down and out, but you only had to be in the man's presence a few moments to know
there was something special about him. Special… and not a little disturbing.
Razor Eddie got his name in a street fight over territory between two
neighboring gangs. He was fourteen at the time, a slick and vicious killer, and
already more than a little crazy. He spent the next few years working for anyone
who'd have him, just for the action. And then, at the age of seventeen, he
visited the Street of Gods and got religion in a big way. He turned his back on
his violent past and walked the streets of the Northside, preaching love and
understanding. A few people laughed at him, and threw things. Later, they were
found dead, under mysterious circumstances. They weren't the last. After a while
people learned to leave Razor Eddie strictly alone. He walked through the most
dangerous areas in Haven, spreading his message, and came out unscathed. Once, a
gang of ten bravos went into the Devil's Hook after him. No one ever saw them
again. Razor Eddie had no fixed abode or territory; he slept in doorways and
wandered where he would. Neither heat nor cold affected him, and he always
seemed to have a little money, even in the hardest of times.
He knew a lot of things, about a lot of people—if you could persuade him to
talk. Most couldn't, but he'd taken a shine to Hawk and Fisher. Probably because
unlike most other people, they weren't frightened of him. Hawk leant back in his
chair and smiled easily at the hunched figure opposite him.
'Hello, Eddie. How's life treating you?'
'Mustn't grumble, Captain,' said Razor Eddie. His voice was low and calm and
very reasonable, but his eyes shone with a wild light. 'There's always someone
worse off than yourself. I've been waiting for you. You'll find the spy Fenris
in the house with three gables on Leech Street. He uses it as a drop for passing
information. You'll know Fenris by his bright green cravat. It's a signal for
his contact.'
'You're not normally this forthcoming, Eddie,' said Fisher, frowning. 'What's so
special about this Fenris?'
'Unless someone stops him, two great houses will go down in flames. Blood will
run in gutters and the screams will never end. There are wolves running loose
among the flock, and they will bring us all down.'
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other briefly, and when they looked back, Razor
Eddie's chair was empty. They looked quickly about them, but there was no sign
of him anywhere in the tavern.
'I hate it when he does that,' said Fisher. 'Well, what do you think? Is it
worth a trip to Leech Street?'
Hawk scowled. 'Anyone else, I'd take it with a pinch of salt. But Eddie's
different. He knows things. And if he thinks we're all in danger because of this
Fenris…'
'Yeah,' said Fisher. 'Worrying, that.'
'It's the best lead we've got.'
'It's the only lead we've got.'
'Exactly.'
Fisher shook her head. 'Let's go check it out.'
They grinned at each other, got up, and made their way back through the crowded
tables. The restaurant was still utterly silent, their every move followed by
hostile eyes. They got to the door, and Hawk paused and looked back. He smiled,
and bowed courteously to the sea of unfriendly faces. Fisher blew the room a
kiss, and then the two Guards disappeared into the night.
Leech Street was bold and brassy and more than a little shop-soiled. Brightly
painted whores gathered together on street corners like so many raucous birds of
paradise, or leaned out of first-floor windows in revealing underwear, watching
the world go by with knowing mascarad eyes. Street traders hawked jewelry so
freshly stolen the true owners hadn't even realized it was gone yet, and
hole-in-the-wall taverns provided cheap shots of spirits so rough they all but
seethed in the bottle. The air was full of chatter and laughter and the harsh
banter of the strip-show barkers. Here and there, gaudily dressed pimps leant
casually in open doorways, ostentatiously cleaning their fingernails with the
point of a knife, alert for the first sign of trouble. Prospective clients,
trying to appear anonymous, thronged one end of the street to the other, eyeing
the various merchandise and working up their courage to the sticking point.
Hawk, watching the bustling scene from the concealing shadows of an alley mouth,
yawned widely. He and Fisher had been in position for almost an hour waiting for
Fenris to show up, and what little tawdry glamour the street possessed had long
since worn thin. When you got past the noise and the bright colors, Leech Street
seemed more sad and sleazy than anything else, with everyone trying desperately
to pretend they were something other than what they really were. Hawk derived
some amusement from the attempts of most of the would-be customers to give the
impression they just happened to be passing through, but the street itself held
no attractions for him. He'd seen the official figures on violence and robbery
in this area, not to mention venereal disease. In some establishments, the crabs
were reputed to be so big they jumped out on dithering passersby and dragged
them bodily inside.
Bored, Hawk leant gingerly back against the grimy alley wall and kicked at an
empty bottle on the ground. It rolled slowly away, hesitated, and then rolled
back again. After a fruitless hour standing watch, this was almost exciting.
Hawk sighed deeply. He hated doing stakeouts. He didn't have the patience for
it. Fisher, on the other hand, actually seemed to enjoy it these days. She'd
taken to watching the passersby and making up little histories about who they
were and where they were going. Her stories were invariable more interesting
than the case they were working on, but now, after a solid hour of listening to
them, Hawk found their charm wearing a bit thin. Fisher chattered on, blithely
unknowing, while Hawk's scowl deepened. His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding
him of missed meals. Fisher broke off suddenly, and Hawk quickly looked round,
worried she'd noticed his inattention, but her gaze was fixed on something down
the street.
'I think we've finally struck gold, Hawk. Green cravat at three o'clock.'
Hawk followed her gaze, and his interest stirred. 'Think he's our man?'
'Would you wear a cravat like that if you didn't have to?'
Hawk smiled. She had a point. The cravat was so bright and virulent a green it
practically glowed. The suspect looked casually about him, ignoring the birdlike
calls of the whores. He fit the description, what there was of it. He was
definitely tall, easily six foot three or four, and decidedly lean. His clothes,
apart from the cravat, were tastefully bland, with nothing about them to
identify the kind of man who wore them. For a moment his gaze fell upon the
alley from which Hawk was watching. Hawk damped down an impulse to shrink
further back into the shadows; the movement would only draw attention to him.
The spy's gaze moved on, and Hawk breathed a little more easily.
