Authors: Glen Cook
I said, “We’re wandering far afield. Let’s scope out what to do about this killer.”
“You buy that about it coming back from the dead?”
“You mean like there’s been outbreaks before?”
Block nodded.
“From him, yeah. I buy it. We’d better dig into the old records. You have the manpower and access for that, and the clout to get around functionaries.”
“What do I look for?”
“I don’t know. A common thread. Anything. If the same spirit is coming back again and again, then it’s been caught and stopped before. We see what they did back then, we can do it now. And maybe figure out how they screwed up so the cure didn’t take.”
“If your buddy don’t have something he caught from Barking Dog.”
“Yeah. If.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I saw the first guy alive and dressed. I’ll work the clothes and hope I get lucky again.”
He eyed me narrowly. He thought I knew something. I did, but what good would it do to tell him there was a survivor of a murder attempt—and she was Chodo Contague’s kid? He’d get himself a case of heart troubles complicated by hemorrhoids.
“Right. So tell me one thing, Garrett. What the hell is Morley Dotes doing here?”
He wasn’t dumb enough not to know that Morley and I went way back. “I know what he is, Block. And I know what he isn’t.” But how to explain that this professional killer never offed anybody who hadn’t asked for it? How explain that Morley had standards less flexible than most people on the right side of the law? “He’s my window onto the other side of TunFaire. There’s anything to find out there, he’ll find it.” I hoped.
I wasn’t sure why I’d sent Dean for Morley, now, though it had seemed the thing to do at the time. Maybe he could conjure me a connection with Chodo’s kid. She had to know something. Her pretty head might hold the one fact we needed to nail this butterfly freak.
Right. She was the type who saw nothing but herself. She’d probably forgotten butterfly granddad as soon as the fear went away.
Block scowled, not liking Morley being involved. Gods spare me the born again—even when they’re born again only so they can cover their asses. “Don’t go righteous on me,” I said. “It won’t help.” How did he know, anyway? Morley was keeping his head down.
Block’s scowl deepened. “I’ll go get my men started. I’ll let you know what they find.”
Sure he would. After he milked every ounce of advantage. My opinion of him had improved, but not so much I didn’t think he was a born functionary. Him using me was still a desperation measure.
“Do.” I saw him into the drizzle, then went to find out what the Dead Man thought.
30
“Another thousand marks if I wrap it permanently?”
So the man promised. He delivered before.
The Dead Man was pleased with himself for having wangled another cash commitment from Block.
“Occasionally I’ve complained about the way you—”
Occasionally? Would you not prefer ‘frequently’? Or ‘consistently’? Possibly even ‘persistently’ or ‘continuously’?
“Once in a while. Whenever the seven-year locusts sing. But I did want to make the opposite point. That was a coup, getting him to pay again.”
He is desperate.
“And desperate times are the best times for those who are alert to opportunity. I understand. What do you think about interviewing Chodo’s daughter?”
Morley had invited himself out of my office into the Dead Man’s room. Now he invited himself to comment. “This came up before. My overtures were
not
greeted with cries of joy.”
“Leave it to me. I got style. Get word to Crask that I want to talk about the girl. Don’t say what girl. He don’t know I know who she is.”
“I don’t get it. How can he not know? . . . ”
“You don’t have to get it. Just tell him I want to talk to him about a girl. You don’t say which one, he’ll know what I mean. Him and me can take it from there.”
“You’re working an angle, Garrett. You ought to know better. You always get yourself into deep shit. What is it? Don’t try anything with the kingpin’s kid. You get a notion like that, slash your wrists and save the rest of us some grief.”
“What do you think?” I asked the Dead Man.
An interview with the girl may prove unproductive, but an interview is necessary to demonstrate that. If possible, arrange to see her here.
“The very core of my master plan.”
You lie. But I do trust your sense of self-preservation will deflect your inclinations.
“I am a mature human being, sir. I do not look upon all members of the opposite sex as objects of desire.”
Morley sneered. “Only those over eight and under eighty.”’
“You’re not helping. Sure, I don’t plan to be in bed alone when I go. But I don’t plan to go for a couple centuries, either.”
