Cruel Zinc Melodies gp-12

by Glen Cook

  42

  Tinnie said, ‘‘So you did your Mr. Sensitive, bull thunder-lizard in Aeleya’s teagarden routine. And, lo! The kid didn’t knuckle under.’’

  ‘‘A gross exaggeration.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure. Here comes Saucerhead. Give him the true facts and ask what he thinks you could’ve done better.’’

  ‘‘I’m telling you this, Red. You keep picking and chipping . . . What the hell is she doing, tagging after Head?’’

  ‘‘She’’ would be Winger, stacked blonde slapped together on an epic scale. As tall as me. My friend, theoretically. But not a friend I want turning up anywhere where I’m the guy who’ll be held accountable.

  Winger is a female Saucerhead Tharpe. With more flexible ethics. You don’t trust her around the family silver. Or anything else of value.

  She does try. But she just can’t resist temptation.

  Distracted by the approach of big, beautiful blond trouble, I didn’t immediately notice that she wasn’t Tharpe’s only companion.

  He’d brought six people along. Well, five. The Remora, Jon Salvation, is just an extension of Winger, these days. He’s not really a person.

  The rest were serious thugs. I recognized three of them. They’d be men a man I trusted could trust.

  Saucerhead’s knack for selection was perfection in all particulars, excepting only family deserter Winger.

  I cut Tharpe out of the crowd. ‘‘You’re gonna be the guy, here, Head. Your job is, keep everybody out unless they bring you a pass signed by me. No exceptions. Not even Winger. There are some hungry ghosts in there.’’

  Saucerhead stared with eyes grown large. He didn’t want to believe me. But he couldn’t shove aside the fact that he’d been there with me so many times when the weirdness squared itself on the freaky scale.

  ‘‘Ghosts?’’

  ‘‘Something that looks like ghosts. It might be something else a whole lot worse. I’m hoping the Dead Man can figure it out.’’

  He saw me give Winger the fish-eye. Again. ‘‘Don’t worry about her, Garrett. The Remora hanging around has straightened her up. She’s awed by the written word. It don’t change, no matter how much you bluster and threaten and try to make it.’’

  That was one long-winded homily for Saucerhead Tharpe. ‘‘I’ll take your word. From what I hear tell, though, Jon Salvation isn’t exactly an impartial observer.’’

  ‘‘You think? Him mooning after her like she’s the born-again avatar of Romassa?’’

  ‘‘Romassa?’’

  ‘‘Goddess of physical love. For one a’ them tribes we worked with down in the Cantard. The Avatar was even bigger than Winger.’’ He did cupped hands in front of his chest. ‘‘Her job was to teach the young men coming up about doing it.’’

  ‘‘She was a real person?’’

  ‘‘Sure. She was the Avatar. Not the goddess herself but her stand-in. It was a big honor to be picked.’’

  You hear everything at least once. After you’ve heard it all, you check out.

  ‘‘Lot of happy boys around there, I guess.’’

  ‘‘The Avatar smiled a lot, too.’’

  Tinnie had been eavesdropping, off and on. Showing no happiness about the strange ways they have in far-off lands. ‘‘I should’ve gone with Alyx in the coach. Now I have to walk all the way back to midtown.’’

  Saucerhead leaned in like he was about to pass along a juicy punch line about how they did things in the Cantard. ‘‘So, what’s with the goofy coat?’’

  43

  Tinnie Tate was short of temper by the time we got to my house. I kept my opinion of her choice of footwear closely guarded. No need to tempt the lightning.

  I was digging for my key when the door opened.

  Pular Singe stood there staring at me, sort of befuddled.

  ‘‘What?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘I could not track him.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘That Lurking Felhske. That Mr. Dotes wanted to find. I could not track him.’’ She was thoroughly unhappy. ‘‘That never happens.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry. Don’t get all suicidal about it.’’

  Tinnie punched me from behind. And I just knew that if Singe was a human girl she would’ve burst into tears right then.

  ‘‘All right. How did he kill his back trail?’’ That would take it out of the realm of being her fault.

