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to expand my vocabulary. I slipped my fingers into the gap between the door
and its frame, pulled outward slowly till I had a crack through which to peek.
So I could spy on a whole lot of horse stalls and tack racks doing a whole lot
of nothing. Pretty dull stuff. I had the wrong angle.
Someone had the right angle to see the door move inward. I heard one voice
say something soft but startled. Heavy footsteps lumbered my way, like a
stomping troll wearing stone boots. I thought about doing a fast fade but
thought too long. I barely had time to duck aside before the door flew open.
I couldn t run, so I did the next best thing. I bopped Scarface over the head
with my listen stick. His conk thunked like a thumped watermelon. He sagged,
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looked at me like I wasn t playing fair. Well, why should I? That s dumb with
his kind. I d get hurt if I tried. I thumped him again to make my point. I
bounced over Scarface, popped inside, charged the little character with the
sour stomach and antique clothes. Don t ask me why. Seems plenty dumb in
retrospect. Just say it seemed like a good idea at the time.
He was trying to get the street doors open. I can t imagine why. His team
were still in their stalls. He wasn t going to drive away. And he wasn t going
to outrun anybody on foot either. But there he went, heaving away and spitting
green moths.
He heard me coming and spun around. For him a spin was a slow turn. His one
hand dropped to a kind of frayed rope that served him as a belt, hitched his
pants. His eyes started glowing green. I got there with my stick.
One of his moths bit me. Stung like hell and distracted me so the old boy
could slide aside enough for me to whap his shoulder instead of the top of his
gourd. He howled. I bellowed and flailed at bugs. His eyes flared and his
mouth opened wide. I avoided his gaze and the one big green butterfly that
flew from his maw. I flailed crosswise, catching him alongside the jaw. I put
too much on it. Bone cracked. He folded like a dropped suit of clothes.
My juices were flowing. I bounced around looking for more trouble, so cranked
the horses just backed up in their stalls and waited for me to go away. I
checked Scarface. He was snoring, getting soggier by the second. I darted back
to the old man . . . Who wasn t snoring. He was making funny noises that said
he wouldn t be breathing at all pretty soon. I d broken more than his jaw.
A green giant butterfly crept halfway out from between his lips, got stuck.
He held on to his crude rope belt with both hands, like he didn t want to lose
his pants, and started shaking.
I m not in the habit of croaking people. I ve done it, sure, but never really
by choice and never because I wanted to. Now I was wound up. This was the
Hill. Up here the guardians of the peace were no half blind, unambitious
Watchmen interested only in collecting their pay. If I was caught anywhere
near a dead man . . .
What the hell is this?
I didn t quite leap into the hayloft. Just maybe ten feet. Not even a record
for the standing broad jump. But I was out the door the old man had wanted to
use, thirty feet into the wet, before I recognized Morley s voice.
Still shaking, I went back and told him what had happened. The presence of a
dying man didn t rattle him at all. He observed, You re learning.
Huh?
Case solved and wrapped in a day. You dig up your buddy Block, tell him where
to find his villain, end up with your pockets stuffed with gold. You still
have the luck.
Yeah. But I didn t feel lucky. I didn t know that that little old man had
gotten his thrills carving on pretty girls.
Morley closed the yard door, eased toward the street door. I said, Hold it. I
have to take a look around in the house.
Why? He said that sharply, like he didn t want me going that way.
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In case there s any evidence. I need to know.
He gave me the fish eye, shook his head, shrugged. The notion of a conscience
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