Ha. I convinced me. All but one tiny part that wondered what I’d do if Chodo’s daughter suffered some miraculous remission and not only became able to see me but decided to whisper sweet nothings . . . Sometimes even the stoutest-hearted of us white knights find the dictates of reason, conscience, and survival overruled by parts not amenable to the dictates of the mind. There’s a sociopath in each of us just waiting to miss the connection between an act and its consequences.
“Right.” Morley didn’t believe me.
I got the impression the Dead Man didn’t either.
My own doubts were less apocalyptic. I’d seen enough of the woman to have become deafened to the sirens of that fantasy. I might snort and stamp, but I wouldn’t lose control. She wasn’t my type.
We talked about this and that till Morley decided he’d heard enough bad news. He said, “If I’m away too long, Puddle and Sarge and the kid will have me set for the poorhouse.”
“Sure. Let’s go watch them race the flying pigs.” I saw Morley out, rejoined the Dead Man.
What now, Garrett?
“I’m thinking real hard about taking a nap.”
Indeed? And what was that Mr. Amato brought? I trust that you do recall that we have another iron in the fire?
“Come on. You want me to drag that mess down to Hullar?”
It occurred to me that doing so might be useful in more than the obvious way. When you deliver the report, invest a few minutes in trying to learn if anyone knows why the Contague woman turned up there.
“I did wonder about that.”
But you were not ambitious enough to pursue it. You really must make TNT your motto, Garrett.
“TNT?”
Today, Not Tomorrow. Take it from an expert. The only thing one should defer is one’s final appointment with Death.
Hang around with the Dead Man long enough and you can read him well enough to get messages that aren’t in his words. What he hadn’t said but meant was that if I didn’t go make myself a nuisance at Hullar’s place, I wouldn’t get any peace at home.
You compromise. That’s life. Every day you make deals that buy you peace—or an opportunity for a good night’s sleep.
I decided the path of least resistance lay through Bishoff Hullar’s taxi-dance place.
31
Crunch and I were getting to be buddies. After only five minutes of squinting and thinking he remembered that I preferred beer. That saved him one question in his routine. I saved him the others by asking for a pint of Weider’s pale lager, then told him, “Tell Hullar Garrett’s here.”
“Garrett. Right.” He tiptoed away. I waited for his feet and beard to disagree. No such luck. That dwarf defied the laws of nature.
He took a while. I sipped beer and surveyed the place. I’d never seen it so busy. It was jumping. Three couples were dancing while the band snored through something I might have recognized had it been played by real musicians. Three tables boasted customers. There wasn’t a girl left over to hustle me—though by now they had me pegged for a waste. They remembered better than Crunch did.
One of the girls caught my eye. She was new. She had some life left. And she was a great actress—unless she really was having a good time. She was younger than the rest, an attractive brunette who looked enough like the brunette I’d seen earlier to cool my fantasies.
“Be out in a minute,” Crunch said behind me. I’d turned to lean against the bar while I studied the local wildlife. I glanced over my shoulder. Crunch looked back, puzzled. He didn’t understand what was going on. He had an idea I was a bagman for the outfit, only I made deliveries instead of collections.
I’d caught him on a real good day first time around. Most of the time he was like this. Puzzled. By everything.
“Who’s the brunette there, Crunch?”
He squinted, had trouble making her out. He fumbled out a pair of cheaters, perched them on his nose, pushed them back with a finger like a dried-out potato. I was surprised. Glasses are expensive. “That there’s the new girl, mister.”
Right. “Come with a name?” Her or me?
He puzzled it but didn’t come up with anything before Hullar descended on the stool beside me, his back to the bar too. He accepted a mug from Crunch. “It don’t get no better than this, Garrett.”
I glanced his way. I read no more from his expression than from his tone. Was he saying this was heaven on earth? Was he stating a fact about business? Was he being sarcastic? Maybe he didn’t know himself.
I handed him Barking Dog’s latest.
“Shit. Don’t you got nothing else to do? All I want to know is, is the crazy bastard getting his tit in a wringer? I don’t need to know every time he picks his nose.”
