Part 22 (1/2)
Orion Comstock took the pry bar from Dean.
Nails shrieked as they came loose.
Kittens screamed all over the house. I heard them run, in confusion, upstairs, then back down into the kitchen.
Ah. As I suspected.
”What?”
To whom do you suppose they will think you are speaking?
I covered by heading for the hallway. Dean said, ”I'll go. You need to be here.” He sounded upset.
Singe, too, seemed troubled. Her exposed fur had risen. That doesn't happen often.
There was even an undercurrent of revulsion in my connection with the Dead Man. Then I started to hear new voices. Inside my head.
I edged nearer Comstock and Nicolist.
The wooden box was lined with sheets of lead. Inside sat a matched pair of s.h.i.+ny metal sitting dogs, each nine inches tall.
Jackals, Old Bones opined. Almost certainly carrion eaters Almost certainly carrion eaters.
”You guys get these from the Bledsoe?”
Comstock eyed me suspiciously. ”That was the contract, wasn't it, slick? You saying-”
”Just startled. Saucerhead trusts you-I trust you. The ones I saw weren't sitting.”
Comstock shrugged. ”We seen some that was standing and some that was lying down. One was suckling pups. But Saucerhead said you wanted ones that was sealed up already. These are them.”
”That's true. You did fine.” I started to shove my mitts into the box.
Stop! Disappointed whispers echoed afterward.
”Careful there, slick. You don't want to touch them things with your bare skin.”
I stopped. Cold rolled off the statues.
Nicolist showed me the outside edge of his left little finger. ”That was just an accidental swipe.”
A piece of skin was missing, a quarter inch wide and three quarters long. Cruel bruising surrounded the wound.
”Aches a bit,” I supposed aloud.
”A bit. We need to get out of here, Orion. Runners are bound to turn up.”
A concern that hadn't occurred to me, though it was inherent in the situation. ”I'll let you out. And thanks, guys. You really helped out. We'll come to you first next time we have a tough job.”
Orion and June exchanged looks, shrugs, and headshakes.
I used the peephole. I didn't see anything remarkable. Except that my door-fixer-upping technician, Junker Mulclar, had pulled his cart up behind one that must have brought the metal dogs. I told Comstock and Nicolist, ”n.o.body there but the people who always are. Move out cool and n.o.body will notice.”
They went to the street. Mr. Mulclar hoisted his toolbox to his shoulder. He was wide, short, dark, craggy, an ugly man who counted a dwarf among his ancestors somewhere. He owned one of those faces that need shaving three times a day just to look dirty.
Junker is overly fond of cabbage, in both kraut and unpickled form. Whenever he stays in one place long that becomes overwhelmingly evident.
”Good morning, Mr. Mulclar. It seems to be the hinges this time.”
”Call me Junk, Mr. Garrett. Everybody does. What happened?” He rumbled enthusiastically at the nether end. He didn't apologize. All part of the natural cycle.
”Same as always. These bad guys were bigger than usual, though.”
”No! That can't be.” He punctuated with a minor poot. ”That door I put in last time ought to stand up to-”
”It isn't the door, Mr. Mulclar. It's the hinges. And if you saw those guys, you'd preen like a peac.o.c.k for ten years because your work stood up so well.”
Mulclar indulged in a rumbling chuckle, proud. Then rumbled in the opposite direction. The air was getting thick. Junk didn't notice. ”You got some spare room in your bas.e.m.e.nt? s.p.a.ce you ain't using? On account of I'm over here a whole lot anyway and my wife is throwing me out...” He cut a compet.i.tion cla.s.s ripper. ”Not sure why. Maybe she found a new heartthrob. Anyways, then I'd be right here whenever it was time to service my mainest account.”
”That don't sound like such a bad idea, Junk.” Hard to converse when you don't want to inhale. ”But I already have more people living here than I can manage. And, nothing personal, but I owe them all more than I owe you.”
”So it goes. I'll stay with my cousin Sepp. Or my sister.” Rip Rip! ”It'll all work out. Though I'm going to have to diversify. With all this law and order going on they ain't so many doors getting broke down.”
Junker Mulclar is a genius with hands and tools. There aren't enough like him in the Brave New TunFaire of postwar Karenta.
I gulped in some fresh air as a whiff breezed past. ”Junk, I'm going to do you a favor. If you swear on your mother's grave you'll fix my doors forever.”
Rumble! ”Sure, Mr. Garrett. I thought we had that deal already.”
”You know where the three-wheel manufactory is in Stepcross Pool?”
”Sure.”
”You go find the green door, tell the man there I said you should see Mr. Dale Pickle. Take your tools. They'll give you all the work you can handle, and then some. And a place to stay, if that's what you need.”
My business a.s.sociates, all of whom possess percentages bigger than mine, agree that we should take care of our workers. Max Weider built his brewing empire by valuing and rewarding the people who made it happen for him.
Weider brewing employees are happy and ferociously loyal.
The manufactory could use a man of Mr. Mulclar's skills. And if he lived in, he'd soon become less aromatic. They wouldn't let him do his own cooking.
Mulclar did me an immense favor. ”If you'll move out of the way, I can get those hinges fixed. It'll take maybe an hour.”