Free Book 12 - Cruel Zinc Melodies by Glen Cook Page B

sister were blondes, last time I saw them. ‘‘Pretty draconian, wouldn’t you say? What?’’
    Her face had drained. Even the freckles had gone.
    She was staring over my shoulder.
    Before I ever turned, I told her, ‘‘Get in the coach. Lock any locks you find. And don’t come out till Play and Saucerhead get back. No matter what.’’

20
    There were seven of them. Teens, with the youngest just over the border but a decade older in his empty heart. The tallest was maybe five feet six. They were all pale brown, black of hair, empty of eye, the sons of refugees. And stupid.
    They were up to no good. Obviously. In broad daylight. In an area that attracted Watchmen, though none were evident at the moment. They didn’t know who they meant to mess with and they weren’t carrying weapons. Not openly.
    The leader announced himself with a short guy swagger. We locked gazes. He was dead cold inside, this boy. How do they get that way so young?
    ‘‘Help you with something?’’
    ‘‘You ready to come across with the insurance now?’’
    ‘‘I’ll be damned.’’ I couldn’t help laughing. ‘‘There just ain’t no limit to stupid in this burg.’’
    That didn’t sit well. ‘‘You calling us stupid?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. Do the math, kid. Did you bother to find out who you’re messing with? Or where you’re doing the messing? You’re going to try to run a protection scam on the richest man in TunFaire? He can afford to pay a thousand dorks just like you to scatter pieces of you from the north side all the way down to the delta. And he will, just to make sure word gets out not to fuck with him.’’
    The baby of the crew sneered. ‘‘This is Stompers’ turf now, old man. Nobody does nothin’ here without they get our permission first.’’
    ‘‘This is the Tenderloin, baby boy. Combine territory. Folks a lot less forgiving than Max Weider. You boys go home to mama. Before you give her a reason to cry.’’
    These kids weren’t used to having somebody not melt in terror. Their particular combination of ferocity, ignorance, and don’t care if I see tomorrow could only mean they were children of the Bustee, TunFaire’s foulest and most dangerous slum.
    The kid gangs of the Bustee all have names like ‘‘The Stompers.’’
    The seven spread out. Their captain was disappointed by my attitude. He planned to show me why they’d chosen their name.
    Saucerhead and Playmate, back from haggling over a mule, came round the coach. Tharpe read the situation in a blink, snapped up two boys, and smacked them together so hard I heard a bone break before one started wailing. He threw the lighter kid up on top of the coach. Where the boy failed to stick. He fell back down, landing in a way that had to dislocate his shoulder.
    Tharpe selected another victim.
    Playmate, saddled as he is with a conscience, took time to assess the situation before he stepped in. His score was just one knockdown, plus dishing a second serving to one of the ones I put down when the kid tried to get back up.
    Tin whistles tooted.
    The leader of the pack was the only one who produced a weapon, a rusty kitchen knife probably stolen from home. He didn’t know how to use it. Yet.
    He would, someday. If he survived.
    The first Watchman arrived after the action. Four boys were hurt too bad to run. Two tried but had no luck. The littlest was the only one nimble enough to get away, crying as he went.
    The leader’s knife hand was all crippled up. Somebody stomped it. He didn’t whine. His eyes didn’t get any less cold.
    The first tin whistle to show was a guy I knew, Ingram Grahm. ‘‘What happened, Garrett?’’
    I told it. Tinnie backed me up. Ingram considered arresting me for having a disproportionately beautiful companion. Playmate and Saucerhead told what they knew. Ingram echoed my own thinking. ‘‘There’s no bottom to the reservoir of stupid, is there? These guys the reason you’re down here?’’
    ‘‘Maybe.