by Glen Cook
The less a client argues the deeper his desperation.
My pretty Maggie Jenn argued way too long. Finally, she huffed, “I’ll have Mugwump bring you that list as soon as I can.”
I was thrilled. I really wanted to see Mugwump again. Maybe I could tip him a talking parrot.
12
I stood in the shadows down the street from Maggie’s, just staying out of sight while I thought.
Like most folks, I don’t get any kick out of being played for a patsy. But people do try. It’s an occupational hazard. I’m used to it. I expect it. But I don’t like it.
Something was going on. I was being used. None too subtly, either. Unless Maggie my sweet was a lot less worldly than I suspected, I didn’t see how she could think I would buy everything.
I’d sure enjoyed the job interview, though. As far as it had gone.
The thing to do now was what she had said she didn’t want me to do: investigate Maggie Jenn. For my own safety. In my line, what you don’t know can get you killed as fast as what you do know. Once I could guess where I really stood, maybe I’d do something about Emerald.
I glanced at the sky. It was dark but still early. I could touch some contacts, take a few steps along the path to enlightenment. Right after I dropped Maggie’s retainer off at home. Only a fool carries a load like that longer than he must. TunFaire teems with villains who can count the change in your pocket at a hundred yards.
I could imagine no explanation of recent events more convincing than what Maggie purported. Nevertheless, there was Winger. I shook my head. The cobwebs did not go away. They never do. All part of the service. All part of my naive charm.
I looked for my tail. No sign. Maybe he got tired and went home. Maybe the Hill’s security thugs whispered sweet nothings in his ear, like, “Get lost pronto or you’ll crawl home with two broken legs.” Or maybe his job had been done once he’d found out where I was going.
I shoved off. All that thinking was giving me shin splints of the brain.
Good thing I exercise. I had oomph enough to vacate the area steps ahead of an unpleasant interview with the goon squad, who did not seem to care if I had legitimate business on the Hill. They had been summoned by Ichabod, no doubt, in a vain hope that my attitude could be improved.
I zigged and zagged and backtracked and used all my tricks. I didn’t spot a tail so I went home, got rid of Maggie’s retainer, drew myself a long draught, then sat down for a cold beer and a chat with Eleanor, who seemed concerned about the state of my soul.
“Yeah,” I confessed, “I’m getting more flexible when it comes to taking money.” I spoke in a whisper. I did not want to waken the Goddamn Parrot. I’d even tiptoed in and filled his seed tray.
If I remembered to feed him more often, he might have a higher opinion of me. Maybe.
“So what? If they’re villains, they deserve to be done out of their money.” She had taught me that money has no provenance. “If they aren’t villains, I’ll see that they get their money’s worth.”
More or less. Sometimes I don’t exactly deliver what the client has in mind. One such case resulted in Eleanor coming to live with me.
It had taken me a while to outgrow the notion that taking a man’s money meant having to go for the results he wanted. I must be getting old and judgmental. These days, I try to give people what they deserve instead.
Which yields mixed results for sure. Even so, I get more offers than I want. But a lot of fat jobs go elsewhere because some folks have decided to avoid me. Most especially the kind who rob people with paper instead of a blade. Lawyers and slicks. I have embarrassed my share of those.
Actually, I mostly avoid working. I don’t think anybody ought to work more than it takes to get by. Sure, I wish I could afford my own harem and fifty-room palace, but if I worked hard enough to get the money, I’d have to work as hard to keep it. I wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy it.
After a few beers, I developed a whole new attitude. I told Eleanor, “Think I’ll go down to the Joy House, hang out with the guys.”
She smirked.
“It’s just to pick up street talk about Maggie Jenn.”
Eleanor didn’t believe one word.
I had to find me a new girlfriend.
