“Not much,” he says and drops the ash from the cigarette right on his pants, white with the flower ornament—staggeringly dirty pants. “History is not my forte. Looks like she was the principal here at the end of the last century. Religious as all get out. Saints talking to her personally, that kind of thing. Joan of Arc gone to seed. I guess being a nun would do that to you. The hospital wing got added to the House on her watch. Before that they only had this one puny room with a nurse and two beds. Also you had to trek over to the town for every little thing. Back then the House was in the boondocks.”
“How did you get to know all that?”
Smoker is astonished at Red’s knowledge. Also at the fact that he can apparently talk in a normal, human way. From what he’d observed, Rats communicated mostly in grunts.
“I have no idea,” Red says with a shrug. “Everyone kind of knows it. See, it’s this way. When you want to find something here, you go dig in the old papers. There are stacks and stacks of them in the basement. If you’re looking for something specific, it could be tough. The newer stuff is closer to the entrance, and the really old ones are in the cabinets by the walls.”
Smoker winces again, this time at the thought that Red—yes, Red!—could dig through musty papers in search of the House’s history. Jeez! If someone were to have asked Smoker half an hour ago, he would have confidently said that Red was illiterate.
“That’s where Tabaqui got it from.”
Smoker isn’t asking, more stating a fact. But Red hears a question.
“Tabaqui!” he laughs. “Tabaqui got it more than everyone else put together. He was the one doing the digging. Digging, sorting, and making us read that crap. You should ask him, he’ll tell you in vivid detail.”
Smoker puffs so hard it makes him cough. Waving the smoke out of his face, he says hoarsely, “Oh, he did. Just didn’t think to mention the documents.”
“Yeah, likes to play coy,” Red agrees, yawning. “That’s the way he ticks.”
Sphinx appears before them.
“I was looking for you,” he says to Red.
Red sits up straighter.
“Looks like you found me.”
“You fixed up Blind with Gaby. All right, I suppose that if I don’t like it, that’s my problem. But I’m not going to tolerate regular raids on our room. I’m warning you, if she ever tries to show up again . . .”
Red jumps up, diligently hamming up being scared. Smoker can’t stop himself from laughing.
“You’re going to regret it,” Sphinx concludes. “Am I clear?”
“Better than clear. But what if Blind . . .”
“I’ve already talked to Blind.”
Red takes a clownish bow.
“I’ll do my very best. Count on me anytime. Zeal and eagerness, that’s my motto, amigo!”
“Cut it out,” Sphinx says.
“Cutting it out right now!”
Smoker snorts again. Sphinx and Red seem not to notice him. Sphinx studies Red’s features thoughtfully, as if trying to recall something. Red scratches himself.
“Anything else I can do for you today?” he says.
“If it’s not too much trouble, could you take off the glasses?” Sphinx asks.
“Ah, catching me at my word. That’s not very nice. But what the hell. Don’t get used to it, though.”
He turns his back to the corridor, looks around furtively, and sweeps off the glasses.
And disappears. At least, that’s what Smoker sees. That Red is no longer there. Dark eyes framed by copper eyelashes stare dolefully at Sphinx, and the delicate face of their owner belongs to some stranger who cannot possibly be Red. The shaved eyebrows, the scratched chin, the sickening smirk—gone. Those eyes, the eyes of an angel, erased them, transforming the face beyond recognition. The apparition lasts all of two seconds. When Red puts the glasses back on the angel vanishes. What’s left is the familiar perverted neurotic.
“Oops,” he says, licking his lips. “The fun is over.”
“Thanks,” Sphinx says, without even a trace of irony. “I missed you, Death. Really missed you.”
“Keep missing,” Red snarls. “There’s no Death anymore. So let’s leave the strip show for some other time.”
“Red, I’m sorry.” Smoker interrupts the conversation. “I understand it’s none of my business, but these glasses really make you look ugly.”
“Why do you think I’m wearing them? To look cute, maybe? Also, why do you think everyone in the Rat Den sleeps with his head in a sleeping bag? Same reason. So that I don’t have to duct-tape this fucking optical device to my face at night. Let me tell you, my exalted position does not really jibe with looking like a manga character.”
“I figured that out recently,” Smoker says. “That Leaders in the House are supposed to look like walking corpses. I wonder why.”
“Smart boy,” Red says. “You figured right. And one more thing: even for an honest-to-goodness former corpse it’s not an easy job to look like one. I’m not a piece of blue cheese, you know.”
“How do you know what they look like?”
“I happen to have a certain insight.”
Red giggles, bows to Smoker, rattling the chicken bones around his neck, and departs. Disgusting red-lipped fool, despicable Rat Leader. With insights into reanimated corpses.
