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in out of the rain I recommend Mrs. Cardonlos’ rooming house up the street. On the other...”
    “Awk! Queen bitch! Queen bitch!”
    “It’s not raining.” Literal-minded clerks.
    “Stow it, bird,” I growled at the Goddamn Parrot.
    My visitors exchanged looks again.
    This could go on all day.
     
     

7
    The blond said, “I apologize, Mr. Garrett. We were cautioned that we might find you unconventional and should try to become comfortable with that before proceeding.”
    “Puny penis!” the parrot squawked.
    I snarled, “You’re going into the sack again, you animated feather duster.”
    The brunette smiled insincerely. “Is that ventriloquism? When I was little I had an uncle who could   —”
    “Why does everybody ask that? No. This devil-spawn of a seven-color jungle pigeon does it all on his own. He’s got a vocabulary bigger than yours or mine and every word is foul. Fowl. Maybe there was sorcery done him sometime. I don’t know. He was a gift. I can’t seem to get rid of him.”
    “Pencil dick.”
    Now nobody was smiling. Again I thought about choking the Dead Man, only what good would that do? Strengthen my grip?
    The blond said, “My name is Carter Stockwell.”
    So we were going to do business after all. “I’m not surprised. And you?”
    “Trace Wendover.”
    “Of course. Hello, Carter and Trace. Sure you don’t want a talking parrot? Cheap? Make a great holiday gift for the kids.”
    Garrett, once again I must caution you against antagonizing these men.
    “No? All right. I made my sales pitch. Your loss. You guys make yours. Or go away.”
    “We were told you might be ill-mannered.” That was the darker one. Trace.
    Carter said, “Our mission is to interest you in contributing to our cause.”
    “Right now I’ve got about six copper sceats to clink together. The only cause I’m going to contribute to is the Garrett household supper fund.”
    “We don’t want money. Please. Give us a chance to talk.”
    “You’ve been here ten minutes. You haven’t said anything yet.”
    “You’re right. We are Free Company men. Black Dragon Valsung.” Carter watched for my reaction.
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    Trace countered, “You don’t know the Dragons?”
    “Sorry.” Heeding the Dead Man’s advice I forebore remarks that might betray my feelings about those quasi-military gangs called Free Companies. There are so many of them that not having heard of a particular one was no big deal.
    “Our leader is Colonel Valsung. Norton Valsung.” I got intent looks from both pretty boys.
    I shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell, guys. He must have been army.”
    Carter began to puff up. He’d caught the slight. Trace, though, was made of sterner stuff. “Yes, Mr. Garrett. Colonel Valsung was army. He commanded the Black Dragon Brigade.” Trace tossed him a warning look but he continued, “You would be impressed if you were to review his record.”
    No doubt. War does tend to expose men for what they really are. “Wouldn’t be a relative, would he?”
    “My uncle.”
    “The ventriloquist? I recall several colonels who were masters at putting words into other people’s mouths.”
    “No, Mr. Garrett. Not that uncle.”
    “We’re getting somewhere now. We have a colonel who isn’t a ventriloquist. What does your uncle the nonventriloquist want with me?”
    “Your peculiar combination of talents and expertise, both from your service and your career since.”
    I didn’t get it. “You need a Force Recon guy with experience ducking vampires and sorcerers and tracking wayward wives to help you beat up old dwarves and crippled ratmen?”
    Garrett!
    Both of my visitors turned red. But Carter was out in front because he’d gotten a head start. Trace said, “Mr. Garrett, we do not roam the streets assaulting people. We are a veterans’ mutual assistance brotherhood, not a street gang.”
    “The other day a veteran, who’d done five five-year hitches, three in the Cantard, was