by Glen Cook
13
John Stretch and his crew began unloading cages.
I frowned at the World. Construction had stopped. “Am I missing a holiday? Did the weekend sneak up on me?”
I went looking for Handsome. I found a pair of Civil Guards instead. They were all shiny and self-important in the new, pale blue uniforms. They wore red flop hats and brandished tin whistles.
They ambled over. One eyed the rat cages, horrified. The other looked away. “Who’re you, ace?”
He tweaked that nerve. “Deuce Tracy. Who’s asking? And why?” I didn’t feel hard-ass enough not to fish out my note from the Boss, though.
The Watchman considered exercising his right to be obnoxious. He accepted the note instead. He looked at it upside down, then passed it to the man who could pretend to read. After surveying Playmate and Saucerhead, the red tops opted for manners. For the moment.
They did have those tin whistles.
Playmate and Saucerhead are intimidating just standing around picking their noses. Especially Tharpe. He looks exactly like what he is, a professional bonebreaker of considerable skill. One who wouldn’t scruple about busting the skull of a tin whistle if the mood took him.
The second Watchman said, “It do look like he’s got business here, Git. This is from Weider himself.”
I use Watch and Civil Guard interchangeably. There is a distinction, mainly of importance to Colonel Westman Block. The Civil Guard is supposed to be the new order of honest lawmen. The old Watch is supposed to wither away. When the new order gets as corrupt as the old, they'll hire some new thugs and change the name again.
Git rumbled, “Just trying to do the job, Bank.”
“Sure. So. Mr. Chief Security Adviser. We still need to ask you a few.”
“Fine by me. Right after you answer me just one. What’re you doing here? John, you guys go ahead. Get after it.”
Git answered for his partner. “There was a murder. We’re supposed to find something out. If there’s anything to be found.”
That startled me. “A murder? Here?”
Bank said, “An old man named Brent Talanta. Usually called Handsome. You knew him?”
“I met him yesterday. I came over after getting the assignment from Weider.”
“About?”
“You read it in the pass. He thinks there’s sabotage. I’m supposed to make it stop. What happened to Handsome?”
The Watchmen eyeballed Playmate and Tharpe. Not recognizing them, except as seriously dangerous.
Git said, “He got dead.”
Bank added, “Messily. How ain’t clear. Something tried to eat him.”
I lost my inclination to be disagreeable.
We watched the ratmen take cages into the World. I said, “That puts us on the same team. Did feral dogs get him?”
“That mean wild?” Git asked.
“Yeah.”
Feral dogs are a problem. They'll hit a corpse but I’ve never heard of them killing anybody.
“Definitely not dogs,” Bank said. “And what tried to eat him ain’t what killed him. There wasn’t no sign of a fight. But what tried to eat him could be in cahoots with what killed him. If he didn’t die in his sleep. Or commit suicide.”
We swapped questions for a while. Then Bank quizzed me on the financial side of being a freelancer. Grousing, “This racket ain’t what it was in my father’s day.”
I couldn’t help myself. “And that’s the point of all the reform.”
Neither Git nor Bank liked that. Which told me they were holdovers from the old regime. It also told me they must be reasonably honest guys or they’d be out looking for work in a bad postwar job market.
“Handsome dying the reason nobody’s working?”
Bank said, “You’d have to ask the people who didn’t show up.”
Which made sense. I’d get an employee roster if the case dragged on.
It shouldn’t. Though Handsome’s death could be a complication.
Time passed. We talked about the war. Git had done his five in the Corps, too. He hadn’t heard of me there? or here, either? but he’d heard of my outfit.
I did remember to ask what became of Handsome’s remains. In case I wanted a look later. They had him over at the Al-Khar, for now.
Saucerhead grunted, “Singe is coming.”
Playmate added, “She don’t look happy, Garrett.”
