The Sword-Edged blonde

by Alex Bledsoe

  “Well, your King Philip sentenced Queen Rhiannon to life in prison for killing their son. Said she deserved to die, but he wouldn’t change the law just for her.”

  Attaboy, Phil, I thought. “Reckon she deserved it, then.”

  “But get this,” Leonard continued. “She’s not in prison, or even in that big tower. She’s locked up in a public cell, right at the main city gate. Every day she has to sit outside and let people call her names, spit on her, anything as long as they don’t hurt her. She’s like an animal in a cage.” He shook his head. “Can you beat that?”

  “They say revenge is the sport of kings,” I said with a blasé shrug. Inside, though, I was both glad and apprehensive. He’d done what I wanted—punished the queen publicly, so that word would get back to whomever had framed her—but I also knew he must be in agony, losing both his wife and child while simultaneously knowing she was innocent and his son might be alive.

  One of my most vivid memories of Phil was of the time when he was nine years old and had to put down his favorite old hunting dog, Rosie. As the crown prince, he knew all the other kids would be watching, so Phil put on the bravest face possible. He said a properly dignified goodbye to the crippled old girl before he dispatched her with one quick, lethal arrow. Later, though, he cried privately for hours. He told me that if he’d just been able to explain to Rosie what was about to happen, he would’ve been fine. But seeing the love and trust in the dog’s eyes, and that instant of betrayal when the arrow hit home, was too much. What he endured now must make that childhood trauma feel like a mosquito bite.

  “What can I do for you?” Saye asked, bringing me back to the moment.

  “Ever heard of Andrew Reese?” I asked. Inwardly I gritted my teeth against that damned rhyme.

  Saye thought for a moment. “No. Who is he?”

  “I have no idea. Thirteen years ago he was rich enough to hire a real top-of-the-line sword jockey to kill someone.”

  “Who? The killer, I mean.”

  “Stan Carnahan.”

  Saye’s eyes widened and he let out a long, low whistle. “Wow. That name takes me back.”

  “Told you he’d know,” Bernie said.

  “Stan was the top dog in hired swords before he disappeared. In his own way, he was the most honest guy I ever met. We used to swap shots between drinks or drinks between shots, whichever you like.” Saye shook his head in admiration. “Always wondered what happened to him.”

  “He was a pro to the end,” I said, all the explanation Saye needed. “Who would’ve hired him back then?”

  Saye thought for a moment. “Big Joe Vincenzo was around. The Soberlin brothers. Kee Kee Vantassel was on the rise. Nobody else could’ve afforded him.”

  “Any of them deformed?”

  Saye frowned in surprise. “Deformed how?”

  I wondered how to paraphrase Epona’s words so they didn’t sound goofy. “His arms and legs would’ve been kind of . . . pushed up into his body. It would make him short, and it’d be hard for him to move around, I’m guessing.”

  “Oh, hell,” Bernie muttered, the way you do when you know a tiresome story is coming. At almost the same instant Saye exclaimed, “The Dwarf?”

  “Who’s the Dwarf?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

  Before Saye could reply Bernie said disdainfully, “He’s this guy who supposedly runs the whole ‘criminal underworld’ here in C.Q. Except nobody’s ever actually seen him. It’s always a friend who met him, or an old acquaintance or somebody’s brother. They’ve talked about him since I was a kid. The ‘Big Little Man.’ ”

  “So he doesn’t exist?” I asked.

  “I think somebody made him up hoping we’d waste all our time looking for him instead of chasing the real crooks,” Bernie said. Then he looked at Saye, as if daring the older man to contradict him.

  “I used to believe the same thing,” Saye said carefully. “But I have to tell you, over the years I’ve reconsidered. I won’t bore you with local politics, but it seems whenever someone looks likely to make a real difference cleaning up organized crime in the waterfront area, something happens. A hit, a timely accident, a fire with no apparent cause. All different except in timing. After a while, you see the pattern.”

  “You see the pattern,” Bernie said. “There’s plenty of people who want to keep the docks dirty without resorting to phantom midget masterminds.”

