Cruel Zinc Melodies

43

Tinnie Tate was short of temper by the time we got to my house. I kept my opinion of her choice of footwear closely guarded. No need to tempt the lightning.

I was digging for my key when the door opened.

Pular Singe stood there staring at me, sort of befuddled.

‘‘What?’’ I asked.

‘‘I could not track him.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘That Lurking Felhske. That Mr. Dotes wanted to find. I could not track him.’’ She was thoroughly unhappy. ‘‘That never happens.’’

‘‘I’m sorry. Don’t get all suicidal about it.’’

Tinnie punched me from behind. And I just knew that if Singe was a human girl she would’ve burst into tears right then.

‘‘All right. How did he kill his back trail?’’ That would take it out of the realm of being her fault.

‘‘How did you . . . ?’’ She looked back to the doorway to the Dead Man’s room, inclined to blame him for giving her away before crediting me with the ability to work something out. ‘‘He went through areas where the stink overpowered every other smell. Even body odor as bad as his.’’

‘‘He always came out somewhere besides where he went in. Right?’’ I’ve worked both sides of that gambit.

‘‘Possibly. I think.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Sorry. I am not feeling good about myself right now.’’

‘‘I understand. I’ve been there. Couldn’t you circle the bad smell till you found where his spoor came out?’’

‘‘In theory. But not really. The bad smells were so strong my nose went dead. And everybody coming out of there carried the stench with them.’’ She had to be talking about the tannery district. There is nothing quite like that when it comes to overpowering smells. ‘‘I can only pick out individuals if they wear something like that awful stink-pretty Saucerhead Tharpe soaks in when he is feeling especially single.’’

The girl is an amazement. I couldn’t restrain a guffaw. She had Tharpe nailed. When he works himself up to go on the prowl he splashes that stuff on like . . . There is no adequate simile. Nothing compares. He’ll never get lost. Singe will find him underwater. Sometimes the stench is unbearable. And its results are entirely predictable. No score, unless he runs into a woman totally blind and deaf in the nose with no discernible sense of taste. Or one of those gals who has the same bad perfume habit. There are squadrons of those, though most are a tad long in the tooth for Mr. Tharpe.

Garrett.

‘‘And that answers the big question. Himself is awake. Now, if Dean happened to be hard at work womping up a supper, in quantities adequate to fill me and my sweet patootie, life could be reclassified as perfect.’’

Tinnie growled, ‘‘Don’t you ever turn it off?’’

‘‘Tight shoes,’’ I told Singe. ‘‘And no lunch.’’

‘‘Next time I come down here I’ll wear my winter boots.’’

‘‘Not the pretty ones. Bring the work ones.’’

‘‘The midthigh tops? With a shovel?’’

I disengaged from further discussion of shoes. ‘‘Singe, something that came up today got me wondering about the differences between ratpeople and humans.’’

‘‘Yes?’’ Instantly defensive.

‘‘We saw ghosts. All of us. Some of us heard music.’’ I told her about it. I didn’t scrimp on details. Old Bones was listening, too. ‘‘But you and your brother, and his guys, never saw anything.’’

Singe managed a facial tick that resembled a puzzled look. ‘‘I’ll take your word for that.’’

Damn! It would be ridiculous if she started managing human facial expressions, too.

I’d have to head that off, for sure. She’d end up burned at the stake.

‘‘Come help us mull it over with the Dead Man.’’ Or whatever you call the situation where His Nibs picks the brains of mere mortals, to help us discover the meaning of life.

Your cynicism has migrated from the realm of the mildly amusing to the uglier principality of the irritating.

‘‘Oh, good. You’re still awake.’’

So we communed, brainstormed, and schemed. The sad truth, though, was, we needed more information. My sidekick knew no more than I did about ancient, dramatically powerful things buried under TunFaire. He recalled no legends, fairy tales, or religious fancies that accounted for what was stirring.

The Tenderloin is a storied moral sink. It’s been the bad part of town since the first nomad families pitched their tents on a hospitable riverbank and never got around to moving on.

I was particularly pleased. My sweetie, once she had some food in her, dropped the attitude and focused on the problem at hand.

We ate while we worked. And Dean’s effort made the wait worthwhile.

Amazing what that old man can do with a capon, wine, mushrooms, and a few tubers that aren’t supposed to be in season. All washed down by a fine, potent Weider winter wheat lager.