Book 12 - Cruel Zinc Melodies Read Free Page B

river. ‘‘Thanks, Gerry. I’ll head on across.’’
    Would he believe I was just looking for the boss? The whole brewery would know I was on the prowl before I found Max. Any villainy would scurry into the shadows to wait the danger out.
    Privilege, private law, is vibrantly alive. Max Weider is a comfortable practitioner. He cares for his troops. Most return the favor by limiting their pilferage.
    It seemed colder outside. Because it’s always hot inside the brewery. From the fires used to boil water and warm the fermenting vats.
    The steps up to the Weider mansion door had received only a half-hearted cleaning since the last snow. I understood. We’d all had enough of that.
    I knocked.
    The man who answered was new. And a disaster on the hoof. If there was a race that could mix with the human, his ancestors had mixed it up. There had to be a half dozen kinds of human in the blend, too.
    He would be five feet tall on his tippy-toes on his best day. His head was huge for his height and almost perfectly round. With a couple saucers smashed onto the sides where his ears belonged. The only hair on him was a huge, drooping black mustache. Its twisted ends hung four inches below his nonexistent chin. His eyes were slits stuffed with chips of coal. His mouth was a lipless gash under a nose fit for an elfin princess. He didn’t look worried about her showing up to claim it.
    His body was another globe. His stubby arms sort of stuck out at his sides. How the hell did he dress himself?
    He didn’t speak, just stared at me. Filling the doorway. Immovably.
    ‘‘Name’s Garrett. The boss wants to see me.’’
    One bald eyebrow twitched.
    ‘‘Alyx came by my place. Said the Old Man wanted me to come by.’’
    The other naked eyebrow shivered.
    ‘‘Be that way. I didn’t feel like working today, anyhow.’’
    I could go down to the river, see what it looked like frozen over. It wasn’t far past the brewery. I could watch the ice sledges bring the harvest home.
    The living art form of ugly did nothing to help me out. He just stood there.
    I turned away.
    ‘‘Hang on, Garrett.’’ Manvil Gilbey, Max’s sidekick, materialized behind the short and wide. ‘‘Come on in. Don’t mind Hector. It’s his job to keep the riffraff out.’’
    ‘‘Then I’d better start hiking. I’m about as riffy a rack of raff as you’re likely to step in.’’
    ‘‘Always the charmer.’’
    ‘‘One hundred and ten proof.’’
    ‘‘We didn’t expect you this soon. I would’ve told Hector to bring you straight to Max.’’
    Gilbey belongs to Dean’s generation. Old as original sin. He and Max have been best friends since their Army days, in a war that began before they were born and continued till their grown children were dead. Until a year ago. Devouring Karentine youth all the while.
    Hector stepped aside. I followed Gilbey through the foyer, down into the vast ballroom that takes up half the ground floor. Click-clack across the bare serpentine floor. Then up to the mezzanine on thick, custom carpeting.
    I murmured, ‘‘What was that?’’
    ‘‘Hector?’’
    ‘‘Yeah.’’
    ‘‘Son of a man Max and I soldiered with. A hero himself, Hector was, but he was having a hard time making it. Life is tough if you don’t have pure blood.’’
    ‘‘Crap,’’ I said. ‘‘We’re not getting into all that human rights bullshit again, are we?’’
    In Karenta, in TunFaire especially, ‘‘human rights’’ means the rights of humans to preferential status. The Other Races and artifact peoples get whatever is left.
    ‘‘No. Our problems are in a new arena now.’’
    ‘‘Alyx said something about building a theater. That seems out of character.’’
    ‘‘I’ll let Max explain.’’
    I glanced back. Hector was standing by, ready to answer the door. Beside a rack of lethal tools, there in case his immovable object had a showdown with an irresistible force.
    ‘‘A true exotic. Maybe even a unique.’’