Block and Relway glanced at each other. Block said, "Means nothing to me."

Relway said, "There're always new gangs. I'll keep an ear open."

Block waved. Relway headed for the door. I started to go myself. Block told me, "Hang on, Garrett."

"Uhm?"

"If you do get involved, you be real careful. These people are nasty."

"I've been playing with the bad boys a long time. I don't make mistakes anymore."

"Only takes one, Garrett. Smart guys get dead, too."

"Point taken. Thanks."

"One more thing. Relway gets too focused sometimes. Doesn't think about whatever don't bear on what interests him right now."

"You leading up to something?"

"Yes. His people saw Crask and Sadler yesterday. Remember them? You should. They're back in town and too stupid not to be seen."

"Never heard either one accused of genius." I shivered. Not much scares me but Crask and Sadler are stone-cold professional killers of the worst sort. The sort who want to hurt Mrs. Garrett's only surviving son. They're that lucky kind of professional who get to do work they really enjoy.

Crask and Sadler have a sack full of bones to pick with Mama Garrett's favorite boy. I helped run them out of town. I helped fix them up with a Combine price on their heads.

"I'll watch out."

"Do. Hey! Teach that ugly sack of feathers to scout for you."

"You hear that, bird?"

The Goddamn Parrot kept his beak shut. A remarkable state of affairs.

10

Crask and Sadler. Damn! I thought those double-uglies were out of my life for good.

They tried to take over when Chodo had his stroke—which few people knew about. Most think he's still in charge. They wouldn't if Belinda hadn't outfoxed Crask and Sadler when they made their grab. Them knowing about Chodo, and their deadly enmity, explained Belinda's eagerness to elevate them to the next plane.

Nowadays Chodo is a lump of meat imprisoned in a wheelchair. Belinda has no use for him except to pretend her orders come from him.

Block again told me, "You take care."

"You too." I decided to say it. "I like this Westman Block better than the old one."

That got me a sour look and, "Might be smart not to turn up here again. You go out on the fringe, you'll never know who's watching or what their real loyalties are."

I paused outside the jail, studied the street. At the best of times watching your surroundings closely is wise. Our great city never lacks for characters willing to steal your gold tooth in broad daylight while you're watching.

Nobody was interested in me. I didn't appear threatening, nor weak enough to be an easy victim.

I felt good. I had an accommodation with the law—which would work for me because Max Weider is a municipal treasure.

It was a gorgeous day, a tad warm but with a nice breeze, a few scurrying clouds dancing on a sky so blue it defined the color for all time. It was the kind of day that makes us daytime people feel good. The kind of day when people laugh, visit friends not seen for a while, conceive children. The kind of day when bloodlettings are few and even the scroats take time off to appreciate what a wonderful world it can be. It was the kind of day when Relway's crew might get into mischief because they had too much time on their hands.

I headed east and north. It was time I visited an old friend of my own.

The streets were crowded but the activists were having trouble working up much indignation. If the weather held, the coffinmakers and crematoria would catch up and have to cut pieces.

A centaur clip-clopped past. He wore an old army blanket. I couldn't make out the regimental mark. He couldn't be real bright. If that blanket was loot and not a Crown issue to an auxiliary formation, possession could get him killed.

Some days it could anyway.

He was drunk. He didn't care.

The air above swarmed with pixies and fairies and whatnot, the young ones tormenting the pigeons. That wouldn't earn them any enemies who weren't pigeons themselves.

Birds were out courting, too. I noted a few hawks and peregrines way up high. The little people better stay alert... A dimwit peregrine dived at a pixie girl. It drew a flurry of poisoned darts. The wee folk were using the nice day to educate a new generation of predators.

It's a pity people are stupider than falcons. Otherwise, we could teach them not to prey on their own kind.

On days like this, when everyone comes out to soak up the warm, it seems impossible that so many beings live in this city. But TunFaire is really several cities occupying the same site. There are evening peoples and night peoples and morning peoples who never see one another. It is both an accommodation and a way of life. It used to work.

The tip of a wing whipped across the back of my hair. The Goddamn Parrot was showing off for his plain-feathered cousins. "I know a Yessiley place where they put pigeon in everything they cook. And they don't care if the pigeon is really a pigeon."

"Awk! I want to soar with eagles and am forced—"

"You want me to call one of those hawks down? They'll soar with you."

"Help!"

"Hey, Mister. Does your bird really talk?"

"Hush, Bertie. The man's a ventriloquist." Bertie's mom gave me a look that said I ought to be ashamed, trying to scam people with an innocent bird.

"You're probably right, ma'am. Why don't you take the poor creature and give him a decent home?"

The air crackled around woman and child so swift was their departure.

Nobody wanted poor old lovable Mr. Big.

11

The place has pretensions toward being a class eatery. It doesn't compete for the Yessiley trade. Its fashionable dishes never include anything harder to catch than squash or eggplant. Its name varies with the mood of its owner, Morley Dotes. The Palms is the moniker he's hung on it lately. His target clientele has gone from being blackhearted second-string underworlders foregathering to plot, negotiate, or arrange an expedient truce to upscale subjects foregathering to plot, negotiate, or arrange an expedient truce.

The staff, however, is a constant.

It was an off-peak hour when I invited myself into Morley's place. Diners of any station were conspicuous by their absence. Staff were making preparations for the hour when the crowd would show. Morley's new gimmick was a money cow. The place reeked prosperity.

"Shee-it! I done thunk we was shut of dis perambulatin' sack a horse apples."

"Better watch using words like perambulate, Sarge. You'll throw your tongue out of joint." How long did it take him to latch on to the word's meaning, so he could use it? It was several syllables longer than any in his normal vocabulary.

A voice from the shadowed back growled, "You let dat damned dog in here again, Sarge? I smell doggie do."

"Dat ain't dog shit, Puddle. Dat's Garrett."

"Tossup which is worst."

"Fugginay."

"You guys ought to take your routine on the road." I couldn't see Puddle but he had been struck from the same mold as Sarge. Both are big and fat and sloppy, tattooed and almost as bad as they think they are.

"Fugginay, Garrett. We'd have 'em rollin' in da streets. Be up to our friggin' noses in hot little gels... Nah. I don't tink. I'm gettin' too old for all dat."

"Watcha want, Garrett?" Puddle demanded. "I tink we done you ‘bout enough favors for dis week."

"I don't need any favors," I fibbed. "I wanted to let Morley in on some bad news."

Back there in the shadows Puddle must have reported through the speaking tube to Morley's office upstairs. Dotes' voice came from the stair. "What bad news is that, Garrett?"