Cruel Zinc Melodies

12

Singe wandered into my office. ‘‘Playmate is here.’’

‘‘His own self? Already?’’

‘‘Yes. And yes. I’m off to get John Stretch. Close the door behind me.’’

Instead, I closed the door behind me. Playmate couldn’t leave his coach unattended. A coach that wasn’t his to lose. He has a mildly disreputable penchant for borrowing vehicles left in his care. Sometimes to help me. We’ve been fortunate enough not to destroy one yet. But one time we did forget to take a body out.

Play brought the children back. The message kid met me with both hands out. I paid even though he hadn’t brought a message.

‘‘What’s this?’’ I asked Playmate. Indicating the huge, burr-headed man leaning on the mahogany coachwork. Play hadn’t left the driver’s seat. ‘‘How you doing, Saucerhead? What’re you doing here?’’

‘‘I was over to Play’s when your message come. I didn’t have nothing to do. Any shit involving you usually gets entertaining. So I decided to tag along.’’

Probably hoping to pick up a few loose coins himself.

Saucerhead Tharpe isn’t quite as big as Playmate. And not much smarter than the horses pulling that coach. But he is more social. Than both. And he’s handy to have around.

People don’t argue with Saucerhead. Not for long.

‘‘I’m not hiring,’’ I said. ‘‘Not right now.’’

Tharpe shrugged. His shoulders were mountain ranges heaving. He needed new clothes to cover them. A bath would contribute something positive, too. And a date with a razor would help. ‘‘Don’t matter, Garrett. I’m not working. Not right now.’’

‘‘You’ll be the first to hear when I do need help.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ He scowled. He knew where I’d turn first. ‘‘Thanks.’’

I throw work his way when I can. He’s a good friend, long on loyalty but short on critical life skills. He never learned how to think about tomorrow.

‘‘Tag along if you want. I’m just gonna shake some bugs out of a place Old Man Weider is building.’’

‘‘You in the extermination racket now?’’

‘‘Not quite. These are special bugs. Here they come.’’ Meaning Singe, John Stretch, and several of Stretch’s associates. Each lugging a clever wicker cage filled with quarrelsome critters. Up close, those were the nastiest rats I ever saw. Pit bull rats. Champion fighting cock rats. I grumbled, ‘‘Did you need to bring the ones that are foaming at the mouth?’’

Singe countered, ‘‘There you go, exaggerating again. Hello, Mr. Tharpe. How is Grosziella?’’

Grosziella? Who would that be?

‘‘We broke up. I . . .’’ Saucerhead launched a tale told many times. The names change but he keeps connecting, and disconnecting, with the same woman. They could wear the same underwear.

John Stretch told me, ‘‘I thought you would want enthusiasm.’’ The last word arrived in a flurry of lisps.

‘‘As long as they save it for the bugs. Everybody set? You bringing all these handlers?’’

‘‘Have to. Too many rats for me to manage alone.’’

Singe said, ‘‘I need to run inside for a minute.’’

I told John Stretch, ‘‘I don’t see how we can get them and the cages all inside the coach.’’ I watched Singe climb the steps. She’s worse than Tinnie, sometimes. And Tinnie must have a bladder the size of a grape.