Faded Steel Heat (6 page)

“Uh...”

“Apparently you don’t approve of my methods. You don’t need to and I don’t care if you do. You’re a textbook case of inflexible goodguyitis.” He chuckled at his own neologism. Scary, a Relway with a sense of humor. Maybe this one was a changeling. “But that don’t mean we can’t help each other.”

That’s why I came back to see Block. “I’m listening.”

“Overwhelm me with enthusiasm.”

“I’m a regular ball of fire. Everybody says so.”

“You’d fit with the rightsists without any effort. You’re the kind of guy they want.”

Must be. Else yahoos like Stockwell and Wendover wouldn’t come pounding on my door. “I’d only have to shuck about half my beliefs.”

Relway’s grin revealed teeth definitely not human. “You served with those people. You know how they think. You’ve heard all their knee-jerk crap. How hard could it be to parrot it?” His grin got bigger. He stared at Mr. Big. “Put some words in your own mouth.”

I grunted, hoped Relway and Block didn’t think too much about the bird. I didn’t need them figuring out the fact that the Dead Man was riding my shoulder by proxy. “I could. But why should I?” This was starting to sound like work.

“I can’t get my people inside. These crackpots are abidingly paranoid. If a man has even a tenth part nonhuman blood, he’s a breed and part of the problem. Never mind he might have been a war hero. The spiders spinning the web of hatred are sure humankind can be redeemed only through the extinction of the rest of the races. Even to the extreme of hunting down and expunging every drop of nonhuman blood. Otherwise us uniques might breed back to original stock.”

I guess my mouth was open. Luckily no flies were working the cell. “That’s so damned ridiculous —”

“What does ridiculous have to do with belief? Those people are out there, Garrett.”

I wanted to argue but my last case had involved several religions, each more unlikely than the last.

People will believe anything when they need to believe something. A lot
have
to believe in something bigger than themselves, whether that is a cause or a god.
What
doesn’t necessarily matter as long as
something
is there.

“I understand.”

“You don’t have to sign a pact in blood. Just drift farther inside than you planned, then let me know what you find.”

“And what’ll you do for me?”

“Keep you posted on what I learn. And protect the Weiders — if it comes to that.”

I owed Old Man Weider a lot. I owed the Tates some, too. “Could you keep an eye on the Tates while you’re at it?”

Relway sighed. “I suppose I can do that.” He smiled. Pity about those teeth. “You make peace with your friend?”

My life is an entertainment for all TunFaire. Everybody knows every time Tinnie winks at me. “They’re special to me.”

“You have a deal. Wes, I’ve got to wander, see what’s new on the street.” He can do that. Little scruff like him, nobody would believe he’s Relway.

“Wait up,” I said. “Couple things more. Ever hear of Black Dragon Valsung?”

Relway shrugged, showed me his palms. “Which is what?”

“Supposed to be a new freecorps. Colonel Norton Valsung commanding, lately of the Black Dragon Brigade.”

Relway shook his head. Block said, “Never heard of either one.”

“Me neither. That’s what made me wonder.”

“What?” Relway wanted to know.

“Two squeaky-clean clerk types named Carter Stockwell and Trace Wendover came to the house today. Wanted me to join their outfit.”

Block and Relway glanced at each other. Block said, “Means nothing to me.”

Relway said, “There’re always new gangs. I’ll keep an ear open.”

Block waved. Relway headed for the door. I started to go myself. Block told me, “Hang on, Garrett.”

“Uhm?”

“If you do get involved, you be real careful. These people are nasty.”

“I’ve been playing with the bad boys a long time. I don’t make mistakes anymore.”

“Only takes one, Garrett. Smart guys get dead, too.”

“Point taken. Thanks.”

“One more thing. Relway gets too focused sometimes. Doesn’t think about whatever don’t bear on what interests him right now.”

“You leading up to something?”

“Yes. His people saw Crask and Sadler yesterday. Remember them? You should. They’re back in town and too stupid not to be seen.”

“Never heard either one accused of genius.” I shivered. Not much scares me but Crask and Sadler are stone-cold professional killers of the worst sort. The sort who want to hurt Mrs. Garrett’s only surviving son. They’re that lucky kind of professional who get to do work they really enjoy.

