Cruel Zinc Melodies

51

There’s a rule in heaven called Garrett’s Law. It says things can’t go simple and straightforward for me. If I decide to walk from the World to The Palms as night falls, the interesting times have got to be stirred up.

I slowed down after a few eager blocks. Huffing and puffing. I really had to consider getting back into shape. Fat and slow aren’t healthy in my line.

That reminded me that a true survivor has to be engaged with his surroundings. All the time. I’ve suffered more than a few knocks because I got too busy thinking to notice somebody sneaking up.

The thought surfaced at exactly the right moment. As interesting times were about to commence in the form of young folks that Director Relway had assured me would be no problem ever again.

Stompers. A whole school of the little pustules. With the crying runt leading the way, pointing and yelling, ‘‘That’s him! That’s the one!’’

Not good. My future had fallen into the mitts of folks who had no interest in seeing me enjoy one.

Where were the red tops when I needed them?

I staked out a nice piece of wall and got my back to it. I readied my oaken headknocker. The Stompers spread out in the gloaming. I wished I’d gotten a tin whistle for my birthday.

The little guy kept yelling, ‘‘That’s him! That’s the one!’’ Three bigger kids closed in. One carried a rusty kitchen knife maybe four inches long. Another had a piece of broken board. The third brandished a short sword that had spent at least a hundred years underground somewhere.

A half dozen more kids hung back in reserve. The mob was awfully tentative for having so big an advantage.

The kid with the antique sword worried me most. He was on my weak side. When he got where I wanted him I struck like lightning.

Which lightning was a little short on grease. I didn’t get close enough to touch him. But I did whack his sword hard enough to bend it.

While he straightened his blade I worked on his companions. The one with the board took off. The kid with the knife took a couple bops on the noggin and folded up.

I focused on the daring swordsman. As his blade broke right where it had bent. A judicious whack took him out of the game.

‘‘Ouch!’’ quoth I.

The rest of the little bastards had begun throwing rocks. They weren’t much good at it. Not one in a dozen missiles came close. I charged. They scattered. I headed for The Palms. They regrouped and kept pegging stones. Though there weren’t a lot lying around loose.

At this point I concluded that anyone shadowing me was not deeply invested in my continued good health. Proof was, no assistance of any sort had materialized.

I engaged the Stompers in a running fight. Failing a rock to my head, they would break up as we neared The Palms. Morley’s neighborhood isn’t one where kid gangs are even a little welcome. The night could turn lethal if they got themselves noticed by Sarge or Puddle.

Just to encourage other kids.

Sound strategy, me fighting on the run. But life didn’t roll on the way I’d calculated.

It never does.

I walked into an ambush. Eyes wide open. But I was looking back at the bad baby wolves who just couldn’t figure out how to bring the huffing old stag to bay.

The ambush wasn’t meant for me.

I did have the honor of being the Judas goat.

The bushwhackers were Morley and his crew. A show tossed together, in haste, in hopes of laying hands on one Lurking Felhske.

The Stompers enjoyed an opportunity to regret not waiting for their revenge to be served cold.

I got a chance to be cursed vigorously for springing the trap with the wrong springees.

I didn’t care. Though I did spare a black look for Singe, whose fault the makeshift ambush was.

‘‘Too clever for your own good,’’ I told Morley.

‘‘So it would seem. Or just not clever enough.’’ We were approaching his place. His was the sourness he shows only when he owes money. ‘‘Felhske is out there lurking and smirking. Having slipped the noose again. It’s becoming a challenge.’’

I had an epiphany.

Director Relway might not be interested so much in what Lurking Felhske knew as he was in showing off his power where he had had no effect before. It could be an ego thing.

Power was more important to Relway than whatever good he might do with it. Though he would chant a mantra to himself about how he had to have the power before he could do the good.

Belatedly, Morley asked, ‘‘You all right?’’

‘‘They never laid a hand on me.’’

‘‘Looks like they got you with a rock or two, though.’’

‘‘I’ll have a few bruises in the morning. Lucky me, they only hit me in the head.’’

‘‘You’ll have to replace another coat, too.’’

True. The loaner was in worse shape than the coat that had visited Morley’s kitchen.

We entered The Palms through the front door. I was surprised. The place was less than half-filled. No wonder Morley was sour. They used to line up outside and wait. If business was this bad, he didn’t have to bet on the water spiders to be hurting.

I said, ‘‘I had a couple reasons for coming up here. The main one was, I think I’ve found a chance for an experienced restaurant man to set himself up good.’’ We settled at one of the empty tables, ignoring dark looks sent Singe’s way. Things had gone so bad Morley didn’t care if he offended the customers he did have.

I explained. ‘‘And you wouldn’t be walking on Weider’s toes. He’s only interested in moving more beer.’’

‘‘You might be on to something,’’ Dotes conceded. ‘‘You just might.’’

The clockwork inside his gourd clacked and clunked. It picked up speed and gathered momentum. My good pal broke out in a grin filled with sharp white teeth. ‘‘You really had an original idea, Garrett.’’

Thank you very much. It does happen.

Singe started to defend me. I stopped her. ‘‘Don’t waste the emotion.’’

Morley had discovered some implication in my idea that I’d overlooked. Nothing less would have him so excited.

Morley Dotes doesn’t get excited. Not obviously. Not where someone might see it.

I might want to figure it out. In case it fell in on my head. ‘‘Don’t forget. You’ve been appointed official caterer for Saucerhead’s crew. Until they get sick of eggplant and acorns.’’