A point I kept trying to get across to Barking Dog. I said, “First time I dropped in here, Crask was here.”
“Crask?” Wary, suddenly.
“Crask. Like from the outfit. He was talking to the musicians.”
“If you say so. I don’t remember.”
He remembered fine. Else he wouldn’t have so much trouble with his memory. “A girl walked in just as I was going to leave. She headed for Crunch like she had something on her mind, only she spotted Crask and suddenly hightailed it.”
“If you say so. I don’t remember none of that.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing.” He was real definite about that. So definite it was a cinch I’d be beating my head against a wall if I kept after him. I’ve used my noggin to dent a few walls in my time. All that banging has taught me how to tell when it’s going to be the head and not the wall that gets broken.
I dropped it. “Who’s the new girl?”
He shrugged. “They come and go. They don’t stick for a while, you never find out. Calls herself Candy. That’s not the truth. Why?”
My turn to shrug. “I don’t know. Something different about her. She’s having fun.”
“Get those sometimes. Do it for the kick. Takes all kinds to make a horse race, Garrett.” He tapped Barking Dog’s report. “What’s this shit say? He alive?”
“Same old Barking Dog, only going bonkers because the rain won’t let up long enough for him to preach.”
“Good. Next time, just tell me that. Never mind you bury me with five hundred pages of every time he picked a zit. I maybe agreed on expenses, but not on that much paper.”
I didn’t look at Hullar. He wasn’t in one of his better moods, but neither did he want to be left alone. Tenderloin people are that way. They want to spend time with somebody from outside who isn’t a customer or somebody with a moral ax to grind. They just want to feel like real people sometimes.
They
are
real people. Maybe realer than most. They’re more in contact with reality than are those who buy their time or those who condemn them. Their real sin is that they’ve shed their illusions.
Hullar missed his illusions. He wanted to be distracted from those nights when this was as good as it got. “Up for a story?” I asked.
“What kind?”
“Good guys and bad guys and lots of pretty girls. What I’m doing besides peeping Barking Dog.”
“Shoot. But don’t look for me to give you no help.”
“Gods forfend. It’s just an interesting mess.” I gave him most of it, edited where appropriate.
“That’s sick, Garrett. Real sick. I thought I heard of every freak there was, but this’s a new one. Them poor girls. And butterflies?”
“Butterflies. I don’t know if they’ve got anything to do with it.”
“Weird. You got a curse at work. Or something. Maybe you ought to find you a necromancer. Hey! I know. I know a guy, weird but real good, goes by Dr. Doom—”
“We’ve met. I don’t think he’d be much help.” Weird for sure, Doom was more fraud than expert. I think. He did have a knack for laying ghosts. I’d bring him in if that was what it took.
Hullar shrugged. “You know your situation.”
“Yeah. Desperate.” I eyed the happy brunette. “In more ways than one.” I wondered if there might not be something to the idea of apologizing to Tinnie. Fate wasn’t throwing anything else my way.
Hullar saw me looking. He snickered. “Go ahead, Garrett. Give it your best shot. But I’ll tell you this. Candy’s all talk and no play. She’s the kind that, far as she’s concerned, it’s good enough to know she could’ve got you if she wanted. She gets you there, she starts looking for the next one.”
“Story of my life.” I levered myself off my stool. “Catch you later. Got an appointment with an overcooked roast.”
32
Dean does miracles when he wants. The roast wasn’t a disaster, considering. The go-alongs were excellent. I ate till I was ready to pop. Then, though it was early, I rambled into the hall and stared upstairs, awaiting a flood of ambition. It was a long climb to a cold, lonely bed.
This is where the sad strings are due—only with my luck, the orchestra would whip into an overture.
Right. It wasn’t mood music I got, it was:
Garrett! Come report.
Not quite an overture. But close enough.
No point arguing. The sooner done, the sooner to sleep.
What sleep? When I finished telling about my visit to Hullar I got:
Iwant you to go back there. Work the Tenderloin for the next nine evenings. Spend time with that Candy.
“Huh?”
A notion has been brooding in the back of my rear brain. Your assessment of Candy as out-of-place hatched it.