by Glen Cook
He let me have it blow by blow, the uneconomical way. The way I do him when I want to yank his beard.
He claimed most of the defections and desertions hadn’t been genuine. Furthermore, Mooncalled had just been lying low, staying ahead of the various armies, occasionally encouraging the Venageti forces or Karentine to come to blows while he awaited one of those rare but exceedingly violent storms that sweep into the Cantard from the gulf. I saw a few of those while I was down there. All you can do is take cover and hope the cover stands up to the wind and rain.
While his enemies were paralyzed, Mooncalled had struck. In both directions. One force attacked Full Harbor, Karenta’s biggest bridgehead in the Cantard. He’d tried before and had failed. This time he’d succeeded, taking Full Harbor with all its supplies and munitions.
Another force attacked Quarache, Venageta’s logistical bastion in the southern Cantard. Quarache is bigger and far more important than Full Harbor. It surrounds the only big, reliable oasis in that part of the desert. The Venageti war effort hinges on continued control of Quarache. Without it they wouldn’t be able to project their power far enough to threaten the silver mines.
Losing Full Harbor would hurt the Karentine effort but not cripple it. Karenta has other bases along the coast. Venageta doesn’t.
I tried a weak sally. “Your boy is in deep shit now, Chuckles. They’ll send the Marines to take the Harbor back. He’s never gone up against Marines.”
Except for a sly touch of amusement he ignored me. He continued his story.
Quarache didn’t go the way of Full Harbor. Mooncalled hadn’t had the strength to carry it completely. Fighting continued as the Venageti rushed reinforcements in from everywhere, were reclaiming Quarache in prolonged, desperate, expensive house-to-house combat.
Like most ordinary Karentines, I’ve developed an affection for Glory Mooncalled. Not that I want my kingdom to lose a war. But when you spend your whole life a witness to the corruption, incompetence, and greed shown by our overlords, you can’t help but admire a guy who makes rude noises in their faces and brassily dares them to do their worst—then dances around mocking them while they stumble over their own feet. Too, I think a lot of us nurture the secret hope that Mooncalled’s antics will compel an end to the endless war.
“This is really why you dragged me out of bed?”
This and the fact that I wish to hear details of what happened last night. And he did seem intensely interested. I recalled that he had been from the beginning, like he’d suspected something he didn’t want to share. How was it that you managed to conclude the thing so quickly?
“Ah? I think I detect a hint of jealousy. A note of disbelief.”
The law of averages suggests you should be capable of stumbling through unaided occasionally. It is true that I remain amazed at your ability to flout that law so frequently.
Yes. He was piqued. He’d put all that time into all those interviews, which we hadn’t yet discussed, expecting to dazzle one and all with a startling indictment. Then I’d had to go spoil his game by tracking down that jinxed coach. Garrett the Killjoy, that’s me. “You want to tell me what you thought was going on when Block first told us about the women?”
Somebody pounded on the door, timing it as though the Dead Man had had him waiting in the wings.
That will be Mr. Tharpe. I allowed him to return home last evening. He had personal matters to settle. Stay seated. Dean will handle the door.
I yelled, “Dean, throw that cat out when you let Saucerhead in.” I waited till Tharpe came in before I started my story.
“You got lucky,” Saucerhead said when I finished.
“Lucky, hell. That was a prime piece of deducting and detecting.”
Tharpe grunted, unconvinced.
“I didn’t see anybody else thinking about attacking it by looking for the coach.”
“I still say you lucked out, Garrett. How about if the old geezer used some regular coach? How about if he walked?”
“But he didn’t. And that’s the point. And that’s what cost him. He decided to break in on a closed house and use it for his base, and found him a spiffy, neato coach there and just couldn’t resist going in style. And it cost him.” For a second I wondered if the jinx had gotten old butterfly-breath. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t much bothered by having croaked him, now. I hadn’t run into many people who’d needed killing more. I couldn’t feel bad about doing the world a favor.
“You lucked out,” Saucerhead insisted. And wouldn’t be swayed. Neither would the Dead Man.
