Deadly Quicksilver Lies Read online

  DEADLY QUICKSILVER LIES

  Garrett P. I. Book 7

  by Glen Cook

  With Dean out of town, the Dead Man asleep, and only the Goddamn Parrot for company, Garrett finds himself wishing for something new. When Winger drops by with a job investigating a woman known as Maggie Jenn, Garrett bites. Maggie, meanwhile, hires Garrett to find her missing daughter, Emerald. Everything seems to be going just fine until Garrett is attacked in the street, knocked out, and thrown in the Bledsoe’s mental ward. When Garrett escapes, he discovers that the man who put him there goes by the name of Grange Cleaver, also known as The Rainmaker.

  Glen Cook

  Deadly Quicksilver Lies

  ROC

  A ROC Book published by New American Library, and the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books USA Inc., 175 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Books Ltd., 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd., Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd. 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontarion, Canada M4V 3B2

  First published by Roc, an imprint of Durton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

  First Printing: March, 1994

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This ePub edition v1.0 by Dead^Man Jan, 2011

  Copyright © Glen Cook 1994

  Cover art by Tim Hildebrandt All rights reserved.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK

  Printed in the United States

  ISBN: 0-451-45305-0

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed: to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  1

  There ain’t no justice, I guarantee absodamnlutely. There I was, comfy as could be, feet on my desk, a pint of Weider’s porter in my hand, Espinosa’s latest potboiler in my other hand, and Eleanor reading over my shoulder. She understood Espinosa better than I did. For once the Goddamn Parrot wasn’t squawking. I sucked up that sweet silence more enthusiastically than I did the beer.

  Some fool went to hammering on my door.

  His pounding had an arrogant, impatient edge. Meant it would be somebody I didn’t want to see. “Dean! See who that is! Tell him to go away. I’m out of town. On a secret mission for the king. Won’t be back for years. And I wouldn’t buy what he’s selling anyway, if I was home.”

  Nobody moved. My cook-slash-housekeeper-slash-factotum was the one who was out of town. I was at the mercy of wannabe clients and the Goddamn Parrot.

  Dean had gone to TemisVar. One of his herd of homely nieces was going to get married. He wanted to make sure her fool fiance didn’t wake up before it was too late.

  The pounding continued bruising my door. I’d just installed it, replacing one broken down by a villain who couldn’t take a hint. “Damned insensitive jerk!” I muttered. Hollering and threats backed the hammering. The neighbors were going to get upset. Again.

  Sleepy, puzzled noises came from the small front room between my office and the door. “I’ll kill him if he wakes that talking chicken.” I glanced at Eleanor. She offered no advice. She just hung there, baffled by Espinosa.

  “Guess I better dent a head before I got to deal with another citizens’ committee.” Or had to put up a new door. Doors aren’t only not cheap, they’re hard to come by.

  I dropped my feet, stretched my six feet two, got going. The Goddamn Parrot made a noise. I peeked into his room.

  The little buzzard was only talking in his sleep. Excellent! He was one pretty monster. He had a yellow head, blue neck ruff, red and green body and wings. His tail feathers were long enough I could maybe someday cash in with a band of gnomes who needed decorations for their hats. But a monster he was, for sure. Somewhere sometime somebody put a curse on that foul-beaked vulture so he’s got the vocabulary of a stevedore. He lives to be obnoxious.

  He was a gift from my “friend” Morley Dotes. Made me wonder about the nature of friendship.

  The Goddamn Parrot — dba Mr. Big — stirred. I got out of there before he took a notion to wake up.

  I have a peephole in my front door. I peeped. I muttered, “Winger. Wouldn’t you know?” My luck and water have plenty in common, especially always heading downhill. Winger was a natural disaster looking for a place to happen. A stubborn disaster, too. I knew she’d pound away till hunger got her. She didn’t look underfed.

  She wouldn’t worry about what the neighbors thought, either. She noticed the opinions of others the way a mastodon noticed undergrowth in the woods.

  I opened up. Winger moved forward without being invited in. I stayed put and almost got trampled. She is big and beautiful, but her candle doesn’t burn too bright. “Need to talk to you, Garrett,” she said. “I need some help. Business.”

  I should have known better. Hell. I did know better. But times were dull. Dean wasn’t around to nag me. The Dead Man had been asleep for weeks. I had nobody but the Goddamn Parrot for company. All my friends were beset by lady friends, a trial that hadn’t befallen me during any recent epoch. “All right. I know I’m gonna be sorry, but all right. I’ll give you a listen. Promising nothing.”

  “Hows about a brew while we’re jawing?” Winger shy? I don’t think so. She headed for the kitchen. I took a look around outside before I shut the door. You never knew what might be tagging after Winger. She didn’t have sense enough to look back. She survived on luck, not skill.

  “Awk! Holy hooters! Garrett! Check them gazoombies.”

  Damn! What I got for not closing the door to the small front room.

  The street showed me only a clutter of people and animals and dwarves and elves and a squadron of centaur immigrants. The usual.

  I shut the door. I went to the small front room and closed that door, ignoring outraged allegations of neglect. “Stow it, bird. Unless you want to get neglected right into some ratman’s dinner pot.”

