Vicious Circle

“Whatever. I don’t let stuff get to me. But when I find those motherless bastards, I’m going to take their effing teeth out with pliers.” His expression changed, became suddenly more animated in a slightly unhealthy way. “Why are you asking, anyway? Did you hear something? I’m offering a reward for information, you know.”

“If I hear anything, I’ll pass it on,” I assured him hastily. “Bugger the reward. No, I came down here looking for someone else. Maybe you can point him out to me, if he’s here.”

“Shoot.”

“Dennis Peace.”

“Yeah, I know Peace.” That was why I’d gone straight over to Bourbon when I saw he was here: he knew everybody. “Seems like he’s flavor of the month all of a sudden. You want to do some business with him?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Then what?”

“I need to contact him on behalf of a client. He may have taken something that doesn’t belong to him.”

“Hah.” Bourbon didn’t look altogether surprised about this mission statement. “Well, maybe so. Wouldn’t be the first time, I’ve got to admit. He was always a bit of a wild boy. I remember him coming into the bar one night and talking about knife fights. I called him on one story because it sounded like he was talking shite. So he rolled up his shirt and showed me his scars. Jesus fucking wept! He looked like Boris Karloff had chopped him up and stitched him back together again.”

“Did he pick a fight with someone and lose?” I asked, trying to pin down that echo.

“He picked a fight with Stig Matthews. They both lost. Both ended up in hospital.”

Yeah, that was what I’d heard. Two men trading punches until they both fell down, with broken noses and half-pulped faces: the sort of thing that gives even machismo a bad name.

“I thought he was trying to be good just lately, though,” Bourbon said reflectively. “Starting to quiet down a bit. That’s what people tell me, anyway. He come back from America a changed man, they say. But I can’t help you anyway, Fix. He’s not here.”

“You sound pretty sure.”

“Well I saw him walk out about half an hour back. Looking a bit rough, I have to say—like he hadn’t slept in a while. He bought some FFs from Carla, and popped a couple right there. Then he was off again. Didn’t even stay for a drink.”

Damn. I’d been that close. But a miss is as good as a mile. “Is Carla still here?” I asked. Bourbon looked around the room for a few seconds, then pointed to a formidable-looking redhead sitting close to the bar, in intense conversation with a bare-armed bald guy so heavily tattooed that it was hard to make out his facial expression. In other company, he might have made you feel a little nervous: next to Carla he sort of faded into the background.

“Thanks, Bourbon. So Peace used to be a regular at the old place. You know anything else about him?”

“There’s a difference between what I hear and what I know, Fix. Peace is the sort of man that people like to tell stories about—but you know how it is. A lot of those stories used to be told about other people before and they’ll be told about someone else after. All I know—know for sure—is that he used to be a rubber duck a while back. He was part of the collective. Not anymore, though; he got fed up with all the arguments. And I think he told me he’s a friend of Rosie Crucis, although as far as I know he wasn’t part of the team that raised her.”

“You’re right. He wasn’t.”

“Oh yeah, that was you and Jenna-Jane Mulbridge, wasn’t it? The Sussex Gardens Resurrectionists. That’s all I can think of. Never saw him in anyone’s company except his own. He’s almost as antisocial as you.”

“Tell me some of the stories, then.”

He grimaced. “I’d just as soon not, Fix, if it’s all the same to you. Not my style.”

“Sorry I asked, then. Thanks, Bourbon. I owe you one.”

“You bought me one. Just don’t go in half-cocked, okay? Peace is a nasty piece of work, in some respects, but in my experience he plays straight with people who play straight with him. On the other hand, if you piss him off he can be a right bastard.”

“Shit, he really is like me. Have a good one, Bourbon.”

“You, too, Fix.”

I strolled over toward Carla’s end of the bar, watching her out of the corner of my eye while I ordered another drink. I don’t like hitting people up if I don’t already know them: the law of unintended consequences applies with big, spiky knobs on. I could have asked Bourbon to make an introduction, but why the hell should I drag him into my shit when he’s got shit enough of his own?

Biding my time, I ordered another drink. By the time it came, Carla had finished her conversation with the illustrated man. Money had changed hands, and so had a little brown paper bag that had been folded many times and taped shut. The guy took off for the street door looking happy and excited—at least, as far as I could tell under all the paintwork.