Deadly Quicksilver Lies gf-7

by Glen Cook

  Winger is your basic jump on the wagon and head out without checking to see if the mules are hitched up kind of woman, never long on scoping out plans or worrying about consequences. Neither past nor future mean much to her. That isn't because she's stupid or foolish, it's because that's the way she's made.

  "You're a royal pain in the ass kind of guy, Garrett."

  "That too. Hear it all the time. Especially from you. You're going to give me a complex."

  "Not you. You got to be sensitive to get a complex. You're sensitive like a stinky old boot. Grange Cleaver, now he's a sensitive kind of guy." She grinned.

  "You ever going to tell me something? Or you just going to sit there smirking like a toad on a cowpie?"

  She snickered. "I told you, Garrett, Grange Cleaver is the kind of guy wears earrings."

  "Plenty of guys are the kind of guys who wear earrings. That don't make them poofs. They might be fierce pirates."

  "Yeah? He's also the kind of guy wears wigs and makeup and likes to dress up in girl clothes. I heard him brag about how he used to work the Tenderloin without the johns ever knowing how unique an experience they'd had."

  "It happens." In the Tenderloin, in TunFaire, everything happens. I didn't consider this big news, though Cleaver did seem careless with his secrets. You get too public you can end up with more trouble than you can handle. Asking for trouble is plain dumb.

  "He human?" I asked.

  "Yeah."

  "And don't hide his quirks?"

  "Not around home. I never saw him go out in the street and run after little boys. Why?"

  "He don't sound careful enough. You got any idea what a poof goes through in the army? Hell like you wouldn't believe. Bottom line is, any of them that don't hide it damned good don't last. The Cantard is no place to belong to an unpopular minority."

  "I don't think Grange was in the service, Garrett."

  "You're on a first-name basis?"

  "He has everybody call him Grange."

  "Real democratic kind of guy, eh?"

  "Yeah."

  "Right. So. He's human and male, he had to be in some service, Winger. They don't allow exceptions."

  "Maybe he was a dodger."

  "They never give up hunting those guys." They don't. Not ever. There is no privilege when it comes to conscription. Say that for our masters. No favoritism is shown there. In fact, in that regard they pay more than their share of the price. They do lead from the front.

  Notice how Winger got me off on a tangent? I did. She had dropped out on this Cleaver princess but did not want to give up any information about him. That meant she still saw an angle.

  Winger always sees an angle.

  "Let's get back to the high road. What's between Cleaver and Maggie Jenn? If he's a shrieking faggot, why is he interested at all?"

  "I think she's his sister."

  "Say what?"

  "Or maybe his cousin. Anyway, they're related somehow. And she's got something he wants. Something he figures is his."

  "So she's going to kill him?" This was getting weirder by the minute.

  I hate family wars. They're the worst kind. They put you out in no-man's land all alone without a map. Whatever you do turns out wrong. "What's he after, Winger?" "

  "I don't know." Now she was getting long suffering, the way people do when small children ask too many questions. "I just worked for the guy. I didn't sleep with him. I wasn't his social secretary. I wasn't his partner. I didn't keep his diary for him. I just took his money and did what he said. Then I came out to save your butt on account of I kind of felt responsible for getting you into a jam."

  "You were responsible. You were running a game on me. I don't know what it was because you've kept it to yourself. Chances are you're still running a game on me, you being you."

  I was a little tired of Winger, which was another of her talents. She could exasperate you till you ran her off, leaving you thinking it was your idea that she was gone; leaving you feeling guilty for doing her that way.

  "So what're you gonna do?" she asked. I had let go of her hand.

  "I figure I'll suck up a few beers, then I'll get me some sleep. After I get me out of this clown costume and delouse myself."

  "Want some company?"

  That's my friend Winger.

  "Not tonight. I just want to sleep."

  "All right. You want to be that way." She got gone before I could react to the smug smile she left floating behind her. Before I fully realized that she was going without having told me anything useful, like where the hell I could find friendly Grange Cleaver.

