The Sword-Edged blonde (23 page)

“Never met him,” I said. “Right now he’s just a name related to a case I’m working on. Don’t know his age, his nationality, anything. But I know he was here thirteen years ago. And he might be . . . deformed.”

“Deformed,” Bernie repeated.

“Or handicapped from an injury.”

“Hm. And you said wealthy?”

“Wealthy enough that he paid a hired killer to spend eleven months in the Ogachic Mountains waiting for his victim to show up.”

Bernie idly pulled on his left earlobe, a gesture that
meant he was thinking. After a moment he said, “Hang on. I want somebody else to hear this.”

While he was gone, I looked around his immaculate office, only slightly less austere than my own. In one corner stood a shelf with a few legal scrolls. A small painting of Boscobel’s Queen Dorothea hung next to it; on the wall behind me was a detailed canvas map of Cape Querna. Through the window I saw, over the intervening roofs, the mast tops of ships anchored in the harbor. This high, the breeze was brisk and clean, with only a hint of salty tang. The harbor city was Bernie’s domain now, and he seemed to have it well in hand. At the very least, he’d forced the panhandlers, beggars and other entrepreneurial refuse off the street, and that had made a huge quality-of-life difference.

I first served under Bernie for three months during the trapper skirmishes fifteen years earlier, between the time I left Arentia and the day I met Cathy Dumont. He had the career soldier’s typical disdain for mercenaries like me, but once we got past that we discovered similar views on women, money, politics and our jobs. The next time we fought together, a couple of years after Cathy’s death, we were both captains, and staged an elaborate ambush for which I let him take the credit. Since going solo I’d dropped into Cape Querna whenever I could, and he’d occasionally sent business my way, as he’d done with the missing Princess Lila. We had not spoken in three years, and the last time I saw him he’d still been a stubbly, rough-edged army major who did not play the political games that gained you higher rank. So either he’d changed, which seemed unlikely, or he’d been sponsored by someone who
recognized his integrity as something sorely needed in the notoriously corrupt Civil Security Force. Either way, I was certain that beneath the clean-shaven, smoothed-out and well-groomed exterior the same relentless scruples still thrived.

When he returned, he preceded a uniformed officer with unruly white hair and the unmistakable build of a man used to physical confrontation. “Eddie LaCrosse, this is Leonard Saye.”

I shook hands with the newcomer. “Nice to meet you.”

“He’s been a street officer here for twenty years,” Bernie said, “and he knows everybody.”

“I know
of
everybody,” Saye corrected. He sized me up in a glance. “You’re from Arentia, aren’t you? You still have a hint of the accent.”

“Long time ago,” I said flippantly. “Sheer accident of birth.”

“So I guess you’ve been following their big scandal?”

I shook my head. “Don’t pay much attention to gossip.”

“Well, your King Philip sentenced Queen Rhiannon to life in prison for killing their son. Said she deserved to die, but he wouldn’t change the law just for her.”

Attaboy, Phil
, I thought. “Reckon she deserved it, then.”

“But get this,” Leonard continued. “She’s not in prison, or even in that big tower. She’s locked up in a public cell, right at the main city gate. Every day she has to sit outside and let people call her names, spit on her, anything as long as they don’t hurt her. She’s like an animal in a cage.” He shook his head. “Can you beat that?”

“They say revenge is the sport of kings,” I said with a
blasé shrug. Inside, though, I was both glad and apprehensive. He’d done what I wanted—punished the queen publicly, so that word would get back to whomever had framed her—but I also knew he must be in agony, losing both his wife and child while simultaneously knowing she was innocent and his son might be alive.

One of my most vivid memories of Phil was of the time when he was nine years old and had to put down his favorite old hunting dog, Rosie. As the crown prince, he knew all the other kids would be watching, so Phil put on the bravest face possible. He said a properly dignified goodbye to the crippled old girl before he dispatched her with one quick, lethal arrow. Later, though, he cried privately for hours. He told me that if he’d just been able to explain to Rosie what was about to happen, he would’ve been fine. But seeing the love and trust in the dog’s eyes, and that instant of betrayal when the arrow hit home, was too much. What he endured now must make that childhood trauma feel like a mosquito bite.

“What can I do for you?” Saye asked, bringing me back to the moment.

