#david cavanaugh

[gazehaven]

[plus-low-overthrow]

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Nancy Wilson - Son of a Preacher Man (Capitol)

1969.

[many-voices]

[Karla] The Snitch

“I didn’t-” Davy’s wheedling voice dropped away with a delicate application of force -- the sole of my new leather boot -- to the center of his throat.  He flailed for a moment, but as drunk as he was, he could do little besides lie there ineffectually and wait for my mercy or lack thereof.  Filth spattered him from lank hair to ...blessed judge Kormir, he wore only one shoe, and the growth on one toenail would have been enough to send a lesser woman’s stomach into somersaults.

“You did,” I said.  “You most certainly did.  Or the maestro would not have approached my home yesterday in pursuit of his wife.  No one else knew I was assisting her, Mr. Cavanaugh.”  Davy’s eyes -- bottle-green, a lovely shade when he was sober and clean and not betraying my confidence -- shifted left and right, never meeting my gaze.  His cheeks reddened -- ah.  My boot.  I removed the pressure.  He sputtered a, “Karla!”

“Miss Braunfels, if you please.”  He sat up slowly while blearily swiping crumbs and broken glass from his greasy shirtfront.  I waited until he perched precariously on the curb’s edge before settling the point of my parasol at the scuffed patch of skin beneath his chin.  “Mr. Cavanaugh.  Let’s play to your strengths.  Do suggest, when the maestro approaches you again, that his departed lady-love -- his punching bag, more like -- has set out for Lion’s Arch and freedom.”

“That where she really is?”  He raised his chin and met my gaze this time, at least.  Not that that meant he’d grown sober while I stepped upon him.  He still swayed alarmingly, and his speech included a distinctive slur.

I dipped my parasol’s tip toward his stomach and flicked a particularly rancid-looking bit of cloth to the gutter.  If I executed it correctly, my expression should have aped my mother’s most enigmatic, most dismissive smile.  “Ah,” said Cavanaugh.  “I chatted my way out of your graces?”

“You’re repulsive,” I said calmly.  “As without, so within.  See this newest errand done, and you might have a neck tomorrow.”  I paused before turning away to wipe the smudge from my boot with a snowy handkerchief.  Cavanaugh let himself lean sideways.  If he fell, I did not see it.  Other business called me, and I left the Commons behind.