7
Dean let me in. “What in the world are you doing home?” He hoisted his nose at the dripping I did.
“Need to consult the genius.” I pushed past but hung a surprise left into the small front room. Huh. No cat. No sign of a cat. But I smelled it.
Dean shuffled from foot to foot. I gave him my most evil look, pretended to twist a neck to the accompaniment of dramatic noises. I headed for the Dead Man’s room.
He was pretending to sleep.
I knew he wasn’t. He wouldn’t nod off before he heard the latest from the Cantard. He was obsessed with Glory Mooncalled and expected news of the republican general’s adventures momentarily.
I went inside anyway. Dean hustled in with a raggedy blanket he tossed over my chair so it wouldn’t get wet. I settled, stared at the Dead Man, said, “That’s a pity, him drifting off just when we finally hear something from the war zone. Make me a quick cup of tea before I hit the street again.”
What news from the Cantard? . . . You are a treacherous beast, Garrett.
“The treacherousest. As bad as the kind of guy who’d send you out to follow a nut case as a joke.”
Joke?
“You can come clean. I won’t hold a grudge. I’ll even admit it was a good one. You had me out there for hours before I figured it out.”
I hate to disappoint you, Garrett, but the fact is we have been hired to report the movements of Barking Dog Amato. The client paid a fifty-mark retainer.
“Come on. I admitted it was a good one. Let up.”
It is true, Garrett. Though now, seeing the thoughts and reservations and questions rambling across the surface of your mind, I grow curious myself. I wonder if I, too, have not been the victim of an elaborate hoax.
“Somebody really paid fifty marks to have Amato watched?”
There would be nothing under my chair otherwise.
I was sure he wouldn’t take a joke that far. “You didn’t ask questions?”
No. Not the questions you wish I had. Had I known what a Barking Dog Amato was, I would have asked them.
Somebody had begun pounding on the front door. Dean, apparently, was too busy to be bothered. “Wait a minute.”
I looked through the peephole first. I’d learned the hard way. I saw two women. One was hugging herself, shivering. Neither seemed to enjoy the weather.
I opened up. “Can I help you ladies?”
I used “ladies” poetically. The younger had twenty years on me. Both were squeaky clean and wore their finest, but their finest was threadbare and years out of style. They were gaunt and threadbare themselves. One had a trace of nonhuman blood.
Both put on nervous smiles, as though I’d startled them by being something they didn’t expect. The younger screwed up her courage. “Are you saved, brother?”
“Huh?”
“Have you been born again? Have you accepted Mississa as your personal savior?”
“Huh?” I didn’t have the foggiest what the hell was going on. I didn’t even realize they were talking religion. That doesn’t play much part in my life. I ignore all the thousand gods whose cults plague TunFaire. So far I’ve seldom been disappointed in my hope that the gods will ignore me.
Apparently my not slamming the door was great encouragement. Both women started chattering. Being a naturally polite sort of guy, I halfway listened till I got the drift. Then I grinned, inspired. “Come in! Come in!” I introduced myself. I shook their hands. I turned on the old Garrett charm. They became uneasy almost to the point of suspicion. I probed only deeply enough to make sure their brand of salvation wasn’t limited to humans. Most of the cults are racist. Most of the nonhuman races hold to no gods at all.
I confessed, “I’m not free to entertain a new system of beliefs myself, but I do know someone who should see you. My partner is the most ungodly sort you can imagine. He needs . . . Let me caution you. He’s stubborn in his wickedness. I’ve tried and tried . . . You’ll see. Please come with me. Would you like tea? My housekeeper just put the kettle on.” They chattered steadily themselves. What I had to say mostly got shoved in in snatches.
They followed me. I had a hell of a time keeping a straight face. I sicced them on the Dead Man. I didn’t stay around to watch the fur fly.
As I hit the rain I wondered if he’d ever speak to me again. But who needed spiritual guidance more? He was dead already, already headed down the path to heaven or hell.
But the grin on my clock wasn’t any smug celebration of my ingenuity. I’d had me another attack of inspiration. I knew how to turn the Barking Dog business into a scam that would make us both happy.
The man could read and write. He did his own signs and broadsides. And he was harmless. And he needed money. I’d seen that where he lived. So why not have him keep track of himself? I could hand his journal over to my client, split my fee with Barking Dog, save myself hunking around in the weather.
The more I thought about that, the more I liked it. And who’d know the difference?
So the heck with Bishoff Hullar. I wouldn’t press my luck there. I’d stay away except to collect. I chose a new destination.
I went off to sell Barking Dog. I didn’t anticipate any trouble. I would appeal to his sense of conspiracy.
Some white knight, eh? Our hero, third-string con artist.
I didn’t suffer much guilt. The Bishoff Hullars of the world deserve what they get. Hell, before I got to Barking Dog’s place I was chuckling.