Part 25 (1/2)
I am exposing you to the sort of thought processes that unravel. ...
What could've turned into a fun squabble over not much went on hiatus when a frazzled Tinnie slipped in and demanded, ”Why didn't you wake me up?”
”I tried. You said you'd chop my ears off if I didn't leave you the h.e.l.l alone. That you were up all night and you needed some sleep.” Tinnie hasn't been much of a morning person lately. Either.
The other thing we have in common, from a redheaded point of view, is that I'm always wrong. ”Guess I should've been a little more firm, eh?”
She used to snap up that kind of straight line. Maybe we've gotten too comfortable. Her language wasn't ladylike. ”I was supposed to be in the office four hours ago.”
”Sorry I disappointed you by surviving, love. I'll time it more conveniently for you next time.”
She glared but kept quiet.
I said, ”Since you're late, and since everybody in your family will a.s.sume that a woman your age who was out all night in a situation involving somebody named Garrett was up to no good...”
Usually that sort of stuff winds Tinnie up. This time she was in no mood. She just kept scowling.
”Since you're going to be late anyway, how about you take Dean to the market?” Tinnie is a recognizable personality. People would stand back, not because she's my girl but because she's Willard Tate's niece. Willard Tate is one of those New Wave industrialists whose genius has begun to make him a huge power in postwar TunFaire.
Tinnie's expression was priceless. Too bad there's no way to record all those freckles in motion. ”You want me me to bodyguard Dean? Why? So you can lay around with your beer and any bimbo who drops in?” to bodyguard Dean? Why? So you can lay around with your beer and any bimbo who drops in?”
Her eyes glazed over. For half a minute she was the perfect girlfriend. Drop-dead gorgeous. And quiet.
The Dead Man was talking to her.
Tinnie clicked back. ”I'm sorry,” she said, moving in and bringing the heat. ”I forgot what that villain did with his drugs.”
I suffered her consolations for as long as it took Old Bones to become impatient.
”All right!” she snapped, pulling away.
I'd reconsidered. ”You just go on home, sweets. You don't have the skills to protect Dean from the kind of people who're bothering us.”
Tinnie is the contrariest person I know. Excepting my partner. I expected a big ration. Being contrary, she fooled me for the thousandth time. She didn't argue at all.
Maybe she was learning to listen.
It could happen. Even with a redhead. Sometimes the dice do come up snake eyes.
I suffered an inspiration as I walked Tinnie to the door, where a peek revealed nothing untoward. As we exchanged sweet sorrows, I suggested, ”Go over to the Cardonlos place. There'll be police types all over. See if you can't get a couple of them to walk you home.”
Right. A wiggle, a jiggle, and a giggle and the herd would take off carrying her on their shoulders.
”That might be a good idea. While I'm at it, why don't I borrow a couple to babysit Dean?”
Truth be told, I'd thought of that before I thought of looking out for her. But a certain minimal cunning has infected me lately. ”Why didn't I think of that? I guess you distracted me.”
”I'll distract you permanently if I find out you've got something going with Belinda Contague that isn't just business.”
How do you spank a rat? The tail gets in the way.
Not Miss Pular's fault, Garrett. All mine, I am afraid.
Ah. Just as well, probably. Tinnie wouldn't listen to anybody else. Especially not some clown named Garrett.
After a final bout of nuzzling, the professional redhead moved out. And could she move. She pa.s.sed through the crowd oblivious to the drooling, staring, and stumbling.
She's never been conscious of how strikingly attractive she is. If I say anything, she figures that's just me being me.
I watched her sail boldly into the Cardonlos harbor, where she disconcerted the crowd. And was on her way again in five minutes with a big, brave, alert policeman on either hand. While another headed my way.
”Scithe.”
”Garrett.”
”What can I do for you?”
”Miss Tate suggested that you might be able to get my wife's name b.u.mped up the waiting list for three-wheelers.”
”She did, did she? But she put it on me when she has a bigger piece of the pie than I do?”
”She said to remind you that she isn't the one who needs the favor.”
”She would, too. All right. I can get her moved, but not all the way to the top. I don't have that much juice.”
This stuff started the minute our three-wheels became the hot novelty everybody had to have, demand dramatically exceeding supply. The waiting list is two thousand names long. My ethically challenged a.s.sociates pad corporate income by taking bribes to move names up the list. They'll harvest every loose copper in the kingdom if they can.
”Here's what I'm thinking,” I told Scithe. And wove an elaborate scheme that used Dean for bad-guy bait. ”All I'm interested in is having my man get his shopping done safely. If somebody messes with him, the credit, the collar, and any info bonus is all yours. Unless it has to do with me. Then I'm majorly interested, of course.”
”Of course.”
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, then I went inside and told Dean he could go marketing now. ”And be sure not to forget the new keg.”
Then back into the Dead Man's room. ”How long before I get enough poison out of me so I can go outside?”
You have just begun detoxification. And you are not taking your fluids.
Sullenly, I reported, ”Penny Dreadful is watching us again.”
Let her. It means nothing. Except that she is worried about her kittens. We need to get Bittegurn Brittigarn in here. By whatever means necessary. He was the one who took your roc's egg. While spinning a tale meant to get you to fling the subst.i.tute into the river. Which would eliminate any suspicion.
”You really think he's a villain?”