"They are more cautious in the way they phrase their verbal contracts," Guido said, sitting down and putting his fedora on his knee. "Not one word concerning their appearance can be gleaned from our converse with our clients. It appears to be a condition of the protection racket—I mean, arrangement."

"And they aren't very greedy," I added. "With no disrespect to Don Bruce, their demands are relatively modest."

"But they go by a flat fee," Guido protested. "Don Bruce prefers a percentage. When times is good, he prospers alongside his clients. When times is hard, well, they all get a break. This way. they all give the same even if business is bad. And you saw how scared the clients were not to miss a payment"

"It strikes me that this means they're not in this for the long haul," Tananda concluded. "If they did they would take market fluctuation into account the way the Mob does."

"But who knows how long this short haul will run?" Guido asked. "Don Bruce ain't gonna wait for them to get out. He wants 'em gone now."

"Right," I said. "That will take decisive action on our part. We need to catch them in the act of collection and dissuade them from doing any further business in the Bazaar."

"Right!" Guido agreed, smacking one big fist into the other palm. "Well teach 'em they just can't march in an' take over somebody else's territory."

The easiest place to observe was Bochro's Toy Shop. His tent stood next to Melicronda's wine shop, nearly opposite the M.Y.T.H. Inc's establishment on the same thoroughfare. Since none of our associates were presently in residence, we three took the vigil in turns.

Naturally it was our business to know something of the comings and goings throughout the Bazaar, but I had never before made a close study of the traffic that came and went over the course of a day. The streets were as empty as they ever were: the perfect time for someone to pass unnoticed. I peered through the gathering gloom. It was no use looking for strangers. The nature of the Bazaar as a nexus in between so many dimensions meant that only one in twenty passersby was familiar, and only one in two hundred was a friend. I knew that there was little that could not be had for a bargain, but even I was not prepared to see some of the goings-on. It was just after twilight, when most of the merchants had folded up their tents for the day, but before the night life of the Bazaar really got under way.

Directly in front of our tent two tough babies, clad in black leather diapers, toddled up and kicked the legs out from underneath a plump, insectoid shopper, and stole its bags. Since officially we were not supposed to be at home, I had to restrain myself from leaping out there to assist. In any case my help was not needed. The insectoid extended its carapace to reveal a long, sinuous body and a dozen more legs. The babies hadn't made it past three store fronts before their victim stretched overhead, retrieved its possessions, and delivered a sound spanking to each one of them. They sat down on the ground to cry until another likely victim came their way.

As night fell, the character of the transactions became more personal. Beings of the evening made offers to passersby for various services of the usual and unusual kind. A token or two would change hands, and a pair or trio or group would wander off to a handy tent.

Almost all the traffic was outbound from the merchants' establishments. The rare ingress was what I was interested in. If Guido was correct, this was the day on which payments were normally due to the Don. Though they were now diverted to person or persons unknown, they were being picked up on the same schedule.

I saw someone I knew weaving in and out of the crowd of tourists looking for a likely (and safe) place to have dinner a fellow Troll named Percy—his real name. His nom de guerre, as mine was Big Crunch, was Mangier.

His was not a casual visit to our street. His movements were as furtive as a Troll's could be, attempting not to step on the party of Imps who had stopped to look over a street map in the middle of the thoroughfare, as he "not-looked" at the tents opposite our own. When he was nearly in front of our doorway, he quickly looked both ways, then pushed into Bochro's.

Quietly I tiptoed into Tananda's room and whispered from the doorway, "We have a bite."

Before I'd quite finished the sentence she'd sprung off her bed and bounded to my side.

"I'll get Guido," she said. "Can you handle him alone?"

"I think so," I said, albeit a trifle uncertainly. Mangier was a good foot wider than I was. I'd known him in school, where he was all-varsity wrestling champion our final year, though in hand-to-hand martial arts I held higher ranking.

Hoping he had not come and gone while my back was turned, I left our tent and turned into the flow of traffic. At the end of the row, still keeping an occasional eye on my destination, I pretended to have forgotten something, clapped a hand to my head, and plowed deliberately into a group of Deveel merchants holding a quick negotiation in the open area of the intersection.

"Damned clumsy Troll," one of them snarled.

I showed my teeth and snarled back. They blanched pink, and scattered, their deal forgotten. I turned back. Mangier was emerging from the tent, still furtive in his actions. He made for Melicronda's. I opened my stride and caught him just before he went inside.

"What ho, Percy, old thing," I said, draping an arm across his shoulders.

"Chumley!" he said, surprised. "Me mean, Crunch! Me punch!"

"You Mangier, me strangler," I said, raising a fist I lowered my voice. "What say we nip around the corner for a quick drink, old friend?"

"Chumley, I can't be seen talking to you, old chap," Percy said, looking worried. "It's more than my job's worth. Or my hide."

We'd gathered an audience by that time: Klahds, who were looking for free entertainment; Imps, who would bet on anything; and Deveels, who were willing to indulge them. Percy shook his head almost imperceptibly. I understood. I advanced on him with a roar, my arms above my head. He countered by growling back, and swiping at my chest with an open, clawed hand. Swiftly, I knocked it aside and closed with him, wrapping my arms around his body.

Any other Troll in the audience would quickly have recognized Scenario Number 15 of the Trollia Hand-book for Dealing with Other Species. In order for a pair of Trolls to have a private conversation in public, when all other means failed, this particular brawl would ensure that we had frequent close contact, while making very certain all others stayed out of the way of our wild-looking, but carefully choreographed, swings. Even a dragon would have hesitated to wander into the fray between two full-grown Trolls.

"What is it, old man? Deveels?" I asked. I twisted around, grabbed his wrist, wrenched upward, and Percy flipped into the air, landing on his back. The fall wouldn't hurt him. It didn't even knock the breath out of him. He scissored out his powerful, furry legs and caught me about the waist. I dropped back, and he sprang up and knelt on my chest, hands going for my throat. I roared aloud to cover his furtive whisper.

"No, worse!" I grabbed his throat with one hand, and he let out a loud squeak, which covered my next question.

"What could be worse than Deveels?" I asked. A further grunt covered another query as he shook his head. "Do you owe money to the Gnomes?" We rolled over and over together in the dust. An open path cleared ahead as our audience pursued behind. I bellowed.

"Worse!" Percy whispered, his face desperate. "I can't tell you! The old one will get me if I talk!"

I almost forgot to wait for his covering roar. "Who?"

"Don't ask any more, old man," Percy said, sitting on my back as he twisted my foot around. I shouted in pain. He was so nervous he was actually hurting me. "Please. I'm asking you as an old friend. I can't say any more; we might be overheard. Hmm, this is your turf. I know M.Y.T.H. Inc. well. I'd best let you win this round."