Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel (12 page)

The brewery visit went the way it usually did. Everyone but top management acted like I was a typhoid carrier, though everyone did sympathize with my loss. The disease they really dreaded was a mild cousin of the one Deal Relway and General Block were splashing wildly across the canvas of the city. My own artwork was limited to the brewery floor and storage caverns.

There wasn’t much pilferage anymore. Max Weider paid his people well and didn’t mind a little personal consumption, so it wasn’t often that his security team—me—had much to do. So little, in fact, that I hardly ever showed up, so people worry that there might be a stink in the wind when I do come out of the woodwork. I might get my nose into somebody’s business. I made folks uncomfortable.

That was my principal function.

I did drop by Kolda’s shop before moving on to the brewery. I never got to the subject of him lending me a hand. His wife scared me off.

She really did want us to stay away from each other. She considered me trouble on the hoof.

Max and Manvil Gilbey were at the brew house together. I made my case. They asked a few questions. Manvil suggested, “We can write the lost time off against your retainer.”

Which Max followed by remarking, “Which compensation package we may have to renegotiate. This is the first time you’ve been here this month, and that’s only because you want a favor.”

He was correct. I had slacked off shamefully lately, at Amalgamated Manufacturing and at the brewery.

I got all apologetic.

Max told me, “Remain calm. I understand your situation. It wasn’t that long ago that I was there myself.” Most of his family had been murdered. That was back when I met Singe. “You helped me get through that.”

Gilbey said, “Whatever we think of your feeble work ethic and ambition deficit, Garrett, we do owe you. You have been a true friend, to your own cost. We can’t be anything less ourselves.”

I knew that intellectually. I really did. But I didn’t want to weaken myself further by depending on others even more.

I have seen too many people turn passive under stress, then never, ever get up and rely on themselves again.

“So, what do you want done?” Max asked

I explained that I needed Preston Womble lured into the Dead Man’s clutches.

“Easy-peasy,” Gilbey declared. “I’ll handle it. How urgent is it?”

It struck me that if we took the Tournament of Swords seriously—and what could bring the seriousness home more forcefully than the murder of your wife—then I had to take a more holistic approach. I had to view the contest as a societal affliction, not just a familial imposition.

The genesis for the notion was my recollection that Max Weider had a surviving daughter. Alyx was a walking compendium of character flaws common to rich kids. She was also bright and energetic and a good person when the inclination took her. And her daddy was richer than God. She might be the kind of outsider the Operators would conscript into an open Champion slot. She could be an attractive choice if they were feeling vindictive toward me.

I took the attack on Strafa as a personal assault, mostly because it made more sense that way.

Alyx’s best friend was the woman who had been my squeeze before Strafa entered my life. Wouldn’t Tinnie make an amusing Mortal Companion? Though she was no fighter and couldn’t last in a lethal environment.

Nor could Alyx.

“Garrett!”

Both of my companions repeated my name. Gilbey finally got my attention by pinching my right arm just above the elbow.

Max said, “You went all gray. I was afraid you’d need a doctor.”

“I’m all right. But I did have a sort of mental heart attack. Hear me out. This is unbelievable. If Strafa hadn’t been murdered, I’d have trouble buying it myself. But it’s all true and I want you to hear it for Alyx’s sake.” Then I told them the whole thing, with every detail that I had collected.

Once I started, it seemed entirely rational to pull another of TunFaire’s modern power loci in to keep the tournament from happening.

They listened skeptically, as you might expect. They asked questions, as you might expect. They did not refuse to believe.

Strafa Algarda was dead. The Tournament of Swords was why, real or fantastic.

Manvil said, “You should have told us this before.”

Max agreed, but admitted, “I don’t know if I would have listened, though, before you realized that Alyx could get dragged in.”

Gilbey said, “I don’t see that happening.”

I said, “It doesn’t sound to me like the Operators quite have their heads in the present century.”

Max said, “Consider us part of the cure, Garrett. Manvil. Let’s convene emergency sessions of our boards of directors.”

“Because?”

“Because, between us, the Tates, and Garrett’s various friends, we can conjure up ten thousand sets of eyes. Nobody can stay hidden with that many people watching.”

Not strictly true, but you couldn’t stay hidden if you wanted to do something like interact with people. And you really couldn’t stay invisible if you wanted to kick off some big, flashy, loud, and bloody elimination game.

Somebody would see you slipping around.