13
Morley Dotes never changes but his neighborhood can. Once upon a time, that was the worst. You weren’t alert, you could get killed for the price of a bowl of soup. For reasons to do with Morley’s intolerance of squabbles and his sometime role as arbitrater of underworld disputes, the neighborhood grew almost reputable and came to be called the Safety Zone. Those who worked the shadow side met and did business there, with every expectation of suffering none of the embarrassment, unpleasantness, or disappointment one faced at the hands of lone wolf socialists in other neighborhoods.
Every city needs some quiet area where business can get done.
“Waa-hoo!” shrieked the guy who came sailing out the door as I walked up to Morley’s place. I ducked. That fellow touched down halfway across the street. He made a valiant effort to land running and did a laudable job till a watering trough slunk into his path. Slimy green water fountained.
Another man came out sprawled like a starfish, spinning and howling. He was one of Morley’s thugs-turned-waiter.
This was backwards. The way these things go is Morley’s people toss troublemakers. They don’t get dribbled along the cobblestones themselves.
The howling waiter went across the street like a skipping stone. He crashed into the guy trying not to drown in the horse trough. If you ask me, putting those things around was a grave mistake. Horse troughs are sure to draw horses. TunFaire is infested by enough evils.
On hands and knees, I peeped around the edge of the door frame and discovered true pandemonium.
A behemoth of a black man, who beat my six feet two by a good three feet, and who had to slouch so he wouldn’t split his noggin on the ceiling, was having himself a grand time cleaning house. He snarled and roared and tossed people and furniture. Those few men accidentally exiting through the front door were lucky. They were out of the action. Those who tried to leave under their own power got grabbed and dragged back for the fun.
The feet of the walls were littered with casualties. The big man had a fire in his eye. No mere mortal was going to quiet him down. Some very skilled mortals had tried and had found places among the fallen.
I knew the berserk. His name was Playmate. He was one of my oldest friends, a blacksmith and stable operator, a religious man who was as gentle a being as ever lived. He went out of his way to avoid stepping on bugs. I had seen him weep for a mutt run down by a carriage. Like all of us, he had done his time in the Cantard, but I was sure that even there he had offered violence to no one.
I thought about trying to talk him down. I left it at a thought. We were good friends, but Playmate had equally good friends among the fallen. Everybody loved Playmate.
And I had learned about being a hero doing my five years as a Royal Marine.
No way could Playmate have gone this mad.
Morley Dotes himself, dapper and exasperated, watched from the stair to his office. He was a darkly handsome little character, dressed way too slick for my taste. Anything he put on looked like it was baked onto him. Anything I put on looks slept-in after ten minutes.
Morley was so distressed he was wringing his hands.
Guess I’d have been upset myself if someone was busting up my place. The Joy House started as a front — Morley was an assassin and bonebreaker — but it had grown on Dotes.
A short, slim form snaked through the crowd and leapt onto Playmate’s back. The big man roared and spun. He did not dislodge his rider, Morley’s nephew Spud, whose mother had passed him to his uncle because she could not manage him anymore.
For a while, Spud just held on. Once he was confident of his seat, though, he let go with one hand and fumbled at his belt. Playmate kept spinning. The idea gradually got into his head: spinning and pran
cing and roaring would not get the weight off his back.
He stopped, got his bearings by consulting stars only he could see. He decided to run backwards and squish Spud against a wall.
Spud had his own plan, though.
Spud was set on being a hero in his uncle’s eyes.
The kid wasn’t stupid, he just suffered from natural elvish overconfidence.
His hand came up from his belt clutching a black cloth sack. He tried popping that over Playmate’s head. Guess who did not cooperate?
That sack was a mark of the esteem in which Playmate was held. The guy was set on destroying the world, but nobody wanted to stop him badly enough to kill him. Not one soul inside the Joy House wanted to do anything but get him under control. Not your true TunFairen attitude, I guarantee. Life is the cheapest commodity of all.
Morley moved as soon as he understood what the kid was doing. He didn’t run or appear to hurry, but he got there right on time, a moment after Spud did get his bag into place, a moment after Playmate started his all-out plunge toward the nearest wall. Morley hooked a foot behind the big man’s heel.