She didn’t. Sufficient unto the moment the ferocity thereof. I said, “Over there on that pillar by where they found the dead guy. There’s a mark the tin whistles missed. Take a look and tell me what you think.”
14
“What’s up?” I asked Singe.
“We need more rats.”
“Huh? They must’ve brought a hundred.”
“But not enough, John says. Not nearly enough. He needs some boxes, too.”
“We can handle that. I saw some around here yesterday. What for?”
“To put the evidence in. So you will believe him when he tells you what he has found.”
“All right. Let’s see if those boxes are still where I saw them.” Or if somebody creative had snagged them.
Saucerhead said, “Hang on, Garrett. You was right. Good eye. It’s a gang symbol. I don’t know what one. Whoever made it musta done it with a really dull knife. That had blood on it. You can see little specks where it dried. Come here.”
I went. Playmate was down on his knees studying the pavement stones. Tharpe showed me the blood. I asked Singe, “What’s your nose have to tell us?”
She sniffed for a few seconds. “Fear. I think they probably beat him before they stabbed him. There were several of them. Maybe as many as ten. Very unclean. But almost nothing more can be told because of the smell left by the bugs who came to eat him.”
“You wouldn’t be able to track the killers?”
“No. Because there are too many smells.”
Often a problem for her in this city. “Head, Play, how about you guys tell the tin whistles while Singe and I get the boxes for John Stretch?”
We weren’t twenty steps away when Singe murmured, “They are talking about you.” She meant my pals and the red tops.
“I’m sure they’re deciding what a right guy I am for not holding back what we found. Around behind these pillars. There were six or eight boxes that building stuff came in. They were probably saving them to put other stuff in.”
They were there, no longer neatly piled. “We might not... What is it?” Singe had stopped. Her whiskers were twitching.
“Call those Guards.”
I got it. “Bank. Git. Come here. We’ve got another one.” They arrived. Bank asked, “What?”
“Singe is a tracker. A pro. She smells something under those boxes.”
Behind was where it lay. A corpse. “Careful. Don’t bust the boxes. We need them.”
“You want them, you get them out of here.”
I got in and got, passing the boxes back to Singe.
Git said, “This one’s been here a while.”
“Lucky it ain’t summer,” Bank said. “You. Garrett. Take a look. See if you know this guy.”
I looked. Could’ve been anybody. The clothing was what every squatter in TunFaire wore. Rags.
It was not clear, even, that the corpse was male.
Half the flesh was missing. Chunks hadn’t been carved out or torn off. It was more like bits the size of gravel had been snipped away. Thousands of bits. “Here.” Git pushed something with his toe, out where we could all see.
A dead beetle. The little sister of the bug from the day before. Five inches long, black, with a horn and pincers on the business end.
“Holy shit,” Saucerhead said from behind me, in soft awe. “Lookit the size of that sucker.”
“Yeah. Wow,” Playmate added.
“There are lots more inside,” Singe told us. “That is why John wants the boxes.”
“Yeah,” Tharpe said. “You guys hand a couple of them back here. Me an’ Play wil
l carry them in.”
I didn’t talk him out of volunteering, but I did say, “When you’re done with that, help Git and Bank look for gang sign. Though this don’t look like what Handsome’s thing was.” Then I said, “I’ve seen something like this before.” As Git and Bank dragged the body into the open. “In the islands. Soldier ants did it.”
The Guards kicked more dead bugs around. Git said, “This guy was alive when they got him. He fought.”
Bank grunted. “He crawled in here to get out of the weather. They hit him when he was sleeping.”
I edged closer. Old Bones would want every detail. Including the stink. “Where’s all the blood?” There should have been blood everywhere.
“Down some bug’s gullet,” Git said. “Bugs got gullets? How do they work?”
“Got me,” Bank said. “Gonna need some big boots to squish these bastards.”
Singe said, “Garrett, you need to come inside.”
Saucerhead and Playmate had boxes and were waiting. I grabbed one myself, toddled after the band.
