So the two of them stared at each other for about a minute. Ever been a squirrel trapped in a cage with two tigers about to square off? That’s how I felt—but I kept my mouth shut, shut, shut, shut. And then suddenly they were hugging each other and crying like babies.
I felt pretty bad, actually. The career move was my idea in the first place—not that Greyboar wasn’t willing! We were both sick of that slaughterhouse—work your life away for nothing and die in the poorhouse. But they were all the family each other had, and I guess I’d sort of put something between them. Between her and me, too, for that matter.
So then Greyboar swore, all choked up, that he’d never harm a woman no matter who else he squeezed. He stuck to the promise, too. Never even bent it a little.
* * *
Yeah, I thought it was going to be a simple, neat little job. Five hundred quid, easy as pie.
There was no point in dawdling, so we decided to do the job that very night. Following directions I’d gotten from “the jilted one,” we found ourselves in a part of town we weren’t very familiar with. Not surprising, of course. I know this city as well as anyone, but nobody really knows all that much about New Sfinctr, the place is such a mess. But we were surprised, because the area where “the rival” was to be found wasn’t much better than a slum.
Odd, that. Your typical “alienated affectionee” usually wound up in a part of town that was at least as posh as the one she fled. Usually quite a bit more posh. Natural feature of the “alienation of affection process,” don’t you know? Upward social mobility, I mean.
“You should have seen the Baron’s—what’d he call it?—oh, yeah, his `modest townhouse,’ ” I commented to Greyboar. “His girl dumped him in that palace for this place? This `rival’ has got to be hung like a moose.”
Greyboar made a sour face. After that I tried to keep the quips to a minimum. He really did hate jealousy jobs. I wasn’t too fond of them myself, when it came down to it. Made the slaughterhouse seem like a spa, disgust-wise.
Eventually we found the address. It was a small two-story house, nestled in between a couple of classic tenements. Shabby, but poor-shabby rather than sloppy-shabby, if you know what I mean. Cleanest, best-kept place on the block.
“You sure?” asked Greyboar quietly.
“The address is right,” I answered. “And, yeah, there’s the flower box outside the window, just like the Baron said. This is it, all right.”
Greyboar shrugged. I snuck up the front steps and checked the lock. What a joke! I’d been all geared up for the usual—armed guards in front of the mansion, mastiff watchdogs, locks like they were guarding the Crown Jewels of the Kushrau Kaysar, the works. Have a vastly overrated opinion of their real worth, your noble types. But this!
I picked the lock in six seconds flat. A moment later we were both inside the front room downstairs. I checked for a possible watchdog. But the only thing on watch was a mouse, who disappeared into its hole quick as lightning.
Everything downstairs was dark, but we could see the room well enough to size it up. Much like the outside—shabby, everything threadbare, but well kept. Little woman’s touches here and there. Homey like, I mean to say. Definitely not your usual rich young bachelor’s love nest.
“Must be her poor old mother’s place,” I whispered. “Probably she’s trysting here with some guy who’s so noble he can’t soil his palace with the likes of some money-grubbing trollop. Gold runs through his veins, I bet.” Greyboar motioned me to silence. He pointed up the stairs to the floor above. Listening closely, I could hear voices. Couldn’t make out any words, though.
But by the time we got to the top of the stairs, moving like cats, I could make out the words all right. Such as they were, yes sirree. Mostly just meaningless noises, don’t you know? Well, not exactly meaningless—it was impossible to miss the emotional content, so to speak. You know: passion, ecstasy, etc., etc.