of talent but no ability whatsoever to play well with others.
I exaggerate, but we all know those people. Reeking with genius. Dripping talent. And completely incapable of sustaining a personal relationship. With almost as much trouble keeping a job.
Careful, Garrett. Sounds a little autobiographical.
‘‘This ghost problem. Where would it be again?’’
‘‘Hop, skip, and a jump. The World. The theater the Weider Brewery is building.’’
‘‘It’s farther than that. But not much. Let’s go back inside. You buy another beer. I’ll ask my dad if he knows somebody who can help you.’’ He pulled on the door.
We got back to the bar in time to save one of the professional drunks from suffering a severe moral lapse. He was just fixing to slide behind the bar, empty mug dreaming of a refill. Caught, he faked a stumble, then headed on back to the jakes.
The barman filled me up. ‘‘I’ll be right back. Keep them honest.’’ He hit what looked like a skinny pantry door at the back end of the bar. An equally narrow stairway lay behind that. He had to go up with his shoulders turned slightly sideways.
The width of the stairs dated the structure. There’d been a time, a hundred fifty years back, when TunFaire’s dwarf and ogre populations were very restless. Neither species would be narrow enough to climb that stair.
I’d have real trouble myself.
If the barman ditched me by sneaking out a back way, I’d serve beer on the house.
A little old man pushed through the stairway door. He was maybe five feet tall. He’d been taller in the long ago, but the weight of time had bent him over and had shrunk him. He had what the old folk
s call a widow’s hump. He was a shiny chestnut color. I saw nothing to suggest any actual kinship with the barman, who came out the stairway door a moment later.
The little old man shuffled over. ‘‘Who you looking for?’’
‘‘Belle Chimes. Friend of mine says he can give me advice about D’Guni racing.’’
He frowned. ‘‘Here’s some, now. Don’t do it.’’ Hard to tell about that frown, though, looking downhill into that nest of wrinkles. ‘‘Who told you to see him about the bug races?’’
I didn’t want to give Morley up. But his name might be the password.
A freelance sorcerer might have a different name for every shill he had referring trade. ‘‘Morley Dotes. I don’t know where he got the name.’’
‘‘Who was you supposed to talk to when you got here?’’ I told him what Morley told me.
The old man took a deep breath, stuck one shaky old hand back over the bar. The barman brought a brown briar walking stick up from somewhere down below. The old man took it. ‘‘Let’s walk, boy.’’
‘‘All right.’’ I held the door for him, going out to the street.
The old man got more spry as soon as the door closed. He headed for the World. Not exactly smoking fast, but without the shuffle. ‘‘Talk to me about money, boy.’’
‘‘Some could end up coming your way.’’
‘‘No shit. I’ll retire to my own vineyard on the slopes of Mount Kramas.’’ He referenced the mythical mountain where the grapes are so perfect only the gods themselves are allowed to drink what comes of letting their juice rot.
My doubts about the man’s credentials as a sorcerer faded before we got to the World. When we arrived he was twenty years younger and four inches taller. And moved with corresponding ease and grace. And was miffed because I didn’t ooh and aah over his transformation.
I’d run into masters of illusion before. Hell, I’m halfway engaged to one particular redheaded mistress of illusion.
Tinnie got into the mix because she and Alyx Weider’s girl gang had turned up while I was off recruiting. Alyx and Heather were harassing poor Manvil Gilbey.
My new friend became ten years younger, fast, while making little purring sounds of appreciation. ‘‘There might be a perk or two here, after all.’’
