did it take him to latch on to the word’s meaning, so he could use it? It was several syllables longer than any in his normal vocabulary.
A voice from the shadowed back growled, “You let dat damned dog in here again, Sarge? I smell doggie do.”
“Dat ain’t dog shit, Puddle. Dat’s Garrett.”
“Tossup which is worst.”
“Fugginay.”
“You guys ought to take your routine on the road.” I couldn’t see Puddle but he had been struck from the same mold as Sarge. Both are big and fat and sloppy, tattooed and almost as bad as they think they are.
“Fugginay, Garrett. We’d have’em rollin’ in da streets. Be up to our friggin’ noses in hot little gels... Nah. I don’t tink. I’m gettin’ too old for all dat.”
“Watcha want, Garrett?” Puddle demanded. “I tink we done you ‘bout enough favors for dis week.”
“I don’t need any favors,” I fibbed. “I wanted to let Morley in on some bad news.”
Back there in the shadows Puddle must have reported through the speaking tube to Morley’s office upstairs. Dotes’ voice came from the stair. “What bad news is that, Garrett?”
“Crask and Sadler are back.”
Morley didn’t say anything for a good ten seconds. Then he asked, “Where did you get that?”
“Can’t tell you.” Which told him.
“Shee-it!” Sarge observed. “What’d I say? It smells like poop it’s proba’ly gonna be poop. He wants sometin’ again.”
“Fugginay,” Puddle replied. “I’m gonna have me a case a da brown-leg trots he comes in here someday an’ he don’t want nuttin’.”
I tried a ferocious scowl on Sarge as I passed him. He grinned amiably. He doesn’t scare. “Nice shoulder ornament dere, Garrett. We knew you’d take to da bird eventually.”
These people are my friends. Allegedly.
I told Morley, “You know eggplant used to be poisonous?”
“Yes. I keep a few of the undomesticated variety around in case I want to cook up special dishes for people who don’t respect our dress code here.” He led the way upstairs. “So who’s going to hear you now? Block told you about Crask and Sadler?”
“He got it from Relway.”
“Oh. In here.” Morley ducked across the room he uses for an office, settled into a plush chair behind a big table. He slipped a toothpick into a forest of nasty sharp teeth, looked thoughtful. “Crask and Sadler. Interesting.”
12
Morley Dotes is the kind of guy nightmares are made of if you have a daughter. He’s so damned handsome it’s painful, in an olive, slim, dark-elven fashion. Anything he throws on makes him look like he spent all last week at a tailor’s. He can deck himself out in white and prance through a coalyard without getting a spot on himself. I’ve never seen him sweat. Females of numerous species stop thinking while he’s around.
For all his faults he’s a good friend. Albeit a friend of the sort who would give you a talking parrot as a gift —and do it in a way that would tie you in knots of obligation that keep you from disposing of said gift in any sensible fashion. Sort of the way an old hag witch might put a curse on you that you can shed only when some other fool volunteers to take it upon himself.
No doubt Morley chuckles himself to sleep every night thinking about me and the Goddamn Parrot.
I said, “Looks like the new scam has the marks rolling in.”
“It was the right move at the right time, Garrett. Took a while to convince the neighbors that they would benefit, though.”
I could imagine. The area had been known as the Safety Zone till recently. It was neutral ground where gentlemen of unsavory enterprise who were business rivals or outright enemies could sit down with some expectation of personal safety. The Joy House had been the heart of the Zone. Morley made the Zone work and therefore profitable for the whole area.
A shift in market focus certainly would disconcert the neighbors.
“Rich people have the same requirements and vices as poor
A voice from the shadowed back growled, “You let dat damned dog in here again, Sarge? I smell doggie do.”
“Dat ain’t dog shit, Puddle. Dat’s Garrett.”
“Tossup which is worst.”
“Fugginay.”
“You guys ought to take your routine on the road.” I couldn’t see Puddle but he had been struck from the same mold as Sarge. Both are big and fat and sloppy, tattooed and almost as bad as they think they are.
“Fugginay, Garrett. We’d have’em rollin’ in da streets. Be up to our friggin’ noses in hot little gels... Nah. I don’t tink. I’m gettin’ too old for all dat.”
“Watcha want, Garrett?” Puddle demanded. “I tink we done you ‘bout enough favors for dis week.”
“I don’t need any favors,” I fibbed. “I wanted to let Morley in on some bad news.”
Back there in the shadows Puddle must have reported through the speaking tube to Morley’s office upstairs. Dotes’ voice came from the stair. “What bad news is that, Garrett?”
“Crask and Sadler are back.”
Morley didn’t say anything for a good ten seconds. Then he asked, “Where did you get that?”
“Can’t tell you.” Which told him.
“Shee-it!” Sarge observed. “What’d I say? It smells like poop it’s proba’ly gonna be poop. He wants sometin’ again.”
“Fugginay,” Puddle replied. “I’m gonna have me a case a da brown-leg trots he comes in here someday an’ he don’t want nuttin’.”
I tried a ferocious scowl on Sarge as I passed him. He grinned amiably. He doesn’t scare. “Nice shoulder ornament dere, Garrett. We knew you’d take to da bird eventually.”
These people are my friends. Allegedly.
I told Morley, “You know eggplant used to be poisonous?”
“Yes. I keep a few of the undomesticated variety around in case I want to cook up special dishes for people who don’t respect our dress code here.” He led the way upstairs. “So who’s going to hear you now? Block told you about Crask and Sadler?”
“He got it from Relway.”
“Oh. In here.” Morley ducked across the room he uses for an office, settled into a plush chair behind a big table. He slipped a toothpick into a forest of nasty sharp teeth, looked thoughtful. “Crask and Sadler. Interesting.”
12
Morley Dotes is the kind of guy nightmares are made of if you have a daughter. He’s so damned handsome it’s painful, in an olive, slim, dark-elven fashion. Anything he throws on makes him look like he spent all last week at a tailor’s. He can deck himself out in white and prance through a coalyard without getting a spot on himself. I’ve never seen him sweat. Females of numerous species stop thinking while he’s around.
For all his faults he’s a good friend. Albeit a friend of the sort who would give you a talking parrot as a gift —and do it in a way that would tie you in knots of obligation that keep you from disposing of said gift in any sensible fashion. Sort of the way an old hag witch might put a curse on you that you can shed only when some other fool volunteers to take it upon himself.
No doubt Morley chuckles himself to sleep every night thinking about me and the Goddamn Parrot.
I said, “Looks like the new scam has the marks rolling in.”
“It was the right move at the right time, Garrett. Took a while to convince the neighbors that they would benefit, though.”
I could imagine. The area had been known as the Safety Zone till recently. It was neutral ground where gentlemen of unsavory enterprise who were business rivals or outright enemies could sit down with some expectation of personal safety. The Joy House had been the heart of the Zone. Morley made the Zone work and therefore profitable for the whole area.
A shift in market focus certainly would disconcert the neighbors.
“Rich people have the same requirements and vices as poor
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