Whispering Nickel Idols (33 page)

Singe appeared. “Saucerhead is here. With that woman.”

“Which woman?”

“Winger.” Her tone left no doubt about her esteem for my friend. Tinnie looked relieved. “Saved by the cavalry, eh?” She stuck out her tongue.

“You’ll pay, woman. Mark my words, you’ll pay.” She just sneered.

Winger was more wasted than Melondie Kadare ever managed. “Garrett!” she burbled, blurry-eyed, using both walls to stay upright. “Yer a sum um a bitch, even if yer one a the good guys.” She leaned against one wall. “Jes need a minute. I’m fucked-up.”

“What’s this?” I asked Saucerhead.

“A very drunk woman.”

“That part didn’t get past me. I’ve got skills. I was thinking more along the lines of, why? And why here? She might make a mess.”

“I think she’s done all of that she can. Less’n she can get her socks up.”

“Even so. Singe, stand by the door. We’ll toss her out if —” Tinnie interrupted, “It’ll take all of you to do it.” Winger started snoring. She sank toward the floor.

Tharpe told me, “The Dead Man said bring her in. He wants to know what she found out.”

“She found out there’s a limit to how much she can drink.”

“She’s upset. She’s misplaced Jon Salvation. She don’t remember where. Or how. She’s scared she might’ve killed him. Or something.”

“Great! Well, let’s see if we can’t drag her —

There is no need to bring her in. I have examined her memories. They support what we have learned from these other sources while including little of additional interest.

Winger’s snores turned into what sounded like a desperate fight for air. Her eyes popped open. She climbed the wall. “I know what I done wit’ ‘im. I’t’ink. Damn fool.” She stumbled toward the front door.

“Winger, you ain’t in no shape to go out there,” Tharpe told her. “You’ll freeze your ass. Tell me where he’s at. I’ll go scoop him up.”

“Head, yer a sum um a bitch, even if yer a one a the good guys.”

“So you keep telling me. Why don’t you just relax? I’ll find Jon.”

“The Remora? You know where ‘e’s at?”

“You were going to tell me.”

“You been holding out on me, Head. You never did like him.” Winger began to sag. “That place that’s like a ship. Grimes’ Cove. I ‘member he was wit’ me there.”

Tharpe turned toward the door. The Dead Man filled us in on what Winger knew without knowing she knew. I said, “You don’t want to go back out without warming up, do you? Tinnie and I were making tea.”

“A snack wouldn’t hurt, neither.” Tharpe shook his head, looking at Winger. “The things we do for folks just on account of they’re friends.”

I avoided any comment.

Saucerhead was working on a stale roll when Singe yelled. We burst out of the kitchen. Singe indicated Winger. Winger was making weird noises. She had her guts behind them.

“Come on!” I swore some. “Get that damned door open!”

Tharpe and I each grabbed an arm. Tinnie sort of nipped around the booted end, like a puppy trying to help without knowing how. Singe flung the door wide. Cold air blasted us. It woke Winger as we heaved her out against the rail on the stoop.

Her socks came up.

“Hey!”

Dean was back. With a cart. Which I hoped wasn’t stolen. Winger’s rude greeting missed him by inches.

Dean wasn’t alone. Seemed he always found somebody to help with the cart. Whoa! Hell. That bundle of rags was the lone member of the Contague tribe not already installed in the Dead Man’s room.

“You. Get inside before somebody recognizes you.” Potential watchers should all still be gone to war, but why take chances?

Draped over the rail, Winger gasped, “Blindar, yer a bitch even if yer a one a the good gals.” She cackled. “An’ yer sure as hell ain’t.” She tried to laugh, but her stomach revolted.

I said, “Inside. Wait in the hall with Tinnie. I’ll help Dean.” Singe came out, too, while Tinnie took charge of Belinda. With little of her customary empathy. “Did you clean out the whole damned market?”

Saucerhead concentrated on Winger. Winger was trying to aspirate her own puke.

“You told me to get ready for a siege,” Dean said.

“I did, didn’t I? Where did Belinda come from?”

“I ran into her in the market. She was pretending to be a refugee. I told her to come get warm.” I grunted under the weight of a sack of apples.

“I thought that would be better than maybe having her go back into the Tenderloin.”

