Whispering Nickel Idols

41

He will think so. That will be sufficient.

“I hope. Those people don’t like to be bullied.”

They tolerate it from one another. Did you recover the egg?

“I’ve got it right here.” He doesn’t miss much.

Bring it here.

I did so. That put me in position to see the doorway. Several kittens were watching from the hall. Singe slid past them. “Mr. Mulclar has finished.” She made an entry in the ledger, took money to pay Mulclar. Finally.

The miasma had reached the Dead Man’s room.

I asked, “Are Saucerhead or Winger likely to be around soon?”

I do not expect them.

“I was hoping one of them could go shopping with Dean. We need groceries. And he’s a little old to be out there alone in times like these.”

I see. Are you certain this is the egg that was thrown at you?

I looked closer. “The light ain’t so good, but… it looks a little different.”

This is a stone. And nothing but a stone. Either Bittegurn Brittigam spun you a tall tale or you no longer have the original.

“I’ll take it out into a better light.”

I went to the front door, intending to go out into the daylight. I peeked past Singe, saw Mr. Mulclar just getting his cart moving. And… a couple of pedestrian women stared at Mr. Mulclar in awe. Then began gasping and waving their hands in a vain attempt to make it go away. “Hey, Chuckles. That Penny Dreadful is right across the street.”

Where?

“In front of Elmer Stick’s apartment building.”

I sense nothing. Be as precise as possible.

“On the steps. Second step up, left side, leaning against the railing.” I eased on outside, to get a better view.

Ah!

Penny Dreadful leaped like somebody had just branded her bottom. She ran, bumping off pedestrians who flung curses after her. She had trouble controlling her limbs, but she never fell down.

The farther she ran, the more control she gained.

I studied my rock in the better light.

It wasn’t the same stone. There were tiny red veins in its surface. It wasn’t as smooth. And it didn’t produce that warm, relaxed feel when I fiddled with it.

I stepped back inside. “She too slippery for you?”

Exactly. She presents an incredibly small target. And an elusive one. One that senses my interest the instant it touches her.

“This isn’t the same rock.”

I did not think so. It is time we examined your memories concerning that rock.

“Why?”

It must be important. Certainly, important enough to be switched

“Teacher White-”

Do not get ahead of yourself. Things do happen without the connivance or awareness of Mr. White. Sit down. Relax. Consider how useful it would be to have that parrot available for situations like the one with the Dreadful urchin.

“I do wish you wouldn’t keep harping on that.”

A good partner nags. To The Palms. To your first encounter with the stone.

I felt his mental tentacles slide into my brain, down deep into my memories of those brief moments.

I’m used to this-though I don’t like it-so I focus on something else while he relives my life, rooting out details I failed to note consciously. I concentrated on breathing.

Done.

“And?”

You made some incorrect assumptions.

“That would be a first. Bring them on.”

It starts when you walked out the door of The Palms. You did not, in fact, see the Green Pants Gang member sling the stone at you. The stone whizzed past you; you ducked; then you spotted the Green Pants thug. You put three and three together and came up with five. Green Pants did not do the dirty deed. His presence may have been happenstance.

“He ran away.”

Did he?

“That’s the way I remember it.”

He did not. You do recall that he was amazed when you and Mr. Dotes set upon him.

“Yeah.” Green Pants had acted like he was completely boggled. “I get a feeling we’ll never find out the whole truth there because that guy got himself dead.

“If he didn’t do it, who did? And why?”

Excellent questions, both. You did not see anything, even at the unconscious level, at the time, that sheds any light. And, with wicked glee, he nailed me. So you may have been right in the first place, but for all the wrong reasons.

“What the hell are you blathering about?”

The Green Pants goon may have slung the stone at you after all.

“Is this where I jump up and run in circles, shrieking and yanking out my hair?”

The point is, you may have come to the truth back then, but if you did, you did not do so based on the evidence. You harkened to your own prejudice and the fact that you saw no one else in the street.

“I’m thinking about setting fire to this place and walking away. So I don’t have to suffer these convolutions again.”

I am exposing you to the sort of thought processes that unravel …

What could’ve turned into a fun squabble over not much went on hiatus when a frazzled Tinnie slipped in and demanded, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried. You said you’d chop my ears off if I didn’t leave you the hell alone. That you were up all night and you needed some sleep.” Tinnie hasn’t been much of a morning person lately. Either.

The other thing we have in common, from a redheaded point of view, is that I’m always wrong. “Guess I should’ve been a little more firm, eh?”

She used to snap up that kind of straight line. Maybe we’ve gotten too comfortable. Her language wasn’t ladylike. “I was supposed to be in the office four hours ago.”

