Glen Cook - Garrett Files 03 - Cold Copper Tears

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THERE THREE GUYS WALKING ON AIR-all of them in old-time armor. As

they started throwing thunderbolts, I headed for the safety of the manor.

I hit the doorway and skidded to a halt. Something far worse than three

guys in armor was tearing its way in through the roof, going at it like

the place was made of paper. A big, shiny, ugly, purplish-black face like

that of a fangy gorilla glared through the hole. Then it started ripping

the hole bigger.

It dropped through the hole, landed at the far end of the pool room,

fifty feet away. It was twelve feet tall, had six arms, and might have

been a monster straight off one of those temple coins that had suddenly

been appearing around town. It wavered as though I was seeing it through

an intense heat shimmer. Or as if it didn't know if it wanted to be a six-

armed gorilla or something even uglier.

And then my time for peaceful observing ran out, as the thing

suddenly roared and charged straight for me. . . .

COLD COPPER TEARS Glen Cook A SIGNET BOOK NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY NAL

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR

SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, NEW

FOREIGN COUNTRIES REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN CHICAGO,

U.S.A.

SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSIC, MENTOR, ONYX, PLUME, MERIDIAN and NAL BOOKS

are published by NAL PENGUIN INC., 1633 Broadway, New York, New York

10019First Printing, October, 1988 123456789PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES

OF AMERICA

Maybe it was time. I was restless. We were getting on toward the dog

days, when my body gets terminally lazy but my nerves shriek that it's

time to do something—a cruel combination. So far sloth was ahead by a

nose.

I'm Garrett—low thirties, six-feet-two, two hundred pounds, ginger

hair, ex-Marine—all-around fun guy. For a price I'll find things or get

the boogies off your back. I'm no genius. I get the job done by being too

stubborn to quit. My favorite sport is female and my favorite food is

beer. I work out of the house I own on Macunado Street, halfway between

the Hill and waterfront in TunFaire's midtown.

I was sharing a liquid lunch with my friend Playmate, talking

religion, when a visitor wakened my sporting nature.

She was blonde and tall with skin like the finest satin I'd ever

seen. She wore a hint of unusual scent and a smile that said she saw

through everything and Garrett was one big piece of crystal. She looked

scared but she wasn't spooked.

"I think I'm in love," I told Playmate as old Dean showed her into my

coffin of an office.

"Third time this week." He drained his mug. "Don't mention it to

Tinnie." He stood up. And stood up. And stood up. He's nine feet tall.

"Some of us got to work." He waltzed with Dean and the blonde, trying to

get to the hall.

"Later." We'd had a good time snickering about the scandals sweeping

TunFaire's religion industry. Playmate had considered a flyer in that

racket once but I had managed to collect a debt owed him, and the cash had

kept him alive in the stable business.

I looked at the blonde. She looked at me. I liked what I saw. She had

mixed feelings. The horses don't shy when I pass, but over the years I've

been pounded around enough for my face to develop a certain amount of

character.

She kept smiling that secret smile. It made me want to look over my

shoulder to see what was gaining on me.

Dean avoided my eye and did a fast fade, pretending he had to make

sure Playmate didn't forget to close the front door behind him. Dean

wasn't supposed to let anybody in. They might want me to work. The blonde

must have charmed his socks off.

"I'm Garrett. Sit." She wouldn't have to work to charm the wardrobe

off me. She had that something that goes beyond beauty, beyond style—an

aura, a presence. She was the kind of woman who leaves eunuchs weeping and

priests cursing their vows.

She planted herself in Playmate's chair but didn't offer a name. The

impact was wearing off. I began to see the chill behind the gorgeous mask.

I wondered if anybody was home.

"Tea? Brandy? Miss? … Or Dean might find a spot of TunFaire Gold if

we sweet-talk him.”

"You don't remember me, do you?”

"No. Should I?”

The man who could forget her was already dead. But I left the remark

unspoken. A chill had dropped over me, and the chill had no sense of

humor.

"It's been a while, Garrett. Last time I saw you I was nine and you

were going off to the Marines.”

My memory for nines isn't what it is for twenties. No bells rang,

though that was more years ago than I want to remember; I've tried to

forget the five in the Marines ever since.

"We lived next door, third floor. I had a crush on you. You hardly

noticed me. I'd have died if you did.”

"Sorry.”

She shrugged. "My name is Jill Craight.”

She looked like a Jill, complete with amber eyes that ought to

smolder but looked out of arctic wastes instead. But she wasn't any Jill I

ever knew, nine years old or not.

Any other Jill, and I would have come back with a suggestion about

making up for lost time. But the cold over there was getting to me. My

restraint will get me a pat on the head next time I go to confession. If I

ever go. Last time was when I was about nine. "You got over me while I was

gone. I didn't see you on the pier when I came home.”

I'd made up my mind about her. She had stoked the fire to get past

Dean, but it was out now. She was a user. It was time she stopped

decorating that chair and distracting its owner from his lunch. "You

didn't just drop by to talk about the old days on Peach Street.''

"Pyme Street," she corrected. "I may be in trouble. I may need help.”

"People who come here usually do." Something told me not to shove her

out the door yet. I looked her over again. That was no chore.

