luck than rumor
suggested. He wasn’t so big-time that popular interest
tracked his every step.
At one time the boots had been white. At one time, so the story
went, Bic Gonlit had dressed all in white, even unto the extremity
of an all-white, wide-brimmed version of the Unorthodox
missionary’s hat.
That would have been years ago, though, when Bic would have been
more prosperous because he was less well known. That would have
been during the days before he learned that having a signature look
was no advantage in the bounty-hunting business. Your quarry would
see you coming.
The boots themselves, by reputation, were enchanted. How so
remained an open question. They hadn’t added anything to his
getaway speed. But, on the other hand, he’d been able to see
in the dark.
Maybe we’d winkle out all the facts when Bic came to
reclaim his treasures.
The Dead Man and Singe communed about those
boots.
I jumped suddenly. My eyes had fallen shut. I don’t know
for how long. Long enough for the lamp to have gone out. Now just a
single candle burned on the top shelf of the Dead Man’s
memorabilia case. He and Singe weren’t troubled by the
shortage of light.
Garrett.
I heard a racket up front.
One of the two nuisances had awakened me.
The Dead Man wasn’t going anywhere. I got up and stalked
to the front door. The racket there persisted. I began thinking
that maybe Mr. Gonlit needed a whipping, just to remind him of his
manners.
I used the peephole for its dedicated purpose.
Surprise. That wasn’t Bic Gonlit trying to make my
neighbors dislike me even more. That was three or four guys who had
no manners to be reminded of. The loudest was none other than our
beloved chief of the city Guards, Colonel Westman Block
himself.
It’d been a while since we two had crossed paths. He
seemed to have grown in that time, both in stature and in
confidence.
I turned away on the theory that he could use a little
deflation.
Allow the colonel to enter, Garrett. That will serve us
better in the long run.
“Took you long—” Block snarled as I swung the
door inward. “Damn! Garrett!” he barked when I swung it
right back shut, bruising his nose.
Garrett!
“Just a little courtesy lesson.” I opened the door
again.
Colonel Block appeared more flustered than angry. And his
goons—three gorillas damned near as big as Saucerhead
Tharpe—wore dazed looks, as though they were asleep on their
feet, with their eyes open.
“Good evening, Colonel. How can I help you?”
Evidently the shock had been enough to startle Block into a case
of the courtesies. That or some light touch from the Dead Man.
“Yes. We’ve had reports of some unusual events,
Garrett.”
“This’s TunFaire. We have wizards and priests enough
here to supply the world with weird.”
I led Block into the Dead Man’s room while we talked. His
goons remained outside, still as memorial pillars. He replied,
“But in this instance there’s reason to believe that
you might be involved.”
“What? Me? How come I get blamed for
everything?”
“Because someone fitting your description, accompanied by
persons fitting the descriptions of known associates of yours,
including a cursing parrot, was seen near the sites of several
unusual incidents. I’m disinclined to accept the explanation
that your evil twin was out there trying to scuttle your
reputation. You don’t have one.”
Go ahead and tell him the truth, Garrett.
I’ve cooperated with the authorities on most occasions. It
rankles but, to be honest, it’s never been that huge an
inconvenience.
So I told him the whole story. Sort of. Almost. In the young
peoples’ abridged form.
Then he told me a story. His was a lot shorter.
“Coming up here we ran into a crowd of ratpeople. Twenty
or thirty of them, trying to work up their nerve for some villainy.
When they recognized us they scattered like roaches. A couple of my
guys mentioned seeing a little fat man running with them. Either
one of you
suggested. He wasn’t so big-time that popular interest
tracked his every step.
At one time the boots had been white. At one time, so the story
went, Bic Gonlit had dressed all in white, even unto the extremity
of an all-white, wide-brimmed version of the Unorthodox
missionary’s hat.
That would have been years ago, though, when Bic would have been
more prosperous because he was less well known. That would have
been during the days before he learned that having a signature look
was no advantage in the bounty-hunting business. Your quarry would
see you coming.
The boots themselves, by reputation, were enchanted. How so
remained an open question. They hadn’t added anything to his
getaway speed. But, on the other hand, he’d been able to see
in the dark.
Maybe we’d winkle out all the facts when Bic came to
reclaim his treasures.
The Dead Man and Singe communed about those
boots.
I jumped suddenly. My eyes had fallen shut. I don’t know
for how long. Long enough for the lamp to have gone out. Now just a
single candle burned on the top shelf of the Dead Man’s
memorabilia case. He and Singe weren’t troubled by the
shortage of light.
Garrett.
I heard a racket up front.
One of the two nuisances had awakened me.
The Dead Man wasn’t going anywhere. I got up and stalked
to the front door. The racket there persisted. I began thinking
that maybe Mr. Gonlit needed a whipping, just to remind him of his
manners.
I used the peephole for its dedicated purpose.
Surprise. That wasn’t Bic Gonlit trying to make my
neighbors dislike me even more. That was three or four guys who had
no manners to be reminded of. The loudest was none other than our
beloved chief of the city Guards, Colonel Westman Block
himself.
It’d been a while since we two had crossed paths. He
seemed to have grown in that time, both in stature and in
confidence.
I turned away on the theory that he could use a little
deflation.
Allow the colonel to enter, Garrett. That will serve us
better in the long run.
“Took you long—” Block snarled as I swung the
door inward. “Damn! Garrett!” he barked when I swung it
right back shut, bruising his nose.
Garrett!
“Just a little courtesy lesson.” I opened the door
again.
Colonel Block appeared more flustered than angry. And his
goons—three gorillas damned near as big as Saucerhead
Tharpe—wore dazed looks, as though they were asleep on their
feet, with their eyes open.
“Good evening, Colonel. How can I help you?”
Evidently the shock had been enough to startle Block into a case
of the courtesies. That or some light touch from the Dead Man.
“Yes. We’ve had reports of some unusual events,
Garrett.”
“This’s TunFaire. We have wizards and priests enough
here to supply the world with weird.”
I led Block into the Dead Man’s room while we talked. His
goons remained outside, still as memorial pillars. He replied,
“But in this instance there’s reason to believe that
you might be involved.”
“What? Me? How come I get blamed for
everything?”
“Because someone fitting your description, accompanied by
persons fitting the descriptions of known associates of yours,
including a cursing parrot, was seen near the sites of several
unusual incidents. I’m disinclined to accept the explanation
that your evil twin was out there trying to scuttle your
reputation. You don’t have one.”
Go ahead and tell him the truth, Garrett.
I’ve cooperated with the authorities on most occasions. It
rankles but, to be honest, it’s never been that huge an
inconvenience.
So I told him the whole story. Sort of. Almost. In the young
peoples’ abridged form.
Then he told me a story. His was a lot shorter.
“Coming up here we ran into a crowd of ratpeople. Twenty
or thirty of them, trying to work up their nerve for some villainy.
When they recognized us they scattered like roaches. A couple of my
guys mentioned seeing a little fat man running with them. Either
one of you
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