Crask and Sadler have a sack full of bones to pick with Mama Garrett’s favorite boy. I helped run them out of town. I helped fix them up with a Combine price on their heads.

“I’ll watch out.”

“Do. Hey! Teach that ugly sack of feathers to scout for you.”

“You hear that, bird?”

The Goddamn Parrot kept his beak shut. A remarkable state of affairs.

10

Crask and Sadler. Damn! I thought those double-uglies were out of my life for good.

They tried to take over when Chodo had his stroke
 
—
which few people knew about. Most think he’s still in charge. They wouldn’t if Belinda hadn’t outfoxed Crask and Sadler when they made their grab. Them knowing about Chodo, and their deadly enmity, explained Belinda’s eagerness to elevate them to the next plane.

Nowadays Chodo is a lump of meat imprisoned in a wheelchair. Belinda has no use for him except to pretend her orders come from him.

Block again told me, “You take care.”

“You too.” I decided to say it. “I like this Westman Block better than the old one.”

That got me a sour look and, “Might be smart not to turn up here again. You go out on the fringe, you’ll never know who’s watching or what their real loyalties are.”

I paused outside the jail, studied the street. At the best of times watching your surroundings closely is wise. Our great city never lacks for characters willing to steal your gold tooth in broad daylight while you’re watching.

Nobody was interested in me. I didn’t appear threatening, nor weak enough to be an easy victim.

I felt good. I had an accommodation with the law
 
—
which would work for me because Max Weider is a municipal treasure.

It was a gorgeous day, a tad warm but with a nice breeze, a few scurrying clouds dancing on a sky so blue it defined the color for all time. It was the kind of day that makes us daytime people feel good. The kind of day when people laugh, visit friends not seen for a while, conceive children. The kind of day when bloodlettings are few and even the scroats take time off to appreciate what a wonderful world it can be. It was the kind of day when Relway’s crew might get into mischief because they had too much time on their hands.

I headed east and north. It was time I visited an old friend of my own.

The streets were crowded but the activists were having trouble working up much indignation. If the weather held, the coffinmakers and crematoria would catch up and have to cut pieces.

A centaur clip-clopped past. He wore an old army blanket. I couldn’t make out the regimental mark. He couldn’t be real bright. If that blanket was loot and not a Crown issue to an auxiliary formation, possession could get him killed.

Some days it could anyway.

He was drunk. He didn’t care.

The air above swarmed with pixies and fairies and whatnot, the young ones tormenting the pigeons. That wouldn’t earn them any enemies who weren’t pigeons themselves.

Birds were out courting, too. I noted a few hawks and peregrines way up high. The little people better stay alert... A dimwit peregrine dived at a pixie girl. It drew a flurry of poisoned darts. The wee folk were using the nice day to educate a new generation of predators.

It’s a pity people are stupider than falcons. Otherwise, we could teach them not to prey on their own kind.

On days like this, when everyone comes out to soak up the warm, it seems impossible that so many beings live in this city. But TunFaire is really several cities occupying the same site. There are evening peoples and night peoples and morning peoples who never see one another. It is both an accommodation and a way of life. It used to work.

The tip of a wing whipped across the back of my hair. The Goddamn Parrot was showing off for his plain-feathered cousins. “I know a Yessiley place where they put pigeon in everything they cook. And they don’t care if the pigeon is really a pigeon.”

“Awk! I want to soar with eagles and am forced —”

“You want me to call one of those hawks down? They’ll soar with you.”

“Help!”

“Hey, Mister. Does your bird really talk?”

“Hush, Bertie. The man’s a ventriloquist.” Bertie’s mom gave me a look that said I ought to be ashamed, trying to scam people with an innocent bird.

“You’re probably right, ma’am. Why don’t you take the poor creature and give him a decent home?”

The air crackled around woman and child so swift was their departure.

Nobody wanted poor old lovable Mr. Big.

11

The place has pretensions toward being a class eatery. It doesn’t compete for the Yessiley trade. Its fashionable dishes never include anything harder to catch than squash or eggplant. Its name varies with the mood of its owner, Morley Dotes. The Palms is the moniker he’s hung on it lately. His target clientele has gone from being blackhearted second-string underworlders foregathering to plot, negotiate, or arrange an expedient truce to upscale subjects foregathering to plot, negotiate, or arrange an expedient truce.

