I arrived at the livery stable after dark. Liz’s office was still closed, but I didn’t know if that meant she was at home awaiting me, or had not returned from her day’s deliveries. I was too tired and sore to worry about it, and she could certainly take care of herself. I knew the noise I made opening the doors and leading the horses inside would alert Hank, who lived with his family in an add-on at the back of the barn.
Sure enough, his napkin from dinner still tucked into the neck of his tunic, Hank came into the barn accompanied by one of his young sons, Howie. Both stopped dead when they saw me. Hank turned up the lamp he carried until I squinted from the glare.
I was a mess. I was covered in scratches, cuts, dirt and blood, and on top of that was so tired I could barely stand, so I understood why Howie slid slowly behind his father’s legs at the sight of me. I dropped from the saddle, leaned on the horse and held the reins out toward Hank.
“Cut yourself shaving?” Hank said drily.
I nodded. “With a hawthorn forest.”
“You too good to take a man’s horse?” Hank said gruffly, and Howie reluctantly took the reins from me. Hank looked over the two additional horses, his expert eyes missing nothing. Their saddles and other gear were expensive, if trail worn, and the animals were clearly well cared for. “Didn’t know you were a horse trader, Mr. LaCrosse,” he said, his flat voice masking most of his suspicion.
“They just fell into my lap,” I said as I waited for the knots to loosen in my lower back. “Ever seen ’em before?”
“Nope.”
“Ever seen any like ’em?”
Hank took the bridle of Frankie’s horse and looked her over. He lifted one foot and inspected the shoe. “Howie, get over here.”
The boy dropped the gray horse’s reins and moved up beside his father. “Hot or cold shoe?” Hank asked.
The boy’s face scrunched up as he studied the foot. “Hot,” he said finally.
“How can you tell?” Hank pressed.
“The line from the old shoe,” he said, and pointed to something I couldn’t see.
“Attaboy,” Hank said proudly, and released the horse’s foot. “Hell, if I don’t teach him, how’s he gonna know?”
“True fact,” I agreed. “Well, if anybody comes to claim them, don’t give them a hard time about it. Just try to get a name for me.”
Suspicion swallowed his fatherly pride. “Is somebody likely to be upset about them being here?”
“Not with you,” I assured him.
“Uh-huh,” he said dubiously. “I don’t handle stolen horses, Mr. LaCrosse. People tend to feel pretty strongly about things like that.”
“These aren’t stolen, Hank. I promise. And I guarantee the previous rightful owners won’t show up to get them back.”
He thoughtfully chewed his lip for a moment. Gravy stained his chin. Then he said to Howie, “Put the two new ones in the stall up front, and then take the mare out to the corral.” To me he said, “If they’re here for more than two days, somebody’ll have to pay for their keep.”
“If they’re here more than two days, you can have them.” I turned, then stopped and faced him again. “And if you ever try to pawn that gray manure pile off on me again, you’ll get back a load of horse meat and glue.”
The gray mare looked back at us with all the equine innocence in the world. “I swear, nobody else has complained about her,” Hank said. “I think you’re just bad with horses.”
I snorted, then waved toward Liz’s office. “Has she come back yet?”
“No, but somebody else came looking for you.”
“The guy with the gloves?”
“No, a woman. Said she was a Mother up at the moon priestess hospital. Her name was… Banner?”
“Bennings,” I corrected. “What did she say?”
“To tell you to come see her as soon as you could.”
“What about?
He shook his head. “She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Don’t care for them priestesses.”
I understood; one of his children had died under a drunken priestess’ care before they came to Neceda. “That’s exactly how I feel about horses.”
I tried the door to Liz’s office on my way out, but it was still locked. I had a key, but this late she’d probably just drop off her horses and wagon and return home. I could wait for her in far more comfort there.
The traffic was sparse as I walked up the street. The taverns, whorehouses and gambling establishments glowed with light and life, and their noise filled the air. As I passed Ditch Street, I paused and looked over the Lizard’s Kiss building. It was dark and apparently lifeless. Tomorrow I’d have to find out who bought it, what was up with the red scarf brigade and how it tied to Marantz.
Now, though, I wanted a quick drink before going home. As I approached the tavern, a man staggered out, one hand to his head. He leaned against the wall and hunched over, and something dark dripped from between the fingers pressed to his skull.
“Hey,” I said, “you all right?”
He looked up. He was in his late teens, and dressed like a Muscodian farmer. He bled from a fresh cut over his right eye, and still had that slightly dazed post-punch demeanor. He stared at me, and it took me a moment to remember how bad I looked. “Wow,” he said raggedly, “did he kick your ass, too?”
I helped him sit on the ground and lean back against the wall. “Did who kick my ass?”
“Some soldier from Sevlow. He was talking to my girl, and I asked him to stop. Next thing I knew I was staring up at the rafters.”
I pulled his fingers away from the cut. The damage wasn’t bad, certainly not permanent. “Let me guess. Big guy, little eyes, not a smiler?”
The farm boy nodded. “That’s him. When my head stops dancing-”
“You’ll go have a drink across town at Long Billy’s,” I said. “I’ve seen this guy, and believe me, he was being generous leaving your head attached to your shoulders.” I wasn’t that impressed by Argoset’s backup, but if this poor kid had been laid out with one punch, he was really out of his league. Better to overscare than underscare.
I helped him to his feet, pressed a coin into his hand and gave him a shove in the right direction. “Thanks, mister,” he said, holding his head with one hand, the money with the other. I sighed at my own idiocy; if I didn’t stop with the charity, I’d soon be so broke I’d have to go squat with Buddy and Bella Lou. There was no question of dipping into the money I’d scavenged from Frankie, either; that had way too much blood on it.
I entered Angelina’s and found the place packed, with a minstrel duo pounding out tunes onstage. The floor vibrated to the peculiar stomp-dancing popular in Muscodia. I went behind the bar, grabbed the stool I kept stashed there for occasions like this and found enough space at the bar for one elbow.
Angelina did a double take when she saw me. “You need a drink,” she said without asking, and put a tankard originally meant for someone else in front of me. When the original customer protested from down the bar she fired back, “Keep your jerkin on!” I nodded gratefully and took a long swallow. There was too much noise for us to talk, but if she’d needed to tell me something, she would’ve found a way. To my relief, she simply went back to work. No news was definitely good news at the moment.
I turned to survey the usual rabble, including many faces I knew but couldn’t put names to, all well into their mugs. Argoset’s big right-hand man sat in a booth, a girl on either side of him; he didn’t appear to have noticed me, and his boss was not around. I didn’t see Gary Bunson anywhere, either, but he had “arrangements” at several other establishments in town, and could be at any of them.
“Mr. LaCrosse!” a female voice cried above the din. I turned to see Callie, Angelina’s wayward waitress, staring at me. She carried a tray laden with ale mugs, and balancing it kept her body at an angle that emphasized her assets. She was arguably the prettiest girl in Neceda, all the more attractive because she didn’t realize it. She was also, alas, dumb as a bag of socks.