“Odin’s Other Eye,” he said proudly. “We’ve gone prog rock. Sort of.”
“Only because all the other genres wouldn’t have you,” said Alex.
“We’re doing a lot better!” said Leo. “I don’t have to change the band’s name nearly as often now to make sure they’ll book us again. We opened for the ClanDestined just the other week, and they said they’d almost certainly want us back. Sometime.” He rapped his empty glass on the bar, to indicate he was ready for a refill, and grinned easily at me. “So! The knight in a tarnished trench coat is now the Man! Didn’t see that one coming. Am I going to have to change my wicked ways, or at the very least be very careful about what I admit to in front of you?”
“I’ve always been more concerned with justice than the law,” I said.
“That’s what they all say,” said Leo. “All I know is, if I ever see you heading my way while wearing a suit and a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella, I will leg it for the nearest horizon at a speed that will amaze you.”
“Never happen,” I said. “I might be Walker now, but I’ll never be that Walker.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Leo, heading back to his band. One of them had made the mistake of asking for requests, and the packed room was obliging him with some very basic answers. The crowd at Strangefellows has never been strong on witty repartee.
“I did try to get Rossignol for the music,” I said to Alex. “She’s the leading torch singer in France these days, and I was hoping she might say yes, for old times’ sake. But it seem she has a regular spot at the Crazy Horse Salon in Paris, and she couldn’t get away. Probably for the best. She was never actually an ex of mine, technically speaking, but . . .”
“Yes, but,” said Alex. “Suzie’s never been one for letting technicalities get in the way of venting her emotions. Preferably with a large gun.”
“Rossignol did send me a card, with a view of Paris,” I said. “Which was nice of her. Would have been nicer if she’d remembered to sign it, but . . .”
“Change the subject,” Alex said wisely.
“All right. How is it you’re tending the bar on your own, on what promises to be a very busy night? I thought you’d be hiring extra staff, to help you cope with the madness and mayhem to come?”
“Mostly, I’m letting people help themselves,” said Alex. “I’ve hired a tame poltergeist to keep a check on the stock, take care of trouble-makers, and clean up afterwards. The bar bill for tonight will be my wedding gift, to you and Suzie. Oh, and Cathy’s bought you a foot spa. Don’t ask me why.”
I looked at the dusty and deceptively innocent-looking bottles crowded together at the back of the bar. “I thought you had some pretty dangerous stuff back there.”
Alex smiled. “Oh, I do, I do. It’s all carefully marked OFF LIMITS, along with a sign saying TRESPASSERS WILL BE TRANSMOGRIFIED. If anyone’s dumb enough to ignore the warning signs, they deserve everything that happens to them. I was sort of hoping Cathy would be free to help out, but it seems she’s organising Suzie’s hen do. Probably involving obscenely named cocktails and unsafe humping and grinding with improperly dressed Chippendales. The poor bastards. And no, before you ask, I don’t know where it’s being held, and we’re almost certainly better off not knowing. We can listen for the sound of excessive gunfire and explosions.”
He moved away, to put out small bowls of bar snacks that no-one in their right mind would touch, and I went back to looking over the crowded room. Dead Boy and Razor Eddie had turned up. Dead Boy was loudly talking up the murder case at the Ball of Forever and greatly exaggerating his own part in it. He already had his arms around two female ghouls dressed in rotting Playboy Bunny outfits. Razor Eddie stood a little to one side, sipping his designer water and nodding in agreement, now and again. The girl ghouls eyed him uncertainly, and manoeuvred Dead Boy to make sure they maintained a respectful distance. Because there are some smells even ghouls have trouble with.
Dead Boy swaggered over to the bar to order two Really Bloody Marys for his new ghoul-friends, and nodded easily to me. He reached inside his long greatcoat to scratch fitfully at his autopsy scar, his usual sign that he had something embarrassing he needed to discuss.
