It was not anger at anything. It was just pure, platonic anger from somewhere in the reptilian depths of the soul, a fountain of never-ending red-hot grudge; Mr Tulip lived his life on that thin line most people occupy just before they haul off and hit someone repeatedly with a spanner. For Mr Tulip, anger was the ground state of being. Pin had occasionally wondered what had happened to the man to make him as angry as that, but to Tulip the past was another country with very, very well-guarded borders. Sometimes Mr Pin heard him screaming at night.
It was quite hard to hire Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. You had to know the right people. To be more accurate, you had to know the wrong people, and you got to know them by hanging around a certain kind of bar and surviving, which was kind of a first test. The wrong people, of course, would not know Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. But they would know a man. And that man would, in a general sense, express the guarded opinion that he might know how to get in
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touch with men of a Pin-like or Tulipolitic disposition. He could not exactly recall much more than that at the moment, due to memory loss brought on by lack of money. Once cured, he might indicate in a general kind of way another address where you would meet, in a dark corner, a man who would tell you emphatically that he had never heard of anyone called Tulip or Pin. He would also ask where you would be at, say, nine o’clock tonight.
And then you would meet Mr Tulip and Mr Pin. They would know you had money, they would know you had something on your mind and, if you had been really stupid, they now knew your address.
And it had therefore come as a surprise to the New Firm that their latest client had come straight to them. This was worrying. It was also worrying that he was dead. Generally the New Firm had no problem with corpses, but they didn’t like them to speak.
Mr Slant coughed. Mr Pin noticed that this created a small cloud of dust. For Mr Slant was a zombie.
‘I must reiterate,’ said Mr Slant, ‘that I am a mere facilitator in this matter–‘
‘Just like us,’ said Mr Tulip.
Mr Slant indicated with a look that he would never in a thousand years be just like Mr Tulip, but he said: ‘Quite so. My clients wished me to find some . . . experts. I found you. I gave you some sealed instructions. You have accepted the contract. And I understand that as a result of this you have made certain . . . arrangements. I do not know what those arrangements are. I will continue not to know what those arrangements are. My relationship with you is, as they say, on the long finger. Do you understand me?’
‘What –ing finger is that?’ said Mr Tulip. He was getting jittery in the presence of the dead lawyer.
‘We see each other only when necessary, we say as little as possible.’
‘I hate –ing zombies,’ said Mr Tulip. That morning he’d tried something he’d found in a box under the sink. If it cleaned drains, he’d reasoned, that meant it was chemical. Now he was getting strange messages from his large intestine.
‘I am sure the feeling is mutual,’ said Mr Slant.
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‘I understand what you’re saying,’ said Mr Pin. ‘You’re saying that if this goes bad you’ve never seen us in your life–‘
‘Ahem . . .’ Mr Slant coughed.
‘Your afterlife,’ Mr Pin corrected himself. ‘Okay. What about the money?’
‘As requested, thirty thousand dollars for special expenses will be included in the sum already agreed.’
‘In gems. Not cash.’
‘Of course. And my clients would hardly write you a cheque. It will be delivered tonight. And perhaps I should mention one other matter.’ His dry fingers shuffled through the dry papers in his dry briefcase, and he handed Mr Pin a folder.
Mr Pin read it. He turned a few pages quickly.
‘You may show it to your monkey,’ said Mr Slant.
Mr Pin managed to grab Mr Tulip’s arm before it reached the zombie’s head. Mr Slant did not even flinch.
‘He’s got the story of our lives, Mr Tulip!’
‘So? I can still rip his –ing stitched-on head right off!’
‘No, you cannot,’ said Mr Slant. ‘Your colleague will tell you why,’
‘Because our legal friend here will have made a lot of copies, won’t you, Mr Slant? And probably lodged them in all kinds of places in case he di– in case–‘
‘. . . of accidents,’ said Mr Slant smoothly. ‘Well done. You have had an interesting career so far, gentlemen. You are quite young. Your talents have taken you a long way in a short time and given you quite a reputation in your chosen profession. While of course I have no idea about the task you are undertaking – no idea whatsoever, I must stress – I have no doubt that you will impress us all.’
