Book 06 - Red Iron Nights by Glen Cook

Local
professionals knew better. Those three hadn’t had out-of-town
accents. Therefore, they weren’t professionals. Not
streetside, anyhow. I didn’t doubt they were professional
thugs.
    Which led me off blue-skying. Who had thugs on staff who
wouldn’t get into the streets much? Only priests and people
on the Hill. The priest angle was so juicy I set it aside to look
at the other first.
    Off the Hill? A lunatic up there would be in a fine position to
observe the movements of prospective victims. I tried to recall the
appearance of the old geek with butterfly indigestion. That
didn’t match any Hill people I knew.
    What about the coach? I recalled it, though details were getting
vague. Big, black, and fancy. A custom four-horse job. Silver
brightwork. The killer had money.
    Couldn’t be many coaches like it.
    I fought it for fifteen minutes but it was a struggle
foredoomed. Eventually I swung my legs off the bed, got up, and
hunked downstairs. So much for good intentions. I donned a cloak
and, marvel of marvels, a hat. The hat was Dean’s. I
didn’t think he’d miss it.
    Saucerhead came to see what I was up to. “I’m going
out for a while. Shouldn’t be long.” I scowled at the
closed door to the small front room. “Tell Dean that if that
cat’s still here when I get back, they both go out in the
rain.”
    I went to see a friend. His name was Playmate. He was nine feet
tall and black as coal, big enough to make Saucerhead nervous. But
he was as gentle as a lamb and religious to boot. He was in the
stable business. He owed me. Early in both our careers I’d
saved him from human sharks.
    He never ceased to amaze me. No matter what time I showed, no
matter how inconvenient my appearance, he was always glad to see
me. This time was no exception. “Garrett!” he boomed
when I strolled into his stable. He dropped a curry comb and
bounded toward me, swept me up in a ferocious hug. He turned me
loose only after I started squawking like a bagpipe.
    “Damn, Playmate, sometimes I wish you was a woman. Nobody
else is excited to see me.”
    “Your own fault. Come around more often. Maybe you wear
out your welcome.”
    “Yeah. It’s been a rough year. I’ve been
neglecting my friends.”
    “ ’Specially that little bit, Maya.”
    I forgot my mission momentarily. “You’ve seen Maya?
I thought she left town.”
    “Been a while, come to think. She used to come around,
help out some, just ’cause she liked the horses.”
    “I knew there had to be
something
wrong with
her.”
    The look he gave me told me more than he could have said in
words. Maya had cried on his shoulder. I couldn’t really look
him in the eye. He said, “You’ve been having troubles
all the way around, I hear. Miss Tinnie. Somebody named
Winger.”
    He was implying it, so I said it. “Yeah. I have a way with
the girls. The wrong way.”
    “Come over here and sit. I have a pony keg I’ve been
nursing. Should be a sip or two left.”
    Which was all right by me, except it would be warm brew.
Playmate liked his beer warm. I prefer mine just about ready to
turn to chunks. But he was offering beer. Right then I had an
inclination to surround several gallons. I settled on an old
saddle, accepted a big pewter mug. Playmate plopped his behind on a
sawhorse.
    “Trouble is,” he told me, “those gals all been
growing up, getting interested in something besides fun.”
    “I know.” It’s hell, getting older.
    “Don’t mind me. It’s the preacher getting
out.”
    I knew that too. Back when I saved his bacon, he’d been
thinking of getting into the religion racket on his own. He’d
have done good but wouldn’t have gotten very big. TunFaire
has a thousand cults. Always there are plenty of disenchanted
would-be believers eager to sign on with the thousand-and-oneth.
Playmate had taken a look around, decided that he was
insufficiently cynical and dishonest to make a real go of it. He
may be religious personally, but he’s