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 Jive. 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.