Glen Cook - Garrett Files 07 - Deadly Quicksilver Lies

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There ain't no justice, I guarantee absodamnlutely.

There I was, comfy as could be, feet on my desk, a

pint of Weider's porter in my hand, Espinosa's latest

potboiler in my other hand, and Eleanor reading over

my shoulder. She understood Espinosa better than I

did. For once the Goddamn Parrot wasn't squawking.

I sucked up that sweet silence more enthusiastically

than I did the beer.

Some fool went to hammering on my door.

His pounding had an arrogant, impatient edge.

Meant it would be somebody I didn't want to see.

"Dean! See who that is! Tell him to go away. I'm out

of town. On a secret mission for the king. Won't be

back for years. And I wouldn't buy what he's selling

anyway, if I was home."

Nobody moved. My cook-slash-housekeeper-slash-

factotum was the one who was out of town. I was at

the mercy of wannabe clients and the Goddamn

Parrot.

Dean had gone to TemisVar. One of his herd of

homely nieces was going to get married. He wanted

to make sure her fool fiance didn't wake up before it

was too late.

The pounding continued bruising my door. I'd just

installed it, replacing one broken down by a villain

who couldn't take a hint. "Damned insensitive jerk!"

I muttered. Hollering and threats backed the ham-

mering. The neighbors were going to get upset. Again.

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GLEN COOK

Sleepy, puzzled noises came from the small front

room between my office and the door. "I'll kill him if

he wakes that talking chicken." I glanced at Eleanor.

She offered no advice. She just hung there, baffled

by Espinosa.

"Guess I better dent a head before I got to deal

with another citizens' committee." Or had to put up

a new door. Doors aren't only not cheap, they're hard

to come by.

I dropped my feet, stretched my six feet two, got

going. The Goddamn Parrot made a noise. I peeked

into his room.

The little buzzard was only talking in his sleep. Ex-

cellent! He was one pretty monster. He had a yellow

head, blue neck ruff, red and green body and wings.

His tail feathers were long enough I could maybe

someday cash in with a band of gnomes who needed

decorations for their hats. But a monster he was, for

sure. Somewhere sometime somebody put a curse on

that foul-beaked vulture so he's got the vocabulary of

a stevedore. He lives to be obnoxious.

He was a gift from my "friend" Morley Dotes.

Made me wonder about the nature of friendship.

The Goddamn Parrot — dba Mr. Big — stirred. I got

out of there before he took a notion to wake up.

I have a peephole in my front door. I peeped. I

muttered, "Winger. Wouldn't you know?" My luck

and water have plenty in common, especially always

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heading downhill. Winger was a natural disaster look-

ing for a place to happen. A stubborn disaster, too. I

knew she'd pound away till hunger got her. She didn't

look underfed.

She wouldn't worry about what the neighbors

thought, either. She noticed the opinions of others the

way a mastodon noticed undergrowth in the woods.

I opened up. Winger moved forward without being

invited in. I stayed put and almost got trampled. She

is big and beautiful, but her candle doesn't burn too

DEADLY QUICKSILVER LIES 7

bright. "Need to talk to you, Garrett," she said. "I

need some help. Business."

I should have known better. Hell. I did know better.

But times were dull. Dean wasn't around to nag me.

The Dead Man had been asleep for weeks. I had no-

body but the Goddamn Parrot for company. All my

friends were beset by lady friends, a trial that hadn't

befallen me during any recent epoch. "All right. I

know I'm gonna be sorry, but all right. I'll give you a

listen. Promising nothing."

"Hows about a brew while we're jawing?" Winger

shy? I don't think so. She headed for the kitchen. I

took a look around outside before I shut the door.

You never knew what might be tagging after Winger.

She didn't have sense enough to look back. She sur-

vived on luck, not skill.

"Awk! Holy hooters! Garrett! Check them

gazoombies."

Damn! What I got for not closing the door to the

small front room.

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The street showed me only a clutter of people and

animals and dwarves and elves and a squadron of cen-

taur immigrants. The usual.

I shut the door. I went to the small front room

and closed that door, ignoring outraged allegations of

neglect. "Stow it, bird. Unless you want to get ne-

glected right into some ratman's dinner pot."