“Yeah.” Damn! Those apples were heavy. “But why is she here? She should be back home waiting out the storm. She has to know there’s a war on.”

“I think she’s afraid there’re traitors there.”

“What does she know about the situation here?”

“She knows it’s warm. And safe.”

I started to growl. Exhaustion was closing in again. I was getting cranky.

“I told her nothing. Her problems come from her disaffection with her father. It might be useful if she confronts him.”

“Good thinking.” Maybe. I didn’t like his deciding what was best for somebody else. He tried too much of that with me.

Singe went by. “Once again the ratgirl does the work while the human folk stand around jawing.” Belinda wasn’t in the hallway when I went inside. “Uh-oh.” It is under control. Join us once you deliver your cargo. Leave the rest for Dean? Fine with me.

71

Belinda took three steps into the Dead Man’s room. She froze, gaped at her father.

Chodo sensed the new presence but could not see who it was.

Take the deacon out when you go. Put him into the cart. Get rid of him.

Dean gave me a hand. For reasons probably having to do with externally applied inhibitions, I didn’t wonder what Colonel Block would think about us turning his prisoner loose. Nor did I wonder why Old Bones wanted him running free. With my experience I should’ve been more suspicious.

After a long adventure through nasty streets, Dean and I abandoned cart and deacon not far from the Al-Khar. We trudged home exchanging lies about who was more tired. I got there to find the seating arrangements in the Dead Man’s room revised. There seemed to be plenty enough kittens to provide several for every Contague. The big boy from Ymber was snoring. Harvester Temisk looked like he was dead. But he kept on breathing. Poor Harvester. His only role now was to take up space.

I asked, “What happened to Saucerhead and Winger?”

“Winger is in your office,” Singe told me. “Saucerhead went looking for her friend and to find someone the Dead Man wants to consult.”

“Who? Why?”

“I was not invited into the planning.”

The way things usually work around here. “Winger is in my office? Gods! I hope she’s empty.”

“She is now.”

Dean muttered something about the ever-expanding population of the house and disappeared. I thought he was off to whip up something to eat. Instead, he dragged his sorry ass off to bed.

I settled in the Dead Man’s room, leaning against the wall. There were no seats available. Nor would be soon, I suspected. I was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Yet again. But I didn’t want to miss anything.

The Dead Man was working some Loghyr mojo on our dysfunctional family guests. Assisted by a gaggle of cats.

Chodo was more alive than ever. I stared. I wasn’t frightened. I felt creepiness instead. In times gone by there’d always been terror when I was near the kingpin.

“Am I over that?” Seemed like a good time to find out if my sidekick was paying attention.

Unlikely. Changes are going on inside Mr. Contague. The impact of the kittens is much greater in the company of their high priestess. Which the girl has become by default, as sole survivor of her temple. A-Lat herself is hidden inside the child. And inside the Luck. Too scattered to have much power. Which is our great good fortune. We would not stand up to her otherwise. Nevertheless, the effect here will not be one hundred percent. And there is little chance of permanence.

I made grunting sounds. Deities make me nervous. There are a zillion of them, all real, all at cross-purposes, all unpleasant. Ninety-nine out of a hundred have no interest whatsoever in the well-being of mortals. Particularly if the mortal is named Garrett. And there was little evidence that this encounter would turn out positive — despite A-Lat’s salutary impact on Chodo’s madness at the moment.

“Can I note that more than one heart is in agony here?”

Careful what you wish for. Some may not enjoy being cured. Not till later did I realize he was painting
me
with that brush.

I told anybody who cared, “I’m going to bed. We can wrap this up tomorrow.” I had some thinking to do, too. I do that best without distractions.

72

Singe wakened me. She’d brought tea. “Don’t you ever let up?” I was accepting no peace offerings today.

Somebody kicked me in the back of the legs. “Shaddup!”

“So that’s it, huh? Trying to catch us up to something again.”

“No. The Dead Man wants you.”

I got kicked again. “This don’t seem like a hot sell, Miss Tate,” I grumbled at the bushwhacker. “If this is what I’ve got to look forward to.” Which got me kicked again. In my own bed. I suffered the slings and arrows, rewarded my long-suffering with a hot cup of tea.

Ten minutes later, biscuit and mug in my left hand, half a foot of sausage in my right, I trudged into the Dead Man’s room. Dripping grease. I was groggy but no longer cross-eyed with exhaustion. I was looking forward to the day I had my old self back.