  21

  "I just want to get some sleep." Usually famous last words for me when I'm working. I'd get three hours of shuteye the rest of the month.

  The gods were toying with me—nobody messed with me at all. So naturally I kept waking up to listen for pounding at the door. Somewhere up there, or down there, or out there, an otherwise useless godlet was earning his reputation by tormenting me in ingenious ways. If he keeps on, he may get promoted to director of heavenly sewers.

  So I failed to rest well despite the opportunity. I wakened cranky and stomped around cussing Dean for being out of town. There was no one else I could make miserable.

  The true breadth and depth of my genius didn't occur to me till I was well along toward whipping up a truly awful breakfast of griddle cakes. I had forgotten to ask Winger about the guy who had followed me to Maggie Jenn's place.

  Someone tapped on the front door. What the hell? It was a civilized hour, almost.

  The knock was so discreet I almost missed it. I grumbled some, flipped a flapjack, and headed up front.

  I was astounded when I peeped through the peephole. I threw the door open to let the radiance of that blond beauty shine on me. "Didn't expect to see you again, Doc." I examined the street behind the lovely, in case she headed up a platoon of Bledsoe guys who couldn't take a joke. I didn't see anybody, but that meant squat. Macunado Street was so crowded you could have hidden the entire hospital staff out there.

  "You invited me." She looked like she had come directly from work, like maybe she'd pulled a double shift cleaning up. "You were panting over the idea." She had a sarcastic tone to counterweight a blistering smile. "Your big friend dunk you in icewater?"

  "I just didn't expect to see you again. Look, I'm sorry about that mess. I just get wild when somebody pulls a dirty trick like dumping me in the cackle factory."

  Her lips pruned up. "Can't you use a less contemptuous term?"

  "Sorry. I'll try." I encouraged myself by recalling a thing or three people have said about my profession, most of it unflattering.

  She relaxed. "The dirty trick is why I'm here. What is that smell?"

  I whirled. Tendrils of smoke slithered from the kitchen. I shrieked and bounded down the hall. Our lady of the marvelous legs followed at a dignified pace.

  I scooped blackened griddle cakes into the sink. They sent up smoke signals denouncing my skills as a chef. Hell, I was so bad I might be able to get on in Morley's kitchen. They had an opening. "I can use these to patch the roof," I grumbled.

  "Too brittle."

  "Everybody's a comedian. You had breakfast?"

  "No. But... "

  "Grab an apron, kid. Give me a hand. A little food will do us both good. What you want to know, anyway?"

  She grabbed an apron. Amazing gal. "I didn't like the way you were talking last night. I decided to check it out. There was no record of your commitment, though when I joined the orderlies carrying you they assured me that you had been brought in by the Guard and the records were in order."

  I made rude noises, started flapping a new generation of flapjacks.

  "That was easy to check. A ranking Guard officer is an old friend of my family. Colonel Westman Block."

  I squeaked three or four tunes before I managed to ask, "Colonel Block? They made a colonel out of him?"

  "Wes speaks highly of you, too, Mr. Garrett."

  "I'll
bet."

  "He told me you were not sent to the Bledsoe by his people—though he wished he'd thought of it."

  "That's Block. Playful as a hogshead of cobras."

  "He did speak well of you professionally. But he warned me to remain wary in other respects." She could get a laugh into her voice, too.

  "You going to want bacon?"

  "You just starting it now? You're supposed to start the bacon first. It takes longer."

  "I cook one thing at a time. That way I only burn one thing at a time."

  "A daring approach."

  "Holds down expenses."

  We cooked together and ate together and I spent a lot of time appreciating the scenery. The lady didn't seem to mind.

  We were cleaning up when she said, "I won't tolerate this sort of thing. I won't tolerate the corruption that allows it to happen."

  I stepped back, checked her out with different eyes. "You just start working there? You'd have to look hard to find a place more corrupt than the Bledsoe."

