“Just discussing breakfast, sir,” I said, trying to project ‘hungry’.
“There are lots of eateries along here, gents and lady, but most won't be open yet. But find a place to plant your behinds the doesn't leave you in the middle of the street blocking traffic while you wait.” He glared at us significantly.
What traffic? The street was virtually deserted except for our group. Wow, this guy was a bit of it dick.
“Yes sir, we need to get our morning routine going anyway.” I turned to head back to the motel, but the cop stopped me with a truncheon pressed against my chest. Yes, a billy club, one of those things cops always carry in cartoons.
“Best you be behaving yourselves here on in. I don't want to have to notice you again. Do you understand?”
I remembered Fred for my time with the Deltans, and fantasized for a moment about grabbing this doofus by the throat and hoisting him in the air. But the feeling passed in a mil or two, and my Manny showed no outward sign of the internal struggle.
“Yes sir, not a problem.”
The cop examined us for a moment longer, then turned and walked away.
Garfield rolled his eyes and grinned. “We’s juvenile delinquents, we is.”
Bridget glared at him. “That was worst attempt at a Cockney accent I've ever heard. Unless you were going for Irish, in which case it was even worse. Don't do that again.”
I chuckled. “How often does Howard do that?”
“Daily. And he says it never gets old.”
We returned to our closet - eh, room - and sat.
“Suggestions?” I asked.
“Why don’t we just split up for a moment?” Bill replied. “This isn't Thunder Dome, it's a small peaceful village. Just wander around and eavesdrop. Maybe one of us will pick up a lead, or at least some useful information.”
“Reasonable,” Garfield replied. “I vote for that.”
No one seemed inclined to argue.
“Okay, let's give it an hour to keep Officer Friendly off our backs. Then we’ll head out.”
An hour was plenty of time to get things done in the Bobiverse. We set our Manny's on standby and went home.
An hour later, I had successfully hunted down breakfast of sorts at a nearby pub/eatery. Quinlans didn't really differentiate. I looked down at the plate of fish parts and try to control my face. The barkeep wasn't pranking me - other Quinlans had similar fare in front of them.
“Something wrong?” he said, eyeing me.
“No, I just realized how often I've had squiz lately, I'll be fine.”
He snorted and turned away. Apparently being a barkeep didn't require empathy. Or conversational prowess. Really, this wasn't much different from sushi. And I'd loved sushi. I still loved sushi. And had it regularly in virt.
Hmm. Nope, not helping. It still looked like chopped up raw fish.
With a sigh, I directed the embedded AMI to eat the meal while I backed away slightly from foreground processing. I cranked up my audio and try to pick up something besides that snarfing snorting sounds of Quinlan diners. They weren't in anywhere near as bad as on Pav. I'd seen Pav meals. There were many BobTube videos of Pav families eating, complete with overdubbed sports commentary. It occurred to me to wonder if the Pav had seen some of those vids. It might explain their attitude.
Still, Quinlans work paragons of refined dining, either. Family discussions, gossip, who had or hadn't been arrested for drunk and disorderly, occasional business discussions… there was plenty of talk, but was all routine. Mostly, anyway. I focused in on one discussion in particular, between two Quinlans.
“Another bunch of blow-ins again, this week. Only some of them sabbatarians.”
“No one seems to know what's going on.”
“I’d be less bothered by it if they spent their coin, but they all tend to be tightfisted.”
“And surly.”
“Think they’re criminals, running away from something?”
“Or maybe they’ve been Scattered?”
“That many? What about disbanded militia?”
“Having heard of any recent battles.”
“Hmph. Doesn’t make sense.”
Well that was interesting. It could just be some local thing, but it was worth checking out. Especially the reference to ‘Scattered’ which had been spoken with peculiar emphasis. I glanced around, trying not to be obvious about it, until I spotted the speakers. A couple of fat older Quinlans, probably local merchants. They were wearing decorative baubles and cosmetic fur coloring that would never survive a swim. If I remembered my sociology, that was a wealth of privilege display, showing that they didn't have to go into the water. Maybe someone else could pick something up.
“Guys, see if you can find out anything about large movements of untalkative strangers, and maybe get a definition for this slang word ‘Scattering’.”
I received acknowledgments from the others, and went back to eavesdropping. The conversation had moved on to more commercial matters, unfortunately. After several more minutes, I accepted that no new information was forthcoming. My meal being finished (thank the universe), I decided to go for a walk.
I stopped, taken aback as I exited the eatery. Traffic had still been thin when I went in. Apparently Quinlans all got up at the same time, or maybe there is a generally agreed-upon workday. For whatever reason it was now chaos. I couldn't detect anything like a right-side left-side rule, or even sidewalk-roadway. Pedestrians dodged in and out of traffic while animal drawn carts maneuvered past each other and generally ignored people on foot.
I eyed the draft animals - a vaguely box-like beast that the Quinlans call a hound. They were huge, and could probably crush an adult Quinlan without even noticing. Only their slow steady gait allowed people to dodge them in apparent safety. The carts were interesting. None of the contents were exposed. Some were covered in tarps, some were bundled and strapped down, and some carts were completely enclosed. It seemed like it would be a lot of work, as opposed to just piling stuff into the back. I