Time was on the side of the good guys. Somebody would spot somebody doing tournament work. I just hoped a finder like Morley, Belinda, or Relway would send for me before they got all ferocious.

Manvil Gilbey can be frustratingly practical sometimes. Like Singe, he asks difficult, emotionally unsatisfying questions. “We appreciate the heads-up, Garrett. This is really disturbing stuff. We’ll protect Alyx however much she howls. But a question has occurred to me.”

“Yes?” His tone said he was going to ask something that would make me very uncomfortable.

“Your wife was murdered. People have followed you around. They were able to find you when you were on the move, or were able to anticipate your movements. You have been attacked unsuccessfully. So far. Do you have some reason to think that last night’s failure was the end of any interest in doing you harm?”

Not quite what I’d been girding my loins to handle. “Not really. Why?”

“Why? Why the hell are you roaming around by yourself, then? Are you deliberately trying to get yourself killed?”

Max’s contemplative expression made it plain that he was wondering, too.

“Morley couldn’t come with me. He had stuff at work that he couldn’t let slide.”

Feeble, I know. Even I saw that once I thought about it.

The truth is, there was enough teen left in me that I could still hit the mean streets without thinking ahead.

Practical Manvil said, “Either stay here till we round up a few men willing to walk you home, or sprint from here straight to the Grapevine.” That being Morley’s hot new restaurant across from the World Theater. “Then plant yourself till he can take you home. Either home. You’ll have potent cover at either place.”

My brain churned up ego-driven arguments for refusing his invitation to be coddled. But as I sorted through, trying to find one that, at least superficially, sounded plausible, it occurred to me that the Operators, while no geniuses, could be possessed of enough low cunning to see the dragon’s teeth leaping up all round and realize that I was the guy doing the sowing. The longer they waited to take me out, the more teeth would hatch.

Max said, “I think he gets it, Manvil.”

“Excellent. Thinking outside the moment. It’s an art, Garrett. And you’ve made a start. So. What will it be now? Shall I send for a pitcher of dark for while you wait?”

“Thanks. But no, thanks. I’ll take my chances getting to Morley’s place. It isn’t that far.”

“As you wish.” Clearly disapproving.

I looked around carefully before I reentered the cold and damp. There was no traffic. It was not a day to encourage industry.

I paused again partway down to the street. I could see a couple of pedestrians, but both had their heads down and their shoulders hunched. They were hurrying to get to wherever they were going, which would be inside, out of the drizzle, and probably warm.

I didn’t blame them. I thought about going back to take Gilbey up on that pitcher.

One thing about a brewery. Whatever the rest of the world may be suffering, it is warm inside the brew house. Unfortunately, the pungent atmosphere takes some getting used to, like developing an appreciation for stout. It’s all good once your senses of smell and taste have died.

Morley’s kitchen would be warm, too, and redolent of garlic.

Then I saw Brownie and her crew, waiting. She could barely restrain herself, she was so happy to see me again. I said something grumpy by way of greeting, then something disparaging about Playmate’s pooch-wrangling skills, then headed north after a failed look round for Little Moo. She, evidently, had not gotten away.

Brownie took the station that she had made her own. The same surly lady moved into position on my left. The other two ranged ahead, noses to the damp cobblestones. It all seemed militarily precise. And confusing.

I did not obsess, though. Manvil Gilbey’s concern had gotten through. I was alert. I was going to get surprised only if it dropped straight down out of the misery overhead.

Even so, my four-legged associates discovered trouble before I had a hint, thanks to their wonderful doggie noses.

They might not be quite as good at tracking as Pular Singe, but they were good at reading the olfactory environment. They snuffled and grumbled. Brownie growled in response. The dog to my left loped forward. Good shepherd Brownie nudged me into a space that looked like it would be easy to defend—and impossible to escape if trouble had the superior numbers.

Some barking and growling ensued, answered by human cursing. Brownie made loud noises that must have been a call to action. Half a dozen strays turned up over the next few minutes, all speaking angry dog and closing on the spot where a surprise had awaited me.

The cursing waxed loud. The growling followed suit, with the growlers outlasting the cursers. Brownie herded me back to the center of the street, took her position of honor. Her crew resumed their former stations. The strays fell in behind. “This is going to cost me, isn’t it?” I asked Brownie.

She responded with a snuffling grunt.

“All right. I owe them.” But I had to wonder if I’d been scammed. Not once had I actually seen the guys who had been laying for me. They had heeled and toed it out of there first.