He laughed. He mocked.

He was right. I have no use for ratmen, but I

wouldn't do that to them.

Then he yelled rape. I didn't worry. Winger had

heard it before.

"Help yourself, why don't you?" I said when I hit

the kitchen, like she hadn't helped herself already.

She'd glommed the biggest mug in the house, too.

She winked. "Here's to ya, big guy." She knew ex-

actly what she was doing but didn't have the grace to

be embarrassed. "You and your sidekick in there."

8 GLEN COOK

"Yeah? You want a parrot?" I drew myself a mug,

settled at the kitchen table.

"That crow in a clown suit? What would I do with

him?" She planted herself opposite me, beyond dunes

of dirty dishes.

"How about get yourself an eyepatch, get into the

pirate business?"

"Don't know if I could dance with a pegleg. It ever

say 'Shiver me timbers' or 'Argh, matey'?"

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"What?"

"What I thought. You're trying to stick me with a

substandard bird."

"Huh?"

"That's no sailor bird, Garrett. That critter is pure

city. Knows more gutter talk than me."

"So teach him some sea chanties."

"Yo ho ho. Dean finally croak?" She stared at the

dishes.

"He's out of town. Got a niece that's getting mar-

ried. Looking for a part-tune job?"

Winger had met some of Dean's nieces, all of whom

brought new meaning to the word homely. She con-

trolled her astonishment, though, and pretended to

miss my hint about the dishes. "I was married once."

Oh, boy. I hoped she didn't get started.

She was still married but didn't let legal trivia en-

cumber her. "Don't go misty on me, Winger."

"Misty? You shitting me? After that, Hell is gonna

look good."

Winger is a tad unusual, case you haven't noticed.

She is twenty-six, as tall as I am, and built like the

proverbial masonry privy—on an epic scale. Also, she

has what some guys think is an attitude problem. Just

can't figure out how to stay in her place.

"You want my help," I reminded. Just a poke. My

keg wasn't bottomless. I smirked. Maybe she was des-

perate enough to take the Goddamn Parrot off my

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hands.

DEADLY QUICKSILVER LIES 9

"Uhm." She would get to the point only after she

had mooched her fill. That quantity would clue me as

to the state of her fortunes.

"You're looking good, Winger." Even Winger likes

to hear that."Must be doing all right."

She assumed I meant her outfit. That was new and,

as always, remarkable. "Where I work, they want you

should dress snappy."

I kept a straight face. "Unusual" is only the most

cautious, gentlest way to characterize Winger's taste.

Let's say you couldn't lose her in a crowd. If she went

around with the Goddamn Parrot on her shoulder, no-

body would notice the bird. "That outfit is pretty timid.

When you worked for that fat freak Lubbock ..."

"It's the territory. These guys want you should

blend in."

Again I kept my face straight. Being amused by

Winger when Winger isn't amused can be hazardous

to your health—especially if you're dim enough to,

say, crack wise about her blending in.

"Old-timer's gone, eh? What about the ugly thing?"

She meant my partner, the Dead Man, so-called be-

cause he hasn't run any footraces since somebody

stuck a knife in him four hundred years ago. "Ugly

thing" is apt. He isn't human. He's a Loghyr, which

explains why he's still hanging around so long after

he was murdered. Loghyr are slow and stubborn, espe-

cially when it comes to sloughing off the old mortal

clay. They're deliberate, he would say.

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"Asleep. Been weeks since he bugged me. I'm in

heaven."

Winger sneered, flipped blond hair out of her face.

"Likely to wake up?"

"Maybe if the house catches on fire. Got something

to hide?" The Dead Man's big trick is mind reading.

"No more than usual. I was just thinking, it's been

a dry spell. Way I hear, weather ain't been so hot for

you, neither."

GLEN COOK

That was my pal Winger, so shy and demure. Some-

how, with her, the romance and adventure were ab-

sent. "Thought you had desperate business."

"Desperate?"

"You like to tore the door down. You woke up the

Goddamn Parrot with your whooping and hollering."

That about-to-become-roasted squab was holding

forth up front. "I figured you had killer elves slavering

on your trail."