  Saye shrugged. “And you’re probably right. The stories have been around for so long, he’d have to be an old man by now. But I can’t think of anyone else who fits your description. Not now, and not back then.”

  “Yeah, the trail is pretty cold,” I agreed. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime.”

  They’d mentioned the docks; Andrew Reese had been a sailor. What was one more razor-thin clue, after all? After Saye left, I asked Bernie, “So your docks have a lot of rackets going?”

  “The usual. Girls, drugs, illegal booze. Gambling if you know the right people.”

  Gambling. People gambled on horses; Epona was the Queen of Horses. Was that a clue, too? Hell, what wasn’t? As if it were the least important thing in the world, I asked, “How dirty is the horse racing here?”

  THE DAY AT the races, in Cape Querna or anywhere else, was a collection of the saddest, most pathetic people you’d ever see. At night the place was all torch-lit glamour, but the harsh sun revealed all the manure piles, equine and symbolic, hidden by the evening’s forgiving shadows.

  Drink could get a strong hold on its victims, but a drunk had no delusions that the next bottle would be the one to set him up for life. Gamblers—the ones who were terrible at it but just couldn’t stop—believed that the Big Score was always one roll of the dice, deal of the cards or run of the horses away. These were the poor bastards who lurked at the track during the day, betting on the training races to raise stakes for the evening’s real thing, hoping for that gambling alchemy that turned dreams into gold.

  I wandered around the track area, pretended to inspect the animals and their riders while I really evaluated the rest of the sparse crowd. Trainers lined up the horses at the starting line, their jockeys sharing gossip and pipe puffs over to one side. There was none of the prestigious pre-race ceremony preferred by royals and the moneyed folk; this was a business, and these guys knew there’d be another ride in an hour.

  I was working off a chain of “ifs.” If Andrew Reese was this Dwarf, and if he really was a criminal kingpin with a hand in every pie, and if he really was behind the slaughter thirteen years earlier, then perhaps he would have a perverse interest in horses, therefore the local horse racing scene might be a place to find a lead. It was such a small hunch it could hide beneath a good-sized flake of dandruff, but it was all I had.

  I sought a certain kind of racetrack regular. I wanted a guy who’d once been wealthy and successful, but who had, for whatever reason, fallen on hard times. He’d wear tattered finery, place small bets with all the ceremony of a major player, and lose with a tinny, pathetic equanimity. He would also always be on the lookout for more money, and thus could be bribed to sell his left nut for gambling funds.

  I spotted my guy after the first two races. He looked about sixty, with unwashed hair stuffed beneath a cap that was trendy ten years ago. Judging from his expression he wasn’t having a good day, and as he shuffled back to the concourse I fell into step behind him.

  “How they running for you?” I asked.

  He snorted without looking at me. “As they always do, sir. My bets must weigh a hundred pounds, because whichever horse I place them on runs like he’s carrying a whole extra person.”

  I stepped in front of him and offered my hand. “Eddie Johnson, sir. What’s your name?”

  “Lonnie Ratchett,” he said with great dignity, accenting the second syllable of his surname. He tilted his head back so he could actually look down his nose at me. “Of the LeBatre Ratchetts.”

  “Well, Lonnie—do you mind if I call you L
onnie?—I need some help, and I’m willing to pay for it.” I put my hand on his shoulder and steered him into the shadow of an empty pavilion. In the evening this would be the candlelit wonderland of Cape Querna’s society, but now the chairs had been upended onto tables, the bar was un-tended and its liquor bottles removed to a safer place. I picked a table in the middle, so the stacked chairs would shield us from view. I figured a guy like Lonnie would appreciate the discretion.

  I took down two chairs and gestured for Mr. Ratchett to have a seat. He inspected the cushion minutely before deigning to grace it with his posterior. I turned mine around and straddled it, all nonchalance.

  “There’s somebody in town I’d like very much to meet,” I said. “Now, I know you’re probably not directly involved with such people. In fact, I can’t imagine you even speaking to them in passing. But a man of your experience, I just bet, does know where such people can be found.”

  “I do indeed have the acquaintance of many,” he said with fragile pride.

