"As good as they've ever been. As good as they've ever been."
Which still meant a slight floor loss in favor of the workforce, probably limited to what was consumed on the premises. Which was fine with Old Man Weider.
Mr. Burkel handed me a huge stein. As chance would have it, that stein was filled with beer. "This is a new wheat we've just started shipping." I sipped half a pint.
"And a fine brew it is, Mr. Burkel. It's heavier than the lager but lighter than the dark I usually prefer." I forebore tossing in some wine snob chat. He wouldn't get the joke. "This's why I like Old Man Weider. He's always trying something. Thanks. Maybe I'll come through again on my way out."
"Do. Now answer me something, Garrett. How come you got a stuffed bird on your shoulder? Looks goofy as hell."
"It's not stuffed. It's alive. It's kind of a signature thing. Other guys in my racket all got a gimmick."
"Oh." You'd have thought I was threatening to tell him about my new wall coverings. "Well, you be careful out there, Garrett."
"Likewise, Mr. Burkel."
16
The Weider freight docks are chaos incarnate, yet out of that confusion flows the lifeblood of the tavern industry. From its heart to its nethermost extremities beer is the blood and soul of the metropolis.
The teamsters and deckhands received me with mixed emotions, as always. Some were friendly, or pretended to be. Others scowled. Maybe some of those were involved in the theft ring I rooted out. They might figure I done them wrong because stealing from the boss is a worker's birthright.
Shadows were gathering in the dockyard. Hostlers had begun retiring the incoming teams. After dark only outside haulers would be loaded. This was a time of day the dockworkers liked. They could get lazy.
It was also the time of day when a keg or three could disappear most easily.
I planted the other side of my lap on a returned empty meant to go back to the cooperage yard for repairs. I stayed out of the way, let the noise and chatter wash over me. The Goddamn Parrot muttered but did not lapse into filth. What little I understood sounded like random thoughts from one of the Dead Man's secondary minds. He must be distracted.
I listened. I overheard almost nothing about the political situation and less about what everybody thought I might be after. I didn't mind. I didn't expect anybody to be dumb enough to plot right in front of me, though the criminal class does boast a rich vein of stupidity.
Mostly I watched how guys behaved when they knew I was watching.
Nobody acted guilty.
"Garrett?"
I opened my eyes. I'd been on the brink of falling asleep. The long nights were catching up.
"Gilbey?" Manvil Gilbey masquerades as Old Man Weider's batman but he's no servant. The bond between them goes back to their army days and is unshakable. Nobody can indict its rectitude, either. Gilbey had a wife who died. Weider still has one he worships. If Max is the brain of the brewing empire, Manvil Gilbey is its soul and conscience.
"Max requests the honor of your company whenever you can get over to the house."
Gilbey needed a few quaffs of the product. He's all right once he's had a few.
"I'll be over before it gets completely dark."
"Good enough." Gilbey turned and marched away.
A driver called Sparky observed, "That's one guy what never should of got outta the army."
"Always on the parade ground, isn't he?"
"He's all right, you get to know him."
"One of the good people," I agreed.
"He just never learned to take it easy."
"The streets are filled with people like that these days."
"Tell me about it," Sparky grumbled. "When I get off I've been driving and hossing them barrels for twelve, fourteen hours. All I want to do is get home and collapse. So what happens every goddamned night? I've got to walk a mile through morons trying to save the world from the guy next door. And every damned one of them wants me to join his mob. They get deaf as a cobblestone when you tell them to just leave you the fuck alone."
Another driver said, "I'm thinking about just camping out here till this shit blows over. I'm fed up having to duck a fight every time I go somewhere."
I suggested, "Maybe you could try a different route. Those rights guys only show up where they think they can start something. I didn't get any hassles coming down here. I don't get much trouble at all, really."
"You think walking around with that stick and stuff don't make a difference? Them assholes ain't ready to work for it yet."
"Yeah, Garrett. Mosta dem fucks be scared shitless of a guy wit' a eagle on his shoulder."
"Thank you, Zardo. But don't give the buzzard a swelled head." I tote my headknocker everywhere these days. Times have grown so interesting that I no longer feel foolish being cautious. "You want to buy this bird, Zardo? Sparky? I'll cut you a deal. I'll throw in an eye patch."
"Dat'd just be askin' for trouble. I couldn't fight my way outta a weddin' reception."
Sparky said, "I spent my five doing the same thing I do here, Garrett. I never touched a weapon after Basic."
I didn't know Sparky well enough to preach to him so I just shrugged. "Life's never kind to the good-hearted. I had a friend once who recited a poem over and over about how good men die while the wicked prosper. One of the best men I ever knew. What the crocodile didn't eat we buried in a swamp on an island down south."
"I know that pome."
"I'd better head for the big house."
"Sure. Something I wanted to ask you, though."
"Yeah? What?"
"That bird. It's stuffed. Right?"
"You got a bet on? It's alive. It's just doped." On idiocy-suppressing thoughts from the Dead Man. "If I don't dope it, it cusses worse than old Matt Berry. Usually at somebody who could yank off both of my arms with one hand tied behind his back."
"Oh." Sparky seemed disappointed. He must have lost the bet.
17
I dropped off the dock, strolled toward the stables. Going through was the fastest way to the big house.
I was halfway through, stepping carefully, when I found myself at the heart of a sudden triangle of guys who didn't look very friendly.
Morley's oft-given advice was sinking in. Or maybe I was just in a bad mood. Or maybe I was just impatient. I didn't ask what anybody wanted.
I spun. My oak headknocker tapped the temple of the guy moving up behind me. The pound of lead inside the stick's business end added emphasis to my argument. His eyes glazed. He went down without a word.
I continued to turn, dropped, laid my next love tap on the side of the knee of a huge Weider teamster. He was just getting a fist wound up.
His legs folded. I rose past him, tapped him on his bald spot, stepped aside as he sprawled, turned to the last character. "Something on your feeble mind?"
He kept coming even though he had no tools. That didn't seem encouraging. Why the confidence? I feinted a tap at an elbow, buried the tip of my stick in his breadbasket. He whooshed a bushel of bad breath. I whapped the side of his head, then found out why he kept on coming.
A second wave of three materialized. These boys looked like they were accustomed to muscle work. I didn't recognize any of them. On the plus side, none of them were behind me.
While they decided what to do because Plan One had burned up in their fingers I rethumped everybody already down. I didn't want any surprises.
One of the new bunch grabbed a pitchfork. Another collected a shovel. I didn't like the implications.
The Goddamn Parrot, who had elevated himself to a stringer overhead when the excitement started, said, "Awk! Garrett's in deep shit now."
The third man, who seemed to be in charge, hung back to direct traffic. He and his pals all looked up when the bird spoke.