Book 09 - Faded Steel Heat by Glen Cook Page B

If he’s playing straight, I’ll still get an idea
of the real problem. I can’t believe any of our racist
lunatics have balls big enough to go after Weider.”
    “You have true believers involved, Garrett. You ought to
know reality doesn’t faze those people. They’re right.
That’s their armor. That’s all they need.” Morley
sat up straight. He wanted to move on to something else. “Be
careful out there, Garrett.”
    “I’m always careful.”
    “No, you’re not. You’re lucky. And luck is a
woman. Be careful. You learned from the best. Take my lessons to
heart.”
    “Right.” I chuckled. Morley doesn’t lack for
self-image.
    “Tell Puddle to come up. I need him to run a
message.”
    “I don’t think he’ll do much running.” I
did as Dotes asked, though.
    Morley never said a word about the Goddamn Parrot. Never asked a
question. Never even looked at the bird. Never smirked or rubbed it
in.
    Morley was playing with me again.
    I ought to slice the little buzzard into thin strips and slip
them to him buried in one of his strange, overly spiced vegetarian
platters.
     
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13
    I watched Puddle strain his way upstairs. “That man needs
to eat more of what he serves,” I told Sarge, who isn’t
a single pound lighter.
    “Fugginay. We’re all puttin’ on da pounds,
Garrett,” Sarge muttered, polishing a mug. Though
they’re all thugs, Morley’s guys pretend to be waiters
and cooks. “Ya tink about it hard when ya ain’t
eatin’ but den ya wander inta a place where dey got da good
beer and da great food, ya go bugfuck and don’t tink what ya
done till ya done et half a cow.”
    “I know what you mean.” Dean was too good a
cook.
    Couldn’t be the beer. Beer is good for you.
    “Fugginay. Hey, I got work to do, Garrett.”
    “Yeah. Later.”
    “You be careful out dere, pal. Da world’s
goin’ crazy.”
    That was the nicest thing Sarge ever said to me. I hit the
street wondering why.
    A bird’s wing brushed the back of my head. Again.
    My live-in clown was restless. He didn’t speak, though.
Luckily. Had the Dead Man not been controlling him, he would have
screeched about me abusing infants. Or something. There was an
unnatural rapport between the Loghyr and the bird. The Dead Man
could touch his mind from miles away. Me he can barely reach in the
street outside the house.
    It’s bad enough to have the Dead Man after me constantly
at home. Having him use Mr. Big to keep tabs everywhere else had
gotten old two minutes after he found out he could do it.
    I reminded him, “I’m going to the brewery.”
Shift change was coming up.
    People noticed me talking to the bird. They gave me a more than
normal amount of room.
    Because the streets are filled with men who talk to ghosts and
shadows. For them the Cantard opened doors to realms the rest of us
never see.
    War may not be Hell itself but it definitely does weaken the
barriers between us and the dark regions.
    The Goddamn Parrot took wing. He followed me from above.
The Dead Man’s control slipped. The jungle vulture
squawked insults at passersby. Some hurled sticks or bits of broken
brick. The bird mocked them. He fears nothing that goes on two
legs.
    Hawks are something else.
    A pigeon killer of uncertain species arrowed down out of the
blue. Mr. Big sensed his peril at the last instant. He dodged. Even
so, bright feathers flew but only the parrot’s feelings
suffered any real injury. He shrieked curses.
    I chuckled. “That was close, you little pervert. Maybe
next time I’ll get lucky.”
    The little monster returned to my shoulder. He wouldn’t
leave again. The hawk circled but lost patience quickly. There is
no shortage of pigeons in this burg.
    “Argh!” I said. “Where’s me eye patch,
matey?” I took a few crabbed steps, dragging my left foot.
Folks didn’t appreciate the effort, thought. Almost everybody
has a disabled veteran in the family.
     
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14
    Stragglers from the early shift still drifted into