Glen Cook: Cruel Zinc Melodies

One of John Stretch’s pals headed our way. Lugging a beetle as big as a lamb. He didn’t editorialize; he just dropped the monster when I didn’t offer to take it. He headed back to the wars.

Playmate said, ‘‘Hey, Garrett, whack that thing with something. It ain’t dead.’’

It lay on its back. Its legs were twitching. Its wings, ditto. Then it stopped struggling. It seemed to be assessing its situation.

‘‘Garrett!’’

It flipped. It faced me. Big brown jaws clacked.

It charged. . . .

It was a marvelous winter. My personal favorite kind of winter. An ever-lovin’ blue-eyed kind of winter that slunk in early and got bitter frigid before anybody remembered where they stashed their winter coats. Snow came down more often and heavier than even the old folks could remember, and you know how their recollections work. Everything was bigger, better, sharper, steeper, rougher, and tougher in the good old days.

When it didn’t snow there was freezing rain.

The world slowed down.

I favor slow. I like loafing around the house, hard at it doing a whole raft load of nothing. Nothing being what I do best when there are no ladies present.

Dean would maintain that they couldn’t be ladies if they were hanging around with me.

The downside of the weather was, what with snow and ice, it was hard to get a replacement keg in. It was almost as hard to get out to those temples of dissolution where the golden elixir was dispensed.

All good things must end. No good deed goes unpunished. Sooner rather than later. These natural laws underpin my life.

Same as it ever was, the idyll killer was a knock on my front door.

Dean shouted, ‘‘I can’t leave this omelet.’’

Always an excuse.

I climbed out of my chair, snaked out from behind my cluttered desk, crabbed sideways to the hallway door. Whoever built the house probably intended my office to be a walk-in closet. I glanced at Eleanor, central figure in the grim painting hanging behind my desk. She’s running away from a brooding mansion. One weak light burns in a high window. She’s beautiful and frightened. The light is in a different window each time I look.

There used to be the hint of a horrible, menacing presence in the dark background. I can’t find it anymore. But Eleanor keeps running.

I told her, ‘‘You seem gloomy today.’’

True. I couldn’t recall the last time I saw her looking so pessimistic.

Pular Singe popped out of the Dead Man’s room. The ratgirl has converted a quarter of that into her own little office. She manages the business side of our racket. Much better than I ever did.

I asked, ‘‘You expecting somebody?’’ She has a half brother who won’t stay away. Which can be hard on the nerves. He’s a local crime lord. In a time when TunFaire has been suffering from a severe outbreak of law and order.

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Maybe it’s Jerry the beer guy with the new keg.’’ I was whistling past the graveyard. Unexpected visitors never augur well.

I took a peek through the peephole. ‘‘Zippity-do!’’

‘‘What?’’ Singe asked. Instantly suspicious.

‘‘Proof that the gods love men.’’

‘‘It is the beer man, then?’’

‘‘No. Even better.’’ I popped the door open. Revealing a stoop chock-full of male fantasies. The closest was Alyx Weider, naughty blond temptress and daughter of Max Weider, dark overlord of the Weider brewing empire. Max has me on retainer.

‘‘Out of the road, Garrett,’’ Alyx ordered. ‘‘It’s freaking cold out here.’’ She didn’t wait for me to move.

I looked past the flock. They had arrived in a coach. Smoke curled from a slim sheet-metal chimney. The coachman had fled into the cabin already. The vehicle was so big it should have had oars and sails. Six matched chestnuts dragged it around. They looked like they wanted to join the coachman.

Three more honeys shoved past. I wished the weather was a little fairer. They wouldn’t be so thoroughly bundled. There was one each of the primary colors: blonde, brunette, and redhead, plus a moon-faced, raven-haired exotic with skin the hue and smoothness of honey. They put off so much heat that they should’ve been immune to the weather. Grizzled old glaciers would melt when they passed.

Whack! A hand got me across the back of the head.

Singe snickered.

Uh-oh. Tactical error. Drooling over Alyx and the honey girl with the challenging brown eyes left my back exposed to the redhead.

Singe snickered some more. Ominous, that, coming from the unique sound box of a ratperson throat.

‘‘Tinnie. Sweetheart. What are you doing with this crowd?’’

Tinnie Tate, devoutly committed redhead, is my off-and-on main woman. Very main, of late. And possessed of not even the remotest intellectual understanding of my broad appreciation of female folk who are easy on the eyes.

‘‘Making sure your fantasies don’t get past the hallucination stage.’’

Alyx Weider being one of her best friends would factor in. Alyx has been chasing me since she was old enough to get up on her own hind legs.

I asked, ‘‘Singe, is Old Bones snoozing?’’

‘‘Probably. But he does pretend quite well.’’

That he does. If he can’t sleep for a year at a time, he’d just as soon pretend. Some people are just so lazy.

We were talking about my partner. A unique sort of beast, even in TunFaire, where it’s a rare and remarkable day when we don’t see the rare and remarkable.

‘‘Let’s go in there. My office is too intimate.’’ And there wasn’t enough furniture in the small front room. Which we don’t use much. It still smells like the Goddamn Parrot.

Singe headed for the kitchen.

The two unfamiliar women made frightened squeaks when they saw my sidekick.

The Dead Man is a near quarter ton of defunct Loghyr, a species now little known and almost extinct. This one looks like a dwarf mammoth minus the hair and tusks. He went around on his hind legs when he was alive. His trunk-like snoot makes his yellowish gray, wrinkled face uglier than you can imagine. There is no twinkle in his eyes.

Loghyr don’t die like the rest of us. We croak; the part that isn’t meat and bone hustles off to whatever reward is on the schedule. Or sticks around to make life miserable for the living. Usually the same living we made miserable before we assumed room temperature. But Loghyr stick around and haunt their own corpses. For centuries, sometimes.

It’s been four and a half of those since somebody stuck a knife between my partner’s ribs.

I’m double haunted. Eleanor was a ghost when I met her, too.

I told the ladies, ‘‘He’s harmless.’’ Though a huge misogynist. I used to be able to wake him up just by bringing in a female of this caliber.

He’s getting used to me having an occasional companion of the obstinate sex. He gets along with Singe and Tinnie. Most of the time. The redhead remains strictly ‘‘Miss Tate,’’ however.

Though startled and intimidated, the new girls didn’t recognize a Loghyr when they saw one. So they weren’t scared.

‘‘Tinnie, my sweetest sweet, who might your friends be? And why do you turn up now, after weeks and weeks of sticking your tongue out and staying away?’’

Tinnie said, ‘‘Bobbi Wilt and Lindy Zhang.’’ Without indicating which was which. Because I didn’t need to know. ‘‘Guys, this here is six feet three inches of the prettiest ex-Marine you’re ever likely to find underfoot. Look at those big baby blues. Never mind the bad hair, the pockmarks, the scars, and all that stuff. That’s just normal wear and tear.’’