up stinking kim-chi"
Fitz grinned. "I rather liked kim-chi, myself, Cool Blue—hot peppers, celery-cabbage, white radishes, plenty of garlic, all nicely fermented in a stone crock ..."
The baby-blue hue had lightened into almost an ice-blue; the lion looked really ill. "Oh, Christ, man, like stop it. . . pleasel All right, I'll go after your pet Norman dumblock for you. We'll look for them chops in the trees, too, you know. Just promise me you won't never again talk about barfy things like that, 'specially not if I got a full stomach. Like I can't take it, man. You know?"
Fitz nodded. "Fine, Cool Blue. You get going, then, I'll do all that's needful here, then hit the trail myself. Be certain to bring Sir Gautier back here to pick up this pack, this belt and the things that are
fastened to it, okay? They'll be in front of the motorcycle, just behind the brush and rocks I'll use to close the front of the opening. I hope to see you soon. Good hunting."
"Oh, sure; that's like easy for you to say." Grumbling, his belly rumbling, the big, blue beast set off up the rocky trail toward the hillcrest, but slowly, maned head low, tufted tail barely clearing the ground.
"You like better be careful out there alone, man," he beamed back. "Because if it is some of oF Saint Germaine's pets is loose is why the big game is all hiding or bugged out for safer stompin' grounds, the fucking monsters is gonna be hungry as me and you're gonna look like a nice snack to them and I don't think all the bullets in that humongous rod of yours could stop one of the big ones 'til after it was way too late for you, man. Like 'til I get up to you with the Norman, you better like bed down in trees— big trees, too, thirty feet up in them, anyway, so's them buggers can't just like rear up on their hind legs and sink their choppers in you, man—don't none of them like to climb trees, maybe they can't, I figger. ^
"Ain't you got nothing I can eat before I go? No meat at all, man?"
"How about a can of lima beans and ham chunks, Cool Blue?" offered Fitz magnanimously, maliciously adding, "Or real GI spaghetti in meat sauce?"
The color of the still departing lion paled briefly and he made a noise that the man could not identify —it could have been a growl or a groan. Then the beast was out of sight among the brush and tree-boles and rocks.
As was his gallant way, Pedro Goldfarb walked Danna Dardrey to the place wherein her car was parked in the cavernous, echoing, near-empty parking-garage. Squinting through the ill-lit gloom, he asked, "Where did you stash your Jag, Danna? Are you sure this is the right level? All I can see is a Pontiac wagon with a flat and that Mercedes sedan over there."
"That's die car I'm driving now, Pedro: the Mercedes, Fitz's Mercedes. The Jaguar needs a new alternator, it had to be ordered from England and the service manager—that slimy little creep—at Gouge and Robb wouldn't even agree to place the order unless I left the car there."
"Ridiculous!" snorted Pedro in disgust. "You should change shops."
With a wry smile, she shook her head. "No such luck. Gouge and Robb are the only game in town. Not too many folks around here drive Jags anyway, you know, and that set of chauvinistic, unhung thieves and lechers own the only authorized repair franchise in this part of the state. I had this same problem every other time I've needed work on it; I guess my vaunted, female masochism is the only reason I hang onto the albatross . . . aside of course from the humble feet that, when everything in it is working right, it's the most responsive and dependable car I ve ever driven in my life."
The dark-haired man nodded in sympathy. "I understand, it's your money-hole, like that sailboat I had—when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was not, which it seemed was most of
the time, she was more expensive than you could possibly believe. Well, at least you now have two or three replacement vehicles—the Mercedes
Fitz grinned. "I rather liked kim-chi, myself, Cool Blue—hot peppers, celery-cabbage, white radishes, plenty of garlic, all nicely fermented in a stone crock ..."
The baby-blue hue had lightened into almost an ice-blue; the lion looked really ill. "Oh, Christ, man, like stop it. . . pleasel All right, I'll go after your pet Norman dumblock for you. We'll look for them chops in the trees, too, you know. Just promise me you won't never again talk about barfy things like that, 'specially not if I got a full stomach. Like I can't take it, man. You know?"
Fitz nodded. "Fine, Cool Blue. You get going, then, I'll do all that's needful here, then hit the trail myself. Be certain to bring Sir Gautier back here to pick up this pack, this belt and the things that are
fastened to it, okay? They'll be in front of the motorcycle, just behind the brush and rocks I'll use to close the front of the opening. I hope to see you soon. Good hunting."
"Oh, sure; that's like easy for you to say." Grumbling, his belly rumbling, the big, blue beast set off up the rocky trail toward the hillcrest, but slowly, maned head low, tufted tail barely clearing the ground.
"You like better be careful out there alone, man," he beamed back. "Because if it is some of oF Saint Germaine's pets is loose is why the big game is all hiding or bugged out for safer stompin' grounds, the fucking monsters is gonna be hungry as me and you're gonna look like a nice snack to them and I don't think all the bullets in that humongous rod of yours could stop one of the big ones 'til after it was way too late for you, man. Like 'til I get up to you with the Norman, you better like bed down in trees— big trees, too, thirty feet up in them, anyway, so's them buggers can't just like rear up on their hind legs and sink their choppers in you, man—don't none of them like to climb trees, maybe they can't, I figger. ^
"Ain't you got nothing I can eat before I go? No meat at all, man?"
"How about a can of lima beans and ham chunks, Cool Blue?" offered Fitz magnanimously, maliciously adding, "Or real GI spaghetti in meat sauce?"
The color of the still departing lion paled briefly and he made a noise that the man could not identify —it could have been a growl or a groan. Then the beast was out of sight among the brush and tree-boles and rocks.
As was his gallant way, Pedro Goldfarb walked Danna Dardrey to the place wherein her car was parked in the cavernous, echoing, near-empty parking-garage. Squinting through the ill-lit gloom, he asked, "Where did you stash your Jag, Danna? Are you sure this is the right level? All I can see is a Pontiac wagon with a flat and that Mercedes sedan over there."
"That's die car I'm driving now, Pedro: the Mercedes, Fitz's Mercedes. The Jaguar needs a new alternator, it had to be ordered from England and the service manager—that slimy little creep—at Gouge and Robb wouldn't even agree to place the order unless I left the car there."
"Ridiculous!" snorted Pedro in disgust. "You should change shops."
With a wry smile, she shook her head. "No such luck. Gouge and Robb are the only game in town. Not too many folks around here drive Jags anyway, you know, and that set of chauvinistic, unhung thieves and lechers own the only authorized repair franchise in this part of the state. I had this same problem every other time I've needed work on it; I guess my vaunted, female masochism is the only reason I hang onto the albatross . . . aside of course from the humble feet that, when everything in it is working right, it's the most responsive and dependable car I ve ever driven in my life."
The dark-haired man nodded in sympathy. "I understand, it's your money-hole, like that sailboat I had—when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was not, which it seemed was most of
the time, she was more expensive than you could possibly believe. Well, at least you now have two or three replacement vehicles—the Mercedes
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