Deadly Quicksilver Lies (11 page)

I made rude noises, started flapping a new generation of flapjacks.

“That was easy to check. A ranking Guard officer is an old friend of my family. Colonel Westman Block.”

I squeaked three or four tunes before I managed to ask, “
Colonel
Block? They made a
colonel
out of him?”

“Wes speaks highly of you, too, Mr. Garrett.”

“I’ll bet.”

“He told me you were
not
sent to the Bledsoe by his people — though he wished he’d thought of it.”

“That’s Block. Playful as a hogshead of cobras.”

“He did speak well of you professionally. But he warned me to remain wary in other respects.” She could get a laugh into her voice, too.

“You going to want bacon?”

“You just starting it now? You’re supposed to start the bacon first. It takes longer.”

“I cook one thing at a time. That way I only burn one thing at a time.”

“A daring approach.”

“Holds down expenses.”

We cooked together and ate together and I spent a lot of time appreciating the scenery. The lady didn’t seem to mind.

We were cleaning up when she said, “I won’t tolerate this sort of thing. I won’t tolerate the corruption that allows it to happen.”

I stepped back, checked her out with different eyes. “You just start working there? You’d have to look hard to find a place more corrupt than the Bledsoe.”

“Yes. I’m new. And I’m finding out how rotten the place is. Every day it’s something. This is the worst yet. You might’ve spent your whole life wrongfully imprisoned.”

“Yeah. And I wasn’t the only one in there. You an idealist and reformer?” TunFaire is infested with those lately.

“You don’t need to make me sound like a halfwit.”

“Sorry. Most wannabe Utopians are, reality-wise. They come from well-to-do families and haven’t the vaguest notion what life is like for people who
have
to depend on a Bledsoe. They can’t imagine what life is like for the kind of people who work in a Bledsoe. For them taking bribes and selling donated supplies are perks of the job. They wouldn’t understand you if you bitched about it — unless they figured you were trying to increase the override you take off the top.”

She gave me a disgusted look. “Somebody suggested that yesterday.”

“There you go. I bet you blew up. And didn’t get through. And now everybody in the place thinks you’re crazy. Maybe the better-placed guys in the bigger money are wondering if you’re dangerous crazy. They worry about these new Guards kicking ass and taking names. It takes a while to corrupt reformers.”

She settled with a fresh cup of tea, honey and mint in it. She eyed me, then mused, “West says you can be trusted.”

“Nice of him to say. Wish I could say the same.”

She frowned. “Point is, I’m dangerous already. A few days ago, several thousand marks worth of medical supplies vanished. Right away I filled two orderly slots with men I knew personally. Men I can trust.”

“I see.” In view of her Guard connection, I guessed they were Block’s men. He had a character named Relway working for him, running his secret police force. Relway was
nasty
.

If Relway became interested in the Bledsoe, heads would roll and asses get kicked. Relway doesn’t let bureaucratic roadblocks and legal technicalities get in his way. He gets in there and rights those wrongs.

I suggested, “You be careful. They think you brought in spies, they could forget their manners.”

She sipped tea, studied me, which made me uncomfortable. Not that I object to having a beautiful woman check me out. I was born to be a sex object. But this beautiful woman had something less thrilling in mind. “I’m not as naive as you think, Garrett.”

“Good. That’ll save you a lot of pain.”

“You have any idea who signed you in?”

“No. I was asleep. But I hear the prince who paid for it goes by the name Grange Cleaver.”

“Cleaver? Grange Cleaver?”

“You know him?”

“He’s a hospital trustee. Appointed through the imperial household.” She studied me some more. “I told you I’m not as naive as you might think. That does include understanding that I might be in danger.”

Could be was not how I would put it. “So?”

“So maybe I should get somebody to stick close by till the dust settles.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“You game?”

I was game, but not for that. “You want a bodyguard?”

“Wes says you won’t sell out.”

“Maybe not. But there’s a problem.”

“What?” She sounded irked.

“I don’t do bodyguard work. Sorry. And I have a client already. Wouldn’t do to let that obligation slide, much as part of me wants to. Also, your staff is going to harbor grudges. I wouldn’t dare hang out around there.”

She looked like she was getting mad. “Then what would you suggest?” She didn’t try to change my mind. My feelings were hurt. Maybe she could have talked herself into something.

