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

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.
     
     

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 slouch so he wouldn’t split his noggin on the ceiling, was having himself a grand time cleaning house. He snarled and roared and tossed people and furniture. Those