Mr. Tharpe, I have an errand for you, should you care to extend your employment.
“You pay, I play.” Saucerhead liked the Dead Man for some reason.
This building has become suspiciously free of vermin. That was because I’d burned a dozen sulfur candles one day while he was taking one of his six-week naps. I thought I’d do him a favor. Bugs like to snack on him. Iam accustomed to employing large numbers of insects when I examine the various permutations of action available to the forces operating in the Cantard. I cannot indulge my curiosity without them.
“You already heard what Glory Mooncalled done, then?”
Yes. I am excited. I need a few thousand insects with which to evolve through the options available to the surviving combatants.
He had a habit of lining bugs up on the wall, like soldiers, and running them through maneuvers. A disgusting vice.
“Now, wait a minute,” I protested. “I just got this place deinfested.” Bugs and mice are the Dead Man’s worst enemies. Left unchecked, they would devour him in no time.
So. You are the villain responsible.
He knew darned well I was, he just hadn’t brought it up before.
“I am he,” said I. “I’m also the guy what owns this dump. I’m also the guy what’s feeling damned put upon on account of I’ve got a housekeeper who’s moved in uninvited and figures it’s his duty to drag in every stray cat he can find. I’m also the guy what don’t like the floor crunching under his tootsies whenever he starts looking for the chamber pot in the dark. Never mind about the bugs, Saucerhead. Let him use his imagination.”
The Dead Man sent me an exaggerated mental sigh. So be it. I fear, then, Mr. Tharpe, that we have no further need for your services.
I gave the Dead Man a narrow-eyed look. He’d given up too easily. “He’s right. What do we owe you?”
“Not enough so I don’t got to go back to raising knots on heads for that creep Licks.”
A sad story. Nobody liked Licks. Including me, and I didn’t know him. “Guy has to make a living, I guess.” I counted out a few coins, not much. Tharpe seemed satisfied. He hadn’t done anything but answer the door.
“You might maybe add a little tip on account of personal hardship, Garrett.”
“Personal hardship?”
“I had to be here instead of home. Though maybe from what I hear, you done forgot about women.”
“Not quite. Not yet. But it’s fading fast.”
“So be cynical and self-serving. Go apologize to Tinnie.” He liked Tinnie. Hell, I liked her. I just couldn’t get along with her redheaded temper. For now. The songs you sing do change. Abstinence does make the heart grow fonder.
Saucerhead seemed in no hurry to leave. He and the Dead Man were wondering what might have snapped inside the butterfly man’s head and left him wanting to carve up women. I figured this was my chance. I gathered my breakfast leavings, took them to the kitchen. Once I disposed of the evidence, I’d slide upstairs and catch me forty winks.
Somebody banged on the door.
22
What was this? I’d worked so hard to discourage customers that I didn’t get this many visitors in a week anymore. Dean made like he was too snowed in cleaning up, so I took care of it myself.
Hoping for some randy sex goddess, I got Barking Dog Amato. I’d forgotten him completely.
“You forgot all about me, Garrett,” he accused, pushing inside, forcing
me back with his personal chemistry.
“No,” I lied. “I figured you hadn’t had time to get anything ready yet.”
“Been raining. Not much else to do. Making signs and handbills gets old.”
You’d think a drenching would wash the grunge away. Not so. Water just brought it to life. I considered propping the door open, maybe opening a few windows so the wind could blow through. If I’d lived on the Hill, I might have tried it. In my neighborhood you wouldn’t dare. Even during a typhoon there would be some opportunist ready to accept the challenge. Besides, I only had one downstairs window.
Once past me, Amato halted, dripped, reeked, looked around. “You got that thing, that whatsit they call the Dead Man. I’d sure like to take a gander at that, you know what I mean?”
I tried shallow breaths. I don’t know why we bother. It never helps. “Why not? You’re a man he ought to meet.” I wished Old Bones had him a working sniffer. I’d lock them in together till Amato sold him his whole zany conspiracy collection.
