"I did it again, eh?"
You get more exercise jumping to conclusions than you do running.
"She's going to be all right?"
Her chances seem good. She will need the attention of a skilled surgeon, though. I have put her into a deep sleep till such time as one becomes available.
"Thanks. So tell me what you got from her."
She had no idea what it was about. She was involved in nothing. She did not know the man who wielded the knife. He left out his usual stock of sarcastic comments when he added, She was just coming to see you. She went to sleep completely bewildered.
He loosened his hold on me, let me settle into the big chair that's there for me when I visit.
Till you lumbered in with your recollections, I assumed it was random violence. Meaning he had sorted through my memories of the chase.
Saucerhead joined us. He leaned on the back of my chair, stared at Tinnie. He jumped to the same conclusion I had. I admired his self-control. He liked Tinnie and had a special place in his heart for guys who wasted women. He'd lost one once, that he'd been hired to protect. No fault of his own. He'd wiped out half a platoon of assassins and had gotten ninety percent killed himself trying to save her. He hadn't been the same since.
I told him, "Smiley over there put her to sleep. She'll be all right, he thinks."
"Sons of bitches must pay anyway," he growled, hanging on to the tough, but he looked relieved all over. I pretended I didn't see his show of "weakness."
The book? the Dead Man asked. That is all you got before the sniping started? Like it was my fault. Some sniping was about to get started here. He knew damned well that was all we'd gotten. He'd sifted our minds.
"That's all." Play it straight. That was my new tactic. It drove him crazy when I didn't fight back.
There was nothing in her thoughts about a book.
"Ain't much to go on," Saucerhead said. He had lost his mad urgency. Tinnie was going to be all right. He didn't have to go out and lay waste. Not right away, anyway. He—and I—would keep an eye out for the characters responsible, though.
No. I suggest you both calm yourselves, then recall those blackguards carefully. Any insignificant detail might be consequential. Garrett, if you feel this is of great importance, you might consider collecting the debt that Chodo Contague imagines he owes you.
A reflection of my thoughts, that. "I will if I have to. Too soon to think about that. I need to see Tinnie taken care of and get my mind straightened out before I go off on any crusade." That was a straight line of the sort he scarfs up usually, but this time he let it slide. "Something happens and she goes, I'll ring in Chodo like that... ." I snapped my fingers. I'm a fountain of talent.
Chodo Contague, often called the kingpin, is the grand master of organized crime in TunFaire. In some ways he's more powerful than the King. He's no friend. He's damned near the embodiment of everything I hate, the kind of creep I got into my line to pull down. But just by doing my job I've managed to do him some accidental favors. He has an obsessive, if skewed, sense of honor. The slimeball thinks he owes me, and I'll be damned if he won't do almost anything to pay the debt. If I wanted, I could say the word and he'd put two thousand thugs on the street to make us square.
I've avoided collecting because I don't want my name associated with his. Not in any way. Be bad for business if people suspected I was on his pad.
Hell. I haven't really said what I do I'm what the guys who don't like me call a peeper. An investigator and confidential agent, the way I put it. Pay me—up front— and I'll find out things. More often than not, things you didn't really want to know. I don't dig up much good news. That's the nature of the racket.
On the confidential-agent side I'll do a stand-in, like pay off a kidnapper or blackmailer for you, and make sure there's no last-second comedy. I've worked hard to build a rep as a straight arrow, a guy who plays square, who comes down like the proverbial ton if you mess with my client. Which is why I wouldn't want anybody to think I'd roll over for Chodo.
If Tinnie died, I'd change my rules. For Tinnie it would be dead ahead full speed, and whoever got in my way had best have his gods paid off because I wouldn't slow down till I ate somebody's liver. If Tinnie died.
The Dead Man said she ought to pull through. I hoped he was right. This once. Usually I hope he's wrong because he's damned near infallible and works hard reminding me of that.
Dean came in with a tray, beer, and stronger spirits if we needed them. Saucerhead took a beer. So did I. "That's good. That hits the spot after all that running."
The Dead Man sent, I suggest you go see her uncle. Inform him what has happened and find out about arrangements. Perhaps he can give you a clue.
Yeah. He had to bring it up. I'd been wondering about who was going to tell the family. There had to be somebody I could stick with that little chore.
The candidates constitute a horde of one, Garrett.
He figured that out all by himself. He is a genius. A certified—and certifiable—genius. Just ask him. He'll tell you about it for hours.
Any other time I would have given him a ration of lip. This time the specter of Willard Tate got in the way. "All right. I'm on my way."
"Me too," Saucerhead said. "There's some things I want to check out."
Excellent. Excellent. Now everything is under control I can catch up on my sleep.
Catch up. Right. In all the years I've known him his waking time hasn't added up to six months.
I let Saucerhead out the front door. Then I headed for the kitchen, got Dean to draw me another of those wonderful beers. "Have to replace everything I sweated out."
He scowled. He has some strong opinions about the way I Jive. Though he's an employee, I let him speak his mind. We have an understanding. He talks, I don't listen. Keeps us both happy.
I hit the street without much enthusiasm. Old Man Tate and I aren't bosom buddies. I did a job for him once, and for a while afterward he'd thought well of me, but a year of me playing push-me pull-you with Tinnie had somehow soured his outlook.
4
The Tate place will fool you. It's supposed to. From outside it looks like a block of old warehouses nobody bothered to keep up. You can see why from the street out front. First, the Hill. Our overlords are buzzards watching for fortunes to flay through the engines of the law Second, the slums below. They produce extremely hungry and unpleasant fellows, some of whom will turn you inside out for a copper sceat.
Thus, the Tate place pretending to be poverty's birthplace.
The Tates are shoemakers who turn out army boots and pricey stuff for the ladies of the Hill. They're all masters. They have more wealth than they know what to do with.
I gave their gate a good rattle. A young Tate responded He was armed. Tinnie was the only Tate I knew who faced the world outside unarmed. "Garrett. Haven't seen you for a while."
"Tinnie and I were feuding again."
He frowned. "She went out a couple hours ago. I thought she was headed your way."
"She was. I came to see Uncle Willard. It's important." The kid's eyes got big. Then he grinned. I guess he figured I was going to pop the question. He opened up. "Can't guarantee he'll see you. You know how he is."
"Tell him it can't wait till it's convenient."
He muttered, "Must have been hell being snowed in." He locked the gate. "Rose will be devastated."
"She'll live." Rose was Willard's daughter, his only surviving offspring, hotter than three little bonfires and as twisted as a rope of braided snakes. "She always bounces back."
The kid snickered. None of the Tates had much use for Rose. She was pure trouble. And she never learned.