  "Yes. I'm new. And I'm finding out how rotten the place is. Every day it's something. This is the worst yet. You might've spent your whole life wrongfully imprisoned."

  "Yeah. And I wasn't the only one in there. You an idealist and reformer?" TunFaire is infested with those lately.

  "You don't need to make me sound like a halfwit."

  "Sorry. Most wannabe Utopians are, reality-wise. They come from well-to-do families and haven't the vaguest notion what life is like for people who have to depend on a Bledsoe. They can't imagine what life is like for the kind of people who work in a Bledsoe. For them taking bribes and selling donated supplies are perks of the job. They wouldn't understand you if you bitched about it—unless they figured you were trying to increase the override you take off the top."

  She gave me a disgusted look. "Somebody suggested that yesterday."

  "There you go. I bet you blew up. And didn't get through. And now everybody in the place thinks you're crazy. Maybe the better-placed guys in the bigger money are wondering if you're dangerous crazy. They worry about these new Guards kicking ass and taking names. It takes a while to corrupt reformers."

  She settled with a fresh cup of tea, honey and mint in it. She eyed me, then mused, "West says you can be trusted."

  "Nice of him to say. Wish I could say the same."

  She frowned. "Point is, I'm dangerous already. A few days ago, several thousand marks worth of medical supplies vanished. Right away I filled two orderly slots with men I knew personally. Men I can trust."

  "I see." In view of her Guard connection, I guessed they were Block's men. He had a character named Relway working for him, running his secret police force. Relway was nasty.

  If Relway became interested in the Bledsoe, heads would roll and asses get kicked. Relway doesn't let bureaucratic roadblocks and legal technicalities get in his way. He gets in there and rights those wrongs.

  I suggested, "You be careful. They think you brought in spies, they could forget their manners."

  She sipped tea, studied me, which made me uncomfortable. Not that I object to having a beautiful woman check me out. I was born to be a sex object. But this beautiful woman had something less thrilling in mind. "I'm not as naive as you think, Garrett."

  "Good. That'll save you a lot of pain."

  "You have any idea who signed you in?"

  "No. I was asleep. But I hear the prince who paid for it goes by the name Grange Cleaver."

  "Cleaver? Grange Cleaver?"

  "You know him?"

  "He's a hospital trustee. Appointed through the imperial household." She studied me some more. "I told you I'm not as naive as you might think. That does include understanding that I might be in danger."

  Could be was not how I would put it. "So?"

  "So maybe I should get somebody to stick close by till the dust settles."

  "Sounds like a good idea."

  "You game?"

  I was game, but not for that. "You want a bodyguard?"

  "Wes says you won't sell out."

  "Maybe not. But there's a problem."

  "What?" She sounded irked.

  "I don't do bodyguard work. Sorry. And I have a client already. Wouldn't do to let that obligation slide, much as part of me wants to. Also, your staff is going to harbor grudges. I wouldn't dare hang out around there."

  She looked like she was getting mad. "Then what would you suggest?" She didn't try to change my mind. My feelings were hurt. Maybe she could have talked herself into something.

  She was too damned businesslike.

  Maggie Jenn would have tried to talk me into something.

  "Friend of mine, Saucerhead Tharpe, could do the job. Or several other guys I know. Trouble is the best guys all look like what they are." Then my muse inspired me. "My friend from last night will be looking for work."

  My guest brightened, her mind darting past all the obvious caveats that would have obtained had Winger been male. "Can she do the job?"

  "Better than I could. She doesn't have a conscience."

  "She trustworthy?"

  "Don't put her in temptation's way. The family silver might accidentally fall into her pockets. But she can get a job done."

  "She tough?"

  "She eats hedgehogs for breakfast. Without peeling them first. Don't get into a tough contest with her. She don't know when to quit."

  She smiled. "I understand the impulse. When you step outside tradition, there's a temptation to show the boys you can do everything they can do better. All right. Sounds good. I'll talk to her. How do I get in touch?"

