Slab City Blues - The Collected Stories: All Five Stories in One Volume by Anthony Ryan Page A

want to read it.”
    “Tell me instead.”
    She tilted her head a little. It was the first predatory mannerism she’d exhibited, focused, feline and more attractive than I wanted it to be. “Easier to tell if I’m crazy or lying if you hear me say it, right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Fair enough.” She sat in the swivel chair in front of the desk, putting aside the live-text. “What do you know about the Greek legend of Medea, Inspector?”
    “I’m not an Inspector these days. And my formal education was a little limited.”
    “Medea was a sorceress and Priestess of Hecate, daughter of King Aeetes, ruler of Colchis and keeper of the Golden Fleece. When Jason arrived with his Argonauts to claim the fleece she fell in love with him, helping to steal it and fleeing with him on the Argo. They sailed back to Iolcus in triumph, for Jason had been promised the kingship of the land if he managed the impossible feat of stealing the fleece. But when they arrived jealous King Pelias refused to give up the throne. Medea, beautiful and wise but also cunning and ruthless, promised Pelias the secret of eternal youth. Killing and butchering an elderly goat she placed the pieces in a cauldron from which a young, healthy goat sprang a moment later. Pelias’ daughters, seeing this and keen to honour their father, fell upon him with knives, cutting him to pieces and throwing them into the cauldron, expecting a new youthful king to emerge. But, of course, they had been tricked, and Pelias was truly dead.”
    She had the voice of a natural story-teller, strong and compelling. I supposed it went with her profession.
    “What happened to Medea?” I asked. “Did they kill her?”
    “No. Some legends say she and Jason ruled Iolcus together, but Euripides has her murdering their children a few years later when he dumps her for a younger woman.”
    “Charming.”
    “That’s the Greeks for you.”
    I took a seat on the couch. I could understand why Red Wing hung up on her. Myths and legends all smacked of just another crank theory. But I had reason to keep listening. You need to talk to the vampire.
    “You got anything to drink?” I asked.
    “Sure.” She got up. “Real coffee, fresh off the transport…”
    “No bourbon? Whisky?”
    “I don’t drink alcohol. It doesn’t agree with me.”
    “Unlike coffee or tea?”
    “They’re less… disagreeable.”
    I got up. “Get your coat. There’s a bar on Gable Street.”
    “So, you think I have something?”
    “Thomas DeMarco was a king of sorts, big fan of staying young, with daughters, found dismembered in a barrel in one of his own slaughterhouses, which they were running. It’s a stretch but you could say they killed him, albeit indirectly. And I’m guessing you have something similar to tell me about Karnikhov and Rickard.”
    “Indeed I do.”
    “Then get your coat.”
    *
    The bar was called The Marble Head and threw the shittiness of the Heavenly Garden into stark relief. Clean, ceramic tiling covered the walls, the floors decorated in checker board patterns fringed with fluer de lys. The bartender was a campy splice working a were-panther look who gave Dr Janet a pouty glance of pique which disappeared when he saw me. “What can I get you, m’loves?”
    “Do you stock Kentucky Red?”
    “That’s pretty hard to come by. Got JD though.”
    “Give me a double, straight, no ice. And whatever my friend wants.”
    “We don’t have plasma,” he said.
    Dr Janet raised an eyebrow at me. “Does anyone? Water’s fine.”
    I chose a booth at the back, facing the door and close to the emergency exit. Demon habits die hard.
    “So,” I said, “Rickard and Karnikhov.”
    “Rickard was a musician,” she began. “Young, talented and starting to get a lot of attention on the net, then his girlfriend died. He went into a deep depression and ends up torn to pieces with his head floating down a river.” She looked at me in expectation.
    “Yeah, I read that in your