fighting a bad
bellyache.
There were four doors down the second-floor hall from which the
sounds came. There had been four on the first. The apartments
couldn’t be big, sound not much retarded. How come the place
wasn’t an overturned anthill if three guys had gotten
killed?
Because Jill lived higher on the hog. Her floor was class, only
two larger apartments. “Who lives across the way?”
Jill pushed her door open. “Nobody right now. It’s
empty.”
“Wait.” I wanted to go in first just to be sure. I
checked the door. The lock was designed to keep the honest folks
out. Anyone with a little know-how could get past it.
So somebody with no knowledge had used a wrecking bar for a key.
And nobody had heard that?
People do tend to mind their own business.
The room appeared untouched. It was a lot classier than a Jill
Craight could afford. I’d seen less luxury in places on the
Hill.
Jill Craight had a sugar daddy. Or she had something heavy on
somebody with a lot to lose, which could be an explanation for
somebody watching and trying to get in. Maybe she had a piece of
deadly physical evidence.
A trail of blood led to a door standing two inches ajar. It
opened on a room eight-feet by eight, jammed with stuff.
That’s all you could call it. Stuff. Jill was a pack rat.
Sprawled amid the plunder was a body, blond, middle twenties,
still marked by that weathered look you pick up in the Cantard. He
might have been handsome. Now he just looked surprised and
uncomfortable. And very dead.
“Know who he was?” I asked.
Jill said, “No.” Maya shook her head. I frowned.
Maya let go of the silver doohickey she was about to pocket.
“I’d guess he walked in on somebody who was digging
through your stuff and both of them were surprised.” I
stepped over the dead man to a door.
The room beyond was where Jill slept and maybe paid her rent. It
had that look.
There were two more stiffs in there, and blood all over, like
somebody lugged in buckets and threw it around. It looked like
several men had chased the guy from the walk-in while more had
headed him off at the bedroom door, which opened on a hallway. Both
bodies were near the door.
Maybe if you’re a Crask, or Sadler, or even Morley Dotes,
you get so the red messes don’t touch you. It took me a
minute to get my brain moving, judging the splash patterns and the
way things were kicked around. I went over to eyeball the dead
men.
I don’t know how long it was. A while. Jill touched my
arm. “Garret? Are you all right?” There wasn’t
any ice in her eyes. For a moment the woman behind the masks looked
out, humanly concerned.
“I’m all right.” As all right as I could be
looking at a guy I’d had over to supper less than thirty
hours ago.
What the hell was Pokey doing in Jill’s apartment in the
first place, let alone getting himself killed there? He’d
given the job to Saucerhead and Jill had fired Tharpe before
he’d gotten started.
I went to the bed, picked a clean spot, and sat down. I had some
thinking to do.
Pokey had been less of a close friend than a professional
acquaintance I respected. And he hadn’t been working for me
when he’d gotten it. I didn’t owe him. But something
got me on a level where there isn’t any common sense.
I wanted whoever had done it.
Maya spoke for the first time. “Garrett,” was all
she said but her tone told me it was important.
She was in the walk-in, squatting by the dead man. I joined her.
Jill stayed in the doorway, paying attention to Maya for the first
time. She did not look happy.
“What?”
“Pull his pants down.”
“Say what?”
“Just do it, Garrett.”
Maya was too serious to answer with a wisecrack. I did it,
turning a pretty shade of pink. “Hunh?”
He’d been surgically and thoroughly desexed. He’d
healed but the scar tissue was still a virulent purple. It had been
done since his return from the Cantard.
I scrunched up like I had spiders stomping on my naked
bellyache.
There were four doors down the second-floor hall from which the
sounds came. There had been four on the first. The apartments
couldn’t be big, sound not much retarded. How come the place
wasn’t an overturned anthill if three guys had gotten
killed?
Because Jill lived higher on the hog. Her floor was class, only
two larger apartments. “Who lives across the way?”
Jill pushed her door open. “Nobody right now. It’s
empty.”
“Wait.” I wanted to go in first just to be sure. I
checked the door. The lock was designed to keep the honest folks
out. Anyone with a little know-how could get past it.
So somebody with no knowledge had used a wrecking bar for a key.
And nobody had heard that?
People do tend to mind their own business.
The room appeared untouched. It was a lot classier than a Jill
Craight could afford. I’d seen less luxury in places on the
Hill.
Jill Craight had a sugar daddy. Or she had something heavy on
somebody with a lot to lose, which could be an explanation for
somebody watching and trying to get in. Maybe she had a piece of
deadly physical evidence.
A trail of blood led to a door standing two inches ajar. It
opened on a room eight-feet by eight, jammed with stuff.
That’s all you could call it. Stuff. Jill was a pack rat.
Sprawled amid the plunder was a body, blond, middle twenties,
still marked by that weathered look you pick up in the Cantard. He
might have been handsome. Now he just looked surprised and
uncomfortable. And very dead.
“Know who he was?” I asked.
Jill said, “No.” Maya shook her head. I frowned.
Maya let go of the silver doohickey she was about to pocket.
“I’d guess he walked in on somebody who was digging
through your stuff and both of them were surprised.” I
stepped over the dead man to a door.
The room beyond was where Jill slept and maybe paid her rent. It
had that look.
There were two more stiffs in there, and blood all over, like
somebody lugged in buckets and threw it around. It looked like
several men had chased the guy from the walk-in while more had
headed him off at the bedroom door, which opened on a hallway. Both
bodies were near the door.
Maybe if you’re a Crask, or Sadler, or even Morley Dotes,
you get so the red messes don’t touch you. It took me a
minute to get my brain moving, judging the splash patterns and the
way things were kicked around. I went over to eyeball the dead
men.
I don’t know how long it was. A while. Jill touched my
arm. “Garret? Are you all right?” There wasn’t
any ice in her eyes. For a moment the woman behind the masks looked
out, humanly concerned.
“I’m all right.” As all right as I could be
looking at a guy I’d had over to supper less than thirty
hours ago.
What the hell was Pokey doing in Jill’s apartment in the
first place, let alone getting himself killed there? He’d
given the job to Saucerhead and Jill had fired Tharpe before
he’d gotten started.
I went to the bed, picked a clean spot, and sat down. I had some
thinking to do.
Pokey had been less of a close friend than a professional
acquaintance I respected. And he hadn’t been working for me
when he’d gotten it. I didn’t owe him. But something
got me on a level where there isn’t any common sense.
I wanted whoever had done it.
Maya spoke for the first time. “Garrett,” was all
she said but her tone told me it was important.
She was in the walk-in, squatting by the dead man. I joined her.
Jill stayed in the doorway, paying attention to Maya for the first
time. She did not look happy.
“What?”
“Pull his pants down.”
“Say what?”
“Just do it, Garrett.”
Maya was too serious to answer with a wisecrack. I did it,
turning a pretty shade of pink. “Hunh?”
He’d been surgically and thoroughly desexed. He’d
healed but the scar tissue was still a virulent purple. It had been
done since his return from the Cantard.
I scrunched up like I had spiders stomping on my naked
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