  Finding Winger isn't easy. She wants it that way. There are people she'd rather not have sneaking up.

  I explained what worked for me. She thanked me for breakfast, advice, and help, and headed for the front door. I was overwhelmed still. She was ready to let herself out before I got myself together. "Hey! Wait up. You didn't introduce yourself."

  She smirked. "Chastity, Garrett. Chastity Blaine." She laughed at my goofy look, slipped out, and closed the door behind her.

  22

  By daylight, the Joy House is dull. Lately Morley has been open continuously, driven by some bizarre civic impulse that wants weeds and grass clippings made available to all. I was concerned. The place might start attracting horses.

  I invited myself up to the bar. "Cook me up a rare steak, Sarge. And let Morley know I'm here."

  Sarge grunted, scratched his crotch, hitched his pants, thought about it before he did anything—which was mainly to wonder aloud why I thought Morley Dotes gave one rat's ass whether I was infesting the Joy House or stinking up the place in Hell, where I belonged.

  "You ought to open a charm school for young ladies of superior breeding, Sarge."

  "Fugginay. Ain't dat da troot?"

  I settled at a table. My steak arrived before Morley did. It was a thick, rare, prime center cut. Of eggplant. I forced part of it down by holding my breath and closing my eyes. If I didn't have to smell it or see it, it wasn't too bad.

  Sarge's buddy Puddle trundled out of the kitchen, half a foot of hairy bare belly hanging out from under his shirt. He paused to blow his nose on his apron. He had him some kind of key on a rope around his neck. I asked, "What the hell are you supposed to be? One that got away? They didn't tie the noose tight enough?"

  "I'm da wine stewart aroun' here, Garrett." My worst fears were confirmed—not only by ear but by nose. Puddle's breath told me he diligently tested his vintages. "Morley says we got to attrack a better class a' custom."

  Time was you could have done that by dragging in a dozen derelicts. "You're just the guy who can do it, Puddle."

  "Fugginay. Ain't dat da troot?"

  These guys had the same rhetoric teacher.

  "You want some wine, Garrett? To go wit' what you're havin' dere we got us a perky little fortunata petite what's maybe not as subtle as a Nambo Arsenal but—"

  "Puddle!"

  "Yeah?"

  "It's spoiled grape juice
. If they call it wine, it's spoiled grape juice. I don't care if you call it coy or brujo or whatever. Talk that wine snob talk till doomsday, that don't change the main fact. Hell, go look at the stuff while it's changing into brassy brunette or whatever. It's got mold and shit growing on it. What it is, really, is how you get alcohol that winos and ratmen can afford."

  Puddle winked and whispered, "I'm wit' you. The gods meant real men to drink dat stuff dey wouldn't of invented beer."

  "What you do, you get Morley to serve beer by telling him it's cream of barley soup?"

  Morley arrived during this exchange. He observed, "Wine is how the smart restauranteur fleeces the kind of man who walks around with his nose in the air."

  I asked, "How come you want that kind of guy cluttering up your dance floor?"

  "Cash flow." Morley planted himself in the chair opposite me. "Plain, simple, raw money. If you want it, you have to find ways to pry it loose from those who have it. Our current clientele doesn't have it. Often. But I've noted that we've begun to attract adventurers. So I've started positioning us to become the in place."

  "Why?"

  He looked at me funny.

  "Don't let me throw you with the trick questions, Morley. If they get too tough for you, holler."

  "Look around. There's your answer."

  I looked. I saw Puddle and Sarge and a few local "characters" using the place to get out of the weather. "Not real appetizing." I meant Puddle and Sarge.

  "It's that old devil Time, Garrett. We're all a pound heavier and a step slower. It's time to think about facing realities."

  "Puddle and Sarge, maybe." Morley didn't have an ounce of fat on him. I did my famous eyebrow trick, one of my more endearing skills.

  He read that right. "A guy can get a step slow between the ears, too. He can lose that lean and hungry way of thinking." He eyed me as though I, of all people, should know that.