There is supposed to be a lot of humorless, from under the roots of mountains, all work and no play, dwarfish blood up one of the branches of the Tate family tree. I can't provide any arguments against the allegation, of my own knowledge. Tinnie definitely finds it hard to step away from work for any extended length of time.
I was the only key member of the new company not having great fun with our venture. Kip haunted his vast new workshop twenty hours a day, and usually fell asleep there. Fawning Tate nephews and cousins rushed hither and yon, making sure Kip's genius remained unencumbered by scutwork. Experts from the discontinued military leather goods operations now stayed busy trying to determine the most efficient means of three-wheel production.
My own three-wheel, the only pay I'd yet received for any of my trouble, had been spirited in from Playmate's stable. It now resided in the Tate compound inner courtyard, where there were always folks lined up to take a short ride. The managers didn't want their several completed prototypes defiled by the unwashed. Even brother, sister, and cousin unwashed.
Though two-thirds of the shoe factory floor had been turned over to new manufacture, the Tales weren't abandoning their traditional business base. They were just scaling back to the peacetime levels known by their great-grandfathers.
Shoes become a luxury when you have to pay for them yourself.
The Tates would remain the leading producers of fashionable women's footwear. They'd held that distinction since imperial times.
Though I was a rabid fan of the three-wheel and wasn't interested in much else, less than half the reassigned production space was intended for the manufacture of my vehicle. My associates were equally taken with several other Kip Prose inventions. His writing sticks were in production already, in three different colors. And orders were piling up.
The Guard and the Hill folk hadn't taken notice, perhaps because writing sticks don't fly.
Kip was having the time of his life. He was the center of everything. Everyone else was having a great time, meeting the challenges. Everyone but poor Garrett. There wasn't that much for him to do.
I'd used up my ration of genius.
There were no crooks here, trying to steal from the boss. I didn't have any other assets to kick in, except for knowing a lot of different people I can bring to bear on a difficulty. But the only bringing together I was getting done these days took place back at the house, nights. Woderact was proving to be a researcher every bit as dedicated as Evas had been. A tad more shy, initially, but Fasfir kept egging her on. And climbed right in there with us when the adventure called her.
TunFaire gets weirder by the hour. And my life marches in the van.
There wasn't much I could do but all my business associates seemed determined to have me right there at the factory not doing it.
I'm an old hand at skating out of the boring stuff. I acquired that skill in the harsh realm of war. I ducked out of the Tate compound. I recouped my spirit and recovered from my difficult nights by undertaking the promised visits to the troubled Weider satellite breweries.
That killed three days but didn't demand much genius. Like so many TunFairen villains, the various crooks were completely inept. They betrayed themselves immediately. My report named several managerial types who had to go when the thieves went because bad guys as incompetent as the ones I'd caught couldn't possibly have operated without their superiors turning a blind eye while extending a palm for a share of the proceeds.
74
Fasfir decided she had to try her luck in person, one more time. No man could've faulted her enthusiasm. But something was missing from her makeup. She just wasn't a Katie. Inevitably, direct participation left her disappointed. But she didn't have problems enjoying what Evas or Woderact shared with her, mind to mind.
Weirder by the minute.
This latest time Fasfir had a different motive for joining me.
Of late we had been refining our communication skills until, using gestures, grunts, a few spoken words, some writing, and what I could pull out of thin air, she could get ideas across. She had a big something on her mind this time.
"You want to get your whole crew back together?" I tried to appear distraught, though that very notion had been worming around in my head for two days. As things stood, my having sicced Evas on Morley hadn't changed anything for me. Except that I didn't have to listen to the Goddamn Parrot anymore. "Could I count on you three to stay out of mischief?"
Absolutely.
That came through almost as clearly as one of the Dead Man's messages. I didn't swallow it whole. The ladies hadn't lost their interest in going home.
"I'll see what I can do."
Fasfir became quite excited and grateful.
Moments later an equally excited and grateful Woderact joined us.
Weirder and weirder.
I hired a coach, grumbled about the expense the whole time, put the lady Visitors inside it. I let them reclaim some of the fetishes Woderact had brought along to the house. They would appear to be human if they were seen on the street.
Casey got aggravated because he wasn't allowed to come along. Neither of the ladies believed him when he told them that he'd help them get home.
"Lookit dis," Puddle enthused as I pushed inside The Palms. "Somebody done fergot ta lock da goddamn door again." Puddle wasn't doing anything but loafing in a chair. His was the only body in sight. I'd timed my visit perfectly.
"Morley around?"
"What was dat?"
"Huh?"
"T'ought I heard somet'in'." A huge grin drove suspicion off his face. "We ain't seen much a Morley da past few days, Garrett. What wit' him spendin' so much time takin' care a dat bird."
Sarge shoved out of the kitchen, clearly having been eavesdropping. "Poor boy is gettin' kinda pale, Garrett. I'm t'inkin' he mought oughta get out in the sunshine more. What da hell was dat?"
"What was what?" I asked, as innocent as the dawn itself.
"I fought I heared da stair creak." Sarge scratched his drought-stricken, failing crop of hair. He and Puddle both eyed me suspiciously.
"What?" I inquired.
Puddle demanded, "Whatcha up to, Garrett?"
"Actually, I just wanted to drop in to see if I had any good reason to gloat."
Both men nodded and smiled. They could understand that. Sarge told me, "I don' know where ya found dat little gel, Garrett, but I sure do wish dey was one or two like her aroun' back when I was 'bout sixteen."
Puddle nodded enthusiastic agreement. "Gloat yer heart out."
"I will," I said. "Well, if the man can't come down, then things are going just wonderfully. If you do see Morley, tell him I stopped by. And that I'm thinking of him. But don't let him know I'm having a hard time keeping a straight face when I do."
A feeble groan limped, stumbling, downstairs.
Everybody snickered.
Before Sarge and Puddle discovered my latest maneuver seemed like a good time to move myself along somewhere else. "Later, guys."
Both henchmen observed my retreat with abiding suspicion.
I set course for home, making plans for indulging in some serious rest and brew tasting. I kept breaking out in giggles, which inclined the streets to clear away around me.
75
My opinion of the legal profession seldom soars above ankle height. I believe that most troubles would settle out faster without lawyers stirring the pot. So it irks me to have to admit that Lister Tate and Congo Greve really did turn out to be useful.