  I felt like a jerk for manipulating the poor bastard. Teasing him with my fake respect was like seducing a spinster—his desperation, to be what I treated him as, was pitiful. But I had a job to do nonetheless. “Then I bet you could point me toward the man known as . . . ” I leaned closer and whispered for effect. “The Dwarf.”

  Lonnie leaned back as if scalded. “I know of no such gentleman,” he said quickly.

  I smiled. “Lonnie, that’s just what they call him. You know who I mean.”

  Lonnie had turned ash-pale. “Sir, I am afraid I cannot help you,” he said, and started to rise.

  Dammit. Nothing for it now but to be a hard-ass. I grabbed his shoulder and slammed him down in his chair. Beneath his faded suit he felt no more tangible than a scarecrow. “That’s not the right answer, Lonnie.”

  His eyes welled up with tears of fright, but I didn’t flatter myself that he was scared of me. The Dwarf clearly carried some weight, at least among desperate elderly gamblers. I’d put the old guy in a real damned-if-you-do-or-don’t position.

  “Lonnie,” I began again, “you’re a terrible liar. Really. Now take a deep breath, calm down, and let’s start over. I’m going to purchase this information from someone; it might as well be you.” I jerked my thumb toward the track. “And think about it—people out there who saw us together will assume it’s you whether it is or not. So why not make a profit on it?”

  He wiped his sweaty face with a ragged, monogrammed handkerchief. Clearly, Lonnie hadn’t thought this hard in a long time. Finally he said, “Well, sir, you seem to have the advantage.”

  “No, Lonnie, it’s all yours. I’m just appealing to your good sense.”

  Lonnie nodded and sighed. “I do not know the whereabouts of the gentleman in question. However, I have often heard that the Dragonfly Club is a place where much of his business is conducted. It is a private tavern in the waterfront district.” He gave me the street address, and directions. “And that, sir, is all I know.”

  “That’s more than enough, Mr. Ratchett.” I paid him, counting out each gold piece so he could savor the individual clacks on the tabletop. “I hope this helps you get back on your feet.”

  He pocketed the gold and stood, his petal-thin dignity restored by the money’s weight in his pocket. “As long as the gods and goddesses of chance share your wishes, sir, I shall manage quite nicely.”

  “Light a candle to Epona,” I said impulsively. “She’s got a thing for horses.”

  “Is she a lady or a goddess?”

  I almost laughed aloud. “When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  You needed a password to get into the Dragonfly Club, something Lonnie conveniently forgot to tell me. I resolved, when this was over, to hit him up for a refund.

  I left the racetrack and went straight to the waterfront. If the Dragonfly Club followed the pattern of similar establishments, it would operate twenty-four hours a day, so there was no need to dally. I also didn’t want to give Lonnie time to warn anyone.

  All along the two-mile stretch of low, crudely built storage warehouses, the suntanned denizens of shipping offices and other ocean-based industries scurried about doing purposeful, nautical things. Sailors of all classes, from uniformed officers to likely pirates, filled the streets, alleys and docks. The smell of salt, mildew and dead fish overpowered all other odors. Seagull droppings left white streaks from the edge of every roof. A stranger could easily tell the prevailing wind came from the northeast by the way the northern walls were either weather-beaten within an inch of their structural integrity, or recently repaired.

  Lonnie’s directions were clear enough. I followed a series of discreet dragonfly graffiti down a labyrinth of alleys, which of course gave me plenty of chances to be seen, evaluated and dealt with before I reached my destination. The first dragonfly, nearly hidden beneath a fresh coat of whitewash, led me between the offices of a cargo company and an out-of-business produce warehouse. The only people I saw were two old rummies passed out in their own urine. By the time I found the next emblem, plainly marked on an old rain barrel, there was no one else in sight. This was the part of Cape Querna that Bernie and his boys would never clean up, unless it was with torches and oil.

  I passed a stumbling, evidently drunken young man in disheveled clothes far too classy for the neighborhood. He didn’t notice me as he went around a corner muttering, “Rigged, it all had to be rigged. . . . ” The gambler’s lament. The Dragonfly must be close.