“Ever heard of Andrew Reese?” I asked. Inwardly I gritted my teeth against that damned rhyme.

Saye thought for a moment. “No. Who is he?”

“I have no idea. Thirteen years ago he was rich enough to hire a real top-of-the-line sword jockey to kill someone.”

“Who? The killer, I mean.”

“Stan Carnahan.”

Saye’s eyes widened and he let out a long, low whistle. “Wow. That name takes me back.”

“Told you he’d know,” Bernie said.

“Stan was the top dog in hired swords before he
disappeared. In his own way, he was the most honest guy I ever met. We used to swap shots between drinks or drinks between shots, whichever you like.” Saye shook his head in admiration. “Always wondered what happened to him.”

“He was a pro to the end,” I said, all the explanation Saye needed. “Who would’ve hired him back then?”

Saye thought for a moment. “Big Joe Vincenzo was around. The Soberlin brothers. Kee Kee Vantassel was on the rise. Nobody else could’ve afforded him.”

“Any of them deformed?”

Saye frowned in surprise. “Deformed how?”

I wondered how to paraphrase Epona’s words so they didn’t sound goofy. “His arms and legs would’ve been kind of . . . pushed up into his body. It would make him short, and it’d be hard for him to move around, I’m guessing.”

“Oh, hell,” Bernie muttered, the way you do when you know a tiresome story is coming. At almost the same instant Saye exclaimed, “The
Dwarf?
”

“Who’s the Dwarf?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

Before Saye could reply Bernie said disdainfully, “He’s this guy who supposedly runs the whole ‘criminal underworld’ here in C.Q. Except nobody’s ever actually
seen
him. It’s always a friend who met him, or an old acquaintance or somebody’s brother. They’ve talked about him since I was a kid. The ‘Big Little Man.’ ”

“So he doesn’t exist?” I asked.

“I think somebody made him up hoping we’d waste all our time looking for him instead of chasing the real crooks,” Bernie said. Then he looked at Saye, as if daring the older man to contradict him.

“I used to believe the same thing,” Saye said carefully. “But I have to tell you, over the years I’ve reconsidered. I won’t bore you with local politics, but it seems whenever someone looks likely to make a real difference cleaning up organized crime in the waterfront area, something happens. A hit, a timely accident, a fire with no apparent cause. All different except in timing. After a while, you see the pattern.”

“
You
see the pattern,” Bernie said. “There’s plenty of people who want to keep the docks dirty without resorting to phantom midget masterminds.”

Saye shrugged. “And you’re probably right. The stories have been around for so long, he’d have to be an old man by now. But I can’t think of anyone else who fits your description. Not now, and not back then.”

“Yeah, the trail is pretty cold,” I agreed. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime.”

They’d mentioned the docks; Andrew Reese had been a sailor. What was one more razor-thin clue, after all? After Saye left, I asked Bernie, “So your docks have a lot of rackets going?”

“The usual. Girls, drugs, illegal booze. Gambling if you know the right people.”

Gambling. People gambled on horses; Epona was the Queen of Horses. Was that a clue, too? Hell, what wasn’t? As if it were the least important thing in the world, I asked, “How dirty is the horse racing here?”

T
HE DAY AT
the races, in Cape Querna or anywhere else, was a collection of the saddest, most pathetic
people you’d ever see. At night the place was all torch-lit glamour, but the harsh sun revealed all the manure piles, equine and symbolic, hidden by the evening’s forgiving shadows.

Drink could get a strong hold on its victims, but a drunk had no delusions that the next bottle would be the one to set him up for life. Gamblers—the ones who were terrible at it but just couldn’t stop—believed that the Big Score was always one roll of the dice, deal of the cards or run of the horses away. These were the poor bastards who lurked at the track during the day, betting on the training races to raise stakes for the evening’s real thing, hoping for that gambling alchemy that turned dreams into gold.

I wandered around the track area, pretended to inspect the animals and their riders while I really evaluated the rest of the sparse crowd. Trainers lined up the horses at the starting line, their jockeys sharing gossip and pipe puffs over to one side. There was none of the prestigious pre-race ceremony preferred by royals and the moneyed folk; this was a business, and these guys knew there’d be another ride in an hour.