The staff, however, is a constant.

It was an off-peak hour when I invited myself into Morley’s place. Diners of any station were conspicuous by their absence. Staff were making preparations for the hour when the crowd would show. Morley’s new gimmick was a money cow. The place reeked prosperity.

“Shee-it! I done thunk we was shut of dis perambulatin’ sack a horse apples.”

“Better watch using words like perambulate, Sarge. You’ll throw your tongue out of joint.” How long did it take him to latch on to the word’s meaning, so he could use it? It was several syllables longer than any in his normal vocabulary.

A voice from the shadowed back growled, “You let dat damned dog in here again, Sarge? I smell doggie do.”

“Dat ain’t dog shit, Puddle. Dat’s Garrett.”

“Tossup which is worst.”

“Fugginay.”

“You guys ought to take your routine on the road.” I couldn’t see Puddle but he had been struck from the same mold as Sarge. Both are big and fat and sloppy, tattooed and almost as bad as they think they are.

“Fugginay, Garrett. We’d have’em rollin’ in da streets. Be up to our friggin’ noses in hot little gels... Nah. I don’t tink. I’m gettin’ too old for all dat.”

“Watcha want, Garrett?” Puddle demanded. “I tink we done you ‘bout enough favors for dis week.”

“I don’t need any favors,” I fibbed. “I wanted to let Morley in on some bad news.”

Back there in the shadows Puddle must have reported through the speaking tube to Morley’s office upstairs. Dotes’ voice came from the stair. “What bad news is that, Garrett?”

“Crask and Sadler are back.”

Morley didn’t say anything for a good ten seconds. Then he asked, “Where did you get that?”

“Can’t tell you.” Which told him.

“Shee-it!” Sarge observed. “What’d I say? It smells like poop it’s proba’ly gonna be poop. He wants sometin’ again.”

“Fugginay,” Puddle replied. “I’m gonna have me a case a da brown-leg trots he comes in here someday an’ he don’t want nuttin’.”

I tried a ferocious scowl on Sarge as I passed him. He grinned amiably. He doesn’t scare. “Nice shoulder ornament dere, Garrett. We knew you’d take to da bird eventually.”

These people are my friends. Allegedly.

I told Morley, “You know eggplant used to be poisonous?”

“Yes. I keep a few of the undomesticated variety around in case I want to cook up special dishes for people who don’t respect our dress code here.” He led the way upstairs. “So who’s going to hear you now? Block told you about Crask and Sadler?”

“He got it from Relway.”

“Oh. In here.” Morley ducked across the room he uses for an office, settled into a plush chair behind a big table. He slipped a toothpick into a forest of nasty sharp teeth, looked thoughtful. “Crask and Sadler. Interesting.”

12

Morley Dotes is the kind of guy nightmares are made of if you have a daughter. He’s so damned handsome it’s painful, in an olive, slim, dark-elven fashion. Anything he throws on makes him look like he spent all last week at a tailor’s. He can deck himself out in white and prance through a coalyard without getting a spot on himself. I’ve never seen him sweat. Females of numerous species stop thinking while he’s around.

For all his faults he’s a good friend. Albeit a friend of the sort who would give you a talking parrot as a gift
 
—
and do it in a way that would tie you in knots of obligation that keep you from disposing of said gift in any sensible fashion. Sort of the way an old hag witch might put a curse on you that you can shed only when some other fool volunteers to take it upon himself.

No doubt Morley chuckles himself to sleep every night thinking about me and the Goddamn Parrot.

I said, “Looks like the new scam has the marks rolling in.”

“It was the right move at the right time, Garrett. Took a while to convince the neighbors that they would benefit, though.”

I could imagine. The area had been known as the Safety Zone till recently. It was neutral ground where gentlemen of unsavory enterprise who were business rivals or outright enemies could sit down with some expectation of personal safety. The Joy House had been the heart of the Zone. Morley made the Zone work and therefore profitable for the whole area.

A shift in market focus certainly would disconcert the neighbors.

“Rich people have the same requirements and vices as poor people,” Morley observed. Lamplight sparkled off the points of his unnaturally white teeth. “But they have more money to pay for them. That convinced everyone.”