Book 07 - Deadly Quicksilver Lies by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online Page B

shin splints of
the brain.
    Good thing I exercise. I had oomph enough to vacate the area
steps ahead of an unpleasant interview with the goon squad, who did
not seem to care if I had legitimate business on the Hill. They had
been summoned by Ichabod, no doubt, in a vain hope that my attitude
could be improved.
     
    I zigged and zagged and backtracked and used all my tricks. I
didn’t spot a tail so I went home, got rid of Maggie’s
retainer, drew myself a long draught, then sat down for a cold beer
and a chat with Eleanor, who seemed concerned about the state of my
soul.
    “Yeah,” I confessed, “I’m getting more
flexible when it comes to taking money.” I spoke in a
whisper. I did not want to waken the Goddamn Parrot. I’d even
tiptoed in and filled his seed tray.
    If I remembered to feed him more often, he might have a higher
opinion of me. Maybe.
    “So what? If they’re villains, they deserve to be
done out of their money.” She had taught me that money has no
provenance. “If they aren’t villains, I’ll see
that they get their money’s worth.”
    More or less. Sometimes I don’t exactly deliver what the
client has in mind. One such case resulted in Eleanor coming to
live with me.
    It had taken me a while to outgrow the notion that taking a
man’s money meant having to go for the results he wanted. I
must be getting old and judgmental.
These days, I try to give people what they deserve instead.
    Which yields mixed results for sure. Even so, I get more offers
than I want. But a lot of fat jobs go elsewhere because some folks
have decided to avoid me. Most especially the kind who rob people
with paper instead of a blade. Lawyers and slicks. I have
embarrassed my share of those.
    Actually, I mostly avoid working. I don’t think anybody
ought to work more than it takes to get by. Sure, I wish I could
afford my own harem and fifty-room palace, but if I worked hard
enough to get the money, I’d have to work as hard to keep it.
I wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy it.
    After a few beers, I developed a whole new attitude. I told
Eleanor, “Think I’ll go down to the Joy House, hang out
with the guys.”
    She smirked.
    “It’s just to pick up street talk about Maggie
Jenn.”
    Eleanor didn’t believe one word.
    I had to find me a new girlfriend.
     
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13
    Morley Dotes never changes but his neighborhood can. Once upon a
time, that was the worst. You weren’t alert, you could get
killed for the price of a bowl of soup. For reasons to do with
Morley’s intolerance of squabbles and his sometime role as
arbitrater of underworld disputes, the neighborhood grew almost
reputable and came to be called the Safety Zone. Those who worked
the shadow side met and did business there, with every expectation
of suffering none of the embarrassment, unpleasantness, or
disappointment one faced at the hands of lone wolf socialists in
other neighborhoods.
    Every city needs some quiet area where business can get
done.
    “Waa-hoo!” shrieked the guy who came sailing out the
door as I walked up to Morley’s place. I ducked. That fellow
touched down halfway across the street. He made a valiant effort to
land running and did a laudable job till a watering trough slunk
into his path. Slimy green water fountained.
    Another man came out sprawled like a starfish, spinning and
howling. He was one of Morley’s thugs-turned-waiter.
    This was backwards. The way these things go is Morley’s
people toss troublemakers. They don’t get dribbled along the
cobblestones themselves.
    The howling waiter went across the street like a skipping stone.
He crashed into the guy trying not to drown in the horse trough. If
you ask me, putting those things around was a grave mistake. Horse
troughs are sure to draw horses. TunFaire is infested by enough
evils.
    On hands and knees, I peeped around the edge of the door frame
and discovered true pandemonium.
    A behemoth of a black man, who beat my six feet two by a good
three feet, and who had to