The ratmen had gathered about where I’d talked to the carpenters before. Wicker cages surrounded them. John Stretch’s henchrats were scared. My dull human nose could smell it.
John Stretch said, “This is bigger than it looks, Garrett.” Producing some odor himself. “We need many more rats than we brought.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because there are so many bugs. And because they are fighting back. No. That is not right. They do not think. Less so, even, than the beasts I am using to kill them. But they are not afraid. They are eating my rats. And each other, when the rats dispatch them.”
Good word choice, Pound Humility. “Dispatch.” Very neutral.
“There are a lot of bugs, then.”
“Thousands. And the ones that have surfaced are the smallest.”
“Ouch! That’s not good.”
“Very much not good. I would like to withdraw now, see what I can learn from the surviving rats, and develop a more definitive strategy.”
And renegotiate, no doubt. After flinging around a few more big words borrowed from Singe.
Saucerhead squeaked, jumped, snarled, “Holy fucking camel snot!”
A bull rat who looked like the undisputed heavyweight champion barbarian hero of all ratkind had just dropped a gift at our feet, then collapsed from exhaustion.
The bug was some kind of tropical exotic beetle, all shimmering oily shine on a deep background of dark green, indigo, and black. A foot long. Still twitching. But it had been conquered by the hero.
Other rats began to arrive. Each brought a prize. John Stretch’s buddies tossed bugs into boxes and pushed rats into cages. Even the heavyweight hero seemed happy to be locked up safe. All his savagery had been spent.
I said, “I'll see Old Man Weider before we take any next step. Singe. John Stretch. Go back to my place. Fill the Dead Man in. If he hasn’t fallen asleep. Saucerhead. You’re on the payroll. Retainer rate for now. Play. Keep a coach handy. It may take an even bigger...”
I looked to John Stretch. “You sort of know what the critters found down there. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Is this method workable?”
“Probably. But it will be a strain. It will require many more rats. They burn out. Most of these will refuse to go down again.”
“Singe. I smell a business opportunity.”
“Again? I still have not worked out how to exploit the last one.” She meant taking advantage of ratfolks? high tolerance for boredom by using them to copy books. Most had trouble developing the necessary fine motor skills. “What is it?”
“We could get ratpeople work clearing the rats out of places. Ratters are expensive.”
She and John Stretch looked fiercely uncomfortable.
“I say something wrong?”
Singe shrugged. “John Stretch is the only one who can command the rats. And they have to be willing to listen.”
I shrugged in turn. “If it can’t be done, it can’t. You guys get going.”
I went back to where Git and Bank were managing the removal of the body. I dug a usable gunnysack out of the mess the dead man had used as bedding. Nobody found any gang sign. Nor any evidence that the derelict had suffered any violence other than the attack of the bugs.
15
Hector wasn’t excited by my return. But he did let me in. “Wait here.” He had a voice like a bucket of rocks being shaken. He went to announce my petition for an audience.
People from the back stairs popped out to get a look while I waited. Remarkable things had happened back there a while ago, with me deeply involved. These folks would have been hired since.
I suppressed my theatrical urge. I didn’t do a buck and wing.
Manvil Gilbey came. “So you’ve done your usual marvelous job and have it wrapped up already?”
“Not quite. Actually, just the opposite.”
“Ah. So. Your usual marvelous job.”
“And you’re gonna love it.”
A minute later I dumped the gunnysack in front of Max and Gilbey. I was forthright about what I’d done. I even mentioned John Stretch’s special talent without naming his name. “Also, we got a murder of a security guard, with gang sign. The way those things work, that'll be the source of your vandalism and theft. Setting you up for protection payoffs.”
Max considered the bug corpses. He considered me. He said, “They told me they were big bugs. I was thinking woods roaches. Those flying cockroaches the size of your finger. Not something the size of your mutant feet.”
“Even bigger ones down below, Boss. So I’m told.”