  ‘‘How did you . . . ?’’ She looked back to the doorway to the Dead Man’s room, inclined to blame him for giving her away before crediting me with the ability to work something out. ‘‘He went through areas where the stink overpowered every other smell. Even body odor as bad as his.’’

  ‘‘He always came out somewhere besides where he went in. Right?’’ I’ve worked both sides of that gambit.

  ‘‘Possibly. I think.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Sorry. I am not feeling good about myself right now.’’

  ‘‘I understand. I’ve been there. Couldn’t you circle the bad smell till you found where his spoor came out?’’

  ‘‘In theory. But not really. The bad smells were so strong my nose went dead. And everybody coming out of there carried the stench with them.’’ She had to be talking about the tannery district. There is nothing quite like that when it comes to overpowering smells. ‘‘I can only pick out individuals if they wear something like that awful stink-pretty Saucerhead Tharpe soaks in when he is feeling especially single.’’

  The girl is an amazement. I couldn’t restrain a guffaw. She had Tharpe nailed. When he works himself up to go on the prowl he splashes that stuff on like . . . There is no adequate simile. Nothing compares. He’ll never get lost. Singe will find him underwater. Sometimes the stench is unbearable. And its results are entirely predictable. No score, unless he runs into a woman totally blind and deaf in the nose with no discernible sense of taste. Or one of those gals who has the same bad perfume habit. There are squadrons of those, though most are a tad long in the tooth for Mr. Tharpe.

  Garrett.

  ‘‘And that answers the big question. Himself is awake. Now, if Dean happened to be hard at work womping up a supper, in quantities adequate to fill me and my sweet patootie, life could be reclassified as perfect.’’

  Tinnie growled, ‘‘Don’t you ever turn it off?’’

  ‘‘Tight shoes,’’ I told Singe. ‘‘And no lunch.’’

  ‘‘Next time I come down here I’ll wear my winter boots.’’

  ‘‘Not the pretty ones. Bring the work ones.’’

  ‘‘The midthigh tops? With a shovel?’’

  I disengaged from further discussion of shoes. ‘‘Singe, something that came up today got me wondering about the differences between ratpeople and humans.’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’ Instantly defensive.

  ‘‘We saw ghosts. All of us. Some of us heard music.’’ I told her about it. I didn’t scrimp on details. Old Bones was listening, too. ‘‘But you and your brother, and his guys, never saw anything.’’

  Singe managed a facial tick that resembled a puzzled look. ‘‘I’ll take your word for that.’’

  Damn! It would be ridiculous if she started managing human facial expressions, too.

  I’d have to head that off, for sure. She’d end up burned at the stake.

  ‘‘Come help us mull it over with the Dead Man.’’ Or whatever you call the situation where His Nibs picks the brains of mere mortals, to help us discover the meaning of life.

  Your cynicism has migrated from the realm of the mildly amusing to the uglier principality of the irritating.

  ‘‘Oh, good. You’re still awake.’’

  So we communed, brainstormed, and schemed. The sad truth, though, was, we needed more information. My sidekick knew no more than I did about ancient, dramatically powerful things buried under TunFaire. He recalled no legends, fairy tales, or religious fancies that accounted for what was stirring.

  The Tenderloin is a storied
moral sink. It’s been the bad part of town since the first nomad families pitched their tents on a hospitable riverbank and never got around to moving on.

  I was particularly pleased. My sweetie, once she had some food in her, dropped the attitude and focused on the problem at hand.

  We ate while we worked. And Dean’s effort made the wait worthwhile.

  Amazing what that old man can do with a capon, wine, mushrooms, and a few tubers that aren’t supposed to be in season. All washed down by a fine, potent Weider winter wheat lager.

  44

  Tinnie went to bed. Likewise, Singe. And Dean beat them all to the friendly sheets. I stayed where I was, enjoying my beer. And persevering.

  Old Bones had let me know he wanted a word in private. Whatever that meant to somebody who could carry on multiple silent, isolated conversations at once.