"I just wish. I told you how my luck's been. I was

just trying to get your attention." She refilled her mug,

did mine, headed for my office. "All right, Garrett.

Business first."

She paused, listened. T.G. Parrot was on a roll. She

shrugged, slipped into my office. I followed quickly.

Sometimes things fall into Winger's pockets if you're

not there to keep an eye on them.

I wriggled into my chair, safe behind my desk. Elea-

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nor guarded my back. Winger scowled at the painting,

then eyed my book. "Espinosa? Ain't that a little

heavy for you?"

"It's a real thriller." Espinosa was beyond me,

mostly. He tended to make a big deal out of questions

that wouldn't have occurred to anybody who worked

for a living.

I'd gone to visit a lady friend at the Royal Library.

The book was all I got.

"Philosophy is thrilling? Like a hemorrhoid. The

man should've got a hobby."

"He did. Philosophy. Since when can you read?"

"You don't need to act so surprised. I been learn-

ing. Got to do something with my ill-gotten gains,

don't I? I thought maybe some learning might come

in handy someday. But mostly what I've learned is

studying don't make you no smarter about people."

I started to agree. I know some pretty dim academ-

ics, people who live in another world. Winger cut me

off. "Enough chit-chat. Here's the gig. This old broad

DEADLY OUICKSILVER LIES

name of Maggie Jenn is maybe gonna come see you.

I don't know what's up, but my boss is willing to pay

a shitload of money to find out. This Jenn crone

knows me so I can't get close to her. What I figured

was, why don't I get you to let her hire you, then you

let me know what she's up to and I can take that to

my boss."

Vintage Winger.

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"Maggie Jenn?"

"That's the name."

"Seems like it ought to ring a bell. Who is she?"

"You got me. Just some old broad off the Hill."

"The Hill?" I leaned back, just a harried man of

affairs taking a moment out to relax with an old

friend. "I have a case."

"What is it this time? A stray lizard?" She laughed.

Her laughter sounded like geese headed north for the

winter. "Meow, meow."

A few days earlier, I'd gotten stung by an old biddy

who'd hired me to look for her beloved missing Mog-

gie. Never mind the details. It's embarrassing enough

just me knowing. "That's on the street?"

Winger swung her feet onto my desk. "All over it."

Dean was in it deep. / hadn't told a soul.

"Best Garrett story I heard hi a while, too. Thou-

sand marks for a cat? Come on."

"You know how some old ladies are about their

cats." The cat hadn't been the problem, really. The

problems started when I found a real animal that was

a ringer for the imaginary, red herring beast. "Who

would suspect a sweet old lady of wanting to set him

up for a fall guy in a scam?"

Honk honk, har bar. "I would've got suspicious

when she wouldn't come to my house."

What saved me was finding that cat. I caught on

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when I tried to take him home. "Yeah."

The Dead Man might have saved me all the embar-

rassment. Had he been awake.

GLEN COOK

Part of the discomfort of the mess was knowing he'd

never stop reminding me about it. "Never mind that.

Since we're talking about old ladies, tell me what this

Maggie Jenn is going to want."

"I figure she's gonna ask you to kill somebody."

"Say what?" That wasn't what I expected. "Hey!

You know—"

Somebody else was trying out my front door. This

somebody had a fist of stone bigger than a ham. "I

have a bad feeling about this," I muttered. "Whenever

platoons of people start thumping the door ..."

Winger stowed her leer. "I'll disappear."

"Don't wake the Dead Man."

"You kidding?" She pointed toward the ceiling. "I'll

be up there. Find me when you're done."

I was afraid of that.

Having a no-strings, no-complications friendship can

have its own complications.

The small front room had grown quiet. I paused

to eavesdrop. Not one obscenity marred the precious

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file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/Glen%20Cook%20-%20Ga\rrett%20-%2007%20-%20Deadly%20Quicksilver%20Lies.htm1Thereain'tnojustice,Iguaranteeabsodamnlutely.ThereIwas,comfyascouldbe,feetonmydesk,apintofWeider'sporterinmyhand,Espinosa'slatestpotboilerinmyotherhand,andEleanorreadingoverm...

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Glen Cook - Garrett Files 07 - Deadly Quicksilver Lies

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