By Glen Cook
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Additional info for Deadly Quicksilver Lies (Garrett P.I. 7)
You shitting me? " Winger is a tad unusual, case you haven't noticed. She is twenty-six, as tall as I am, and built like the proverbial masonry privy—on an epic scale. Also, she has what some guys think is an attitude problem. Just can't figure out how to stay in her place. "You want my help," I reminded. Just a poke. My keg wasn't bottomless. I smirked. Maybe she was desperate enough to take the Goddamn Parrot off my hands. " She would get to the point only after she had mooched her fill. That quantity would clue me as to the state of her fortunes.
Pure class. "Coming right up. " I dove into the kitchen. Dig dig dig till I found some brandy. A bit of a tippler, Dean hides the stuff all over so I won't know how much he has bought. I poured from a bottle that I hoped contained good stuff. What did I know about brandy? Beer is my favorite food. I zipped to the office. The seasoned redhead had set up camp in the client's chair. She frowned as she studied Eleanor. " "Thank you. An interesting painting. " I glanced at my honey as I settled. She was a lovely blonde, terrified, fleeing something only hinted at in the painting's background.
What I got for not closing the door to the small front room. The street showed me only a clutter of people and animals and dwarves and elves and a squadron of centaur immigrants. The usual. I shut the door. I went to the small front room and closed that door, ignoring outraged allegations of neglect. "Stow it, bird. " He laughed. He mocked. He was right. I have no use for ratmen, but I wouldn't do that to them. Then he yelled rape. I didn't worry. Winger had heard it before. " I said when I hit the kitchen, like she hadn't helped herself already.