Cruel Zinc Melodies

2

‘‘Here’s the story,’’ Alyx said. Never an auspicious beginning. People who start that way usually plan on retailing a fictionalized account.

‘‘I’m all ears.’’

‘‘Not quite, but they are a little ridiculous.’’

Two paragons snickered. The redheaded fourth seized the named appendages from behind. ‘‘But they’re so cute!’’

‘‘Spin me your tall tale, baby Weider girl.’’

‘‘Daddy wants to build his own theater.’’

‘‘Good on Max. Theater is hot right now. He’ll milk it for a ton.’’

‘‘We’re gonna be the stars. Us and Cassie Doap. And Heather Soames, maybe.’’

I gave Alyx the maximum-power raised right eyebrow. The one that makes the nuns renounce their vows. ‘‘No. Not Cassie.’’

Then my mouth got ahead of my brain. ‘‘Girls don’t go onstage.’’ Not good girls. Only girls who have something to market.

‘‘We can if we want!’’ Petulant.

Alyx Weider is as spoiled a kid as ever came up in TunFaire. And that’s all her father’s fault.

Max indulged her not only because she was the baby of the family but because of his failures with her older siblings. Like he thought if he invested enough he could buy one perfect kid.

Why not? He’d been able to buy everything else he’d ever wanted since he’d gotten rich.

Alyx wasn’t half as rotten as she ought to be, the way she’d been raised.

‘‘You’re not being nice!’’

‘‘Alyx, what I am is shutting up and listening.’’ Which I proceeded to do with grand determination and limited success.

‘‘Daddy is building a theater. A big one. He already told us we could be stars. Tinnie knows somebody who can write us a play.’’

I leaned back and turned. My eyebrow query failed to knock Miss Tate down. She must be developing an immunity. ‘‘Jon Salvation,’’ she said.

‘‘The Remora? You’re kidding.’’

‘‘He’s good. He wrote a comedy about the fairy queen Eastern Star.’’

‘‘I was talking!’’ Alyx snapped. ‘‘You told me you’d be quiet and listen.’’

‘‘Being quiet, Alyx. Listening raptly.’’

Miss Weider offered a halfhearted, grotesquely inappropriate head butt that would’ve taken out the lynchpin of my fantasy life if I hadn’t been a trained martial artist-type. Tinnie growled. She cuts Alyx a lot of slack because they’re ancient friends and their families are in business together, but she has her limits.

She snarled, ‘‘Goddamnit, Alyx! Cut the shit! Talk!’’

Bobbi and Lindy were amused—the way bettors around a dogfight pit might be amused by the antics of future combatants.

‘‘Daddy wants to get into the theater business. He has a theater under construction. The World. It’ll put three or four different shows on at the same time.’’

Max the innovator. How would he do that?

Tinnie interjected, ‘‘They’ll have staggered starting times. Each play will show three times a day.’’

‘‘Tinnie, please!’’ Alyx whined.

So Max had found a way to move a lot more Weider beer. I gave Alyx a nudge. ‘‘The problem you need solved is?’’

‘‘Sabotage.’’

Tinnie explained, ‘‘It’s actually kind of petty but somebody keeps getting in and breaking things.’’

‘‘Criminals? Trying to shake him down?’’ That’s how the protection racket starts.

Most crooks are smart enough to steer clear. Max Weider is rich. And doesn’t scruple in a fight. He’ll play fair, businesswise, but try strong-arming him and there’s an excellent chance somebody less personable than me will help you get started on an attempt to swim across the river. With granite in your undies.

Not even the Contagues, the emperors of TunFaire crime, would risk making a run at Max Weider. Unless the payoff prospects were beyond my ability to imagine.

Near as I can tell, all hands are happy with the status quo. Possibly excepting the law-and-order extremists at Watch and Guard headquarters in the Al-Khar.

Alyx chewed her lower lip fetchingly. Reluctantly, she said, ‘‘Maybe. But there’s, like, ghosts, too. And bugs.’’

‘‘Ghosts?’’ Just thinking out loud. Ghosts happen, but I hadn’t run into any recently. The residual personality haunting the Eleanor painting being the last. ‘‘It’s the wrong time of year for bugs.’’ Unless you kept your house too warm. Which nobody can afford to do. Other than on the Hill.

Around here we can see our breath in the winter. Except in the kitchen. And in the Dead Man’s room when we have company.

‘‘Tell that to the bugs, big boy.’’

‘‘Tinnie?’’

‘‘It’s all hearsay to me. I haven’t been to the site.’’

‘‘Ladies?’’ Bobbi and Lindy were content to sit quietly and elevate the temperature of the room. The Dead Man offered no remarks. Singe sat in the corner with her dim candle, working her books.

Her rat eyes do let us save on lighting costs.

Tinnie took the opportunity to apply a pinch meant to keep me focused.

Alyx admitted, ‘‘What I’m telling you is hearsay to me, too. Daddy won’t let me go to the construction site.’’

Tinnie observed, ‘‘He doesn’t want her associating with the kind of guys who work construction.’’

I snickered. ‘‘That’s because he started out as that kind of guy himself. So. Alyx. What do you want? Other than to indulge in one of your special efforts to get Tinnie mad at me?’’

‘‘Daddy wants to talk to you about what’s going on.’’

Max has been good to me. His retainer, meant to inhibit floor loss and general misconduct at the brewery, has kept me solvent through numerous dry spells.

‘‘Can I catch a ride?’’

‘‘We’re not headed home. We’re going to Tinnie’s. To rehearse.’’

They had a play already?

Tinnie said, ‘‘No, we’re going to the manufactory. There’s more room. And more privacy. The walk will do you good.’’

‘‘I’m so pleased you’re always looking out for me.’’

‘‘You’re very special to me.’’

‘‘What if I slip on a patch of ice?’’ She was right. It had been a long winter and I’d spent most of it avoiding going outside.

‘‘I’ll bring fresh flowers, lover.’’

Dean finally wandered in, armed with refreshments. Two steps into the room he froze. His jaw dropped.

He’s old. Around seventy, I’d guess. He’s skinny, shows a lot of bushy white hair this year, and has dark eyes that can twinkle with mischief. On rare occasions. More often they’re alive with disapproval.

‘‘Damn!’’ I murmured. ‘‘The old goat is human.’’

Tinnie wasn’t his problem. He sees her all the time. And he knows Alyx. He’s never anything but polite when she’s around. But the other two . . .

He pulled it together before he turned into a creepy old man. ‘‘Good afternoon, Miss Tate. Miss Weider. Ladies. Would you care for something sweet?’’

They all said no, they were watching their figures. And doing a fine job, I have to report. I stayed busy helping them do that. As did Dean. His eyes all but bugged out when the ladies started getting back into their cold-weather duds.