“There are rumours going around,” he said carefully. “Foul and vicious exaggerations, no doubt, that there’s a fight brewing between you and Razor Eddie. He won’t talk to me about it, but then he rarely talks to me about anything. Never was much of a one for the talking, our Razor Eddie. Tell me it’s not true, John. Tell me you have enough sense not to pick a fight with the legendarily dangerous Punk God of the Straight Razor.”
“It’s some prophecy,” I said. “A glimpse of a future that might or might not happen. Certainly I’ve no intention of letting things get that far.”
“You do know,” said Dead Boy, not quite looking in my direction, “if it does all kick off, you can always rely on me.”
I looked at him thoughtfully. “You’d take on the dreaded and justly feared Razor Eddie, for me?”
“Well,” he said. “Not necessarily for you, John, or at least, not just for you. But, come on; you must have wondered at some time or another whether you could take Razor Eddie. I know I have.”
“Testosterone is a terrible thing,” observed Alex.
Razor Eddie turned his head suddenly to look at us as he settled into his private booth at the back of the bar, with his usual calm and unconcerned face—as though he knew we were talking about him. Even though there was no way he could have heard us through the general bedlam of raised voices. Except . . . he was Razor Eddie. We all nodded to each other, as though our gazes had happened to meet, in a friendly enough way; and then he went back to staring at nothing, and Dead Boy and I looked at each other.
“He really is a spooky bugger,” said Dead Boy, nodding to Alex as he collected his two Really Bloody Marys with real blood, and a Valhalla Venom for himself. He gave me a sideways look. “I’ve never known what you see in him.”
“Lot of people say the same to me about you,” I said.
“Really?” said Dead Boy. “Can’t think why. Life and soul of the party, that’s me, even though I’m dead. You’ll have to excuse me now; my new ghoul-friends are waiting, and I don’t know how long they’ll last.”
He took his drinks away, and, after a moment’s thought, I made my way through the tightly packed crowd to join Razor Eddie in his private booth. I sat down opposite him, and he nodded to me gravely. There was plenty of room at the table; no-one else was going to sit with him. And not only because of the smell. I leaned forward and made a point of meeting his cold, cold gaze.
“It seems a lot of people have heard about this prophecy of yours, Eddie,” I said. “ How accurate is it likely to be?”
“You said it yourself, John,” murmured Razor Eddie. “There are any number of possible futures. And people will always talk.”
“They’re not only talking; they’re laying bets!”
“Well, of course they are.” The ghost of a smile passed briefly across his pale lips. “Do you want to know the latest odds?”
I sat back in my chair and looked at him thoughtfully. “Would you really kill me, after everything we’ve been through together?”
“Oh, I think so,” said Razor Eddie. “Perhaps because of all the things we’ve been through together. I will say this—it would have to be for a very good reason.” He considered me for a long moment. “You always were too soft-hearted for your own good. They should have made me Walker. I would have brought real justice to the Nightside.”
“Well, yes, possibly,” I said. “But I have to wonder how many would still be left alive after you’d finished. Besides, you’ve seen where that kind of single-minded self-righteousness leads. You remember the Walking Man.”
“Yes,” said Razor Eddie. “I remember the Walking Man. The Wrath of God in the world of Men, he said. And you faced him down when I couldn’t. I haven’t forgotten that, John.”
“Do you want to end up like him?” I said steadily.
Razor Eddie actually took some time to think about that one. “I admired his arrogance,” he said finally. “His cold certainty. But he turned out to be soft, too, in the end. I suppose I am . . . fond of you, John, in my way. But it would be a relief to know you wouldn’t be around any more. To get in my way, to stop me doing things that need doing. So be careful, John. Never give me a reason to go up against you. You know it makes sense, Walker.”
“Well,” I said, getting to my feet, “I’m glad we had this little chat. We really should do this less.”
On my way back to the bar, I nodded to Springheel Jack and the Bride. Even being dead, again, wasn’t
