* * *
Of course, I didn’t neglect my managerial responsibilities. Even when it meant grinding my teeth for hours and hours listening to Greyboar droning on about his progress with “Languor” and his hopes for eventual “Torpor” and his daydreams about final “Stupor.”
Then—finally! Just when I was sure I’d never hear the end of Greyboar’s bragging and boasting about his philosophy—the big loon got distracted. Really distracted.
The Cat had been gone for a week or so. Where? Who knows? Looking for Schrödinger, I expect. But, anyway, one night she showed up again at The Trough. Greyboar invited her over to our table right away, of course. Stubborn, like I said. She sat down, off in her own world. Eventually she got around to asking Greyboar what he’d been up to lately, with about the same interest you might ask a rock how it’s feeling. Wouldn’t you know it but Greyboar started off and told her the whole story, droning on and on about the philosophical intricacies and the dialectical subtleties and all the other goobledygook he learned from Zulkeh. I mean, not the sort of thing your normal wooer with half a brain would touch with a ten-foot pole, don’t you know?
Strange, strange woman. About halfway through the story, the Cat took off her telescope-lens spectacles and gave them a good cleaning. She put them back on and stared at Greyboar until he finished the whole story. Never took her eyes off him once. After all this time, I think it was the first time she actually looked at the guy.
When Greyboar was finally finished, she continued staring at him for a while. Then she said, very abruptly: “Stand up.” Greyboar stood. The Cat got up and slowly walked around him—for all the world like a lumberjack sizing up a tree.
She sat back down and stared at him a bit more.
“You know,” she said, with an actual tone in her voice, “you’re kind of cute. For a gorilla.”
Well, I’m a man of the world, so I quickly made a graceful exit. Figured I’d leave the two of them alone for a half hour or so—just long enough to let a little warmth get started, but not so long that Greyboar would ruin it with another philosophy lecture.
But when I went back to the table, they were gone. Didn’t see either of them for two weeks. Furious, I was—you wouldn’t believe the business I had to turn down!
Finally, Greyboar showed up, smiling like an imbecile, laughing at everything like a tot, practically had to have his chin wiped. Said he’d fallen in love, no less.
It figured. Leave it to a philosophical strangler to fall in love with the weirdest woman in the world. But I was still happier listening to him babble about the Cat than babble about ontology. Leastwise, I could understand some of what he was talking about. Quite a bit, actually.
Chapter 4.
Portrait of a Strangler
But all that came later. In the immediate aftermath, the Baron’s
choke resulted in a completely unexpected hitch. Greyboar’s sister Gwendolyn came back to haunt us. In a strange sort of way.
Late in the afternoon of the very next day, while we were at The Trough having a friendly argument over my idea of “life’s big questions”—stout or lager—a stranger showed up. The first we knew of him was when Leuwen came over and started muttering and mumbling something incoherent. He was wiping his hands on his rag, too, in that particular way he has whenever he’s got something to say to Greyboar that he thinks the big guy won’t like.
Silly habit. Greyboar’s never been one to blame the messenger, and, even if he were, he certainly wouldn’t take his peeve out on a professional Flankn barkeep. Just isn’t done. Your imperial-level ambassadors don’t hold a candle to Flankn barkeeps when it comes to real diplomatic immunity.
“Stop mumbling,” growled Greyboar. “Just spit it out.”
“Well, see, it’s like this, Greyboar. There’s this guy here—he’s a stranger. An outlander, actually, damned if he isn’t an Ozarine—but he’s vouched for by The Roach himself, if you can fathom that. It’s the truth! He came here once before, Oscar and the lads brung him, and spent a fair number of hours quaffing ale with The Roach in one of the small private rooms, although The Roach let it be known in the main room right here—in no uncertain terms—that Benny—that’s his name, this stranger I’m talking about—was a friend of his and not to be meddled with. If you know what I mean.”