“This ratman can command the rodents? He could get rich calling the rats out of places like the brewery.”
“I suggested that. He wasn’t interested.”
“He’d see the problems better than we could. So what do you need?”
“I just want you to be aware. Ghosts may not be a real problem. Nobody I talked to admitted seeing any. There was some muttering about weird music. They all seemed to think somebody was faking in order to force a slowdown. Maybe as part of the coming shakedown.”
“Not a surprise. What about the murder?”
“We actually found two bodies. The guard was an old guy called Handsome. The other was a squatter. It looked like he was attacked in his sleep by bugs. Bugs chewed Handsome up pretty bad, too. Singe couldn’t get a track on the bad guys but he was definitely murdered.”
“Not good, that. Did Handsome work for me?”
“He told me his boss was Lego Bunk when I saw him yesterday.”
“Bunk works for me. He used to, anyway. He'll be looking for work after this. Find out what you can about Handsome. If he has people we'll have to do something for them. Take care of his funeral arrangements, for sure. Now that Lego Bunk is gone, what’re you going to do about taking care of the World?”
He wasn’t that interested, though. He’d delegated the work. His direct involvement ended there. Unless I screwed up and had to go the way of Lego Bunk.
“Escalate. Bring in more rats. A lot more, if my ratman is right. Do the stuff for Handsome that you said. And let the tin whistles take care of the murder. The killers really want to work protection, they'll turn up.”
“Do what you have to,” Max growled. “Don’t come back here bothering me unless you get grief from somebody who thinks they’re more important than they really are.”
Never before had he so blatantly admitted how loudly wealth talks.
When you’re the god of beer in a city the size of TunFaire, you’ve got more money than the King himself.
“Then I’m free to do whatever needs doing? And you'll back me up? I want to be clear on this.”
“I'll back you one hundred percent as long as you keep your hot ham hands off the rest of my daughters.”
I’d broken Morley’s First Commandment, about messing with crazy women, and had a fling with Kittyjo Weider. She was marginally crazy
then. She’d become a howling lunatic by the time she was murdered.
“No problem.”
“I do believe in your good intentions. And I know Tinnie. But I know Alyx, too. She gets an idea in her head, she gets as damned single-minded as her old man.”
“I’ve managed so far. She’s all talk, anyway. She just wants the reaction. From you and me both.”
That should give Max a chance to relax. And it might even be true.
Maybe I ought to call her bluff.
Only, Tinnie would slice off some of my favorite limbs.
And Alyx would callmy bluff. Guaranteed.
Then Max would hear.
“Manpower,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“If ratpower isn’t enough to solve the trouble at the World... Never mind. I have resources.” If I needed twenty swinging dicks to clear the World, I could round them up in a couple hours.
“Come back when they’re after you for killing somebody.”
Gilbey hadn’t said anything for a while. He spoke up now. “Or when you find yourself in some demonstrable fiscal difficulty.”
He was the practical one.
Max suggested, “How about you have something interesting to report next time you come around?”
I exchanged glances with Gilbey. Manvil said, “Some days Max isn’t so enthusiastic about the new challenges. Even dead bodies don’t fire him up.”
It’s nice to have the kind of friendship that lets you talk about your pal that way right in front of him.
16
Playmate’s stable was quiet when I went by. I didn’t stop in. His brother-in-law was covering for him while he was away. I’d only met the man once. That was once more than I’d needed.
Play was turning the other one like a self-flagellation machine with that villain. But he loves his baby sister.
We tolerate crap from family that we’d butcher strangers over.
I couldn’t resist taking a turn past The Palms. I didn’t drop in, though. I stayed across the street. Morley’s henchman, Sarge, came out to dump a bucket of filthy water. He scowled my way. I waved and kept going. Sarge scowled a whole lot more.
Morley didn’t run after me. Not that I expected he would. Sarge probably didn’t mention that he’d seen me.
