Mr. Gonlit is after Miss Pular again. Now on behalf of a ratman who calls himself John Stretch.
"You get the joke, Singe? John Stretch?"
"No. Why would the name John Stretch be a joke?" The notion seemed to irritate her.
"John Stretch is what they used to call the hangman, before we got civilized and started lopping off heads instead."
"Is that true? I wonder who he could be." Singe had almost no accent left, despite her vastly different throat and voice box. Scary how talented the girl was. But her tone was so controlled even I knew she was dancing around something. I was surprised the Dead Man didn't get after her. Although, sometimes, he just doesn't pay attention to anything but himself.
Mr. Gonlit does not know who John Stretch is. He does not care. One of the hard-nosed youngsters with ambitions toward Reliance's throne, if you care to call it that. A some what naive youngster willing to pay part of Mr. Gonlit's fee up front.
Mr. Gonlit enjoyed a wonderful gourmet dinner last night. He followed it with a bottle of TunFaire Gold and a deep pipe filled with the finest imported broadleaf tobacco. Probably a Postersaldt. Now Mr. Gonlit finds himself in a position where he has to deliver something that will please John Stretch.
"Hey, Bic. You know we warned you to back away from us."
Gonlit shrugged. "People warn you off, pal. I don't recollect you ever running away."
That stuff is pretty obnoxious when somebody else is throwing it into your face.
"Must be the boots talking, Bic. Making you braver than you ought to be."
"What're you gonna do, pal? Send me to the Cantard?"
Bic tried hard not to betray his interest in the silver elf woman. Her interest in Bic, however, was both frank, blatant, and troubled. The manly posturing thing seemed both to excite and repel her. She was eager to see what happened next.
"There's an original question, Bic. Well, I have work to do. Errands to run. I hope you took that John Stretch for a potful of gold. By the time I get back home you'll probably be unemployed. Kip! Where the hell are you? Get your sorry ass ready. I'm taking you home." With a side trip to The Palms along the way, of course.
I needed to see my old buddy, my pal, Morley the celery stalker and carrot killer.
55
I passed the word to Morley. "The number one boy out to scrub Reliance is a rat who calls himself John Stretch."
"That's cute. What've you been up to?"
"I thought Reliance might be interested. What do you think? How do you mean, up to? Why do you want to know?"
"We've had some unusual people turn up here the last couple of nights. They're the sort who dress up in black and manage to suck all the joy out of a room just by entering it."
"Why would they come here?"
"I thought you might be able to tell me."
"Not a clue here." And I really didn't have one.
"That the kid you were looking for?"
"The very one. Am I good, or what?"
"So you got him back."
"Damn me with faint praise if you want. I'm taking him home to his mother now."
"You think he's smart enough to make it there, then?" Kip had just done something to test Sarge's patience.
"I have hopes. I'm counting on his ego. And once I'm shut of him I'll be the happiest boy in town. I'd go on a toot if I didn't have work to do."
"Ooh! You have another job lined up already?"
"Nope. Just studying the excesses of the rest of you. I'm considering entrepreneur stuff. Because I'm going into business for myself."
Morley looked at me for a while. "All right. This ought to be entertaining."
"What? You don't think I can be a serious businessman?"
"No. Because a serious businessman has to stay sober most of the time. A serious businessman has to make his decisions untouched by emotion. And, most of all, a serious businessman has to work. All day, every day, enduring longer hours than the most dedicated character on his payroll."
I took a deep, cleansing breath, sighed. "O ye of little faith."
"Exactly. Tell me everything you've left out about your adventures, Garrett."
When I got to the part about the Michorite messenger Morley began to laugh. He said, "I guess that explains the kid who turned up here a few hours ago."
"What?"
"He was a dark-haired boy of draft age, as handsome as they come, some mother's son, wearing nothing but a loincloth. But he stank like an alley in the drought season."
"How long did you fiddle with the words to put that together?"
"Then till now. Sounded good, didn't it? He couldn't remember why he was supposed to see me. The boys in the kitchen gave him some leftovers and sent him on his way."
I grunted sourly. "Hey, Sarge, no need to hold back on my account. The kid asks for it, smack him. Probably won't do any good. But he's got to learn somehow, someday."
Though I was just about convinced that Kip never would.
Only seconds later, Smack!
Kip bounced off Sarge's fist, slammed into a wall, folded up into a very surprised pile of dirty laundry.
Morley said, "Sarge wasn't just a medic. He did one tour training recruits."
I asked, "How'd you teach that kind when you were in the army, Sarge?"
"Ain't dat hard, Garrett. But foist ya do got ta get dere attenshun."
Excellent, in theory. But we were dealing with Cyprus Prose who, I feared, could not be reached by mortal man.
The kid got up, still looking surprised as he shook his head. He started to say something.
Sarge popped him again. Harder.
And, moments later, again, harder still.
And that was all it took. Kip looked right at Sarge, as though really seeing him for the first time.
"Dere. Dat's better. Let's you an' me talk, boy."
Then a miracle occurred.
Kip paid attention.
Morley opined, "I believe it has to do with Sarge having no emotional investment. Everyone else who ever tried to teach the boy manners didn't want to hurt him. Down deep he always knew they'd pull their punches. And they'd give up after they'd failed a few times. So he learned to outlast them. Sarge doesn't have an investment. He doesn't care if the kid lives or dies. He'll just keep on hitting, harder and harder, until he gets results. People sense that. They give him their direction. The way the boy has. Ouch!"
Sarge had smacked Kip again, this time turning him ass over appetite.
"A smart mouth always calls for a little reminder. Let the master work a while. You'll be glad you did."
So I did. I kept one ear turned Sarge's direction while Morley and I tried to figure out what the hell I'd gotten myself into this time. Sarge talked to Kip softly, gently, probing his core knowledge of courtesy and the social graces. Kip knew the forms. What he lacked was any understanding. Sarge managed to pound a few insights into his thick, young-adult skull.
I told Morley, "That sonofabitch just went up about ten notches on my approval board. He had me fooled. You think he could do anything with a blasphemous parrot?"
"Where is the lovable Mr. Big?"
"I'm sure he's out there somewhere, spying on me."
Morley chuckled, but said only, "There's more to almost anyone once you get to know them, Garrett. But you knew that already. It's the kind of thing you're always throwing at me when I've decided it's time to break some totally deserving jerk's arm."
Most of the time he goes for the neck, actually. "That's different."
"Oh, absolutely. Garrett, at the risk of causing you a seizure because of my departure from the norm, you're full of shit."