‘Does he know about the contract in Quirm?’ said Mr Tulip.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Pin.
That stuff with the wire netting and the crabs and that –ing banker?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the thing with the puppies and that kid?’
‘He does now,’ said Mr Pin. ‘He knows nearly everything. Very
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clever. You believe you know where the bodies are buried, Mr Slant?’
‘I’ve talked to one or two of them,’ said Mr Slant. ‘But it would appear that you have never committed a crime within Ankh-Morpork, otherwise of course I could not talk to you.’
‘Who says we’ve never committed a –ing crime in Ankh-Morpork?’ Mr Tulip demanded in an offended tone.
‘As I understand it, you have never been to this city before.’
‘Well? We’ve had all –ing day!’
‘Have you been caught?’ said Mr Slant.
‘No!’
Then you have committed no crime. May I express the hope that your business here does not involve any kind of criminal activity?’
‘Perish the thought,’ said Mr Pin.
‘The City Watch here are quite dogged in some respects. And the various Guilds jealously guard their professional territories.’
‘We hold the police in high regard,’ said Mr Pin. ‘We have a great respect for the work they do.’
‘We –ing love policemen,’ said Mr Tulip.
‘If there was a policemen’s ball, we would be among the first to buy a ticket,’ said Mr Pin.
‘ ‘specially if it was mounted on a plinth, or a little display stand of some sort,’ said Mr Tulip, ‘ ‘cos we like beautiful things.’
‘I just wanted to be sure that we understood one another,’ said Mr Slant, snapping his case closed. He stood up, nodding to them, and walked stiffly out of the room.
‘What a–‘ Mr Tulip began, but Mr Pin raised a finger to his lips. He crossed silently to the door and opened it. The lawyer had gone.
‘He knows what we’re –ing here for,’ Mr Tulip whispered hotly. ‘What’s he –ing pretending for?’
‘Because he’s a lawyer,’ said Mr Pin. ‘Nice place, this,’ he added, in a slightly over-loud voice.
Mr Tulip looked around. ‘Nah,’ he said dismissively. ‘I fort that at the start, but it’s just a late eighteenth-century copy of the –ing Baroque Style. They got the dimensions all wrong. Didja see them pillars in the hall? Didja? –ing sixth-century Ephebian with
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Second-Empire Djelibeybian –ing finials! It was all I could do not to laugh,’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Pin. ‘As I have remarked before, Mr Tulip, in many ways you are a very unexpected man.’
Mr Tulip walked over to a shrouded picture and tweaked the cloth aside.
‘Well, — me, it’s a –ing da Quirm,’ he said. ‘I seen a print of it. Woman Holding Ferret. He did it just after he moved from Genua and was influenced by –ing Caravati. Look at that –ing brushwork, will ya? See the way the line of the hand draws the –ing eye into the picture? Look at the quality of the light on the landscape you can see through the –ing window there. See the way the ferret’s nose follows you around the room? That’s –ing genius, that is. I don’t mind telling you that if I was here by myself I’d be in –ing tears.’
‘It’s very pretty.’
‘Pretty?’ said Mr Tulip, despairing of his colleague’s taste. He walked over to a statue by the door and stared hard at it, then ran his fingers lightly across the marble.
‘I fort so! This is a –ing Scolpini! I’d bet anything. But I’ve never seen it in a catalogue. And it’s been left in an empty house, where anyone could just –ing walk in and nick it!’
This place is under powerful protection. You saw the seals on the door.’
‘Guilds? Bunch of –ing amateurs. We could go through this place like a hot knife through –ing thin ice and you know it. Amateurs and rocks and lawn ornaments and dead men walking about . . . We could knock this –ing city over.’