Book 07 - Deadly Quicksilver Lies by Glen Cook Page B

good.
I’ll talk to her. How do I get in touch?”
    Finding Winger isn’t easy. She wants it that way. There
are people she’d rather not have sneaking up.
    I explained what worked for me. She thanked me for breakfast,
advice, and help, and headed for the front door. I was overwhelmed
still. She was ready to let herself out before I got myself
together. “Hey! Wait up. You didn’t introduce
yourself.”
    She smirked. “Chastity, Garrett. Chastity Blaine.”
She laughed at my goofy look, slipped out, and closed the door
behind her.
     
----

----

22
    By daylight, the Joy House is dull. Lately Morley has been open
continuously, driven by some bizarre civic impulse that wants weeds
and grass clippings made available to all. I was concerned. The
place might start attracting horses.
    I invited myself up to the bar. “Cook me up a rare steak,
Sarge. And let Morley know I’m here.”
    Sarge grunted, scratched his crotch, hitched his pants, thought
about it before he did anything—which was mainly to wonder
aloud why I thought Morley Dotes gave one rat’s ass whether I
was infesting the Joy House or stinking up the place in Hell, where
I belonged.
    “You ought to open a charm school for young ladies of
superior breeding, Sarge.”
    “Fugginay. Ain’t dat da troot?”
    I settled at a table. My steak arrived before Morley did. It was
a thick, rare, prime center cut. Of eggplant. I forced part of it
down by holding my breath and closing my eyes. If I didn’t
have to smell it or see it, it wasn’t too bad.
    Sarge’s buddy Puddle trundled out of the kitchen, half a
foot of hairy bare belly hanging out from under his shirt. He
paused to blow his nose on his apron. He had him some kind of key
on a rope around his neck. I asked, “What the hell are you
supposed to be? One that got away? They didn’t tie the noose
tight enough?”
    “I’m da wine stewart aroun’ here,
Garrett.” My worst fears were confirmed—not only by ear
but by nose. Puddle’s breath told me he diligently tested his
vintages. “Morley says we got to attrack a better class
a’ custom.”
    Time was you could have done that by dragging in a dozen
derelicts. “You’re just the guy who can do it,
Puddle.”
    “Fugginay. Ain’t dat da troot?”
    These guys had the same rhetoric teacher.
    “You want some wine, Garrett? To go wit’ what
you’re havin’ dere we got us a perky little fortunata
petite what’s maybe not as subtle as a Nambo Arsenal
but—”
    “Puddle!”
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s spoiled grape juice. If they call it wine,
it’s spoiled grape juice. I don’t care if you call it
coy or brujo or whatever. Talk that wine snob talk till doomsday,
that don’t change the main fact. Hell, go look at the stuff
while it’s changing into brassy brunette or whatever.
It’s got mold and shit growing on it. What it is, really, is
how you get alcohol that winos and ratmen can afford.”
    Puddle winked and whispered, “I’m wit’ you.
The gods meant real men to drink dat stuff dey wouldn’t of
invented beer.”
    “What you do, you get Morley to serve beer by telling him
it’s cream of barley soup?”
    Morley arrived during this exchange. He observed, “Wine is
how the smart restauranteur fleeces the kind of man who walks
around with his nose in the air.”
    I asked, “How come you want that kind of guy cluttering up
your dance floor?”
    “Cash flow.” Morley planted himself in the chair
opposite me. “Plain, simple, raw money. If you want it, you
have to find ways to pry it loose from those who have it. Our
current clientele doesn’t have it.
Often. But I’ve noted that we’ve begun to attract
adventurers. So I’ve started positioning us to become
the
in place.”
    “Why?”
    He looked at me funny.
    “Don’t let me throw you with the trick questions,
Morley. If they get too tough for you, holler.”
    “Look around. There’s your answer.”
    I looked. I saw Puddle and Sarge and a few local
“characters” using the place