Wicked Bronze Ambition

32

I looked around carefully before I reentered the cold and damp. There was no traffic. It was not a day to encourage industry.

I paused again partway down to the street. I could see a couple of pedestrians, but both had their heads down and their shoulders hunched. They were hurrying to get to wherever they were going, which would be inside, out of the drizzle, and probably warm.

I didn’t blame them. I thought about going back to take Gilbey up on that pitcher.

One thing about a brewery. Whatever the rest of the world may be suffering, it is warm inside the brew house. Unfortunately, the pungent atmosphere takes some getting used to, like developing an appreciation for stout. It’s all good once your senses of smell and taste have died.

Morley’s kitchen would be warm, too, and redolent of garlic.

Then I saw Brownie and her crew, waiting. She could barely restrain herself, she was so happy to see me again. I said something grumpy by way of greeting, then something disparaging about Playmate’s pooch-wrangling skills, then headed north after a failed look round for Little Moo. She, evidently, had not gotten away.

Brownie took the station that she had made her own. The same surly lady moved into position on my left. The other two ranged ahead, noses to the damp cobblestones. It all seemed militarily precise. And confusing.

I did not obsess, though. Manvil Gilbey’s concern had gotten through. I was alert. I was going to get surprised only if it dropped straight down out of the misery overhead.

Even so, my four-legged associates discovered trouble before I had a hint, thanks to their wonderful doggie noses.

They might not be quite as good at tracking as Pular Singe, but they were good at reading the olfactory environment. They snuffled and grumbled. Brownie growled in response. The dog to my left loped forward. Good shepherd Brownie nudged me into a space that looked like it would be easy to defend-and impossible to escape if trouble had the superior numbers.

Some barking and growling ensued, answered by human cursing. Brownie made loud noises that must have been a call to action. Half a dozen strays turned up over the next few minutes, all speaking angry dog and closing on the spot where a surprise had awaited me.

The cursing waxed loud. The growling followed suit, with the growlers outlasting the cursers. Brownie herded me back to the center of the street, took her position of honor. Her crew resumed their former stations. The strays fell in behind. “This is going to cost me, isn’t it?” I asked Brownie.

She responded with a snuffling grunt.

“All right. I owe them.” But I had to wonder if I’d been scammed. Not once had I actually seen the guys who had been laying for me. They had heeled and toed it out of there first.

• • •

Morley’s man Puddle answered the back door. I had gone there to avoid disturbing the afternoon trade up front. Puddle gawked. “What the hell?” He couldn’t find an appropriate crack.

“Anything you’ve got, scraps and leftovers, give them to these guys. They just saved my ass from the baddies.”

“I give dem anything, dey’ll never go away.”

And, I didn’t doubt, the boys in the back of the shop had their regular customers, bums who maybe made useful spies.

“I did tell Brownie it’s only for once. You can put a charge on my tab.” Strafa and I had eaten at the Grapevine occasionally. She could afford it.

“Hey! I don’ know what ta say, Garrett. ’Bout what happened. Everyt’ing soun’s so dumb. She was good people.”

“She was. Thank you, Puddle.”

“Hey. I could help you do some stuff, you catch da creep what done it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Where’s Morley?”

“He’s right here,” my friend said. He had been summoned by one of the kitchen crew. “And wondering if he didn’t raise a slow child. Why are you roaming the streets alone after what’s been happening?”

Puddle corrected him. “He ain’t not alone, boss. He’s got him a whole crew a’ sidekicks.” Which was a Puddle-style snap joke. He opened the door to the alley to toss scraps and stuff scraped off plates.

Morley looked. “They had better not set up housekeeping out there, Garrett.” Then, frowning, he noted, “Some of those mutts were with the girl at the cemetery.”

“They were. She turned up again. Ambushed me when I was on my way to see Playmate.”

Morley heard my tale. “She won’t talk?”

“It’s like she isn’t sure how, not that she’s trying to hide something. I don’t think she’s very bright.”

“That’s not good if you’re a girl, young, and halfway attractive.”

“Playmate has her now. She’ll be all right with him. He’ll get her to talk, then find her people.”

Morley nodded. He didn’t say so, but he thought that I was whistling in the dark. The girl lived in a cemetery with feral dogs. She wouldn’t be doing that if she had people. “Bell is at her table. Have lunch with her. She might have something for you that she wouldn’t share with me.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“No. Just two strong-willed, stubborn people used to having their own ways trying to figure out the couples game. I’m grumpy because I didn’t get my way.”

Bell was his pet name for Belinda Contague, his current flame and likely his last unless he outlives her. Which isn’t implausible, considering her career.