place didn’t look promising. There’d been no
upkeep done in my lifetime. But it was a cut above places where all
you got for your copper was a place on a rope that would support
you while you slept standing up.
It was the sort of place frequented by the poor and the
lowest-order bad boys. The people who operated it wouldn’t be
eager to talk. I’d have to use my wits to get anything.
Not always the best hope with me.
The interior delivered the promise of the outside. I stepped
into a dingy common room inhabited only by a flock of three
winebirds hard at their trade. Some invisible force had pushed them
to the extremities of the room. One was educating himself in a
continuous muttered monotone. I couldn’t make out one word in
five but he seemed to be engaged in a furious debate on social
issues. His opponent wasn’t apparent and seemed to have a
hard time making himself heard.
I didn’t see anybody who looked like a proprietor. Nobody
responded to the bell over the door. “Yo! Anybody
home?”
That didn’t bring any customer-conscious landlord charging
in from his toils in the kitchen. But one of the silent drunks
detached himself from his chair and reeled toward me.
“Wha’cha need? Room?”
“Looking for a couple of my pals, Smith and Smith,
supposed to be staying here.”
He leaned against the serving counter, bathed me in fumes and
knotted his face into a ruddy prune. “Uh. Oh. Third floor.
Door at the end.” He didn’t work up much disappointment
over the fact that I wasn’t going to put money in his
pocket.
“Thanks, pal.” I gave him a couple of coppers.
“Have one on me.”
He looked at the coins like he couldn’t figure out what
they were. While he pondered the mystery I went upstairs.
Carefully. The way those steps creaked and sagged it was only a
matter of hours until one collapsed.
I wasn’t disappointed by the third floor, either. It was
more like a half story—five rooms under the eaves, two to
either side of a claustrophobically narrow hall and one at the end.
Two of the side rooms didn’t have a hanging to ensure
privacy. One still had a door that hung on one hinge, immobile. My
destination was a door that wouldn’t close because of a warp
in the floor. The Smiths weren’t home. Surprise, surprise. I
hadn’t expected them to be after their encounter with the
Doom. I pushed inside.
Whatever plot or conspiracy or outfit the Smiths were with, it
was miserly. They’d slept on blankets on the floor. And they
hadn’t had a change of clothing to leave behind.
I started going over the room anyway. You never know when
something minute will make everything fall together.
I was on my knees looking into the canyons between floorboards
when the hallway floor creaked. I looked over my shoulder.
The woman looked like the Dead Man’s wife. There was
enough of her to make four women with some to spare. How had she
gotten that close without raising a roar? How had the stairway
survived? Why was the building standing? It was top-heavy enough to
tip over.
“What the hell you doing, boy?”
She was spoiling for a fight and there wouldn’t be any
getting around it. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know, shithead.”
So it don’t always work.
She was carrying a club, a real man-sized head-buster. I pitied
the guy who got hit when she got her weight behind it.
It looked like I might get a chance to practice my self-pity if
I didn’t use those wits I’d been daydreaming about.
“Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing sticking
your face in my room?”
When you don’t have space to dazzle them with your
footwork you try baffling them with bullshit.
“Your room? What the hell you yelling, boy? This room
belongs to two guys named Smith.”
“The guy I paid said take this room. I did what he told
me. You got a problem with that you take it up with the
management.”
She glared at me. “That goddamned Blake up to his old
tricks, eh?” Then she yelled, “I
upkeep done in my lifetime. But it was a cut above places where all
you got for your copper was a place on a rope that would support
you while you slept standing up.
It was the sort of place frequented by the poor and the
lowest-order bad boys. The people who operated it wouldn’t be
eager to talk. I’d have to use my wits to get anything.
Not always the best hope with me.
The interior delivered the promise of the outside. I stepped
into a dingy common room inhabited only by a flock of three
winebirds hard at their trade. Some invisible force had pushed them
to the extremities of the room. One was educating himself in a
continuous muttered monotone. I couldn’t make out one word in
five but he seemed to be engaged in a furious debate on social
issues. His opponent wasn’t apparent and seemed to have a
hard time making himself heard.
I didn’t see anybody who looked like a proprietor. Nobody
responded to the bell over the door. “Yo! Anybody
home?”
That didn’t bring any customer-conscious landlord charging
in from his toils in the kitchen. But one of the silent drunks
detached himself from his chair and reeled toward me.
“Wha’cha need? Room?”
“Looking for a couple of my pals, Smith and Smith,
supposed to be staying here.”
He leaned against the serving counter, bathed me in fumes and
knotted his face into a ruddy prune. “Uh. Oh. Third floor.
Door at the end.” He didn’t work up much disappointment
over the fact that I wasn’t going to put money in his
pocket.
“Thanks, pal.” I gave him a couple of coppers.
“Have one on me.”
He looked at the coins like he couldn’t figure out what
they were. While he pondered the mystery I went upstairs.
Carefully. The way those steps creaked and sagged it was only a
matter of hours until one collapsed.
I wasn’t disappointed by the third floor, either. It was
more like a half story—five rooms under the eaves, two to
either side of a claustrophobically narrow hall and one at the end.
Two of the side rooms didn’t have a hanging to ensure
privacy. One still had a door that hung on one hinge, immobile. My
destination was a door that wouldn’t close because of a warp
in the floor. The Smiths weren’t home. Surprise, surprise. I
hadn’t expected them to be after their encounter with the
Doom. I pushed inside.
Whatever plot or conspiracy or outfit the Smiths were with, it
was miserly. They’d slept on blankets on the floor. And they
hadn’t had a change of clothing to leave behind.
I started going over the room anyway. You never know when
something minute will make everything fall together.
I was on my knees looking into the canyons between floorboards
when the hallway floor creaked. I looked over my shoulder.
The woman looked like the Dead Man’s wife. There was
enough of her to make four women with some to spare. How had she
gotten that close without raising a roar? How had the stairway
survived? Why was the building standing? It was top-heavy enough to
tip over.
“What the hell you doing, boy?”
She was spoiling for a fight and there wouldn’t be any
getting around it. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know, shithead.”
So it don’t always work.
She was carrying a club, a real man-sized head-buster. I pitied
the guy who got hit when she got her weight behind it.
It looked like I might get a chance to practice my self-pity if
I didn’t use those wits I’d been daydreaming about.
“Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing sticking
your face in my room?”
When you don’t have space to dazzle them with your
footwork you try baffling them with bullshit.
“Your room? What the hell you yelling, boy? This room
belongs to two guys named Smith.”
“The guy I paid said take this room. I did what he told
me. You got a problem with that you take it up with the
management.”
She glared at me. “That goddamned Blake up to his old
tricks, eh?” Then she yelled, “I
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