Deadly Quicksilver Lies

  “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.

  “Or he can start thinking like a cow because he doesn’t eat anything but cattle fodder.” I laid a pointed stare on the corpse of my eggplant filet. It had failed to live up to even my low expectations.

  Morley grinned. “We’re breaking in a new cook.”

  “On me?”

  “Who better? Right, Puddle? No way we can disappoint Garrett. He was disappointed when he walked in the door. He’ll bitch and gripe whatever we serve him.”

  I grumped, “You could poison me.”

  “If it would improve your disposition.”

  “There’s an idea!” Puddle enthused. “Hows come I never thought a’ that one?”

  “Because you’ve never had a thought. If one got loose in that abandoned tenement of a head, it’d never find its way out,” I muttered, but Puddle caught on anyhow.

  “Yo! Sarge! We got any of dat rat poison left? Tell Wiggins to bring dis guy Garrett a special chef’s surprise dessert.”

  I made noises to let them know what I thought of this level of humor and told Morley, “I need the benefit of your wisdom.”

  “You going to cry on my shoulder about one of your bimbos?”

  “There’s a thought. I never tried that. Maybe by way of a little sympathetic magic...”

  “Don’t expect sympathy from me.”

  “What I want to do is listen to you, not have you listen to me.”

  “This has to do with your Maggie Jenn thing?”

  “Yes. The name Grange Cleaver mean anything?”

  Morley glanced at Puddle. A shadow crossed his features. Puddle exchanged glances with Sarge. Then everybody faked indifference. Morley asked, “You saying the Rainmaker is back?”

  “Rainmaker?”

  “The only Grange Cleaver I know was called the Rainmaker. He was a fence. Big time. Where did you come onto the name?”


  “Winger. She said she was working for him.”

  “That woman isn’t your most reliable witness.”

  “You’re telling me. But she did have an interesting story about how this guy was using her to keep tabs on Maggie Jenn. She said she thought Cleaver was Maggie’s brother. Or some sort of close relation.”

  Again Morley tossed a glance at Puddle, then looked thoughtful. “I’ve never heard that one.” He chuckled. There was no humor in the sound. “It can’t be true, but it would explain a lot if it was. Maybe even including why she is back in town.”

  “You changing your position?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said she was in exile. What’re you going on about, anyway?”

  “All right. Grange Cleaver, alias the Rainmaker, was a very famous fence years ago.”

  “How can you be a famous fence? Seems to me you could be one or the other but not both.”

  “Famous among those who use the services of fences, wholesale or retail, supplier or end user. The Rainmaker operated on the swank. There were rumors he choreographed several big jobs himself, that he had a connection who got him the inside information he needed. He hit several Hill places. There weren’t many guards back then. His raids were one reason the Hill folk set up their goon squads.”

  “This all connects with Maggie Jenn?”

  “Maybe. It just occurred to me that the Rainmaker’s heyday coincided with Maggie Jenn’s famous affair. Specifically, with those months when Theodoric was dragging her around in public, not giving one good goddamn what anyone said.”

  “You have to admit nobody would’ve figured her for a spotter.”

  “Exactly. Her social crimes were reason enough to hate her.”

  “All of which is interesting but, as far as I can see, doesn’t have anything to do with the job I’m getting paid to do.” Though I might be wrong. Cleaver hadn’t drafted me into the crackdome brigade because my colors clashed when I dressed. I was a threat somehow. “You still say Maggie Jenn doesn’t have a daughter?”

  “I said I didn’t know about one. I still don’t. But now I have a notion there’s a lot I don’t know about Maggie Jenn.”

  “Heard anything off the street?”

  “Too soon, Garrett. It’s a big town. And if the Rainmaker is in it, people who remember him might not talk.”

  “Yeah.” A big town. And somewhere in it, a missing girl.

  Somewhere in TunFaire there are scores of missing girls. More vanish every day. This just happened to be a girl who had someone willing to look for her.

  I started toward the street.

  “Garrett.”

  I stopped. I knew that tone. The real Morley was about to speak from behind all the masks. “What?”

  “You be careful about the Rainmaker. He’s as crazy as they come. Dangerous crazy.”

  I leaned against the door frame and did some ruminating. “I’ve got some real funny people in this one, Morley.”

  “How so?”

  “They all have two faces. The Maggie Jenn I know and the one Winger told me about aren’t much like the woman you describe. The Grange Cleaver Winger worked for and the one you describe aren’t anything like the Grange Cleaver I heard about from another source. That Cleaver is one of the directors of the Bledsoe. He’s connected with the imperial family.”

  “That’s another new one on me. But so what?”

  Yeah. So what? It occurred to me that Chastity’s troubles with theft and corruption might stem from the very top.

  For some reason, I just can’t get used to the thinking it takes to encompass that kind of villainy. It doesn’t seem reasonable to steal from the poor and the helpless, though I’m sure Morley could paste on his puzzled frown and make it all clear: you steal from the poor and helpless because they can’t fight back. Because nobody gives a damn. But you do have to do one hell of a lot of stealing in order to make much money.

  That’s why most thieves prefer wealthier victims.

  23

  I decided my best course was to go home and settle in with a beer or five while I figured out how to do my job. Grange Cleaver was a side issue. Maybe I’d put time in on him after I found the missing daughter. I owed the clown. But Emerald came first.

  Speaking of debts, by now his people inside the Bledsoe should have reported my brilliant, dashing escape. It might behoove me to keep a close watch on my behind.