Boom!
Playmate sprawled. Spud separated just in time to keep from being sandwiched. He was a lucky kid. Instead of getting squashed and collecting some broken bones, he just got coldcocked.
Not so Playmate. My old pal tried to get up. Morley popped him a bunch of times, so fast you barely saw him move. Playmate didn’t like that. He figured maybe he ought to take that sack off and see who was aggravating him. Morley hit him a bunch more times, in all those places where blows are supposed to incapacitate.
There came a day when Playmate, buried under a dozen people, finally stopped struggling.
14
Morley looked down at Playmate. He was breathing hard. I strode inside, chirped, “Congrats. You wore him down.”
Morley checked me from glazed eyes, failed to recognize me for a moment, then wailed, “Oh, damn! You. On top of everything else.”
I looked behind me to find out who was causing my best pal so much distress. I’d fix him! But the guy was too fast for me. The doorway was empty.
I put on my best hurt face. I get to practice a lot around the Joy House. Morley’s guys are always riding me. Naturally, I play along.
I righted a table, selected a chair, made myself comfortable. I eyeballed Playmate. “What happened? You have to pump that guy up on weed to get him to swat flies.”
Morley took several controlled breaths, picked up a chair, and joined me. “Excellent question, Garrett.” Playmate wasn’t doing anything now. In fact, the roars from beneath the flesh pile sounded suspiciously like snores.
Morley Dotes is a bit short for a grown man but isn’t entirely human. He has dark-elf forebears. But he never lets the human in him get in his way.
Maybe the mix is responsible. He is a mass of contrasts, especially in his profession as opposed to his hobby. His health food haven has become a hangout for half the villains of TunFaire. Contrast again: the clientele is half those double-nasties and half the kind of clown you expect to find gnoshing tubers of uncertain provenance.
“Boy did pretty well,” Morley observed, glancing at Spud. The kid’s real name was Narcisio. Only his mother used that.
“Pretty good,” I admitted. “More balls than brains.”
“Runs in the family.”
“What happened?”
Morley glowered. Instead of answering me, he shocked the house by bellowing, “Eggwhite! Get your heathen ass out here!”
I was amazed, too. Morley employs vulgarity only rarely. He fancies himself a gentleman rogue. Gentlemen rogues are slick like they’re covered with lard. But a villain is a villain, and Morley is one of the worst because he gets away with everything. I should try to take him down. I don’t because he’s my friend.
A thug ambled out of the kitchen. He wore cook’s garb but carried his professional resume scarred on his face. He was old and looked as stupid as a stump, which answered a question: what becomes of hard boys if they live long enough to get old? They become waiters. I didn’t see how this goon had survived to get there, though. He looked like a guy who needed a major run of luck to get through any given day.
Maybe the gods do love the incapacitated.
Morley beckoned.
Eggwhite edged our way. His gaze kept darting toward Playmate. Playmate had begun to reappear as guys climbed off and went to set the bones of their buddies.
“Big mess, huh?” Morley said.
“Yeah, boss. Big ole mess.”
“You have any idea why I would entertain the notion that you might have been at fault? Can you tell me why your face popped into mind the moment my friend asked me what happened?”
Will wonders never cease? He never called me friend before.
Eggwhite muttered, “I guess on account of I got a weakness for doing jokes.”
Morley grunted. “That one of your pranks?” Playmate was sleeping like a baby now, but he was going to be hurting when he woke up. “That big ha-ha there?” Morley’s tone was hard, the street leaking through. He was angry. Eggwhite was petrified.
Morley asked, “What did you do?”
“Put angelweed in his salad?” Eggwhite made it a question, like a kid caught in a lie experimenting with a new tactic.
“How much?”