She was too damned businesslike.

Maggie Jenn would have tried to talk me into something.

“Friend of mine, Saucerhead Tharpe, could do the job. Or several other guys I know. Trouble is the best guys all look like what they are.” Then my muse inspired me. “My friend from last night will be looking for work.”

My guest brightened, her mind darting past all the obvious caveats that would have obtained had Winger been male. “Can she do the job?”

“Better than I could. She doesn’t have a conscience.”

“She trustworthy?”

“Don’t put her in temptation’s way. The family silver might accidentally fall into her pockets. But she can get a job done.”

“She tough?”

“She eats hedgehogs for breakfast. Without peeling them first. Don’t get into a tough contest with her. She don’t know when to quit.”

She smiled. “I understand the impulse. When you step outside tradition, there’s a temptation to show the boys you can do everything they can do better. All right. Sounds good. I’ll talk to her. How do I get in touch?”

Finding Winger isn’t easy. She wants it that way. There are people she’d rather not have sneaking up.

I explained what worked for me. She thanked me for breakfast, advice, and help, and headed for the front door. I was overwhelmed still. She was ready to let herself out before I got myself together. “Hey! Wait up. You didn’t introduce yourself.”

She smirked. “Chastity, Garrett. Chastity Blaine.” She laughed at my goofy look, slipped out, and closed the door behind her.

22

By daylight, the Joy House is dull. Lately Morley has been open continuously, driven by some bizarre civic impulse that wants weeds and grass clippings made available to all. I was concerned. The place might start attracting horses.

I invited myself up to the bar. “Cook me up a rare steak, Sarge. And let Morley know I’m here.”

Sarge grunted, scratched his crotch, hitched his pants, thought about it before he did anything — which was mainly to wonder aloud why I thought Morley Dotes gave one rat’s ass whether I was infesting the Joy House or stinking up the place in Hell, where I belonged.

“You ought to open a charm school for young ladies of superior breeding, Sarge.”

“Fugginay. Ain’t dat da troot?”

I settled at a table. My steak arrived before Morley did. It was a thick, rare, prime center cut. Of eggplant. I forced part of it down by holding my breath and closing my eyes. If I didn’t have to smell it or see it, it wasn’t too bad.

Sarge’s buddy Puddle trundled out of the kitchen, half a foot of hairy bare belly hanging out from under his shirt. He paused to blow his nose on his apron. He had him some kind of key on a rope around his neck. I asked, “What the hell are you supposed to be? One that got away? They didn’t tie the noose tight enough?”

“I’m da wine stewart aroun’ here, Garrett.” My worst fears were confirmed — not only by ear but by nose. Puddle’s breath told me he diligently tested his vintages. “Morley says we got to attrack a better class a’ custom.”

Time was you could have done that by dragging in a dozen derelicts. “You’re just the guy who can do it, Puddle.”

“Fugginay. Ain’t dat da troot?”

These guys had the same rhetoric teacher.

“You want some wine, Garrett? To go wit’ what you’re havin’ dere we got us a perky little fortunata petite what’s maybe not as subtle as a Nambo Arsenal but —”

“Puddle!”

“Yeah?”

“It’s spoiled grape juice. If they call it wine, it’s spoiled grape juice. I don’t care if you call it coy or brujo or whatever. Talk that wine snob talk till doomsday, that don’t change the main fact. Hell, go look at the stuff while it’s changing into brassy brunette or whatever. It’s got mold and shit growing on it. What it is, really, is how you get alcohol that winos and ratmen can afford.”

Puddle winked and whispered, “I’m wit’ you. The gods meant real men to drink dat stuff dey wouldn’t of invented beer.”

“What you do, you get Morley to serve beer by telling him it’s cream of barley soup?”

Morley arrived during this exchange. He observed, “Wine is how the smart restauranteur fleeces the kind of man who walks around with his nose in the air.”

I asked, “How come you want that kind of guy cluttering up your dance floor?”

“Cash flow.” Morley planted himself in the chair opposite me. “Plain, simple, raw money. If you want it, you have to find ways to pry it loose from those who have it. Our current clientele doesn’t have it. Often. But I’ve noted that we’ve begun to attract adventurers. So I’ve started positioning us to become
the
in place.”