•   •   •

Morley’s man Puddle answered the back door. I had gone there to avoid disturbing the afternoon trade up front. Puddle gawked. “What the hell?” He couldn’t find an appropriate crack.

“Anything you’ve got, scraps and leftovers, give them to these guys. They just saved my ass from the baddies.”

“I give dem anything, dey’ll never go away.”

And, I didn’t doubt, the boys in the back of the shop had their regular customers, bums who maybe made useful spies.

“I did tell Brownie it’s only for once. You can put a charge on my tab.” Strafa and I had eaten at the Grapevine occasionally. She could afford it.

“Hey! I don’ know what ta say, Garrett. ’Bout what happened. Everyt’ing soun’s so dumb. She was good people.”

“She was. Thank you, Puddle.”

“Hey. I could help you do some stuff, you catch da creep what done it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Where’s Morley?”

“He’s right here,” my friend said. He had been summoned by one of the kitchen crew. “And wondering if he didn’t raise a slow child. Why are you roaming the streets alone after what’s been happening?”

Puddle corrected him. “He ain’t not alone, boss. He’s got him a whole crew a’ sidekicks.” Which was a Puddle-style snap joke. He opened the door to the alley to toss scraps and stuff scraped off plates.

Morley looked. “They had better not set up housekeeping out there, Garrett.” Then, frowning, he noted, “Some of those mutts were with the girl at the cemetery.”

“They were. She turned up again. Ambushed me when I was on my way to see Playmate.”

Morley heard my tale. “She won’t talk?”

“It’s like she isn’t sure how, not that she’s trying to hide something. I don’t think she’s very bright.”

“That’s not good if you’re a girl, young, and halfway attractive.”

“Playmate has her now. She’ll be all right with him. He’ll get her to talk, then find her people.”

Morley nodded. He didn’t say so, but he thought that I was whistling in the dark. The girl lived in a cemetery with feral dogs. She wouldn’t be doing that if she had people. “Bell is at her table. Have lunch with her. She might have something for you that she wouldn’t share with me.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“No. Just two strong-willed, stubborn people used to having their own ways trying to figure out the couples game. I’m grumpy because I didn’t get my way.”

Bell was his pet name for Belinda Contague, his current flame and likely his last unless he outlives her. Which isn’t implausible, considering her career.

Belinda beckoned me right away, already aware that I was in the house. She indicated a seat opposite her at a table she had to herself. “You look a little ragged.”

I gave her my morning’s sad tale of woe, studying her as I jabbered. Time was not being kind.

She was a beautiful woman, but, then, her father had collected those when he was younger. Belinda’s mother had been one of the great beauties of her time. Belinda herself had extremely pale skin and dark hair technically augmented to be even darker and glossier. Her eyes were a stunning blue. As always, she wore intense scarlet lip coloring. Today she was dressed as though she was as rich as she was, instead of the usual down.

She seemed tired.

We’re friends because I saved her soul back in a day when she was determined to avenge her mother by indulging in self-destructive behavior. She meant everything to her father, Chodo. Bad behavior was a way to make the old man hurt. We had been more than friends for a while, then friends with occasional benefits till we settled into our present people-we-can-always-count-on friendship. There were times when she could creep me out as thoroughly as Shadowslinger did.

She wasn’t really sane. Like the worst sociopaths, she could fake sanity almost perfectly.

“So how are you doing otherwise?” she asked. “Handling it?”

“Doing all right, I think. Better than I expected at first. I guess experience helps even when it comes to grief.”

“Most people get on better than they expect. I think it’s built in. Once the crunch does come, we soldier on for the sake of the other survivors.”

Interesting that she could see the social interconnectedness of our species even though she was incapable of participating genuinely herself.

Morley brought a freshwater prawn, clam, and mussel platter that I loved but could not afford. He placed it in front of me. I could not lie. “God, that smells good.” They hadn’t been miserly with the garlic.

Morley settled into the chair nearest Belinda.

The lunch crowd, mainly from the theater across the street, envied me this sign of favor. Morley Dotes was a celebrity as a restaurateur.

He told me, “I sent a couple men to backtrack your route. I doubt they’ll find anything, but they could get lucky.” He was more than the restaurateur he pretended. I had stopped looking at the horse’s teeth years ago. And he was a lot more laid-back about his shadow behavior these days. Putting years and ounces on, in a business environment suffering from an ever more intense case of law and order fever, might be why.

“Thanks. You didn’t need to do that. I can get Singe to . . .”