  At last I reached the weathered, slightly warped warehouse door that, according to Lonnie, was the tavern’s secret entrance. The building itself looked too decrepit to survive a good sneeze, let alone one of Boscobel’s notorious winter gales. I pulled back one bent plank enough to peer inside, and saw boxes packed for shipping stacked in a neat pile. They were covered with dust, though, and I’d have bet money they were all empty, just part of the building’s disguise.

  A seagull dropped a rat carcass near my feet. The bird landed, got a better grip and flew away. I was glad I didn’t believe in omens.

  The same hand-sized dragonfly emblem I’d been following marked the door. I knocked firmly.

  A section of wood slid aside enough for two mean eyes to peer out at me. I wasn’t dressed up, but I’d gotten a haircut, beard trim and new jacket so I didn’t look my usual scruffy self. I wanted to intrigue, rather than impress or intimidate. “Yeah?” the mouth beneath the eyes said in a ragged but unmistakably feminine voice.

  I put on my weary sophisticate act. “Can the tough stuff, okay? Let me in.”

  “Beat it,” she said, and shut the peephole. Perhaps my act needed work.

  I sighed, counted to ten, then knocked again. No response. I kicked the door as hard as I could several times. Still no response. I did learn that it was more solid than it looked.

  I waited until I caught my breath, then leaned close. “Sweetie, either talk to me or send somebody out here to kick my ass, otherwise I’m just gonna embarrass us both.”

  It took a moment, but the slot opened again and there was a hint of humor in the way she said, “I told you to beat it.”

  “You need a password, is that it?”

  “I need you to take a hike.”

  “How about . . . ‘the Dwarf.’ ”

  I heard a hollow, ripping sound like the wind tearing a sail. It took a moment to realize it was her laughter. Finally she said, “Keep being that funny, you’ll make me pee on myself.”

  I really didn’t want to tip my hand this soon, on the off chance that I was right. But I saw no other way to get past this harpy. “Okay, then, how about . . . ‘Andrew Reese.’ ” I leaned close and softly chanted, “Andrew Reese is broken to pieces.”

  Again I got the harsh laughter, only it was abruptly cut off. I heard her whisper with someone. Then the locks clicked, and the door swung open to allow a man to peer out and look me over.

  He had neat blond hair, blue eyes and a smooth, boyish face. He
wore an expensive cream-colored suit tailored to his lithe body. He looked me up and down, evaluating me just as I did him. I was faster; I knew he was serious trouble the instant I saw him.

  “Come in,” he said simply in a flat, quiet way.

  I stepped inside a small antechamber, with two doors on the wall opposite the entrance. I imagined one led into the club, and the other to a convenient place for disposing of bodies.

  I turned as the rough-voiced girl locked the door behind us. And to my surprise, she was a girl—no older than thirteen or fourteen, in a simple dress and with two long braids. I couldn’t imagine that voice coming out of her until I noticed a shiny gold ball seemingly arbitrarily stuck to her neck; a matching one decorated the opposite side. She rolled her eyes when she saw me looking.

  “Arrow shaft through my neck,” she growled. She twisted one of the finials off to show the wooden stub protruding from her skin. “Doctor says it’ll kill me if I take it out. So I at least try to make it look nice.”

  “Isn’t it uncomfortable?”

  “Not as uncomfortable as being dead.”

  “That’s enough chitchat, Spike, you’ll annoy the customers,” the blond guy said firmly. “This way, sir.” The girl he called Spike smiled at me like she was watching a steer on its way to become a steak.

  I followed blondy through the door on the right. It opened onto a steep, dark stairwell with a single lantern at the landing far below. Like the building facade, the steps were warped with age and humidity. It worked fine as a discreet entrance, but there had to be additional exits. I couldn’t imagine negotiating those stairs drunk.

  The blond guy took the steps two at a time, his feet barely making a sound. “Didn’t catch your name,” I called to him.

  He reached the bottom, turned and looked up at me. “I didn’t toss it.”

  The stairs ended at another door. The unmistakable sounds of revelry bled through its reinforced surface. Blondy met my gaze with steady, fathomless eyes. The lantern’s light reflected from his pupils so he seemed to have a tiny spark inside each eye.