That, in fact, can usually be counted on to get you by—if you're young and strong and don't look an easy mark. Most people will stay away. Only the nastiest, craziest bad boys prey on other bad boys.

Hell. There I go giving the wrong impression. What I'm talking about is late nights, after the entertainment hours. Much later than it was then. People were out. I wasn't seeing them because I wasn't following the streets they usually chose for safety.

Sometimes I tempt fate.

At one point I joined several ratmen in a fast fade into an alley. We watched a gang of ogres tramp past, grumbling and cussing. They were headed for the north gate, on their way to hunt thunder-lizards. Night is the best time to hunt them. The beasts are sluggish then. There's good money in thunder-lizard hides. They make the toughest leather.

I don't like ogres much either, but wished this bunch luck. The southward migration of the thunder-lizards has been rough on the farmers, who have been losing both fields and livestock. More, it's always nice to see an ogre doing something honest. You don't very often.

33

Crunch recognized me right away. He plopped a pint onto the bar. "You back?"

"No. It's my evil twin."

He thought about that, couldn't make sense of it, asked, "Need to see Hullar?"

"Wouldn't hurt. If he's not busy."

"Hullar's never busy. Got nothing to do." Off he went. He didn't step on his beard this time either. He was a magician.

I scanned the place. Business had dropped off, but the girls were still occupied. There were two I hadn't seen before. Two daytime girls were gone. The new girls were a blond and a brunette not of the sort at risk. Both seemed out-of-place.

Maybe the Dead Man was right. Maybe the girls were slumming.

The streets are no place to play if you don't know them. You'll make more than your share of lethal mistakes if you come down off the Hill wearing your arrogances and assumptions. The natives won't be impressed.

Of course, if it's a game, maybe you'll forget your superiorities while you're playing. Until you get into a tight place.

Hullar waddled out, dragged himself up onto a stool, sucked up a beer Crunch had waiting, scanned the action, shrugged. You couldn't disappoint Bishoff Hullar. A man after my own heart, he expected the worst. "Slumming, Garrett?"

"Not exactly."

"I can't believe you've taken a shine to the place. A man with your rep."

"No. This has to do with that other thing I'm working."

"The murders. You didn't tell me there was another one last night."

Word was getting around. "I got to thinking over supper. About Candy and the girl who wasn't in here the other day, that you and Crunch never saw and don't know. Occurred to me the rich girls might be playing bad girls, just for fun. Like the blond and brunette, there. Don't look like the sort I'd expect in here."

"Uhm?"

"You know the Tenderloin, Hullar. You know what's going down. There a fad among the rich girls, bored because the guys are off to war?"

"How come you want to know?"

"Maybe my girl-killer spots his victims down here. Maybe I can spot him looking for his next target."

"You in the guardian-angel racket?"

I grunted.

"You been out of touch, Garrett. Yeah. The rich broads been coming down. Not just the kids, neither. Them that only want into it at the edge work places like mine. The wild ones, mostly older ones, end up peddling their asses at the Passionate Witch or Black Thunder or someplace. The outfit goes easy on them. They're good for business. You got a skillion lowlifes would love to throw the pork to some high-tone lady."

"I understand the psychology."

"Don't we all. Don't we all. And that's what'll cause the trouble."

"Hmm?"

"Good for business, having all this fine young stuff down here. Gotten a lot of cash moving despite the weather. But how long before their fathers and husbands catch on? Then what do we got? Eh?"

"Good point." The parents wouldn't be pleased. And, human nature being what it is, the girls wouldn't get the blame. The richer people are, the less they seem able to hold their kids responsible for their actions. "How many of them you figure there are?" Couldn't be a lot or there would've been a lot of excitement already.

"I don't get around much, Garrett. I ain't out there counting heads and figuring who's working the Tenderloin why. You know what I mean?"

"I know."

"But they do stand out. People talk. You ask me, tops, there's maybe been a hundred. Biggest part is over now. Just a few come-latelies and them that gets a special jolt from going bad. You got maybe thirty these days, mostly hard-core. Ones like my Candy are the exception now. Whole thing'll be dead in two months."

"They'll find some other game."

Hullar shrugged. "Could be. I don't worry about rich kids."

"Makes you even. They don't worry about you." I eyed Candy. Didn't look like I'd get a chance to talk to her. She had a couple of sailors on the string. Hullar or Crunch would have to do some bouncing if she led them on too far.

"Going somewhere?" Eagle-eye Hullar had noticed me getting up.

"Thinking about eyeballing any other girls I can find. Any suggestions where to look?"

"You want just brunettes? Candy's type?"

"Basically."

He got thoughtful. He wasn't concentrating on my problem, though. He had one eye on Candy's sailors. He was getting steamed. "Crystal Chandelier. The Masked Man. The Passionate Witch. Mama Sam's Place. I seen your type all them places, one time or another. Not saying they's any there now. These gals, they come and go. Don't do regular hours, neither."

"Thanks, Hullar. You're a prince."

"Eh? What's that?" Crunch snarled suddenly. He came up from behind the bar with a nasty club. "You want to watch your mouth, boy."

Hullar shook his head. "Prince!" he yelled in Crunch's ear. "He called me a prince. Got to pardon him, Garrett. He lip-reads. Sometimes he don't do so good."

Crunch put his stick away but didn't stop scowling. He wasn't sure he ought to trust his boss over his imagination.

Everywhere I go, I get involved with screwballs.

34

The Crystal Chandelier, as the name implied, pretended to have class. Hill girls would be just what the management ordered. I headed there first. I was in and out in the time it took to slurp a beer. I didn't learn anything except that somebody there knew my face and didn't like what I did for a living.

I did better at the Masked Man. I knew somebody there.

The name of the place was appropriate again. People donned masks before they showed themselves inside. Likewise, those who worked the place. The Masked Man catered to a select clientele.

The guy I knew was a bouncer, a breed nine feet tall with muscles on his muscles and more between his ears than anywhere else. I downed three beers before he understood what I wanted to know. Even then he wouldn't have talked if he hadn't owed me. And what he had to say wasn't worth hearing. Only one Hill-type gal worked the Masked Man these days, a blond so screwed up she scared the owners. He hadn't seen a brunette in weeks. The last had quit her second night. But he did remember her name, Dixie.

"Dixie. Right. That's useful. Thanks, Bugs. Here. Have a beer on me."

"Hey, thanks, Garrett. You're all right." Bugs is one of those guys who are always amazed when you do something nice, no matter how trivial. You'd think after a while the whole world would be nice just to watch him be amazed.

I drifted over to the Passionate Witch. The Witch was strange, even for the Tenderloin. I never quite understood the place. A lot of girls worked there, mostly dancing, mostly without wearing much. They were very friendly. They'd crawl all over you if they thought you might stuff a mark into their pants. They were available, but not to everyone. There was a kind of bid board. The girls worked the crowd, getting guys drunker and randier and driving the bidding up till closing. A crafty girl could pull more with one trick there than some who worked all night the traditional way.