  I permitted myself a presumption this morning, once you were on your way. Penny came for a lesson. I hired her to check into a few things.

  Brilliant me, intellect puffed by the Weider brew, I asked, ‘‘Like what?’’

  The histories of the properties involved in the World constructionsite. The background of the man you knew as Handsome, for Mr. Weider and Mr. Gilbey, because you have not found time for that. I also asked her to see what she could find out about members of the Faction for whom we have names. And about their families. And I tasked her to find out what she could about the history and ownership of the property the Faction turned into their clubhouse.

  ‘‘And I thought you made ridiculous demands on me. A grown man.’’

  Sneer.

  ‘‘All right. All right. Whatever you’ve got, go ahead and crow.’’

  Some things you learn just being around him long enough. Like his need to show off how good he is. Or how good his protйgй can be.

  The experience was humiliating. During a single day Penny Dreadful, totally marginal teenage person who would play no other role in the case, had, as a favor to her pal the Dead Man, dug out almost all the information he wanted checked.

  History of the ground where the World was going up? Bland. Nondescript. Nothing interesting had happened there as far back as available records went. The first several slumlords who sold to Max were convinced that they had hornswoggled the beer baron. The procession of ownership started with an uprising two hundred eighty years gone that had destroyed every older record.

  Who owned the ruined property? Fellow name of Barate Algarda. He bought it off the wife of a once-famous smuggler who got put out of business permanently by Chodo Contague’s predecessor, thirty years ago. Algarda’s daughter had used it for a playhouse, growing up. It had had a reputation as a deadly place, back then. Old hands still steered clear.

  Brent Talanta, also known as Handsome? No children. Wife deceased. Survived only by his mother. Handsome was her only source of support. A forensic sorcerer had connected the knife found in the hand of a Stomper known as Funboy to Handsome’s wounds. Likewise, the shoes of several gang members to bruises on the corpse. Handsome’s remains had been sent on for cremation at a contract crematorium. Funboy’s body had been sold to a resurrection man. The rest of the Stompers were headed for a labor camp.

  I told Old Bones, ‘‘I have to admit that I forgot all about Handsome. Even though I promised Max.’’

  Miss Pular wrote the report. Joe Kerr will take it to Mr. Weider in the morning. Mr. Weider will do the right thing. Now. For someone who keeps telling himself how amazed he is by his advancing maturity, you do seem to work with a solid teenage mind-set most of the time.

  Ouch. Possibly true. But doubly hurtful since the harvester of so much marvelous information barely qualified as a teen herself.

  But wait! There is more!

  There would be, wouldn’t there?

  The keg I’d found down under the ruin had been purchased from the Goteborg Enterprise by Riata Dungarth. Riata Dungarth was the personal servant of Elmet Starbottle, a member of the Faction known to his crew as Slump, who was a cousin of the twins, Berbach and Berbain, who seemed to have walked away from the Faction. The keg had been delivered to the ruin, wrestled downstairs, and installed by Idris Brithgaern, who made all the deliveries for the Goteborg Enterprise brewery. Mr. Brithgaern delivered a new keg the first day of each week, always prepaid by Riata Dungarth. The ruin was outside Brithgaern’s normal range, but he did not mind. He got to keep the beer in the old keg. Sometimes that had not been touched. He could sell that beer, legally, off the back of his wagon. But, mostly, he took it home and enjoyed it himself. It was a beer that deserved a man with a discerning palate.

  By this point I was ready to whimper. The little tramp obviously vamped. . . . I had a couple smart-ass questions in inventory but reserved them because I was afraid the little witch had reported what color socks Idris Brithgaern wore.

  Mismatched. Gray to the left, brown on the right.

  ‘‘Argh!’’

  I jest. But there is a lesson in all this.

  ‘‘Yeah. And I don’t need help from you figuring out what it is, Laughing Boy.’’ Simply, Penny Dreadful had no trouble with the concept of hard work. Given a task, she whapped it in the schnoz with both fists and pounded it into instant submission.