  He laughed. He mocked.

  He was right. I have no use for ratmen, but I wouldn’t do that to them.

  Then he yelled rape. I didn’t worry. Winger had heard it before.

  “Help yourself, why don’t you?” I said when I hit the kitchen, like she hadn’t helped herself already. She’d glommed the biggest mug in the house, too.

  She winked. “Here’s to ya, big guy.” She knew exactly what she was doing but didn’t have the grace to be embarrassed. “You and your sidekick in there.”

  “Yeah? You want a parrot?” I drew myself a mug, settled at the kitchen table.

  “That crow in a clown suit? What would I do with him?” She planted herself opposite me, beyond dunes of dirty dishes.

  “How about get yourself an eyepatch, get into the pirate business?”

  “Don’t know if I could dance with a pegleg. It ever say ‘Shiver me timbers’ or ‘Argh, matey’?”

  “What?”

  “What I thought. You’re trying to stick me with a substandard bird.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s no sailor bird, Garrett. That critter is pure city. Knows more gutter talk than me.�
�

  “So teach him some sea chanties.”

  “Yo ho ho. Dean finally croak?” She stared at the dishes.

  “He’s out of town. Got a niece that’s getting married. Looking for a part-time job?”

  Winger had met some of Dean’s nieces, all of whom brought new meaning to the word homely. She controlled her astonishment, though, and pretended to miss my hint about the dishes. “I was married once.”

  Oh, boy. I hoped she didn’t get started.

  She was still married but didn’t let legal trivia encumber her. “Don’t go misty on me, Winger.”

  “Misty? You shitting me? After that, Hell is gonna look good.”

  Winger is a tad unusual, case you haven’t noticed. She is twenty-six, as tall as I am, and built like the proverbial masonry privy — on an epic scale. Also, she has what some guys think is an attitude problem. Just can’t figure out how to stay in her place.

  “You want my help,” I reminded. Just a poke. My keg wasn’t bottomless. I smirked. Maybe she was desperate enough to take the Goddamn Parrot off my hands.

  “Uhm.” She would get to the point only after she had mooched her fill. That quantity would clue me as to the state of her fortunes.

  “You’re looking good, Winger.” Even Winger likes to hear that.” Must be doing all right.”

  She assumed I meant her outfit. That was new and, as always, remarkable. “Where I work, they want you should dress snappy.”

  I kept a straight face. “Unusual” is only the most cautious, gentlest way to characterize Winger’s taste. Let’s say you couldn’t lose her in a crowd. If she went around with the Goddamn Parrot on her shoulder, nobody would notice the bird. “That outfit is pretty timid. When you worked for that fat freak Lubbock...”

  “It’s the territory. These guys want you should blend in.”

  Again I kept my face straight. Being amused by Winger when Winger isn’t amused can be hazardous to your health — especially if you’re dim enough to, say, crack wise about her blending in.

  “Old-timer’s gone, eh? What about the ugly thing?” She meant my partner, the Dead Man, so-called because he hasn’t run any footraces since somebody stuck a knife in him four hundred years ago. “Ugly thing” is apt. He isn’t human. He’s a Loghyr, which explains why he’s still hanging around so long after he was murdered. Loghyr are slow and stubborn, especially when it comes to sloughing off the old mortal clay. They’re deliberate, he would say.

  “Asleep. Been weeks since he bugged me. I’m in heaven.”

  Winger sneered, flipped blond hair out of her face. “Likely to wake up?”

  “Maybe if the house catches on fire. Got something to hide?” The Dead Man’s big trick is mind reading.

  “No more than usual. I was just thinking, it’s been a dry spell. Way I hear, weather ain’t been so hot for you, neither.”

  That was my pal Winger, so shy and demure. Somehow, with her, the romance and adventure were absent. “Thought you had desperate business.”

  “Desperate?”

  “You like to tore the door down. You woke up the Goddamn Parrot with your whooping and hollering.” That about-to-become-roasted squab was holding forth up front. “I figured you had killer elves slavering on your trail.”

  “I just wish. I told you how my luck’s been. I was just trying to get your attention.” She refilled her mug, did mine, headed for my office. “All right, Garrett. Business first.”

  She paused, listened. T. G. Parrot was on a roll. She shrugged, slipped into my office. I followed quickly. Sometimes things fall into Winger’s pockets if you’re not there to keep an eye on them.

  I wriggled into my chair, safe behind my desk. Eleanor guarded my back. Winger scowled at the painting, then eyed my book. “Espinosa? Ain’t that a little heavy for you?”

  “It’s a real thriller.” Espinosa was beyond me, mostly. He tended to make a big deal out of questions that wouldn’t have occurred to anybody who worked for a living.

  I’d gone to visit a lady friend at the Royal Library. The book was all I got.

  “Philosophy is thrilling? Like a hemorrhoid. The man should’ve got a hobby.”

  “He did. Philosophy. Since when can you read?”

  “You don’t need to act so surprised. I been learning. Got to do something with my ill-gotten gains, don’t I? I thought maybe some learning might come in handy someday. But mostly what I’ve learned is studying don’t make you no smarter about people.”