  You work yourself into the right frame of mind, it’s sure something will happen. I was all primed to turn paranoid. Naturally, fate just had to set me off.

  “How are you doing? I’m Ivy.”

  I squeaked and jumped up there where the pigeons fly. I could have clicked my heels and turned a somersault on the way down but was too busy making funny noises. I landed. And there, by the gods, was my old prison pal Ivy.

  And not just Ivy. Behind Ivy, grinning merrily, was that big bozo who’d helped me with my breakout.

  “You guys made it, eh? That’s great.” I tried easing around them. That didn’t work. “How many others managed? Any idea?” I was just being sociable. You do that with unpredictable and potentially dangerous people. Hell, you should do that with anybody you don’t know. You should be rude only to friends you’re sure won’t slice you into cold cuts. That’s what manners are for.

  The grinning fool grinned even wider. “Most everybody scooted, Garrett. The whole ward, I think.”

  “How did that happen?” I’d thought the staff were gaining control when I ran out.

  “Some of us guys that had uniforms on decided to go get some paybacks after we got the smoke out of our lungs. And then a bunch of the guys still inside went berserk.”

  “Lucky for us they weren’t crazy before.” But they were crazy now and on the loose. I tried easing away again. The big guy had a knack for staying in my way.

  I hadn’t overlooked the fact that he knew my name even though I hadn’t introduced myself. “How did you guys come to be here?” Here being Macunado Street less than two blocks from my house. A coincidence that monstrous could occur only every third leap year. It wasn’t leap year.

  The big guy got red. He confessed, “We was sneaking around trying to find a way out and we heard you talking to Doc Chaz. So we’re on the street all this time, we don’t know where to go or what to do. I ast Ivy and he don’t got no suggestions.”

  Ivy’s face brightened at the mention. He introduced himself, in case he’d forgotten his manners, then went back to studying the street. He seemed more perplexed than frightened, but I didn’t think it would be long till he was ready to go back inside. I suspected that would be true for a lot of men.

  “So you came looking for me.”

  The big guy nodded like a shy kid. “Seemed like you was a guy would know what to do.”

  I cussed myself silently for being the kind of fool I am. “All right. I got you into this, I’m kind of responsible. Come on. I’ll get you fed, put you up tonight, maybe help you make arrangements.”

  Yeah. I know. Chances were good they would smell like long-dead fish before I got them out. But I did have a card up my sleeve. The Dead Man isn’t handicapped by manners or an overdeveloped sense of social obligation. Guests don’t overstay his welcome.

  I wondered if it wasn’t maybe time to start nudging him. I could use a little advice.

  I let my guests into my house. The big guy was as nervous as a kid in unfamiliar territory. Ivy was as curious as a cat. Naturally, the Goddamn Parrot started raising hell in the small front room. Ivy invited himself in there while I tried to solve a problem by asking the big guy, “Do you have a name? I don’t know what to call you.”

  Mr. Big cussed Ivy for not bringing him food.

  I was beginning to miss Dean for yet another reason. He had dealt with that foul feathered fiend before he left. I still wasn’t used to it.

  It went into its act. “Help! Rape! Save me! Oh, please, mister, don’t make me do that again.” It managed to sound like a preadolescent
girl. The only parrot in captivity smart enough to remember more than four words, and some wit had taught it that. I just knew if the neighbors ever heard the beast I’d never convince the lynch mob that a parrot had done the squawking. The bird would not say boo till I was swinging high.

  Meantime, the big fellow stood around wearing a thoughtful look, trying to remember his name. His wits seemed to turn through seasons. Must have been summertime when he helped me at the Bledsoe. Now it was late autumn or early winter. I was glad I didn’t have to deal with him all the time. I could go crazy myself.

  Powziffle.

  Ivy closed the door to the small front room. The Goddamn Parrot went right on screeching. Ivy grinned from ear to ear. I had a feeling I knew what was going to become of that bird. He could become the companion of a tortured fellow who needed a friend desperately.

  The tortured fellow roamed on down the hall while his sidekick continued to ruminate the big question.

  “Hey! Yeah!” His face brightened. “Slither.” Brighter still. “Yeah! That’s it. Slither.” His grin dwarfed Ivy’s.

  “Slither?” What the hell kind of name was that? A nickname for sure, though he didn’t look like a Slither to me.

  Ivy had his face shoved into my office. He froze. Eventually he let out a little squeak of dismay, the first break in his six-word pattern. From the direction he was facing, I guessed he’d gotten a look at Eleanor. That painting had plenty to say to anyone with the open eyes of madness.

  Slither preened, proud that he had recalled his name.

  I said, “You guys come back to the kitchen. We’ll have us a beer and a snack.” I suspected that they hadn’t eaten since their flight from the hospital. Freedom does have its disadvantages.

  Slither nodded and flashed his grin. Ivy ignored me. He crossed the hall to the Dead Man’s room, went inside, and got himself a shock even more horrible than the terror in the shadows behind Eleanor. The Dead Man isn’t furry, little, or cuddly. He can’t win instant love through cute.

  I pried Ivy out of there and got him into the kitchen. We settled down to a snack of cold roast beef, pickles, cheese, mustard with verve enough to water your eyes, and adequate quantities of beer. I did more sipping than eating. Once Slither and Ivy slowed enough so they took time to breathe as well as eat, I asked, “You guys able to do anything?”