  I could fake that kind of youthful enthusiasm. For a few minutes. Sometimes. ‘‘So, who does this Brithgaern creature work for?’’

  The Goteborg Enterprise craft brewery.

  ‘‘All right. My mistake. Let me get focused.’’ Weider Dark Select might not match up with Goteborg, but it’s pretty damned good. ‘‘Make that Riata Dungarth. Who’s he work for?’’

  Elmet Starbottle. Where Elmet Starbottle would seem to be a name chosen by the person wearing it. There are no Starbottle families amongst the elites in this city.

  I could have told him that. Silly-ass name. Starbottle. Ha. ‘‘What you’re doing now is prancing around the fact that you don’t know which one of the Faction uses the name Starbottle.’’

  Pretty much, there. Yes. Pretty much. Unless it might be the boy they call Slump, as I might have mentioned earlier.

  He’s so smug.

  I expect all that will be cleared up for sure next time I see Penny.

  ‘‘You mean next time she decides to mooch a meal?’’

  I believe she has earned a few.

  And I did feel petty even before he chastised me. So I punished myself by draining another mug of beer. Then I trundled on upstairs, clambered into bed behind my favorite gal in the whole wide world, and fell asleep in about seven seconds.

  45

  Tinnie didn’t put away as much holy elixir as her favorite man. But she had less experience handling it. She woke up with a pounding head an hour before the early birds took wing. She turned into the beautiful woman who never heard of mercy.

  ‘‘Rise and shine, Malsquando. For the first time in your life you’re going to do an honest day’s work.’’

  ‘‘Ow!’’ Not good news. Not good news at all. I’m no Morley Dotes but I am acquainted with the comfort of a dishonest day’s work. A day with as little real work in it as I can arrange.

  I was over last night already.

  ‘‘This may be why we can’t get to a grown-up solution to our grown-up problems,’’ I grumbled. ‘‘Here you come, six hours too early for even thinking, let alone working.’’

  No argument. No snide commentary. Just another stiff finger and sharp nail between a couple of my favorite ribs.

  I almost said something I couldn’t take back. Lucky me, though. I have a resident guardian angel.

  Do not! open your idiot mouth!

  I clung to that advice for the dozen seconds my sweetie needed to lose focus and fall asleep again.

  I went back to sleep, too. Wondering, for the first time, about the discrepancies between my partner’s report on the compliance device and Kip’s. Kip isn’t real good about making up plausible stories.

  Next time I woke up it was time to set the beer free. That took a while. Then I po
ured a little in to replace what had gone away. Tinnie snorted and snored worse than Saucerhead or Playmate, both true champions. The racket didn’t bother me. I climbed back into bed and, after a few random thoughts, got down to business making it through to the crack of noon.

  Old Bones—or maybe the gods themselves—did something to the redhead while she slept. She woke up in a sunny mood. Unfortunately still convinced that Ma Garrett’s boy ought to haul out and become an important ingredient in her wonderful day. ‘‘Don’t you got some books to balance? Or maybe some bribe sheets to update?’’

  Tinnie has some big generational differences with the elder Tates. But none having to do with milking maximum cash from folks interested in our manufactory’s products. Her number-one mission is to maintain the waiting list of three-wheel buyers.

  Bribes paid to move names on the waiting list generate more cash flow than sales of the units themselves.

  Every entrepreneur and financier in this burg hates us.

  I don’t get it, myself. I really don’t. People are nuts over the three-wheels. I’ve ridden them. They’re fun. They make getting around a little faster. But not much. Not when you have to deal with everyday traffic in twisty, narrow streets. And, more especially, not when you have to deal with the upsides of hills. Not to overlook the ride on cobblestones. And the even harder pull where there are no pavements at all.

  And then there are thieves. Though my senior partners had been smart about that.

  Every three-wheel has a unique signature spell applied, traceable by the company Charmstalker. Should your three-wheel be commandeered by a freelance socialist, it can be located, and justice can be delivered, with dramatic quickness. It happens often enough to discourage all but the terminally stupid.

  If only there were some way to deal with those people before they breed.