  I started to agree. I know some pretty dim academics, people who live in another world. Winger cut me off. “Enough chit-chat. Here’s the gig. This old broad name of Maggie Jenn is maybe gonna come see you. I don’t know what’s up, but my boss is willing to pay a shitload of money to find out. This Jenn crone knows me so I can’t get close to her. What I figured was, why don’t I get you to let her hire you, then you let me know what she’s up to and I can take that to my boss.”

  Vintage Winger.

  “Maggie Jenn?”

  “That’s the name.”

  “Seems like it ought to ring a bell. Who is she?”

  “You got me. Just some old broad off the Hill.”

  “The Hill?” I leaned back, just a harried man of affairs taking a moment out to relax with an old friend. “I have a case.”

  “What is it this time? A stray lizard?” She laughed. Her laughter sounded like geese headed north for the winter. “Meow, meow.”

  A few days earlier, I’d gotten stung by an old biddy who’d hired me to look for her beloved missing Moggie. Never mind the details. It’s embarrassing enough just me knowing. “That’s on the street?”

  Winger swung her feet onto my desk. “All over it.”

  Dean was in it deep. I hadn’t told a soul.

  “Best Garrett story I heard in a while, too. Thousand marks for a cat? Come on.”

  “You know how some old ladies are about their cats.” The cat hadn’t been the problem, really. The problems started when I found a real animal that was a ringer for the imaginary, red herring beast. “Who would suspect a sweet old lady of wanting to set him up for a fall guy in a scam?”

  Honk honk, har har. “I would’ve got suspicious when she wouldn’t come to my house.”

  What saved me was finding that cat. I caught on when I tried to take him home. “Yeah.”

  The Dead Man might have saved me all the embarrassment. Had he been awake.

  Part of the discomfort of the mess was knowing he’d never stop reminding me about it. “Never mind that.

  Since we’re talking about old ladies, tell me what this Maggie Jenn is going to want.”

  “I figure she’s gonna ask you to kill somebody.”

  “Say what?” That wasn’t what I expected. “Hey! You know —”

  2

  Somebody else was trying out my front door. This somebody had a fist of stone bigger than a ham. “I have a bad feeling about this,” I muttered. “Whenever platoons of people start thumping the door...”

  Winger stowed her leer. “I’ll disappear.”

  “Don’t wake the Dead Man.”

  “You kidding?” She pointed toward the ceiling. “I’ll be up there. Find me when you’re done.”

  I was afraid of that.

  Having a no-strings, no-complications friendship can have its own complications.

  The small front room had grown quiet. I paused to eavesdrop. Not one obscenity marred the precious silence. T. G. Parrot was asleep again.

  I thought about making it that jungle pigeon’s last nap, the beginning of the big sleep, the longest voyage, the...

  Boom boom boom.

  I peeked through the peephole. By-the-numbers Garrett, that’s me. Fixing to live a thousand years.

  All I saw was a smallish redhead facing three-quarters away, staring at something. That little bit did all that pounding? She was stronger than she looked. I opened the door. She continued staring up the street. I leaned forward cautiously.

  The neighborhood pixie t
eens were chucking rotten fruits off the cornices and gutters of an ugly old three-story half a block up Macunado. A band of gnomes below dodged and cursed and shook their walking sticks. They were all old, clad in the usual drab gray, with whiskers. Not beards, whiskers, like you see in paintings of old-time generals and princes and merchant captains. All gnomes seem to be old and out of fashion. I’ve never seen a young one or a female one.

  One spry little codger, chanting a colorful warsong about discount rates and yam futures, pegged a broken cobblestone hard enough to actually hit a pixie. It did a somersault off a gargoyle’s head. The gnomes pranced around and waved their sticks in glee and sent up an ave to the Great Arbitrager. Then the pixie brat opened his wings and soared. His laughter was a mocking squeak.

  I told the redhead, “An exercise in futility. All sound and fury. Been going on all month. Nobody’s gotten hurt yet. Probably all die of shame if anybody did.” Gnomes are that way. Gladly make fortunes financing wars but don’t want to watch the bloodshed.

  I spied a sedan chair at streetside down toward Macunado’s intersection with Wizard’s Reach. Beside it stood something half man and half gorilla with hands that fit the prescription for whatever it was that had tried to demolish my door. “That thing tame?”

  “Mugwump? He’s a sweetheart. And as human as you are.” The redhead’s tone suggested she might be, unwittingly, insulting friend Mugwump.

  “Can I help you?” Boy, would I like to help her. Mugwump was old news.

  I make a point of being nice to redheads, at least till they’re not nice to me. Redhead was always my favorite color, barely edging blonde and brunette.

  The woman turned to me. “Mr. Garrett?” Her voice was low, husky, sexy.

  I didn’t owe any money. “Guilty.” Surprise, surprise. She was a good decade older than my first guess. But time had stolen nothing. She was proof on the hoof that aging produces fine wines. Second-guessing, I put her over thirty-five but under forty. Me, I’m a tender, innocent thirty and don’t usually look for them quite so ripe.