Dread Brass Shadows

21

Dean almost got his marching orders when he went to get me up for my morning run. He's worse than a mom about not buying excuses. "You started it, you stick with it," he told me. "You're going to run, you're going to run every day."

Grumble grumble grikkle snackfrortz. Go take a flugling fleegle at a frying forsk. I said something like that. I fought the good fight till he went for the ice water. Then my yellow stripe came out. He'd do it, the driggin droogle. I didn't want to stay in bed that bad.

Carla Lindo was heating up the kitchen when I stumbled in. I grumbled a greeting.

"He always such a ball of sunshine in the morning?"

Dean told her, "This is one of his better mornings." Thanks, old-timer. He plunked honeyed tea down at my place at the table. He had bacon frying, biscuits baking. The smell of the biscuits was heavenly. I gathered he hadn't bothered to go home. Not much point. Wouldn't have been much time to sleep.

His nieces were used to it. They'd know I was into something. Now, if they'd just forget to use him not coming home as an excuse to come hang around, cooking and baking and batting their eyes and uglying up the place.

I sipped tea and stared into a fog, nothing much else happening inside my head. Carla Lindo stared at me but didn't say anything. She wore a teensy frown. Maybe her confidence was rattled.

You may suspect that morning isn't my best time. You may be right. I'm waiting for some genius to figure out a way to do without it. The sad truth is, too often it sets the tone for the rest of the day.

"How do you feel this morning?" Carla Lindo finally asked.

"Black and blue. My bruises got bruises." I hadn't been a lovely sight when I got dressed. I'd seen corpses in better condition.

Dean took the biscuits out, set the baking sheet directly on a trivet on the table. "You ought to figure a way to trade with His Nibs. He could get out and run while you loafed all you want."

He takes advantage of me mornings. Snipes away, knowing my brain isn't working. The best I can do is threaten to send him Job hunting. A hollow threat if ever there was one. Crafty old dink don't play fair. He made himself indispensable.

He asked, "Did you learn anything last night?" as he brought the bacon.

"Yeah. That Winger character's only got one oar in the water." I told him about it.

He grinned. "I didn't think she killed that man."

"World's best judge of character," I told Carla Lindo. "Somebody sent Squirrel to the promised land, Dean. That character Blaine, too."

That got Carla Lindo. "What?" She looked stricken.

"Somebody did him. Busted his door down, tore his place up, left him dead."

"The book!"

"I guess."

"Damn it! Now she has it again." She jumped up, started pacing. I wasn't so far gone in the morning blahs that I wasn't distracted. "What will I do? Father was counting on me.

"Take it easy, love." My, wasn't she a sight when she was excited, bouncing and jiggling and... "Whoever did it didn't find the book. If that was what they were after. They were still trying when they were interrupted."

"Then..."

"It wasn't there to be found. Carla Lindo, my sweet, sit down. You're doing things to my concentration. That's better. You sure there isn't something you haven't told me? You been holding back something that would make sense of what's been happening?"

Big-eyed, looking shocked and hurt, she shook her head. I doubted she was telling the truth. Well, maybe, by her own lights, she was telling her own version. But it sure felt like there ought to be something more.

Breakfast usually brightens my outlook. I had been known, recently, to go into my morning runs with a smile on my puss. This morning was going to be an exception. This morning my mood just got blacker. I didn't finish eating.

I pushed back from the table. Carla Lindo was still shoveling it in. Where do those little ones put it? "I'm going to see Himself." I walked out. Dean looked hurt, like I'd made some nasty remark about his cooking.

I was no bundle of sunshine falling on the Dead Man, either. I stepped into his room, grumped, "You awake?"

I am now, O Shield Against Darkness.

"Huh?"

An attempt, however futile, to cajole you away from your gloom. I abandon it forthwith. There is no hope. Review events of last night.

