Whispering Nickel Idols

The other pixies were drunk, too. Most more so than Melondie Kadare.

I nudged a curious kitten away from a male pixie who had fallen to the coach floor and lay there on his back, buzzing occasionally, like a downed locust.

It was weird. But I had trouble giving a rat’s ass. I was mellow, at peace. Without personal ambition whatsoever.

Some acquaintances would insist that was nothing new.

Singe and John Stretch seemed vaguely puzzled and sleepy.

Ditto, the rats.

I never heard of a drunk spell, but that didn’t mean one couldn’t exist. It only meant that I’d never been hit by one before.

The pixies passed out. I started suffering urges to sing the Marine Corps hymn or something similarly patriotic. Which don’t hit me when I get snockered the hard way. Not often.

The coach suddenly bucked, jolted to a halt. What the hell? Traffic couldn’t be that bad. Could it?

I was two heartbeats away from falling asleep when Playmate yanked the door open. “We’re here. Huh? What’s the matter with you all?”

I extended a hand. He helped me descend as elegantly as a duchess. Good man he, he did the same with John Stretch and Pular Singe while deftly keeping the kittens from getting away.

He closed the door on the pixies and baby cats. “What I’m going to do now is, I’m going to stay right here. I’ll come in and pull you out if something bad happens.” That said a ton about Playmate. “That’s white of you, Play. I’ll be more relaxed in there, knowing you’ll rescue me if I need it.”

Playmate had nothing more to say. His eyes had begun to wobble. Meantime, I was recovering. Fast.

I was way early in arriving. Even so, several coaches were lined up beside the hall already, each cared for by somebody big and dumb and covered with scars. And with tattoo collections for seasoning. They stared at my companions and their cages filled with rats.

“Round up those kittens, Singe.” The drunk was gone. Just that fast.

“You want to take them inside?”

“Oh, hell yeah. They’re going to be all over in there.”

These kittens did not behave like cats. They weren’t contrary. They let themselves be caught and tucked into their bucket, with the cloth folded over them, theoretically to keep them in. Only a couple had to be caught and tucked a second time.

“How many of these monsters are there?” I asked Singe. I couldn’t get a hard count. Hasty estimates during the day had ranged from four to nine. Since even a dead cat can create havoc in two places at once, I suspected the true number was closer to four. Singe said, “Five or six. It’s hard to tell because their markings are so alike.”

It didn’t matter. As long as I had the majority with me when I went in.

As I approached the goons checking invitations, I tried to work out why I thought I should go armed with baby cats.

I guess because I hoped nobody would stay belligerent with a gang of them underfoot.

One of the goons asked, “The hell you luggin’ a pail a pussy for, slick?”

“Somebody might want a kitten. I got some to adopt out.” I saluted him with my pussy pail and strolled on into Whitefield Hall.

12

Belinda had a second goon squad set up behind an inverted L of tables inside the front entrance. Clever girl, she’d made sure these guys weren’t beholden to her. They were freelancers. Saucerhead Tharpe was one. I recognized two of his three companions, Orion Comstock and June Nicolist. Both had reputations much like Tharpe’s. Absolutely neutral. “Garrett.”

“Mr. Tharpe.” I’ve known him for years, but his real first name escaped me. No matter. He prefers Saucerhead.

“Anything to declare?”

“Eh?”

“Weapons. Of any sort. You got ’em, you got to declare ’em. You don’t got to surrender ’em, though we’d rather you did. You do, June gives you one of them beautiful scarves. You collect your tools when you leave.” June held up a bright green kerchief. He had a pile handy, and a grin that betrayed teeth of the same shade. Saucerhead said, “That’ll mark you safe.”

“All right. Give me a hankie. This’s all I’ve got. One bucket of cats.” One bucket of remarkable cats. There was something wrong with them. Any other litter would have staged several jailbreaks by now.

Saucerhead eyed the kittens. He looked at me. “You’re serious.”

“As a dose of typhoid.” I needed to move on. I had to fix up some way for Melondie Kadare to sneak inside.

Tharpe asked, “You didn’t even bring your knob-knocker?”

“Nope. Nothing but my own bare hands.”

Saucerhead sighed. “You may be sorry.”

“I’m a trained Royal Marine.”

“You used to be. Here.” He handed me a yellow kerchief instead of letting June give me a green one.

“Yellow, huh?”

“It don’t mean nothing. Green and yellow was what was the cheapest.”

“What keeps a guy from just stuffing the hankie in his pocket?”

“Nothing. Except that you should be wearing it.”

He waved me past. I proceeded to hunt for a window to crack. Behind me, Saucerhead’s pals expressed doubts about me being the famous Garrett.

I was still looking for a window when I spied a plump brown rat. The critter took time out to stop and wink.

Once I jiggered a window, Melondie and her swarm wobbled inside and fluttered around, finding places to hide. Nobody noticed. Everybody focused on a screeching knock-down-drag-out about table setups. I shut the window, grabbed my bucket, went looking for the hostess and guest of honor.

I heard scurryings in the walls and floors and the hum of little wings overhead.

I glanced back. Somebody I didn’t know was suffering through Saucerhead’s checkpoint.

Maybe Tharpe did do me a favor. He never patted me down like that. Though if I wanted to sneak something in, I would’ve hidden it under a stack of docile baby cats.

Whitefield Hall had been slapped together with nothing but function in mind. It was mainly an open floor where you could dance, hold a banquet, have a grand meeting, put on a play, do anything you wanted to do without having to endure a lot of weather. Nowadays plays were the big thing.

Plays are a big thing around town, period. Drama is the latest fad.

The memorial commission also rented the hall for private functions. Like wedding receptions. Or birthday parties for underclass personalities who loom large in city life.

The floor had enjoyed loving care forever but remembered generations of feet shod in working-class shoes. The ceiling was twenty feet high. There were tilt windows up there so you could let the heat out in summer-or whenever there were too many bodies jammed into the hall. There was a stage at the end opposite the main entrance, facing it from a hundred feet away, three feet higher than the floor. Bickering workmen dragged tables in through a door to the left of the stage.

The two directing setup might have been chosen for their devotion to stereotype. Their wrists were limper than a dead octopus’s arms. They bullied one another like a pair of harebrained girls. Still, there’s hardly an adult male human today who isn’t tough. Anybody over twenty-four had what it took to get through five years of wartime service with his ass still attached. Including this squawking brace of fancies.

The guys doing the actual work were the sort you don’t offend gratuitously. They didn’t have half a neck between them. If their shirts got ripped off by a freak wind, they’d show more body hair than cave bears. They probably had trouble recognizing their own names in print even if you gave them two weeks’ head start.

Our hostess made her appearance through the doorway to the right of the stage, from the kitchen area. She wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Yet. “Garrett. You sweet man. You came early.” Strange. My eyes didn’t roll up inside my head. I didn’t drool. No gush of nonsense syllables erupted from my mouth. I didn’t forget she was deadly and dangerous. Maybe I was immune. Finally.