She’d keep an eye out while I was gone. The most interesting stuff happens at my place when I’m not home. That’s when the stupid shines. That’s when the unprepared find out that they should’ve done more research. The Dead Man has fun with stupid thugs. My partner can be as cruel as a cat with an unbreakable mouse. But, oh, woe! He was on a sleeping holiday today. “What kind of kittens are those?” I wondered out loud. They looked like basic gray stripy alley lurkers, but not quite. They were odd. However, all I know about cats is that I like them better than dogs, except maybe beagle and sausage dog puppies.
Oh, wondrous day! Singe and John Stretch both actually understood that I didn’t expect an answer. Both looked like they expected praise for being that clever.
I nodded and smiled my approval.
Speaking of pixies, which I wasn’t, “Melondie. Did you guys get into some poison, or something? I’ve never heard you all so quiet.”
Miss Kadare fluttered over a tad drunkenly. She assumed a widespread stance on my left palm, hands on hips, wobbling, not in time to the coach’s rocking.
“You been drinking?” Pixies love alcohol.
“Not a drop.” She staggered, plopped down on her tiny but gorgeous behind.
“You are drunk!” I accused.
“No way!” she snapped. Then she giggled. “I don’t know what’s happened. I was fine when we flew in here.”
The other pixies were drunk, too. Most more so than Melondie Kadare.
I nudged a curious kitten away from a male pixie who had fallen to the coach floor and lay there on his back, buzzing occasionally, like a downed locust.
It was weird. But I had trouble giving a rat’s ass. I was mellow, at peace. Without personal ambition whatsoever.
Some acquaintances would insist that was nothing new.
Singe and John Stretch seemed vaguely puzzled and sleepy.
Ditto, the rats.
I never heard of a drunk spell, but that didn’t mean one couldn’t exist. It only meant that I’d never been hit by one before.
The pixies passed out. I started suffering urges to sing the Marine Corps hymn or something similarly patriotic. Which don’t hit me when I get snockered the hard way. Not often.
The coach suddenly bucked, jolted to a halt. What the hell? Traffic couldn’t be that bad. Could it?
I was two heartbeats away from falling asleep when Playmate yanked the door open. “We’re here. Huh? What’s the matter with you all?”
I extended a hand. He helped me descend as elegantly as a duchess. Good man he, he did the same with John Stretch and Pular Singe while deftly keeping the kittens from getting away.
He closed the door on the pixies and baby cats. “What I’m going to do now is, I’m going to stay right here. I’ll come in and pull you out if something bad happens.” That said a ton about Playmate. “That’s white of you, Play. I’ll be more relaxed in there, knowing you’ll rescue me if I need it.”
Playmate had nothing more to say. His eyes had begun to wobble. Meantime, I was recovering. Fast.
I was way early in arriving. Even so, several coaches were lined up beside the hall already, each cared for by somebody big and dumb and covered with scars. And with tattoo collections for seasoning. They stared at my companions and their cages filled with rats.
“Round up those kittens, Singe.” The drunk was gone. Just that fast.
“You want to take them inside?”
“Oh, hell yeah. They’re going to be all over in there.”
These kittens did not behave like cats. They weren’t contrary. They let themselves be caught and tucked into their bucket, with the cloth folded over them, theoretically to keep them in. Only a couple had to be caught and tucked a second time.
“How many of these monsters are there?” I asked Singe. I couldn’t get a hard count. Hasty estimates during the day had ranged from four to nine. Since even a dead cat can create havoc in two places at once, I suspected the true number was closer to four. Singe said, “Five or six. It’s hard to tell because their markings are so alike.”
It didn’t matter. As long as I had the majority with me when I went in.
As I approached the goons checking invitations, I tried to work out why I thought I should go armed with baby cats.
I guess because I hoped nobody would stay belligerent with a gang of them underfoot.
One of the goons asked, “The hell you luggin’ a pail a pussy for, slick?”
“Somebody might want a kitten. I got some to adopt out.” I saluted him with my pussy pail and strolled on into Whitefield Hall.
12
Belinda had a second goon squad set up behind an inverted L of tables inside the front entrance. Clever girl, she’d made sure these guys weren’t beholden to her. They were freelancers. Saucerhead Tharpe was one. I recognized two of his three companions, Orion Comstock and June Nicolist. Both had reputations much like Tharpe’s. Absolutely neutral. “Garrett.”
“Mr. Tharpe.” I’ve known him for years, but his real first name escaped me. No matter. He prefers Saucerhead.
“Anything to declare?”
“Eh?”
“Weapons. Of any sort. You got ’em, you got to declare ’em. You don’t got to surrender ’em, though we’d rather you did. You do, June gives you one of them beautiful scarves. You collect your tools when you leave.” June held up a bright green kerchief. He had a pile handy, and a grin that betrayed teeth of the same shade. Saucerhead said, “That’ll mark you safe.”
“All right. Give me a hankie. This’s all I’ve got. One bucket of cats.” One bucket of remarkable cats. There was something wrong with them. Any other litter would have staged several jailbreaks by now.
Saucerhead eyed the kittens. He looked at me. “You’re serious.”
“As a dose of typhoid.” I needed to move on. I had to fix up some way for Melondie Kadare to sneak inside.
Tharpe asked, “You didn’t even bring your knob-knocker?”
“Nope. Nothing but my own bare hands.”
Saucerhead sighed. “You may be sorry.”
“I’m a trained Royal Marine.”
“You used to be. Here.” He handed me a yellow kerchief instead of letting June give me a green one.
“Yellow, huh?”
“It don’t mean nothing. Green and yellow was what was the cheapest.”
“What keeps a guy from just stuffing the hankie in his pocket?”
“Nothing. Except that you should be wearing it.”
He waved me past. I proceeded to hunt for a window to crack. Behind me, Saucerhead’s pals expressed doubts about me being the famous Garrett.
I was still looking for a window when I spied a plump brown rat. The critter took time out to stop and wink.
Once I jiggered a window, Melondie and her swarm wobbled inside and fluttered around, finding places to hide. Nobody noticed. Everybody focused on a screeching knock-down-drag-out about table setups. I shut the window, grabbed my bucket, went looking for the hostess and guest of honor.
I heard scurryings in the walls and floors and the hum of little wings overhead.
I glanced back. Somebody I didn’t know was suffering through Saucerhead’s checkpoint.
Maybe Tharpe did do me a favor. He never patted me down like that. Though if I wanted to sneak something in, I would’ve hidden it under a stack of docile baby cats.
Whitefield Hall had been slapped together with nothing but function in mind. It was mainly an open floor where you could dance, hold a banquet, have a grand meeting, put on a play, do anything you wanted to do without having to endure a lot of weather. Nowadays plays were the big thing.