I reviewed events of last night. I spared no detail. I finished, said, "I'm open to suggestions." My own best notion was to lock the front door and not answer it till the world straightened itself out.

Hardly practical, Garrett. Blaine's death is a setback, yes. But, I agree, it seems unlikely his murderers obtained the Book of Dreams. Unless Mr. Crask and Mr. Sadler were no telling the whole truth.

"Huh?" I was ready to get in there and mix it up with Puddle.

I suspect that Chodo Contague would be very interested in the Book of Dreams if he became cognizant of its capacity and function. Very interested, indeed, considering his personal circumstances.

"Huh?" Again. I was on a roll.

Think! A flash of impatience. We have discussed thLs already!

Yell, hell. Yeah. Shoot, fire. If Chodo knew what the Book of Shadows could do, he'd be after it like an addict ratman after weed. I'd bet tbere wasn't a page in the whole one hundred that was a crippled old dink in a wheelchair. He could be young again. He could dance at weddings and funerals. Mainly funerals. He could chase girls and be able to do something when he caught them. Not to mention all the wonderful ways he could use it in his business.

Yeah, Chodo and the book were not meant for each other. "I got it, Smiley. I'm slow but I get there."

Excellent. So. What you really came for was to get me to tell you what to do. To avoid the unwonted labor of deciding for yourself Very well. First, avoid contact with Mr. Chodo's people as much as possible. Try to create the appearance of disinterest in pursuing the matter further. By way of establishing a foundation for that pretense, I suggest you visit Miss Tate. Assuming, as is probable, you find her mending quickly, you have your basis for proclaiming no further interest. See to that immediately after your morning run.

"What morning run?' I had me a bad feeling here.

Off we went into a grand fuss about me maintaining my training regimen. He got in the last word. He usually does. He's more stubborn, but that's only because he has more time. He can argue for the rest of my life if he wants.

You must also reconnect with the woman Winger. An encounter with her principal could be most instructive.

"Fatal, too, maybe."

We have no idea who he is or where he fits. His very existence lends credence to your ill-formed suspicion that there are more than two parties to the search for the Book of Dreams.

I can't keep anything from him. Not in the long run. Hell. I'd thought I was covering that idea pretty cleverly.

I felt his gloating as he continued, There are two additional areas deserving pursuit. As time permits. The movements and contacts of the Blaine person before his encounter with misfortune. And the whereabouts of our friend Mr. Dotes.

I sensed a touch of concern for Morley. I was a touch concerned myself. Nobody had seen him for a while. He wouldn't disappear... . Unless he'd gone under to do a job or was sincerely concerned about his health. If his health wasn't gone already.

Seemed a little premature to start worrying, though. He hadn't been gone that long. "He probably isn't anywhere. He just hasn't been at his place when I have. No law says be's got to hang around waiting for me to drop in."

Perhaps. Even so.

"I'll check him out." It looked like another full day. I looked forward to it with the same enthusiasm I look forward to arthritis.

Go. Do your running. Visit Miss Tate. Visit Mr. Dotes's establishment. Be back in time for lunch. I will interview Miss Ramada in the interim and prepare additional suggestions.

He would, too. Probably suggestions involving trotting down to the Cantard and back.

Ah. Indeed. Thank you for reminding me. Do keep an ear open for news of Glory Mooncalled. I anticipate word of major events soon.

What? Had he figured some angle nobody else saw? Maybe. He'd anticipated Mooncalled's mutiny, more or less.

Him and his damned hobby. Why couldn't he collect coins or used nails or something?

Hell, I'd have to do the legwork there, too.

I went back to the kitchen for another cup of tea. Breakfast had started working inside me. I could appreciate Carla Lindo a little more. I indulged myself till Dean started grumbling about me being in the way. Never said a word about Carla Lindo, did he? Even though he hates having anybody help him because it disturbs his rhythm and routine.

"Well, I'm off on my campaign of self-torture."

Nobody seemed very excited.