‘‘That’s being dealt with.’’

I turned to Singe. ‘‘What’s this? How come you’re out here with him?’’

‘‘I went to visit John Stretch. I had had all the Dean and Dead Man I could take. But I caught a whiff of that strong personal odor on your back trail. So I came here. I suggested that Mr. Dotes establish an ambush along your most likely route from the World to The Palms. You being a creature of habit.’’

Really? I had to work on that. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘No arrangements had been made to support Mr. Tharpe. You don’t think of those things ahead of time. It was reasonable to assume that you would come here once you decided to feed them.’’

I gave her the heavy-duty fish-eye. That was entirely too much reasoning for anyone of the rattish persuasion, even stipulating her relative genius.

Morley observed, ‘‘Them Other Races is gettin’ more uppity all the time.’’ Then dropped the ignorant accent. ‘‘Next thing you know, humans will be obsolete.’’

‘‘Not likely. We’ve got one big advantage on you Lesser Races. We breed like rats.’’

Singe managed a credible snicker.

Morley contented himself with a gentle smile. ‘‘Eyes wide shut,’’ he said. ‘‘Count on Garrett to step in it with both boots, then shove the entire pair into his mouth.’’

The notion I’d offered wasn’t original with me, though I hadn’t repeated it intentionally. It hailed from a speech I’d heard at a human rights rally during a former adventure.

Being almost as clever as a rat, I changed the subject. ‘‘How come you want Lurking Felhske so bad, Morley?’’

I know. I asked before. I was hoping he’d give me a straight answer this time.

It could happen.

‘‘Because he has a fat bounty on his head. And I need money. Business is bad.’’

‘‘You couldn’t stay away from the bug races?’’

‘‘I’m staying away just fine. What I can’t escape is the curse of family.’’

‘‘I’ll bet that makes sense to a guy with the inside poop.’’

‘‘You know I’ve got obligations to family outside the city.’’

‘‘That arranged engagement. And your idiot nephew. Whatever happened to him?’’ A slow, cruel death if there was any justice. That psycho was responsible for me having had to suffer through a century-long affliction known as the Goddamn Parrot.

‘‘He’s fine. And not the problem. The problem is the side of the family that thinks I ought to be getting married now.’’

‘‘A pressure not unknown at our house,’’ Singe observed. With another rattish smirk.

I asked, ‘‘The arranged marriage?’’ Country elfin folk betroth their offspring while the kids are still trying to figure out how to walk without holding on. Morley had one of those connections. He’d mentioned her name a couple times but I couldn’t remember it. The family made noises occasionally—the boy wasn’t getting any younger—but the dark elf maiden involved had no more interest than he did.

‘‘That one. Yes.’’

‘‘I thought nobody was really behind that. And wouldn’t her family have to cover the costs? Or do you have some dumb custom like our nobility where you have to come up with a bride price?’’ The one thing the Venageti have right, to my way of thinking, is the dowry business. Where the bride’s family, in essence, pays the groom to take her off their hands. Sort of.

‘‘Most of us weren’t. Except for her people. Even so, it wasn’t a real problem till she took an interest herself. Out of the blue. Evidently thinking I’m rich.’’

‘‘Joke’s on her, eh? Here’s what you do. Don’t tell her till after the honeymoon.’’

Morley made ugly, inarticulate noises. He turned red. His face puffed up.

‘‘Whoa!’’ I gaped. I’d never seen him like this.

Sarge and Puddle closed in, looking anxious. If Morley suffered a massive fit of apoplexy and assumed room temperature, they’d have to start thinking for themselves. They were just marginally bright enough to recognize what a disaster that would be.

Man by man, quick as an evil rumor, the rest of Morley’s troops came from whatever they’d dropped, expecting their boss to implode or explode.

Contrary as ever, Morley did neither.

He grinned his wicked, hundred-sharp-teeth grin. ‘‘You almost got me. How about that?’’

‘‘Almost, nothing. But getting you wasn’t the game. I was just asking. Because I care.’’

‘‘Sure. I know.’’

A little sarcasm? I wondered.

I asked, ‘‘What’s money got to do with it? Do you have to be rich when she shows up for the wedding?’’

‘‘No. I need to buy my way out. Money is why she started pushing. She’s pressing so I’ll come up with more money to get out.’’

That made sense. To someone raised in this place and time. ‘‘Call her bluff.’’

‘‘I could cut my own throat, too. But it isn’t going to happen. I wish I knew where she got the idea that I’m rich. Whoever told her that would end up cursing his mother for not having gotten the abortion.’’

Singe couldn’t restrain her whickering snicker.

Morley leaned back, shut his eyes, went to a happy place for a few seconds. He returned a changed man. ‘‘Garrett, I’m going to crawl out on a limb. I’m going to make a wild guess. You’re not supposed to be here. The Dead Man is awake. And he’s interested in what you’re doing. Which means he’s using you to find out what he needs to know before he figures it all out for you. Not so?’’

I confessed with a small nod.

‘‘So what should you be doing now? Instead of socializing?’’

Singe and I went home. The Dead Man took a peek inside my skull. He had no comment. But his disappointment reeked like a psychic wet dog. I began to think it might be a good idea to move out if Tinnie and I set up housekeeping.

It was still early by my standards. I went to bed anyway. After just one sweet sample of Weider Select.

I might have had a touch of something.