“Looks like I’m the first man on the job.” Sleeping folks were strewed everywhere. Excepting Singe, Dean, and I. And the Luck. Yeah. Several dozen cats were on the bounce. “Weather any better? Can we move these parasites out?”

Probably not. Not comfortably. Unless you move fast.

“Huh?”

An associate of Mr. Dotes brought a message while you were loafing. There was an overwhelming implication of paybacks for all the times I’d complained about him snoozing when I had a strong desire for a little genius backup.

“What’s on your mind?”

I wish to propose that you have fulfilled your abiding obligation to Mr. Contague.

“What? He’s just... he’s still...”

He remains confined to his wheelchair. It is unlikely that he will ever leave it. Only a Loghyr mind surgeon can repair damage done by a stroke. Loghyr mind surgeons were rare as roc eggs even when our tribe was bountiful. But Mr. Contague is possessed of a powerful will. I would not bet heavily against him accomplishing anything — if he can stay out of the hands of those who wish him ill.

“Meaning family?” Family was snoring a yard from my feet. Belinda and Singe had quaffed a few quarts after I went upstairs.

Family, yes. But Miss Contague was not the worst of his tormentors. He possesses recollections of being force-fed by persons other than his daughter. Persons most likely associated with Merry Sculdyte. Who was not always forthright with his brother.

“Merry was working against Rory?”

At cross-purposes, certainly. Mr. Contague recalls incidents that distinctly suggest an enduring hatred by Merry toward his brother. There are deep shadows in Sculdyte’s mind. He is twisted and torn because he loves Rory, as well. You will find the details in the written history. That is not important at the moment. Decisions about what to do with Mr. Contague and Mr. Temisk are.

“Huh?”

Have you not been considering what to do next?

“Sure.” Though not very hard. Chodo and his pal couldn’t hang out here forever. And I couldn’t see Chodo going back home. That would put him back where he started. But my conscience wouldn’t turn him loose on the world again, either. Nor would it allow me to tell Old Bones that I was satisfied that I no longer owed Chodo.

I anticipated as much.

Uh-oh. He was up to something. And was way ahead of me in whatever his scheme was. “You say he’s more or less sane now?”

As much as can he. To roughly the baseline that existed at the time of his stroke. More than that is beyond even the Luck of A-Lat. And that will persist only so long as he remains within the influence of the child and the kittens.

“So what do we do with him?”

Exactly.

“Well?”

Waiting on you, Garrett. I owe him nothing. I would hand him off to Colonel Block. Along with his memoirs.
Then he issued one of his cryptic, one-hand-clapping pronouncements.
There is a workable answer implicit within the existing situation, though it is as complicated as the situation itself.

All right. He’s a little windy for a perfect master.

Passing everything and everyone off to the law was, no doubt, a rational final solution. And one I wish I was hard enough to invoke. But I’m me. Garrett. The old softy.

“What about his family?”

Also as healed as can be. But wounds leave scars. And scars never go away.

“Hey! What about that message from Morley?”

Mr. Dotes says the Sculdytes and their associates are dead or in custody. He suggests we wrap up anything we don’t want examined closely because we may find ourselves the focus of the Watch as soon as Colonel Block and Director Relway have rested.

“You should’ve told me that first.”

The matters are related. Mr. Contague, Miss Contague, and most of these others need to be out of here when the law invites itself in. Make no mistake — if they make a hard decision to get us, they can.

“I have no interest in a game of macho with the Watch.”

We may not have many more unencumbered hours. I have set certain processes in motion, but no good will come of them in time.

Of course. They’d start out just watching. But well-rested men would rotate in behind the first wave, two or three for one, and so forth, till they stood shoulder to shoulder. If Block and Relway felt the need. They were planners. They didn’t move without being prepared. For all the speed they’ve shown trying to establish the rule of law.

Crushing the Sculdytes wouldn’t mean an end to organized crime. Nobody is dim enough to think that’s possible, or even entirely desirable. But the Outfit’s power to corrupt would be reduced dramatically. Its power to play favor for a favor would be pruned way back. Meaning those villains on the Hill wouldn’t have so many dirty hands on call. Let alone the occasional beakful of found money.