like the proverbial ton if you mess with my client. Which is why I wouldn't want anybody to think I'd roll over for Chodo.
If Tinnie died, I'd change my rules. For Tinnie it would be dead ahead full speed, and whoever got in my way had best have his gods paid off because I wouldn't slow down till I ate somebody's liver. If Tinnie died.
The Dead Man said she ought to pull through. I hoped he was right. This once. Usually I hope he's wrong because he's damned near infallible and works hard reminding me of that.
Dean came in with a tray, beer, and stronger spirits if we needed them. Saucerhead took a beer. So did I. "That's good. That hits the spot after all that running."
The Dead Man sent,
I suggest you go see her uncle. Inform him what has happened and find out about arrangements. Perhaps he can give you a clue.
Yeah. He had to bring it up. I'd been wondering about who was going to tell the family. There had to be somebody I could stick with that little chore.
The candidates constitute a horde of one, Garrett.
He figured that out all by himself. He is a genius. A certified—and certifiable—genius. Just ask him. He'll tell you about it for hours.
Any other time I would have given him a ration of lip. This time the specter of Willard Tate got in the way. "All right. I'm on my way."
"Me too," Saucerhead said. "There's some things I want to check out."
Excellent. Excellent. Now everything is under control I can catch up on my sleep.
Catch up. Right. In all the years I've known him his waking time hasn't added up to six months.
I let Saucerhead out the front door. Then I headed for the kitchen, got Dean to draw me another of those wonderful beers. "Have to replace everything I sweated out."
He scowled. He has some strong opinions about the way I live. Though he's an employee, I let him speak his mind. We have an understanding. He talks, I don't listen. Keeps us both happy.
I hit the street without much enthusiasm. Old Man Tate and I aren't bosom buddies. I did a job for him once, and for a while afterward he'd thought well of me, but a year of me playing push-me pull-you with Tinnie had somehow soured his outlook.
4
The Tate place will fool you. It's supposed to. From outside it looks like a block of old warehouses nobody bothered to keep up. You can see why from the street out front. First, the Hill. Our overlords are buzzards watching for fortunes to flay through the engines of the law. Second, the slums below. They produce extremely hungry and unpleasant fellows, some of whom will turn you inside out for a copper sceat.
Thus, the Tate place pretending to be poverty's birthplace.
The Tates are shoemakers who turn out army boots and pricey stuff for the ladies of the Hill. They're all masters. They have more wealth than they know what to do with.
I gave their gate a good rattle. A young Tate responded. He was armed. Tinnie was the only Tate I knew who faced the world outside unarmed. "Garrett. Haven't seen you for a while."
"Tinnie and I were feuding again."
He frowned. "She went out a couple hours ago. I thought she was headed your way."
"She was. I came to see Uncle Willard. It's important." The kid's eyes got big. Then he grinned. I guess he figured I was going to pop the question. He opened up. "Can't guarantee he'll see you. You know how he is."
"Tell him it can't wait till it's convenient."
He muttered, "Must have been hell being snowed in." He locked the gate. "Rose will be devastated."
"She'll live." Rose was Willard's daughter, his only surviving offspring, hotter than three little bonfires and as twisted as a rope of braided snakes. "She always bounces back."
The kid snickered. None of the Tates had much use for Rose. She was pure trouble. And she never learned.
"I'll tell Uncle you're here."
I went into the central garden to wait. It looked forlorn. Summertimes it's a work of art. The Tates all have apartments in the surrounding buildings, They live there, work there, are born and die
If Tinnie died, I'd change my rules. For Tinnie it would be dead ahead full speed, and whoever got in my way had best have his gods paid off because I wouldn't slow down till I ate somebody's liver. If Tinnie died.
The Dead Man said she ought to pull through. I hoped he was right. This once. Usually I hope he's wrong because he's damned near infallible and works hard reminding me of that.
Dean came in with a tray, beer, and stronger spirits if we needed them. Saucerhead took a beer. So did I. "That's good. That hits the spot after all that running."
The Dead Man sent,
I suggest you go see her uncle. Inform him what has happened and find out about arrangements. Perhaps he can give you a clue.
Yeah. He had to bring it up. I'd been wondering about who was going to tell the family. There had to be somebody I could stick with that little chore.
The candidates constitute a horde of one, Garrett.
He figured that out all by himself. He is a genius. A certified—and certifiable—genius. Just ask him. He'll tell you about it for hours.
Any other time I would have given him a ration of lip. This time the specter of Willard Tate got in the way. "All right. I'm on my way."
"Me too," Saucerhead said. "There's some things I want to check out."
Excellent. Excellent. Now everything is under control I can catch up on my sleep.
Catch up. Right. In all the years I've known him his waking time hasn't added up to six months.
I let Saucerhead out the front door. Then I headed for the kitchen, got Dean to draw me another of those wonderful beers. "Have to replace everything I sweated out."
He scowled. He has some strong opinions about the way I live. Though he's an employee, I let him speak his mind. We have an understanding. He talks, I don't listen. Keeps us both happy.
I hit the street without much enthusiasm. Old Man Tate and I aren't bosom buddies. I did a job for him once, and for a while afterward he'd thought well of me, but a year of me playing push-me pull-you with Tinnie had somehow soured his outlook.
4
The Tate place will fool you. It's supposed to. From outside it looks like a block of old warehouses nobody bothered to keep up. You can see why from the street out front. First, the Hill. Our overlords are buzzards watching for fortunes to flay through the engines of the law. Second, the slums below. They produce extremely hungry and unpleasant fellows, some of whom will turn you inside out for a copper sceat.
Thus, the Tate place pretending to be poverty's birthplace.
The Tates are shoemakers who turn out army boots and pricey stuff for the ladies of the Hill. They're all masters. They have more wealth than they know what to do with.
I gave their gate a good rattle. A young Tate responded. He was armed. Tinnie was the only Tate I knew who faced the world outside unarmed. "Garrett. Haven't seen you for a while."
"Tinnie and I were feuding again."
He frowned. "She went out a couple hours ago. I thought she was headed your way."
"She was. I came to see Uncle Willard. It's important." The kid's eyes got big. Then he grinned. I guess he figured I was going to pop the question. He opened up. "Can't guarantee he'll see you. You know how he is."
"Tell him it can't wait till it's convenient."
He muttered, "Must have been hell being snowed in." He locked the gate. "Rose will be devastated."
"She'll live." Rose was Willard's daughter, his only surviving offspring, hotter than three little bonfires and as twisted as a rope of braided snakes. "She always bounces back."
The kid snickered. None of the Tates had much use for Rose. She was pure trouble. And she never learned.
"I'll tell Uncle you're here."
I went into the central garden to wait. It looked forlorn. Summertimes it's a work of art. The Tates all have apartments in the surrounding buildings, They live there, work there, are born and die
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