Excellent question. Angelweed didn’t earn its heavenly name because it will boost your mind into paradise but because it will send you off to hallelujah land if you aren’t careful. Slipping it into a salad would be a clever way to dose somebody. The leaves look like spinach that’s gone a little bluish.
“Half a dozen leaves.” Eggwhite looked everywhere but straight at Morley.
“Half a dozen. Enough to kill most people.”
“He’s humongous, chief. A goddamn mountain. I thought it would take —”
“And there’s the problem.” Morley’s voice dropped way down, to a level of softness that meant he was in a killing mood. Eggwhite started shaking. Morley continued, “I told you when I hired you I didn’t want any thinking. I wanted you cutting vegetables. Get out.”
“Chief, look, I can —”
“You’re gone, Eggwhite. Out the door. Walking or carried. Up to you.”
Eggwhite gulped. “Uh... Yeah.” He headed for the door.
I observed, “He’s making off with your cook outfit.”
“Let it go. I don’t want to make a scene.”
I gave him an encore look at my eyebrow trick.
“I hate firing people, Garrett.”
I added the fish-eye to the raised eyebrow. This was the most feared hired knife in town? Was he putting me on?
He kept plugging. “I do it only because you have to if you want to be successful in business. Besides, I owe him eight days pay.” Before I could comment, he eyed me directly. “What is it this time, Garrett?”
“How about a platter of that stuff with the black mushrooms, pea pods and whatnot, on the wild rice?” I dropped money onto the table.
Morley gave me my fish-eye back with interest. He gathered my coins, examined them as though he suspected they were counterfeit. “You want to eat? Here? And you’re willing to pay for it?” He sank his fangs into a coin, the classic hardness test.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to employ the concept of privilege, but it is an age of wonders. You’ve converted me. I’m born again. I’m never going to eat anything but swamp tubers, bark, and gravel ever again.”
15
Morley stirred Playmate’s fingers with his toe. “He’s alive, but I couldn’t tell you why.” He came back to where I was wolfing the mushroom stuff. It contained more garlic than mushrooms. “Trying to keep the girls away?”
“I don’t need garlic for that. I have natural talent.”
He wasn’t in the mood for banter. Guess I wouldn’t have been either had my place just gotten trashed. “What are you into now, Garrett? What do you need?”
“I’m doing a missing person
caper.” Love that word. I told him the story, leaving out only those parts a gentleman leaves out. “I want to know whatever you know about Maggie Jenn. Felt like she was running a game on me.”
“Somebody must be running a game on somebody. I don’t think you saw the real Maggie Jenn.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind the witty remarks. I’m thinking you must have been chosen for your ignorance.”
“Thanks. How about shoving a stick in the spokes of the scheme by lighting a torch in the darkness?”
“That wouldn’t be right. Not quite. You not being up on the adventures of the royals could be part of it, but...”
“All right. I don’t know what you know, Morley. That’s why I’m here.”
“It isn’t impossible that you spent the afternoon with a king’s lover, but I’d call it wildly improbable. Maggie Jenn exiled herself to the Isle of Paise after her Teddy boy died. If there was a daughter I never heard. Kind of thing that would be kept quiet, though. On the other hand, that place on the Hill sounds like the one where Teodoric stashed his doxy. Curious.”
That was an understatement. “I’m lost, Morley. None of this makes sense.”
“Only because you don’t have the key.”
“I’m missing the key, the lock, the damned door, and all the hardware. Somebody ran a game on me? I’ll buy that. Happens all the time. But the woman also paid me to look for her daughter.”
“How well?” Was that smile a smirk?
“Handsomely, shall we say? Enough so I’m sure she expected something in return. Even top of the Hill don’t throw money away.”
“Good point.”
“If Maggie Jenn came back,” I mused, “what would she do?”
“She has no reason to come back. She lives like a queen out there. She’d find nothing but trouble here.” Morley eyed Playmate. “Pity you didn’t get here earlier. He always kept track of the royals.”
“He won’t be doing anything but whine about his headache for a week.”