She wasn't a flashy dresser. Her clothes were conservative but

costly, tailored with an eye to wear. That implied money but didn't

guarantee it. In my part of town some people wear their whole estate.

"Tell me about it.”

"Our place burned when I was twelve." That should have rung a bell,

but didn't till later. "My parents were killed. I tried staying with an

uncle. We didn't get along. I ran away. The streets aren't kind to a girl

without a family.”

They aren't. That would be when the iceberg formed. Nothing would

touch her, or get close to her, or hurt her, ever again. But what did

yesterday have to do with why she was here today?

People come to me because they feel disaster breathing down their

necks. Maybe just getting through the door makes them feel safe. Maybe

they don't want to go back out again. Whatever the reason, they stall,

talking about anything but what's bothering them. "I imagine.”

"I was lucky. I had looks and half a brain. I used them to make

connections. Things worked out. These days I'm an actress.”

That could mean anything or nothing, a catchall behind which women

pursue uncomfortable ways of keeping body and soul together.

I grunted encouragement. Garrett is nothing if not encouraging.

Dean peeked in to make sure I hadn't gone rabid. I tapped my mug.

"More lunch." It looked like a long siege.

"I've made some important friends, Mr. Garrett. They like me because

I know how to listen and I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

I had a notion she was the kind of actress who gives the same service

as a street girl but gets paid better because she smiles and sighs while

she's working.

We do what we have to do. I know some good people in that line. Not

many, but some. There aren't that many good people in any line.

Dean brought my beer and a whistle-wetter for my guest. He'd been

eavesdropping and had begun to suspect he'd made a mistake. She turned on

the heat when she thanked him. He went out glowing. I took a drink and

said, "So what are we sneaking up on here?”

The glaciers reformed behind her eyes. "One of my friends left me

with something for safekeeping. It was a small casket." She made hand

gestures indicating a box a foot deep, as wide, and eighteen inches long.

"I have no idea what's in it. I don't want to know. Now he's disappeared.

And since I've had that casket there have been three attempts to break

into my apartment." Bam. Like a candle snuffed, she stopped. She had said

something she shouldn't have. She had to think before she went on.

I smelted a herd of rats. "Got any idea what you want?”

"Someone is watching me. I want it stopped. I don't have to put up

with that kind of thing anymore.'' There was some passion there, some

heat, but all for some other guy.

"Then you think it could happen again. You think somebody's after

that casket? Or could they be after you?”

What she thought was that she shouldn't have mentioned the casket.

She ran it around inside her head before she said, "Either one.”

"And you want me to stop it?”

She gave me a regal nod. The snow queen was back in charge. "Do you know

what it's like to come home and find out that someone's been tearing

through your stuff?”

A minute ago they were just trying to get in.

"A little like you've been raped, only it doesn't hurt as much when

you sit down," I replied. "Give me a retainer. Tell me where you live.

I'll see what I can do.”

She handed me a small coin purse while she told me how to find her

place. It was only six blocks away. I looked in the purse. I don't think

my eyes bugged, but she had that little smile on again when I looked up.

She'd decided she could run me around like a trained mutt.

She got up. "Thank you." She headed for the front door. I got up and

stumbled over myself trying to get there to see her out, but Dean had been

lying in ambush to make sure he got the honors. I left him to them.

Dean shut the door. He faced it for a moment before he turned to face

me, wearing a foolish look.

I asked, "You fall in love? At your age?" He knew I wasn't looking

for clients. He was supposed to discourage them at the door. And this

sweet ice with the tall tales and long legs and nonsense problem and sack

of gold that was ten times what a retainer ought to be looked like a

client I especially didn't want. "That one is trouble on the hoof.”

"I'm sorry, Mr. Garrett." He gave me feeble excuses that only proved

a man is never too old.

"Dean, go to Mr. Pigotta's. Tell him he's invited to supper. You'll

be fixing his favorites if he gets balky." Pokey Pigotta never turned down

a free meal in his life. I gave Dean my best glower, which struck him like

rain off a turtle.

You just can't get good help.

I retired to my desk to think.

Life was good.

I'd had a couple of rough ones recently and I'd not only gotten out

alive, but also managed to turn a fat profit. I didn't owe anybody. I

didn't need to work. I've always thought it sensible not to work if you're

not hungry. You don't see wild animals working when they're not hungry, so

why not just fiddle around and put away a few beers and worry about

getting ready for winter when winter comes?

My trouble was that word was out that Garrett could handle the tough

ones. Lately every fool with an imaginary twitch has been knocking on my

door. And when they look like Jill Craight and know how to turn on the

heat, they have no trouble getting past my first line of defense. My

second line is more feeble than my first. That's me. And I'm a born

sucker.

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THERETHREEGUYSWALKINGONAIR-alloftheminold-timearmor.Astheystartedthrowingthunderbolts,Iheadedforthesafetyofthemanor.Ihitthedoorwayandskiddedtoahalt.Somethingfarworsethanthreeguysinarmorwastearingitswayinthroughtheroof,goingatitliketheplacewasmadeofpaper.Abig,shiny,ugly,purplish-blackfacelikethatofaf...

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Glen Cook - Garrett Files 03 - Cold Copper Tears

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