“Yes. I did need to. I owe you for the zombie thing.”

I tried to wave him off. That was no big deal. We were the next thing to brothers. Better than brothers. I never got along with Mikey as well when we were kids.

And Belinda wanted to talk.

She had a hard time starting, but she is nothing if not willful and determined. “How is my sister doing, Garrett? Really?”

Well. That was a stunner. I exchanged glances with Morley. She had not been inclined to address this ever before. She was becoming more human. Morley’s influence?

Penny Dreadful is also Chodo’s daughter. She shares nothing else with Belinda. The father hunt had drawn Penny to TunFaire originally, but that had ceased to matter much once she figured it all out. It hadn’t meant much to Belinda, either, from the indifference she had shown till now.

Her showing any interest was a surprise.

I didn’t editorialize. “She’s doing good. You saw her at the funeral and the wake. She’s pulled herself together. Dean, Singe, and the Dead Man all helped. She’ll be a fine woman someday.” I was prepared to leave it at that.

So was she, probably thinking that she had shown enough weakness for one day.

Morley did feel compelled to add, “She’s an excellent artist, too.”

I stabbed a clam with my fork. “This is really good, Morley. You changed the recipe.”

He understood. It was a new subject time. “I had them add more crushed garlic and replaced cow’s milk with goat’s milk in the sauce.”

Belinda added, “They started putting in some kind of grub you get out of rotten logs, too.” She used her own butter knife to indicate a clam strip that did look a little like a grub.

I made a face. “I’m out of practice on the jungle gourmet . . . Damn!” I realized that she was messing with me.

The woman could keep a straight face.

Morley’s jaw tightened, though not because his kitchen was being disparaged and he had no sense of humor about that. He was looking toward the front door. A rowdy crowd had begun to roll in. They came from across the street, from the World. They were in a good mood, collectively. A dress rehearsal had gone well.

One was a skinny little guy in doublet and hose. He wore his hair long under a goofy floppy hat with a peacock feather sticking out in back. The costume was not suited to the play or the street. He spotted me, abandoned his crew, headed my way.

Jon Salvation, playwright. I had to thank him for making time for the funeral. . . .

My throat filled with a sudden lump. If this was the crew from his new play,
The Faerie Queene
, then . . .

That explained why Morley had gone green around the gills.

He moved so Salvation could sit. Belinda did not object. I finally grasped the fact that Salvation was not in costume. He was outfitted weirdly on purpose, making some kind of statement.

He had been weird from the beginning. Weird before he found out that he could slap his tall tales down on paper as cracking-good stories for the stage.

Morley told him, “It’s good to see you back, Jon. I’ll go see if the boys need help handling your mob.”

What he did was place himself between us and that crowd in case my ex did not have her hatches battened, her ducks lined up, and her screws sufficiently tightened.

Tinnie had the lead role in
The Faerie Queene
. Jon Salvation had created the part for her unpredictable self.
The Faerie Queene
was Tinnie Tate as Jon Salvation thought he knew her from an extended acquaintance.

Tinnie Tate is a high-maintenance redhead with a quiver full of quirks, but she is good people. She would be in pain, still, because of Strafa, and, no doubt, she was confident that I had abandoned her simply because Strafa was more pliable.

And there she was, looking good for a heartbroke woman.

Our gazes met. Her laughter died, but what replaced it wasn’t hatred or anger, it was sorrow. She knew what had happened. Her niece Kyra had come to the funeral.

She inclined her head slightly, then moved on with her crowd, one of whom was Max Weider’s daughter, Alyx. Alyx did not have a sympathetic look for me. She and Tinnie were longtime friends. She was Tinnie’s understudy for the Faerie Queene.

Jon Salvation observed, “I guess that went well.”

“You disappointed?” Belinda asked.

“Oh. No. Not me.”

I asked, “How has she been doing?”

“She’s doing all right, Garrett. Staying wrapped up in her work. She’ll manage.”

“Good. That’s good. I never meant to hurt her.”

Belinda gave me a profoundly curious look, like she couldn’t believe I could say that and believe it.

But Salvation chirped, “She gets that. Part of the time. She’s her own worst critic. Speaking of former girlfriends . . . How is mine?”

“Winger? She’s Winger. She’s sharing a place with Saucerhead, just to save on rent. There’s nothing else there. The Dead Man has her running errands. Singe hires her when she has something that isn’t time-sensitive.”

Friend Winger gets distracted easily.