You are correct, Garrett. This time. However unlikely, he believes his theories. Which, you will understand, make them the reality in which he lives. I suggest you do meet our principal, try to ascertain why he deems it worthwhile to keep tabs on Mr. Amato.

Good morning, Mr. Amato. I have been anxious to make your acquaintance since Mr. Garrett first undertook to trace your movements.

The rat was going to lay it off on me.

"Uh... hi." Barking Dog was at a loss for words. Maybe I ought to check to see if this was really him.

One breath and I knew I didn't have to check. "Look here, Chuckles, don't you go—"

Mr. Amato and I have a great deal to discuss, Garrett. I suggest you visit Mr. Hullar and see if you cannot unearth a reason for his interest.

"Yeah, Garrett. What you been doing, anyhow? You was supposed to... "

I fled, defeated. Would Barking Dog care that I'd neglected him only to save TunFaire from a vicious serial killer? He would be sure they had bought me off. Even though he was the subject I was supposed to investigate for them.

I gave the stairway one longing look, then got into my rain gear. I checked my pockets to see how much cash I had. Maybe I could rent me a room and catch a few winks.

I made a sudden sally into the small front room before I left, thinking I'd snatch Dean's cat and drag it along. But the cat wasn't in evidence, only the scratches it had left on my furniture.

Then I realized that I had nothing to report to Hullar. I trudged back and pried Barking Dog's report away from him. He and the Dead Man were weaving drunken spiderwebs of conspiracy theory already.

23

The Tenderloin is that part of town which caters to the side of people they keep hidden. Any vice can be found there, any sin committed, almost any need fulfilled. The hookers and the drug dens and gambling pits are just the surface, the glamour. At least, those aspects of those things that can be glamorous when seen from the street.

It's a glitzy street. Or streets, really. The area is bigger than Tinkery Row. And more successful. Nothing sells like sin. After the Hill it's the most prosperous, cleanest, safest, and most orderly part of the city. Some very unpleasant people make sure it stays that way.

It all belongs, directly or indirectly, to Chodo Contague's empire.

Bishoff Hullar's taxi-dance place is as tame a dive as you can find there. That's all the girls do, dance and talk to lonely fellows and try to get them to buy drinks. Maybe a few make personal arrangements, but there are no facilities on the premises. The place is as shabby as they're allowed to get down there. Frankly, I don't see how Hullar stays in business, competing with neighbors who offer so much more.

The place wasn't jumping when I arrived, but it was just after noon then. A couple of sad-looking sailors sat at a table talking to a sad-looking girl who sipped colored water and didn't pretend very hard that she gave a damn about what the sailors were saying. A doddering ratman mopped around the other tables. All those had chairs piled atop them. There was nobody on the dance floor, though a couple more girls were loafing by the bandstand, where three worn-out old musicians weren't trying very hard to stay awake. Both girls glanced at me, wondering if I was worth the effort of making so long a trek. One, who looked like she might break out in a case of puberty any day, lazily packed a pipe with weed.

The guy behind the bar had to be the world's oldest dwarf. He wore the full costume, complete with a pheasant's feather in a peaked little cap. He had a beard that should have kept the floor swept of debris. "What's it going to be, Ace?" He wiped the bar in front of me with the same rag he'd been using to polish mugs.

"Beer."

"Pint?"

"Yeah."

"Light? Dark?"

"Light."

"Lager? Pilsner?... "

"Just draw one. Surprise me. Weider's, if you got it." I figured I owed Old Man Weider a little commercial loyalty, what with him having had me on retainer so long.

"Hasty. Always hasty." He drew me a pint. "Wet enough for you out there?"

Oh, my. A talkative bartender. "Wet enough. Hullar around?"

"Who wants to know?" Suddenly he was completely alert.

"Name's Garrett. I'm supposed to be doing something for him."

"Yeah?" He wiped the bar next to me while he thought about that. After a moment he said, "I'll check." Off he trundled. I rose onto my toes, watched, wondering if he'd stumble over his beard.

"Hi. I'm Brenda." The pipe smoker had puffed up enough ambition to hike all the way over. I glanced at her, resumed studying the wasteland behind the bar. The woman was less interesting.

Up close it was obvious she wasn't a child, that that was just her hook. The gamine had gone a long time ago, probably before she was old enough to become a gamine. I said, "I'm just here to see Hullar. Business."

"Oh." Her voice had had little life before. Now it was dead.

I glanced at the musicians. "I could part with a few coppers, though, if you could explain why those band guys are here at this time of day." I didn't know Hullar's place well, but didn't think there was any music during the day.

"Somebody kicked the shit out of them last night after work. They're waiting to talk to some guy about it."

Licks? Coming in to put the arm on them?

"You're in, Ace. The man says come on back."

I dropped a half-dozen coppers into the woman's hand. She made an effort to find a smile but had trouble remembering where she'd left it. I wanted to say something to waken her spirit but couldn't think of a thing. So I just said, "Thanks," and hurried after the dwarf. If I let him get too big a head start I'd miss out when he tripped over his beard.

Bishoff Hullar was five feet tall, three feet wide, bald as an egg, in his sixties, ugly as sin itself. The width wasn't fat. I'd heard he was a strongman in his younger days and that he kept up in case there was a call for his talents. "Sit, Garrett." He indicated a rickety antediluvian chair. He had a voice like rocks tumbling around inside an iron drum. Somebody had done the lead-pipe thing on his throat in his once-upon-a-time. "You got anything for me?"

I gave him Barking Dog's report. He took it, started reading. I said, "I have some questions." I glanced around his workplace. You couldn't call it an office. He sat behind a table with some writing tools on it, but also makeup pots, which suggested the girls used the place for a dressing room. Overall, it was as tacky as the rest of the place.

"Huh?" He looked up, piggy little gray eyes narrowed.

"Basic stuff my partner never got around to asking because he thought this job would be a good joke on me."

Hullar's eyes got narrower. "Joke?"

"Barking Dog Amato. Nobody in the world is going to pay somebody to spy on a lunatic. Least of all a guy who runs a place like this down here. I can't see you even knowing Barking Dog."

"I don't. Wouldn't know him if he walked in and sank his fangs in me. What's it to you? You're getting paid."

"I'm the guy what takes his butt onto the street amongst the slings and arrows, Hullar. I kind of like to know why I'm doing that, and who for. That way I have a notion what direction to expect trouble from when it comes."

"You're not going to see no trouble."

"They all tell me that. If there wasn't trouble, though, they wouldn't come to me in the first place. I don't play blindfolded, Hullar."

He put the report down, looked at me like he was making up his mind whether to kick my butt or not. Not won the toss.

"You got a good rep, Garrett. Why I picked you. I'll take a chance."