He shrugged. ‘‘I trust people till they give me reason not to.’’
‘‘I’ve noticed. But see if you can recruit him.’’
‘‘Me?’’
‘‘They very one. He knows you. He’d think I’m some pervert trying to pull him in.’’
‘‘I can see how he’d think that. You have that look.’’
I speared a sausage and ignored him, except to say, ‘‘Round him up. As soon as you can.’’
I met the kid on the stoop. He was nine or ten. There was nothing remarkable about him. Wild red hair. Freckles. Big ears and fat front teeth. Gray-green eyes. Ragged clothes. Nervous smile. I gave him two coppers, the message, and instructions on how to get to Playmate’s stable. ‘‘Three more coppers when you bring back an answer.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’ Off he went. He acquired an escort of three younger siblings before he got to the intersection with Wizard’s Reach.
12
Singe wandered into my office. ‘‘Playmate is here.’’
‘‘His own self? Already?’’
‘‘Yes. And yes. I’m off to get John Stretch. Close the door behind me.’’
Instead, I closed the door behind me. Playmate couldn’t leave his coach unattended. A coach that wasn’t his to lose. He has a mildly disreputable penchant for borrowing vehicles left in his care. Sometimes to help me. We’ve been fortunate enough not to destroy one yet. But one time we did forget to take a body out.
Play brought the children back. The message kid met me with both hands out. I paid even though he hadn’t brought a message.
‘‘What’s this?’’ I asked Playmate. Indicating the huge, burr-headed man leaning on the mahogany coachwork. Play hadn’t left the driver’s seat. ‘‘How you doing, Saucerhead? What’re you doing here?’’
‘‘I was over to Play’s when your message come. I didn’t have nothing to do. Any shit involving you usually gets entertaining. So I decided to tag along.’’
Probably hoping to pick up a few loose coins himself.
Saucerhead Tharpe isn’t quite as big as Playmate. And not much smarter than the horses pulling that coach. But he is more social. Than both. And he’s handy to have around.
People don’t argue with Saucerhead. Not for long.
‘‘I’m not hiring,’’ I said. ‘‘Not right now.’’
Tharpe shrugged. His shoulders were mountain ranges heaving. He needed new clothes to cover them. A bath would contribute something positive, too. And a date with a razor would help. ‘‘Don’t matter, Garrett. I’m not working. Not right now.’’
‘‘You’ll be the first to hear when I do need help.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ He scowled. He knew where I’d turn first. ‘‘Thanks.’’
I throw work his way when I can. He’s a good friend, long on loyalty but short on critical life skills. He never learned how to think about tomorrow.
‘‘Tag along if you want. I’m just gonna shake some bugs out of a place Old Man Weider is building.’’
‘‘You in the extermination racket now?’’
‘‘Not quite. These are special bugs. Here they come.’’ Meaning Singe, John Stretch, and several of Stretch’s associates. Each lugging a clever wicker cage filled with quarrelsome critters. Up close, those were the nastiest rats I ever saw. Pit bull rats. Champion fighting cock rats. I grumbled, ‘‘Did you need to bring the ones that are foaming at the mouth?’’
Singe countered, ‘‘There you go, exaggerating again. Hello, Mr. Tharpe. How is Grosziella?’’
Grosziella? Who would that be?
‘‘We broke up. I . . .’’ Saucerhead launched a tale told many times. The names change but he keeps connecting, and disconnecting, with the same woman. They could wear the same underwear.
John Stretch told me, ‘‘I thought you would want enthusiasm.’’ The last word arrived in a flurry of lisps.
‘‘As long as they save it for the bugs. Everybody set? You bringing all these handlers?’’
‘‘Have to. Too many rats for me to manage alone.’’
Singe said, ‘‘I need to run inside for a minute.’’
I told John Stretch, ‘‘I don’t see how we can get them and the cages all inside the coach.’’ I watched Singe climb the steps. She’s worse than Tinnie, sometimes. And Tinnie must have a bladder the size of a grape.
13
John Stretch and his crew began unloading cages.
I frowned at the World. Construction had stopped. ‘‘Am I missing a holiday? Did the weekend sneak up on me?’’
I went looking for Handsome. I found a pair of Civil Guards instead. They were all shiny and self-important in the new, pale blue uniforms. They wore red flop hats and brandished tin whistles.
They ambled over. One eyed the rat cages, horrified. The other looked away. ‘‘Who’re you, ace?’’
He tweaked that nerve. ‘‘Deuce Tracy. Who’s asking? And why?’’ I didn’t feel hard-ass enough not to fish out my note from the Boss, though.
The Watchman considered exercising his right to be obnoxious. He accepted the note instead. He looked at it upside down, then passed it to the man who could pretend to read. After surveying Playmate and Saucerhead, the red tops opted for manners. For the moment.
They did have those tin whistles.
Playmate and Saucerhead are intimidating just standing around picking their noses. Especially Tharpe. He looks exactly like what he is, a professional bonebreaker of considerable skill. One who wouldn’t scruple about busting the skull of a tin whistle if the mood took him.
The second Watchman said, ‘‘It do look like he’s got business here, Git. This is from Weider himself.’’
I use Watch and Civil Guard interchangeably. There is a distinction, mainly of importance to Colonel Westman Block. The Civil Guard is supposed to be the new order of honest lawmen. The old Watch is supposed to wither away. When the new order gets as corrupt as the old, they’ll hire some new thugs and change the name again.
Git rumbled, ‘‘Just trying to do the job, Bank.’’
‘‘Sure. So. Mr. Chief Security Adviser. We still need to ask you a few.’’
‘‘Fine by me. Right after you answer me just one. What’re you doing here? John, you guys go ahead. Get after it.’’
Git answered for his partner. ‘‘There was a murder. We’re supposed to find something out. If there’s anything to be found.’’
That startled me. ‘‘A murder? Here?’’
Bank said, ‘‘An old man named Brent Talanta. Usually called Handsome. You knew him?’’
‘‘I met him yesterday. I came over after getting the assignment from Weider.’’
‘‘About?’’
‘‘You read it in the pass. He thinks there’s sabotage. I’m supposed to make it stop. What happened to Handsome?’’
The Watchmen eyeballed Playmate and Tharpe. Not recognizing them, except as seriously dangerous.
Git said, ‘‘He got dead.’’
Bank added, ‘‘Messily. How ain’t clear. Something tried to eat him.’’
I lost my inclination to be disagreeable.
We watched the ratmen take cages into the World. I said, ‘‘That puts us on the same team. Did feral dogs get him?’’
‘‘That mean wild?’’ Git asked.
‘‘Yeah.’’
Feral dogs are a problem. They’ll hit a corpse but I’ve never heard of them killing anybody.
‘‘Definitely not dogs,’’ Bank said. ‘‘And what tried to eat him ain’t what killed him. There wasn’t no sign of a fight. But what tried to eat him could be in cahoots with what killed him. If he didn’t die in his sleep. Or commit suicide.’’
We swapped questions for a while. Then Bank quizzed me on the financial side of being a freelancer. Grousing, ‘‘This racket ain’t what it was in my father’s day.’’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘‘And that’s the point of all the reform.’’
Neither Git nor Bank liked that. Which told me they were holdovers from the old regime. It also told me they must be reasonably honest guys or they’d be out looking for work in a bad postwar job market.
‘‘Handsome dying the reason nobody’s working?’’
Bank said, ‘‘You’d have to ask the people who didn’t show up.’’
Which made sense. I’d get an employee roster if the case dragged on.