I was working off a chain of “ifs.”
If
Andrew Reese was this Dwarf, and
if
he really was a criminal kingpin with a hand in every pie, and
if
he really was behind the slaughter thirteen years earlier, then
perhaps
he would have a perverse interest in horses,
therefore
the local horse racing scene
might
be a place to find a lead. It was such a small hunch it could hide beneath a good-sized flake of dandruff, but it was all I had.

I sought a certain kind of racetrack regular. I wanted a guy who’d once been wealthy and successful, but who had, for whatever reason, fallen on hard times. He’d
wear tattered finery, place small bets with all the ceremony of a major player, and lose with a tinny, pathetic equanimity. He would also always be on the lookout for more money, and thus could be bribed to sell his left nut for gambling funds.

I spotted my guy after the first two races. He looked about sixty, with unwashed hair stuffed beneath a cap that was trendy ten years ago. Judging from his expression he wasn’t having a good day, and as he shuffled back to the concourse I fell into step behind him.

“How they running for you?” I asked.

He snorted without looking at me. “As they always do, sir. My bets must weigh a hundred pounds, because whichever horse I place them on runs like he’s carrying a whole extra person.”

I stepped in front of him and offered my hand. “Eddie Johnson, sir. What’s your name?”

“Lonnie Ratchett,” he said with great dignity, accenting the second syllable of his surname. He tilted his head back so he could actually look down his nose at me. “Of the LeBatre Ratchetts.”

“Well, Lonnie—do you mind if I call you Lonnie?—I need some help, and I’m willing to pay for it.” I put my hand on his shoulder and steered him into the shadow of an empty pavilion. In the evening this would be the candlelit wonderland of Cape Querna’s society, but now the chairs had been upended onto tables, the bar was un-tended and its liquor bottles removed to a safer place. I picked a table in the middle, so the stacked chairs would shield us from view. I figured a guy like Lonnie would appreciate the discretion.

I took down two chairs and gestured for Mr. Ratchett to have a seat. He inspected the cushion minutely before
deigning to grace it with his posterior. I turned mine around and straddled it, all nonchalance.

“There’s somebody in town I’d like very much to meet,” I said. “Now, I know you’re probably not directly involved with such people. In fact, I can’t imagine you even speaking to them in passing. But a man of your experience, I just bet,
does
know where such people can be found.”

“I do indeed have the acquaintance of many,” he said with fragile pride.

I felt like a jerk for manipulating the poor bastard. Teasing him with my fake respect was like seducing a spinster—his desperation, to be what I treated him as, was pitiful. But I had a job to do nonetheless. “Then I bet you could point me toward the man known as . . . ” I leaned closer and whispered for effect. “The Dwarf.”

Lonnie leaned back as if scalded. “I know of no such gentleman,” he said quickly.

I smiled. “Lonnie, that’s just what they
call
him. You know who I mean.”

Lonnie had turned ash-pale. “Sir, I am afraid I cannot help you,” he said, and started to rise.

Dammit
. Nothing for it now but to be a hard-ass. I grabbed his shoulder and slammed him down in his chair. Beneath his faded suit he felt no more tangible than a scarecrow. “That’s not the right answer, Lonnie.”

His eyes welled up with tears of fright, but I didn’t flatter myself that he was scared of me. The Dwarf clearly carried some weight, at least among desperate elderly gamblers. I’d put the old guy in a real damned-if-you-do-or-don’t position.

“Lonnie,” I began again, “you’re a terrible liar. Really. Now take a deep breath, calm down, and let’s start
over. I’m going to purchase this information from someone; it might as well be you.” I jerked my thumb toward the track. “And think about it—people out there who saw us together will assume it’s you whether it is or not. So why not make a profit on it?”

He wiped his sweaty face with a ragged, monogrammed handkerchief. Clearly, Lonnie hadn’t thought this hard in a long time. Finally he said, “Well, sir, you seem to have the advantage.”

“No, Lonnie, it’s all yours. I’m just appealing to your good sense.”

Lonnie nodded and sighed. “I do not know the whereabouts of the gentleman in question. However, I have often heard that the Dragonfly Club is a place where much of his business is conducted. It is a private tavern in the waterfront district.” He gave me the street address, and directions. “And that, sir, is all I know.”