I opened the Dead Man’s door, held it for Amato. Saucerhead, in my chair, half-turned, saw Barking Dog.
His face scrunched up into a world-class frown. He didn’t ask, though.
He got a whiff, that’s why. He gasped, “I see you got a client I’d better go good-bye,” all in one long exhalation. He slid out the door almost before I got through. He tossed me a look that told me he wanted to hear all about it. Later. A lot later, after the miasma cleared.
I winked. “Make sure the front door is closed.”
Barking Dog said, “My God, it’s an ugly sucker. Got a hooter like a mammoth, don’t it?”
Another missionary, Garrett?
“This is Kropotkin Amato. You recall the arrangement we made.”
You know what I mean. You still intend to harass me? You will recall that your previous effort met with a singular lack of success.
“Me? No . . . ”
Nor did you bother mentioning any arrangement, though I discern the details in your mind. We did not contract to have the man watch himself.
“We didn’t contract anything, Smiley.”
Barking Dog looked baffled. I would have too, hearing only half the conversation. I changed subjects. “You can understand why I did it.” I didn’t want to bruise Amato’s feelings. The Dead Man could peek inside his head, see why we didn’t have to mount a major campaign.
You are correct, Garrett. This time. However unlikely, he believes his theories. Which, you will understand, make them the reality in which he lives. I suggest you do meet our principal, try to ascertain why he deems it worthwhile to keep tabs on Mr. Amato.
Good morning, Mr. Amato. I have been anxious to make your acquaintance since Mr. Garrett first undertook to trace your movements.
The rat was going to lay it off on me.
“Uh . . . hi.” Barking Dog was at a loss for words. Maybe I ought to check to see if this was really him.
One breath and I knew I didn’t have to check. “Look here, Chuckles, don’t you go—”
Mr. Amato and I have a great deal to discuss, Garrett. I suggest you visit Mr. Hullar and see if you cannot unearth a reason for his interest.
“Yeah, Garrett. What you been doing, anyhow? You was supposed to . . . ”
I fled, defeated. Would Barking Dog care that I’d neglected him only to save TunFaire from a vicious serial killer? He would be sure they had bought me off. Even though he was the subject I was supposed to investigate for them.
I gave the stairway one longing look, then got into my rain gear. I checked my pockets to see how much cash I had. Maybe I could rent me a room and catch a few winks.
I made a sudden sally into the small front room before I left, thinking I’d snatch Dean’s cat and drag it along. But the cat wasn’t in evidence, only the scratches it had left on my furniture.
Then I realized that I had nothing to report to Hullar. I trudged back and pried Barking Dog’s report away from him. He and the Dead Man were weaving drunken spiderwebs of conspiracy theory already.
23
The Tenderloin is that part of town which caters to the side of people they keep hidden. Any vice can be found there, any sin committed, almost any need fulfilled. The hookers and the drug dens and gambling pits are just the surface, the glamour. At least, those aspects of those things that can be glamorous when seen from the street.
It’s a glitzy street. Or streets, really. The area is bigger than Tinkery Row. And more successful. Nothing sells like sin. After the Hill it’s the most prosperous, cleanest, safest, and most orderly part of the city. Some very unpleasant people make sure it stays that way.
It all belongs, directly or indirectly, to Chodo Contague’s empire.
Bishoff Hullar’s taxi-dance place is as tame a dive as you can find there. That’s all the girls do, dance and talk to lonely fellows and try to get them to buy drinks. Maybe a few make personal arrangements, but there are no facilities on the premises. The place is as shabby as they’re allowed to get down there. Frankly, I don’t see how Hullar stays in business, competing with neighbors who offer so much more.
The place wasn’t jumping when I arrived, but it was just after noon then. A couple of sad-looking sailors sat at a table talking to a sad-looking girl who sipped colored water and didn’t pretend very hard that she gave a damn about what the sailors were saying. A doddering ratman mopped around the other tables. All those had chairs piled atop them. There was nobody on the dance floor, though a couple more girls were loafing by the bandstand, where three worn-out old musicians weren’t trying very hard to stay awake. Both girls glanced at me, wondering if I was worth the effort of making so long a trek. One, who looked like she might break out in a case of puberty any day, lazily packed a pipe with weed.
