Despite the open doorways it was much warmer in there than out front.
John Stretch spotted me, beckoned. He looked smugly pleased. I went to find out why.
The lord of the ratmen indicated the under-stage pit. It was filthy with bug scraps. The Rocker himself had returned to his station. He no longer had anything to do.
‘‘All right. It’s a mess. But that isn’t it. Is it?’’
‘‘No. It is that there are no more bugs coming. The rats are finding very few down below now, too. Just grubs. The burned-out rats come up carrying them. Carrying food back to the nest.’’
‘‘Good. That’s good.’’
‘‘It is an instinct thing.’’
‘‘That’s good.’’
‘‘I have enough of them back out now to get a feel for the way it is down there. I am going to examine them.’’
‘‘By all means. That’s excellent.’’ Then, fearing he might think I was being patronizing, ‘‘Maybe that’ll give us enough to get this part wrapped up.’’
So, then, the ghosts. Once the spooks were settled my job would be done.
I could hope. I could pray. Knowing prayer would set them to howling in the heavenly jakes. Nothing could work out that well. Hell, this had been going on for days. I hadn’t gotten my head kicked in once—though the Stompers did have that on their agenda. I’d received no death threats meant to scare me off. I’d run into no villainy that couldn’t be explained by simple stupidity. There’d been a corpse, or two—one barely qualifying as negligent homicide.
I did my damnedest not to invite recompense for hubris.
Pular Singe scooted in, all flustered, whiskers flaring, ears folded back. ‘‘You have to stop them!’’
All right. Maybe I could do that. Given something to go on.
Singe took a moment out of her excitement to greet her brother, who waved vaguely because he was communing with some of his unmodified cousins.
Sort of ironic. The sorcerous by-blow of a prior century trying to exterminate those of the present.
Singe reclaimed the frenzy. ‘‘I am afraid one of them will do something neither will be able to take back.’’
I thought I got that. ‘‘Ease up, girl. Who? What? Where? Basic stuff like that.’’
‘‘Oh. Yes. That. All right. Mr. Dotes. Miss Contague. They are having a huge fight. It started after I told Mr. Dotes that the stinking man is out there watching and I think I know how to catch him.’’
One eyebrow up and the other eye squinting because she isn’t usually so formal, I wondered, ‘‘Why would they argue? Does Lurking Felhske work for Belinda?’’
‘‘Oh. No. Mr. Dotes decided he would not need Miss Contague’s financial assistance after all. Since he was about to come into a large sum by selling the stinking man.’’
‘‘And, naturally, he didn’t have Lurking Felhske in the bag when he decided that.’’
‘‘Correct.’’
Counting chickens. I couldn’t do anything but shake my head. That was so unlike Morley, the born-again pragmatic realist. Had he caught something from Winger? Or maybe a Saucerhead with a hangover having an especially feeble-minded morning after one of his periodic breakups? No way. Not the count of cool, Morley Dotes.
‘‘Stay with John Stretch. See if he reports anything we can use right now.’’ I headed out fast, worried that I had made a lethal mistake by not staying with Morley and Belinda. How could Morley have abandoned basic common sense? Nobody gets into a pissing contest with Belinda Contague. She’ll whack your pisser off and make you feed it to the hogs.
Puddle and the unnamed henchman were still shuffling around in the cold out front, feeling much put upon by their captain. Puddle had the look of a lost four-year-old. As I passed them I said, ‘‘Come on. Sounds like Morley has done something stupid. We might have to bail him out.’’
Right. If it came to knuckles and head-bashing, Belinda only had her big, healthy six to our seriously-out-of-shape three.
Belinda’s bunch were standing around sharing hot tea and bullshit with Saucerhead’s crew like they were old pals. Which they might be. It’s a big city but guys in similar rackets tend to know each other.
I slowed to what I hoped would appear to be a disinterested pace as I went by. I exchanged good-natured insults with Belinda’s chief driver, who hated me for the luck I’d had. The four footmen didn’t bother to check me out. But the final villain, probably officially Belinda’s bodyguard, tried fixing me with the hard stare. I considered giving it right back. But that’s an invitation to butt heads until somebody can’t crawl away. I didn’t find him scary, unlike some who had gone before him. Who were no longer above ambient temperature. Or ground.
I winked and got on with tracking Morley.
‘‘That one guy is coming after us, Mr. Garrett,’’ unnamed henchman reported nervously.
‘‘All right. If it gets exciting, you and Puddle sit on him while I crack some heads.’’
The storm had passed. Though they still eyed one another sullenly, Morley and Belinda had not come to blows. They were talking business.
Belinda snapped, ‘‘What the hell are you doing here?’’
‘‘Came over to protect my investment.’’
‘‘Investment? In what? You aren’t part of this.’’
‘‘In friendship. There was a rumor that you two were behaving badly. Thought I’d make sure nobody did anything stupid.’’
Miss Contague glowered. She manages that with a furious impact. It’s the blood. You look at her and forget the cold beauty. You just remember that she’s Chodo Contague’s daughter, old Death on the Hoof himself. You recall times when she made her pop look like a pansy dance instructor.
She said nothing now. Nor did Morley. ‘‘Have you worked it out? Morley? You letting a deal float on your skill at predicting the outcome of a water spider race?’’ I tried giving him a meaningful look. No doubt he thought I was constipated.
Puddle, Unnamed, and Belinda’s bodyguard hung out around the doorway, bewildered.
Morley told me, ‘‘I’ve got it under control. Just had a minute when wishful thinking got the upper hand on common sense.’’
Deadly calm, Belinda said, ‘‘He thought he could do business the way he plays at romance. He found me less pliable than his preferred women.’’
‘‘Kind of the way the rumor ran, too, best buddy. Don’t go betting to a pair in the bush that you haven’t even seen yet. When you’ve already agreed to play a different hand.’’
‘‘Your metaphors are as feeble as ever, Garrett. But you are sniffing the right trail. I did let reality get away for a second. It’s slippery, some days. I got a little overheated. Being an adult, I recognized the futility and got it under control. The tempest is over. You had palpitations for nothing.’’
He glanced at the group by the door. The boggled boys. Who really had no part in things. Useless.
Belinda nodded. Agreeing with Morley and, likely, with what I was thinking. For a moment I got lost in those incredible blue eyes. Then managed to mutter, ‘‘Gods damn! It’s hard to be a grown-up.’’
Morley looked disappointed. But I’d gotten the point of his odd little speech. All was not as well as he was saying.
What more could I do? He’d made his bed. I’d made sure the sheets weren’t bloody.
‘‘All right. If all is well, I’m going back to work. But you two better behave. I don’t want my best friends quarreling like street urchins.’’
That fooled nobody. Except maybe the witnesses by the door. But it let Belinda know where I stood. And my opinion, for some reason, does carry weight with her.
That had been explained to me, including by the man at risk here, but I still don’t, down in my liver, completely understand. But I found out long since that understanding isn’t nearly as important as acceptance with some things.
Morley said, ‘‘I’ll come over after I finish showing Belinda what we’re going to do here. Ask Singe to wait for me.’’
It was the kind of straight line Morley doesn’t give up often. But I let it go. More of that belated growing up, I guess. Why go for a joke that belittles one friend in order to score a point on another?