“Why?”

He looked at me funny.

“Don’t let me throw you with the trick questions, Morley. If they get too tough for you, holler.”

“Look around. There’s your answer.”

I looked. I saw Puddle and Sarge and a few local “characters” using the place to get out of the weather. “Not real appetizing.” I meant Puddle and Sarge.

“It’s that old devil Time, Garrett. We’re all a pound heavier and a step slower. It’s time to think about facing realities.”

“Puddle and Sarge, maybe.” Morley didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. I did my famous eyebrow trick, one of my more endearing skills.

He read that right. “A guy can get a step slow between the ears, too. He can lose that lean and hungry way of thinking.” He eyed me as though I, of all people, should know that.

“Or he can start thinking like a cow because he doesn’t eat anything but cattle fodder.” I laid a pointed stare on the corpse of my eggplant filet. It had failed to live up to even my low expectations.

Morley grinned. “We’re breaking in a new cook.”

“On me?”

“Who better? Right, Puddle? No way we can disappoint Garrett. He was disappointed when he walked in the door. He’ll bitch and gripe whatever we serve him.”

I grumped, “You could poison me.”

“If it would improve your disposition.”

“There’s an idea!” Puddle enthused. “Hows come I never thought a’ that one?”

“Because you’ve never had a thought. If one got loose in that abandoned tenement of a head, it’d never find its way out,” I muttered, but Puddle caught on anyhow.

“Yo! Sarge! We got any of dat rat poison left? Tell Wiggins to bring dis guy Garrett a special chef’s surprise dessert.”

I made noises to let them know what I thought of this level of humor and told Morley, “I need the benefit of your wisdom.”

“You going to cry on my shoulder about one of your bimbos?”

“There’s a thought. I never tried that. Maybe by way of a little sympathetic magic...”

“Don’t expect sympathy from me.”

“What I want to do is listen to you, not have you listen to me.”

“This has to do with your Maggie Jenn thing?”

“Yes. The name Grange Cleaver mean anything?”

Morley glanced at Puddle. A shadow crossed his features. Puddle exchanged glances with Sarge. Then everybody faked indifference. Morley asked, “You saying the Rainmaker is back?”

“Rainmaker?”

“The only Grange Cleaver I know was called the Rainmaker. He was a fence. Big time. Where did you come onto the name?”

“Winger. She said she was working for him.”

“That woman isn’t your most reliable witness.”

“You’re telling me. But she did have an interesting story about how this guy was using her to keep tabs on Maggie Jenn. She said she thought Cleaver was Maggie’s brother. Or some sort of close relation.”

Again Morley tossed a glance at Puddle, then looked thoughtful. “I’ve never heard that one.” He chuckled. There was no humor in the sound. “It can’t be true, but it would explain a lot if it was. Maybe even including why
she
is back in town.”

“You changing your position?”

“Huh?”

“You said she was in exile. What’re you going on about, anyway?”

“All right. Grange Cleaver, alias the Rainmaker, was a very famous fence years ago.”

“How can you be a famous fence? Seems to me you could be one or the other but not both.”

“Famous among those who use the services of fences, wholesale or retail, supplier or end user. The Rainmaker operated on the swank. There were rumors he choreographed several big jobs himself, that he had a connection who got him the inside information he needed. He hit several Hill places. There weren’t many guards back then. His raids were one reason the Hill folk set up their goon squads.”

“This all connects with Maggie Jenn?”

“Maybe. It just occurred to me that the Rainmaker’s heyday coincided with Maggie Jenn’s famous affair. Specifically, with those months when Theodoric was dragging her around in public, not giving one good goddamn what anyone said.”

“You have to admit nobody would’ve figured her for a spotter.”

“Exactly. Her social crimes were reason enough to hate her.”

“All of which is interesting but, as far as I can see, doesn’t have anything to do with the job I’m getting paid to do.” Though I might be wrong. Cleaver hadn’t drafted me into the crackdome brigade because my colors clashed when I dressed. I was a threat somehow. “You still say Maggie Jenn doesn’t have a daughter?”

“I said I didn’t know about one. I still don’t. But now I have a notion there’s a lot I don’t know about Maggie Jenn.”