Book 04 - Old Tin Sorrows Read Free Page B

me? They could handle anything.
    Dellwood marched to an oaken door that spanned half the corridor on the top floor of the west wing. He pushed the door inward, announced, “Mr. Mike Sexton, sir.”
    A wall of heat smacked me as I pushed past Dellwood.
    I’d come with no preconceptions but I was still surprised. General Stantnor preferred spartan surroundings. Other than the room’s size, there was nothing to hint that he was hip deep in geld.
    There were no carpets, a few straightbacked wooden chairs, the ubiquitous military hardware, two writing desks nose to nose, the bigger one presumably for the General and the other for whoever actually wrote. The place was almost a mausoleum. The heat came off a bonfire raging in a fireplace designed for roasting oxen. Another gink without joints in his spine was tossing in logs from a nearby mountain. He looked at me, looked at the old man behind the big desk. The old man nodded. The fireman marched out, maybe to kill time practicing close order drill with Dellwood.
    Having surveyed the setting I zeroed in on its centerpiece.
    I could see why Black Pete was suspicious. There wasn’t much left of General Stantnor. He didn’t look anything like the guy in the picture downstairs. He looked like he might weigh about as much as a mummy, though most of him was buried under comforters. Ten years ago he’d been my height and thirty pounds heavier.
    His skin had a yellowish cast and was mildly translucent. His pupils were milky with cataracts. His hair had fallen out in clumps. Only a few patches remained, not just gray or white but with a bluish hue of death. He had liver spots but those had faded, too. His lips had no color left but a poisonous gray-blue.
    I don’t know how well he could see through those cataracts, but his gaze was strong and steady. He didn’t shake.
    “Mike Sexton, sir. Sergeant Peters asked me to see you.”
    “Grab a chair. Pull it up there facing me. I don’t like to look up when I talk to someone.” There was power in his voice, though I don’t know where he found the energy. I’d figured him for a graverobber’s whisper. I settled opposite him. He said, “For the moment I’m confident we’re not being overheard, Mr. Garrett. Yes. I know who you are. Peters provided me with a full report before I approved bringing you in.” He kept staring as though he could overcome those cataracts through sheer will. “But we’ll pursue the Mike Sexton fiction in future. Assuming we come to terms now.”
    I was close enough to smell him, and it wasn’t a good smell. I was surprised the whole room didn’t reek. They must have brought him in from somewhere else. “Peters didn’t say what you needed, sir. He just called in an old marker to get me out here.” I glanced at the fireplace. They would be baking bread in here soon.
    “It takes a great deal of heat to keep me going, Mr. Garrett. My apologies for your discomfort. I’ll try to keep this brief. I’m a little like a thunder-lizard. I generate no heat of my own.”
    I waited for him to continue. And sweated a lot.
    “I have Peters’s word that you were a good Marine.” No doubt that counted for a lot around here. “He vouches for your character then. But men change. What have you become?”
    “A free-lance thug instead of a drafted one, General. Which you need or I wouldn’t be here.”
    He made a noise that might have been laughter. “Ah. I’d heard you have a sharp tongue, Mr. Garrett. I should be the impatient one, not you. I have so little time left. Yes. Peters vouches for you today, as well. And you do get mentioned in some circles as being reliable, though headstrong and inclined to carry out your assignments according to your own lights. They say you have a sentimental streak. That shouldn’t trouble us here. They say you have a weakness for women. I think you’ll find my daughter more trouble than she’s worth. They say you tend to be judgmental of the vices and peccadillos of my class.”
    I wondered if he knew how often I change