man so big could move so quietly.
“Does dis man have an appointment, Miss Marchin?”
“He does not.”
“Den why is he still here, Miss Marchin?”
“He was just saying goodbye. Weren’t you, Mr. Markhat?”
I straightened, nice and slow, so no ham-fisted giants in my vicinity would misinterpret my action as preparatory to rudeness.
“I was indeed. Good day, Miss Marchin. Give my best to Mr. Marchin and all the little Marchins.”
“Simmons has your hat,” spoke the giant. “Dat’s him. By the door. You have the nice day.”
Indeed, the grizzled Simmons was standing by the door, my hat clutched in his shaking hand. His grin was small but spiteful.
I turned to face the behemoth behind me.
He was a full head taller than me, and then some. He’d clearly left his neck in his other shirt, possibly because there wasn’t room on a single human frame for a neck and those shoulders. His chest bulged, and not from fat. His arms were more ogre than human.
He had short, black hair slicked back with oil and a crooked, flat nose and much to my surprise, all of his teeth, which gleamed a pearly white.
His eyes were neither dim nor close-set. I even fancied I could see humor there.
“My name is Markhat,” I said, adjusting my tie. “Who might you be?”
“I might be da pleasant gentleman what shows you polite-like to the door, or I might be da man who picks you up and throws you through it,” he said, still smiling. “Who do you want me to be?”
“Look. You’ve both got me all wrong. I’m not a salesman. I’m not a mooch. I need to see Mr. Lethway on an urgent private matter, and-”
“Den I’ll be the second one,” said the giant.
He put his hands under my arms and picked me up before I could say another word.
I could have done a couple of things, in that moment. I could have boxed his ears, for instance. Or poked my fingers in his eyes. Or kicked him in the groin. Yes indeed, I could have dealt out any number of crushing blows, since his hands were occupied and I was facing him in close quarters.
But I didn’t. Mainly because my ribs were bending double and he’d squeezed the breath out of me.
But also because he winked.
So I deigned to allow myself to be carried unceremoniously from the downtown offices of Lethway Mining. As we passed Simmons, I did manage to reach out and grab my hat, which I stuck jauntily on my head.
I waved to Miss Marchin, who did at least wave back, and my giant took a pair of steps into the street so the door could shut before he put me down on my feet.
Passers-by laughed and pointed. I adjusted my jacket and caught my breath.
“I hope you’ll forgive that, Mr. Markhat.”
“Oh, I enjoyed it. My thanks for not throwing me over your shoulder. That would have been undignified.”
He laughed.
“I know who you are. Markhat the finder. Why would you be wanting to speak to the boss?”
“No offense, but that’s between him and me. And speaking of names, I missed yours.”
“Dey calls me Pratt.”
“What’s with the dey and the den?”
He shrugged. “It suits the character. People are more comfortable with big dumb men than big smart ones. I like to keep people comfortable.”
“My ribcage disagrees. Look. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you already know why I need to see your boss. Can we leave it at that?”
He regarded me for a long moment.
“You have a reputation, Mr. Markhat. So I’ll arrange something. But not here. Somewhere private. You know the Troll’s Den?”
“Fancy cigar place? Off Trotline?”
“The very same. Can you be there tonight, around Curfew?”
“I can do that.”
“Den we’ll see you dere. You have the nice day.” He turned, opened the doors, and shouted over his shoulder. “And don’t be comin’ round no more. You ain’t welcome.”
I turned on my heel, managed to fill my lungs with a wheeze and a cough, and marched away with my head held high.
I didn’t march home, though. I decided I’d sample another cup of good Fields coffee and see if I could find Tamar. She wasn’t my client, technically, but keeping her informed seemed like a good way to keep my actual client happy.
The walk to the bakery wasn’t a long one. I got there well after the lunch rush and well before the pre- Curfew scramble for supper, which meant there were a half-dozen diners scattered about the place, talking in groups of two over steaming cups of coffee or tea.
Mr. Fields was behind the counter. He looked up when the bell attached to the door rang, saw me and failed to break out into a warm welcoming smile.
“She’s not here,” he said. “Not going to be here, either.”
I settled onto a stool right across from him just as Mr. Tibbles yapped from the kitchen.
Mr. Fields shrugged and cussed. “Damn that animal.”
“Causing you grief is not my intention, you know.”
He set a cup of coffee before me and turned away.
“I’m just trying to find out what happened to your daughter’s fiance. I know you don’t like the young man. But I suspect he’s in trouble.”
“If he is, he’s in it because the Lethways themselves are trouble. I don’t want my daughter taking their name, finder. If she does, trouble is going to find her too.”
He’d spoken so softly I’d barely heard him.
“Sounds like you know more than I do.”
“What’s this going to cost me?”
I leaned in closer, lost.
“I don’t follow.”
“How much will it cost me to have you let this go, finder? How much will it take to make you go away, and let things settle down on their own?”
“I don’t like talking to your back.”
He turned.
“I don’t like talking to you. At all.” Something like menace blossomed on his puffy face. “Name your price. Or maybe you’ll find trouble yourself. Real soon.”
I took a swallow of coffee and dropped a couple of coppers on the counter.
“Needs sugar.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.” I raised my voice. “Tamar? Miss Fields?”
From the kitchen came a renewed yapping, and then Tamar popped through the swinging doors, Mr. Tibbles struggling and growling in her grasp.
“Mr. Markhat. I was hoping you’d drop by. Say hello, Mr. Tibbles.”
The mutt bared his teeth and growled.
“He’s warming up to me. Care to take a stroll? We need to talk.”
“Of course. I was just leaving anyway. Goodbye, Father. See you at home.”
She planted a kiss on Mr. Field’s flushed cheeks, and I escorted her through the door, feeling her father’s glare on my back with each step.
I mourned my last cup of his coffee, because I’d not dare drink another. My palate is overly sensitive to hemlock.