“Sorry I disappointed you by surviving, love. I’ll time it more conveniently for you next time.”

She glared but kept quiet.

I said, “Since you’re late, and since everybody in your family will assume that a woman your age who was out all night in a situation involving somebody named Garrett was up to no good…”

Usually that sort of stuff winds Tinnie up. This time she was in no mood. She just kept scowling.

“Since you’re going to be late anyway, how about you take Dean to the market?” Tinnie is a recognizable personality. People would stand back, not because she’s my girl but because she’s Willard Tate’s niece. Willard Tate is one of those New Wave industrialists whose genius has begun to make him a huge power in postwar TunFaire.

Tinnie’s expression was priceless. Too bad there’s no way to record all those freckles in motion. “You want me to bodyguard Dean? Why? So you can lay around with your beer and any bimbo who drops in?”

Her eyes glazed over. For half a minute she was the perfect girlfriend. Drop-dead gorgeous. And quiet.

The Dead Man was talking to her.

Tinnie clicked back. “I’m sorry,” she said, moving in and bringing the heat. “I forgot what that villain did with his drugs.”

I suffered her consolations for as long as it took Old Bones to become impatient.

“All right!” she snapped, pulling away.

I’d reconsidered. “You just go on home, sweets. You don’t have the skills to protect Dean from the kind of people who’re bothering us.”

Tinnie is the contrariest person I know. Excepting my partner. I expected a big ration. Being contrary, she fooled me for the thousandth time. She didn’t argue at all.

Maybe she was learning to listen.

It could happen. Even with a redhead. Sometimes the dice do come up snake eyes.

I suffered an inspiration as I walked Tinnie to the door, where a peek revealed nothing untoward. As we exchanged sweet sorrows, I suggested, “Go over to the Cardonlos place. There’ll be police types all over. See if you can’t get a couple of them to walk you home.”

Right. A wiggle, a jiggle, and a giggle and the herd would take off carrying her on their shoulders.

“That might be a good idea. While I’m at it, why don’t I borrow a couple to babysit Dean?”

Truth be told, I’d thought of that before I thought of looking out for her. But a certain minimal cunning has infected me lately. “Why didn’t I think of that? I guess you distracted me.”

“I’ll distract you permanently if I find out you’ve got something going with Belinda Contague that isn’t just business.”

How do you spank a rat? The tail gets in the way.

Not Miss Pular’s fault, Garrett. All mine, I am afraid.

Ah. Just as well, probably. Tinnie wouldn’t listen to anybody else. Especially not some clown named Garrett.

After a final bout of nuzzling, the professional redhead moved out. And could she move. She passed through the crowd oblivious to the drooling, staring, and stumbling.

She’s never been conscious of how strikingly attractive she is. If I say anything, she figures that’s just me being me.

I watched her sail boldly into the Cardonlos harbor, where she disconcerted the crowd. And was on her way again in five minutes with a big, brave, alert policeman on either hand. While another headed my way.

“Scithe.”

“Garrett.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Miss Tate suggested that you might be able to get my wife’s name bumped up the waiting list for three-wheelers.”

“She did, did she? But she put it on me when she has a bigger piece of the pie than I do?”

“She said to remind you that she isn’t the one who needs the favor.”

“She would, too. All right. I can get her moved, but not all the way to the top. I don’t have that much juice.”

This stuff started the minute our three-wheels became the hot novelty everybody had to have, demand dramatically exceeding supply. The waiting list is two thousand names long. My ethically challenged associates pad corporate income by taking bribes to move names up the list. They’ll harvest every loose copper in the kingdom if they can.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” I told Scithe. And wove an elaborate scheme that used Dean for bad-guy bait. “All I’m interested in is having my man get his shopping done safely. If somebody messes with him, the credit, the collar, and any info bonus is all yours. Unless it has to do with me. Then I’m majorly interested, of course.“

“Of course.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, then I went inside and told Dean he could go marketing now. “And be sure not to forget the new keg.”

Then back into the Dead Man’s room. “How long before I get enough poison out of me so I can go outside?”

You have just begun detoxification. And you are not taking your fluids.

Sullenly, I reported, “Penny Dreadful is watching us again.”

Let her. It means nothing. Except that she is worried about her kittens. We need to get Bittegurn Brittigarn in here. By whatever means necessary. He was the one who took your roc’s egg. While spinning a tale meant to get you to fling the substitute into the river. Which would eliminate any suspicion.

“You really think he’s a villain?”

He may be. Given the chance to interview him, I could deliver a definitive answer. He may just be weak.

“And what I get for my troubles is sarcasm.”