The guy behind the bar had to be the world’s oldest dwarf. He wore the full costume, complete with a pheasant’s feather in a peaked little cap. He had a beard that should have kept the floor swept of debris. “What’s it going to be, Ace?” He wiped the bar in front of me with the same rag he’d been using to polish mugs.
“Beer.”
“Pint?”
“Yeah.”
“Light? Dark?”
“Light.”
“Lager? Pilsner? . . . ”
“Just draw one. Surprise me. Weider’s, if you got it.” I figured I owed Old Man Weider a little commercial loyalty, what with him having had me on retainer so long.
“Hasty. Always hasty.” He drew me a pint. “Wet enough for you out there?”
Oh, my. A talkative bartender. “Wet enough. Hullar around?”
“Who wants to know?” Suddenly he was completely alert.
“Name’s Garrett. I’m supposed to be doing something for him.”
“Yeah?” He wiped the bar next to me while he thought about that. After a moment he said, “I’ll check.” Off he trundled. I rose onto my toes, watched, wondering if he’d stumble over his beard.
“Hi. I’m Brenda.” The pipe smoker had puffed up enough ambition to hike all the way over. I glanced at her, resumed studying the wasteland behind the bar. The woman was less interesting.
Up close it was obvious she wasn’t a child, that that was just her hook. The gamine had gone a long time ago, probably before she was old enough to become a gamine. I said, “I’m just here to see Hullar. Business.”
“Oh.” Her voice had had little life before. Now it was dead.
I glanced at the musicians. “I could part with a few coppers, though, if you could explain why those band guys are here at this time of day.” I didn’t know Hullar’s place well, but didn’t think there was any music during the day.
“Somebody kicked the shit out of them last night after work. They’re waiting to talk to some guy about it.”
Licks? Coming in to put the arm on them?
“You’re in, Ace. The man says come on back.”
I dropped a half-dozen coppers into the woman’s hand. She made an effort to find a smile but had troub
le remembering where she’d left it. I wanted to say something to waken her spirit but couldn’t think of a thing. So I just said, “Thanks,” and hurried after the dwarf. If I let him get too big a head start I’d miss out when he tripped over his beard.
Bishoff Hullar was five feet tall, three feet wide, bald as an egg, in his sixties, ugly as sin itself. The width wasn’t fat. I’d heard he was a strongman in his younger days and that he kept up in case there was a call for his talents. “Sit, Garrett.” He indicated a rickety antediluvian chair. He had a voice like rocks tumbling around inside an iron drum. Somebody had done the lead-pipe thing on his throat in his once-upon-a-time. “You got anything for me?”
I gave him Barking Dog’s report. He took it, started reading. I said, “I have some questions.” I glanced around his workplace. You couldn’t call it an office. He sat behind a table with some writing tools on it, but also makeup pots, which suggested the girls used the place for a dressing room. Overall, it was as tacky as the rest of the place.
“Huh?” He looked up, piggy little gray eyes narrowed.
“Basic stuff my partner never got around to asking because he thought this job would be a good joke on me.”
Hullar’s eyes got narrower. “Joke?”
“Barking Dog Amato. Nobody in the world is going to pay somebody to spy on a lunatic. Least of all a guy who runs a place like this down here. I can’t see you even knowing Barking Dog.”
“I don’t. Wouldn’t know him if he walked in and sank his fangs in me. What’s it to you? You’re getting paid.”
“I’m the guy what takes his butt onto the street amongst the slings and arrows, Hullar. I kind of like to know why I’m doing that, and who for. That way I have a notion what direction to expect trouble from when it comes.”
“You’re not going to see no trouble.”
“They all tell me that. If there wasn’t trouble, though, they wouldn’t come to me in the first place. I don’t play blindfolded, Hullar.”