Cruel Zinc Melodies

80

I opened the front door. An arctic breeze handed me a full body swat, shoved me back. ‘‘There’s a freaking blizzard going on out there!’’ I heaved the door shut before the abominable snowmen invaded.

Time to layer up.

Dean was at the far end of the hall, wearing a smirk. He’d come out to watch. Likewise, Singe, right there almost within smacking distance. Looking less smug because she hadn’t yet mastered that human trick.

‘‘Funny people. Somebody could’ve warned me. Came on kind of sudden, didn’t it?’’

Not really.

He was right. The signs had been there. I’d had other things on my mind. Still did, in fact.

I wondered what other things was doing right now. Showing her hand at home?

I did layer up, best I could. Then I went out into that mess, operating on the theory that I couldn’t get lost in a city where I’d lived all my life, and driven by a need to show somebody something. Who knows what.

It ought to be a good day to get stuff done. Shouldn’t be many people underfoot. I didn’t notice anyone watching. I didn’t smell anyone, either.

Mr. Jan was not distraught about his loaner coat. ‘‘No need to worry, Mr. Garrett. No need. It was crap, though I made it myself. I kept it because the man who ordered it never picked it up.’’ This while he was fitting my new coat. Which I just plain loved. ‘‘You satisfy his marker and I’ll say nothing.’’

‘‘How much?’’

He named a figure that disabused me of any suspicion that he might be a nice, honest, fair little old tailor. I protested. He told me, ‘‘I’m sorry you feel that way. Very well. I’ll put it back on the peg. Jokes may redeem it yet.’’

Can’t be many people who go by Jokes. There’s only one Saucerhead Tharpe. Probably only one Lurking Felhske. And couldn’t be more than one Jokes Leastor. Who expired of a surfeit of blood loss a couple years ago, after someone he didn’t know as well as he thought objected to one of his pranks.

Jokes Leastor was exactly the guy who would’ve had that clown coat made.

‘‘I’d better have mercy on you, Mr. Jan. Jokes won’t be coming back. Or, if he does, he won’t be needing a coat. Quite the opposite.’’

‘‘Has something happened to him?’’

‘‘He played one joke too many. He ended up room temperature. A while back, now.’’

‘‘I feared as much. He was slow but he did always get around to paying.’’

Face saved all round, we finished the fitting, I gave him his blood money, donned the remnants of Jokes’ sartorial declaration, then pointed my nose toward the big cold.

Mr. Jan said, ‘‘This should be done in two to three days. I’ll have a courier take it round to your place. Unless I need you to come back for some final measurements.’’

‘‘Excellent.’’

I returned to the white reflecting on the fact that in just days an old tailor had managed to find out where I lived.

I made a big mistake. I headed for The Palms. It was the nearest place where I could both get warm and be welcome. I should’ve headed for Playmate’s stable instead. That was almost as close. But Playmate is all boring and honest. Morley Dotes is crooked as a dog’s hind leg. And he’s involved in stuff that keeps me barking with curiosity.