Gilded Latten Bones

74

Tharpe rolled in and crashed onto a folding chair. "Damn! This cold air feels good."

"It hot out there?"

"Working on getting there. And I need to shed about twenty-five pounds. Shit. Look at you, up on your hind legs and everything, Dotes."

I said, "Once we weaned him off the poison he came back fast. Next week he'll be able to make it to the front door with only one rest stop."

"You better watch out for the little girl, then. He'll have her giggling and squealing like a piggy in some dark corner."

Once upon a time Morley would have joined the game. Now he just scowled. "I'm a one woman man, 'Head."

Tharpe said, "Singe, honey, my dogs are worn down to the ankles. You want to take a look out front and see how big that flock of flying pigs is? Take one a them Amalgamated umbereller thing-jobbies along in case they got the flying dyer-rear." He snickered at his own wit.

I chuckled, too.

Morley tried but only managed to look grim.

Saucerhead continued, "Ah, gotcha. A health issue, that woman being involved."

Maybe a real health issue. Morley looked physically uncomfortable. I asked, "You all right? You need something?"

"I've been pushing it too much. I'm starting to feel it."

"Singe, I don't think he's ready to do without his angels." I hadn't seen any ratwomen today.

"I'll make sure they're here tonight."

"Good on you."

She asked, "Why don't we ask Mr. Tharpe what he's doing here? That might prove interesting."

Saucerhead said, "Mr. Tharpe was hoping somebody would bring him a mug so he could relax while he was telling his story."

I asked, "You need musical accompaniment? I saw a mandolin somewhere the other day, when we were salting the windows. It was short two strings, though."

Singe made a growling noise.

Maybe that was enough grab-assing around. "There's a problem, 'Head. The beer barrel ran dry. Dean is out trying to find Jerry right now."

"I guess I can wait."

Singe growled even louder.

"Whatever happened to that sweet little ratgirl you brung home a few years ago, Garrett?"

Singe told him, "She spent those years around crude human men. Please do explain why you came here. Besides the obvious."

She bruised Tharpe's feelings with that, not something easy to do. He knew she was calling him a moocher. Which he was, often enough, but not the obnoxious kind you want to bang on the head with a shovel. Usually you wanted to help, gently, because Saucerhead is a good guy blessed with a plentiful supply of minor bad luck.

I told him, "You've been bubbling. You've been threatening to tell us an interesting story. So how about it?" I glanced at Singe. I had no idea what he had been asked to do.

Singe shrugged. She didn't know, either. And Saucerhead wasn't talking. He did, in fact, seem confused.

He asked, "He's really asleep? The Dead Man, I mean."

"He really is. He'd be snoring like Playmate if he was among the breathing."

"Damn! I figured he'd plunk in there and get what he wanted before it went away."

Getting exasperated, I snapped, "Just do it the old-fashioned way! I'll give him the word when he wakes up."

"Oh. Yeah. That'd work, wouldn't it? So what it is, he wanted me to prowl around the costume shops in the theater district."

TunFaire did not have a theater district as such. Theaters were scattered across midtown, with others downtown. A few smaller venues were out in the neighborhoods. The World was four long blocks from its nearest competitor. The support shops, costume makers and set builders, were concentrated in a patch near the geographic center of the big name play-houses. And that was what Saucerhead meant.

"Costume shops," I mused.

"Yeah. Himself charging in on things from an unexpected angle. Instead of hunting a girl who wears tight black leather and spiffy wigs, find out who makes her outfits. Find out who whipped up them ugly gray wool suits and goofy helmets for the zombie brunos."

"Clever," I admitted, thinking we needed a neologism for the patchwork reanimated baddies who hung out inside the wool and weird wooden helmets.

"Definitely outside the box," Morley said. "Not an angle that would have occurred to me."

"I take it you came up with something, 'Head, on account of you've been wearing such a big shit-eating grin."

"I got to admit I never found who made the stuff for the zombies. Maybe the folks that build them have them make their own outfits. But I did find a guy that made stuff for the hot witch."

"Do tell."

"Here's the part that's got me feeling smart. This guy ain't no theater costumer. He makes custom stuff for the fetish trade."

"Really? I'm starting to think that we've been underestimating you, 'Head."

"People got a habit of doing that."

True enough, though usually only in regard to estimating how much abuse he can suffer and go on living.

"How come you thought of this fetish person?"

"I was passing by his place. I had this friend once, she liked to play dress up. I knew where she got her stuff. So I went in and got a little pushy, pretending like I was working for Relway. The tailor guy went all white and shaky and told me about this custom order for a bunch of black leather outfits that had to sync up with six different wigs. He got his gig through the wigmaker. And he got hands-on with the woman when she came for fittings."

"All right. Good story. Who was she?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. She never told him. But I guarantee you, she got to that tailor. He had stars in his eyes. His hands shook when he showed me how her body curved. And him as nancy as you can hope to find down there."

"Excellent," I said. "Just excellent. What about the wigmaker?"

"I got the name. He should be the next target."

Morley observed, "This is like taking over for the Dead Man, Garrett, us at the heart of the web while minions do the legwork."

Saucerhead frowned. He wasn't thrilled about that minions remark.

Singe said, "Mr. Tharpe, you do recall the name of that special tailor, don't you? And the wigmaker?"

Tharpe understood. Singe wasn't questioning him. She wanted to get the information committed to paper so it wouldn't get lost.

Morley said, "I meant it about just sitting around like the Dead Man."

"I know. And I'm thinking that maybe he gets frustrated, too, because he can't get out and snoop for himself."

"You? Frustrated about having to lay around and do nothing?"

"It's different when it isn't your own choice."