Cruel Zinc Melodies

7

I took a meandering route home. A little south of the direct route. I stopped by Playmate’s smithy and stable. Before he could start carping I told him, ‘‘I need to rent a coach. Tomorrow. Big enough for four people and fifty rats. I’ll need a driver, too.’’

‘‘Rent?’’ He sounded skeptical.

‘‘You always get paid.’’

‘‘Thanks to Pular Singe.’’

Playmate skeptical is a vision. Because he’s a big black human house. Three hundred pounds, every ounce muscle. A slow-talking, fierce-looking sweetheart of a guy. So soft he’s squishy on the inside. A religious sort fully stuffed up with homilies about turning cheeks. He oozes unwarranted faith in the innate goodness of mankind.

My experience suggests the opposite. The species is naturally wicked. People just fake it till opportunity crosses their bows. Only rare, twisted souls and random mutations, like Playmate, rise above the muck.

And Playmate is no fanatic. He’ll turn the other one only once. Then he’ll bring the hammer down. If you’re obviously a bad guy, you won’t get the once.

He stared and went right on not understanding. ‘‘You’re volunteering to pay for use of a coach? Up front?’’

‘‘This is unbecoming. How long have we been friends?’’

‘‘I don’t remember. Five minutes, back when we were kids?’’

‘‘Wiseass. That’s the attitude that . . . Like I said, when did I ever not pay you?’’

‘‘Not once,’’ he admitted. ‘‘Since you’ve had Dean Creech and the Dead Man to keep you honest. And Singe to keep your books.’’

‘‘And before that, one time, you had to wait a couple days till I tracked down a client who tried to stiff me.’’

‘‘Let’s forget it. We’re all even now.’’

One thing about Play, lately. His sense of humor is severely diminished. And he isn’t very patient.

I worry that he may be suffering chronic pain, or something.

‘‘I’ve just gotten a major commission from Max Weider. He gave me a free hand. The job should be calm, cool, peaceful, and profitable. I almost feel guilty about getting paid for doing it.’’

Playmate slapped both hands onto his butt. ‘‘Where did I leave my chain-mail underwear?’’

‘‘Come on, man! It’s a walk. There aren’t even any damsels in distress. Just Tinnie Tate, Alyx Weider, and a couple of their friends who’re scared their theater won’t open on time.’’

‘‘That actually makes sense,’’ Play said when I told him what I meant to do. ‘‘It’s not the usual Garrett leap into the middle of things, flailing around till you’re the last one standing.’’

My methods are more sophisticated than that. Sometimes.

‘‘You going over to The Palms now?’’

‘‘Say what?’’

‘‘Your standard routine would be, go sucker Morley next.’’

He was speaking of my good friend, the half dark elf vegetarian restaurateur Morley Dotes. The semiretired bad guy. ‘‘Not this time. John Stretch, Singe, Melondie Kadare, maybe, and a lot of rats. Plus a coach to haul them in. I won’t even bother the Dead Man. It’ll be heroics on a budget.’’

‘‘I don’t believe you for a second. Even if you believe you.’’

‘‘You need to root around in your junk room. See if you can’t find where you left your positive attitude.’’

‘‘You could be right, old buddy. The trouble is, you really are my old buddy. I’ve known you way too long.’’

My friends. My pals. They never let up.