Book 07 - Deadly Quicksilver Lies by Glen Cook Page A

strode
inside, chirped, “Congrats. You wore him down.”
    Morley checked me from glazed eyes, failed to recognize me for a
moment, then wailed, “Oh, damn! You. On top of everything
else.”
    I looked behind me to find out who was causing my best pal so
much distress. I’d fix him! But the guy was too fast for me.
The doorway was empty.
    I put on my best hurt face. I get to practice a lot around the
Joy House. Morley’s guys are always riding me. Naturally, I
play along.
    I righted a table, selected a chair, made myself comfortable. I
eyeballed Playmate. “What happened? You have to pump that guy
up on weed to get him to swat flies.”
    Morley took several controlled breaths, picked up a chair, and
joined me. “Excellent question, Garrett.” Playmate
wasn’t doing anything now. In fact, the roars from beneath
the flesh pile sounded suspiciously like snores.
    Morley Dotes is a bit short for a grown man but isn’t
entirely human. He has dark-elf forebears. But he never lets the
human in him get in his way.
    Maybe the mix is responsible. He is a mass of contrasts,
especially in his profession as opposed to his hobby. His health
food haven has become a hangout for half the villains of TunFaire.
Contrast again: the clientele is half those double-nasties and half
the kind of clown you
expect
to find gnoshing tubers of
uncertain provenance.
    “Boy did pretty well,” Morley observed, glancing at
Spud. The kid’s real name was Narcisio. Only his mother used
that.
    “Pretty good,” I admitted. “More balls than
brains.”
    “Runs in the family.”
    “What happened?”
    Morley glowered. Instead of answering me, he shocked the house
by bellowing, “Eggwhite! Get your heathen ass out
here!”
    I was amazed, too. Morley employs vulgarity only rarely. He
fancies himself a gentleman rogue. Gentlemen rogues are slick like
they’re covered with lard. But a villain is a villain, and
Morley is one of the worst because he gets away with everything. I
should try to take him down. I don’t because he’s my
friend.
    A thug ambled out of the kitchen. He wore cook’s garb but
carried his professional resume scarred on his face. He was old and
looked as stupid as a stump, which answered a question: what
becomes of hard boys if they live long enough to get old? They
become waiters. I didn’t see how this goon had survived to
get there, though. He looked like a guy who needed a major run of
luck to get through any given day.
    Maybe the gods do love the incapacitated.
    Morley beckoned.
    Eggwhite edged our way. His gaze kept darting toward Playmate.
Playmate had begun to reappear as guys climbed off and went to set
the bones of their buddies.
    “Big mess, huh?” Morley said.
    “Yeah, boss. Big ole mess.”
    “You have any idea why I would entertain the notion that
you might have been at fault? Can you tell me why your face popped
into mind the moment my friend asked me what happened?”
    Will wonders never cease? He never called me friend before.
    Eggwhite muttered, “I guess on account of I got a weakness
for doing jokes.”
    Morley grunted. “That one of your pranks?” Playmate
was sleeping like a baby now, but he was going to be hurting when
he woke up. “That big ha-ha there?” Morley’s tone
was hard, the street leaking through. He was angry. Eggwhite was
petrified.
    Morley asked, “What did you do?”
    “Put angelweed in his salad?” Eggwhite made it a
question, like a kid caught in a lie experimenting with a new
tactic.
    “How much?”
    Excellent question. Angelweed didn’t earn its heavenly
name because it will boost your mind into paradise but because it
will send you off to hallelujah land if you aren’t careful.
Slipping it into a salad would be a clever way to dose somebody.
The leaves look like spinach that’s gone a little bluish.
    “Half a dozen leaves.” Eggwhite looked everywhere
but straight at Morley.
    “Half a dozen. Enough to kill most people.”
    “He’s humongous, chief. A goddamn