I got about a tenth of second's glimpse of a man who fit his name perfectly. Unusual. He was all rounds. He had a round head with dwindling thickets of hair sagging to the south, leaving a blinding shine behind. He had a round mouth with puffy, round lips, round eyes, and a nose that was almost round as a hog's snoot. He had a round body, too. I didn't get a good look at his feet.

The whole globular package didn't stand but maybe five inches over five feet tall.

This was Bic Gonlit. Bounty hunter. A man you'd peg as an apple-cheeked little baker addicted to his own products. Or a guy who cracked feeble jokes in place of real entertainment in some dive harboring upwardly mobile aspirations toward the lower lower class. He was a man who had to wear elevator boots to get up enough altitude to cork a big, handsome boy like me.

Had to be the boots. He was known for the boots. Legend said he had had them specially made by a dwarfish cobbler in a sleazy little shop off Bleak on the southern edge of the Tenderloin. So rumor would have it, because the boots had been made into Gonlit's signature inside the TunFaire underworld.

Or maybe he'd brought a ladder, since ordinarily he was way shorter than me. The boots only made him two inches taller.

I didn't get a real gander at the infamous boots. I didn't see any ladder, either. I did get a vague glimpse of what looked like an overweight donkey behind my assailant, then an outstanding look at an upwardly rushing alley surface after Gonlit leaped up and whacked me across the back of my skull. The one tap turned my bones to jelly. I sagged into the muck like a candle left out in the summer sun. The Goddamn Parrot and the pixie girl cheered me on. Or jeered me. Or something. They made a lot of noise. I think the donkey started laughing.

Playmate was fanning me when I opened my eyes, hoping for some blond angel of mercy. Good friend that he is, he had dragged me into the shade and propped me against a wall, all before anyone found me and explored my pockets for hidden treasure. I made a crippled kitten sort of sound to express my appreciation and ask when the angel would arrive.

Playmate said, "I wouldn't move around, was I you."

"I am me. And I don't plan to even breathe hard. My head! And I didn't drink a drop." This morning. "I've got to get ahold of a war-surplus helmet. One of the kind with that big-ass spike on top."

"You'd still have to remember to wear it. What happened?"

"I was going to ask you."

"I don't know. I heard your bird screaming. Made me suspect that you'd found yourself on the short end again. You've got a talent for that. I charged up here. Behold! You really were in trouble. A roly-poly little bald guy who looked a lot like Bic Gonlit was strutting around you measuring you for a hearty whack with the great hairy club he was packing."

"It was Bic Gonlit. I caught a glimpse before the lights went out. He must've been wearing his extra special tall boots, though."

"This isn't his normal style, Garrett."

"You know him?" I for sure wanted to know him better than I did now. What little I did know was hearsay. He was a bounty hunter who brought them in alive. He had quirks and unusual personal habits and magic boots. I'd seen him just often enough to recognize him. "You failed to mention that when the name came up before."

"I didn't need to mention it. Kip told you all you needed. Then. I only know his reputation, anyway. Which doesn't include murder. He grew up in my part of town. He'd be a little older than me. He's supposed to have a big taste for fine food and good wine. Including the TunFaire Gold when he can get it. But if that really was him he's sure gone downhill since the last time I saw him."

"That was him. Or his evil twin. Maybe he's been eating so high he's had to expand his repertoire."

"He wouldn't just bushwhack a guy."

"Why the hell not?" Could Playmate be that naive? Even I would bushwhack a guy fifteen inches taller and fifteen years younger than me, not to mention fifteen stone lighter. Assuming that I was adequately motivated.

The quality and the nature of the motivation is what's worth debating.

On reflection Playmate decided he had no ready answer.

I asked, "Where is he now?"

"He took off when he saw me coming. Jumped on a burro not much bigger than him and rode off, covering his face."

"Think he recognized you?"

"I expect that's why he bothered to hide his face. I mean, how many people of my size and coloring are there? And how many of those are likely to be caught hanging around with you?"

If Bic Gonlit knew who we were he was about to become scarcer than lizard hair. "Good points. I wonder. Did he know whose head he was bopping before he tried to brain me?" I have a reputation, partly for lacking humor about things like headbashing when it's my melon involved, partly for having acquired a number of close friends whose responses would be unpredictable if something unpleasant happened to me that wasn't my own fault. Some might start sharpening their teeth.

It's hard to imagine it being my own fault, but, in the laws of obligatory revenge there are exit codicils about "He asked for it," and "He needed it."

Playmate might be one of those friends. My partner is, definitely. I like to believe that Saucerhead Tharpe and Morley Dotes are others, along with several powerful, wealthy family chieftains I've helped in my time. Those include the beermaking Weiders, the shoemaking Tales, and the we-don't-talk-about-what-we-do Contagues.

The Contagues would be the real worry for any villain, though the least likely avengers. The Contagues captain the Outfit, the Syndicate, the Commission, the central committee of the city's organized crime. Their strength and reach and savagery when roused are legendary. Even our wizardly overlords on the Hill concern themselves about needlessly rousing the ire of Chodo Contague and his daughter Belinda. Chodo and Belinda do not allow themselves to be constrained by traditional legal customs or the normal rules of evidence. They hurt people. And they kill people. They're supposed to be my friends and they scare the whiskers off me.

At the time it did not occur to me that Bic Gonlit might have wanted to collect a bounty on me.

"What do you want to do?" Playmate asked.

"Besides find Bic Gonlit and whip fifty pounds of lard off his broad butt? Go home and get cleaned up." TunFaire's alleyways aren't paved. Neither are they kept clean. Where they exist at all they're little more than broad, shallow trenches where refuse can accumulate in anticipation of eventual rains heavy enough to carry some of the waste down into one of the storm channels that drain into the river.

It takes a conscientious sort, willing to make an extra effort, to take advantage of the travel opportunities offered by TunFaire's alleys. The King's good and lazy subjects employ them when they're too shy to dispose of something in the street out front. So by the grace of Bic Gonlit I made the intimate acquaintance of some of my neighbors' greatest embarrassments—most of which, of course, would seem trivial to a disinterested witness.

Often the secret vice that concerns you most is of no interest whatsoever to anyone whose opinion you dread. The main problem exists inside your own head.

That's one of those things most of us learn too late. A life-skills version of the destroyer comeback that pops up wearing a big, goofy grin three hours after some boor qualifies for a sound verbal caning.

"Thanks," I told Playmate. "Your timing was perfect."

"We aim to please."

"Where's the other one?"

"Who?"

"The guy we came out here to watch. The weird elf."

Playmate shrugged. "If he was still here he had a knack for the invisible. Maybe the Dead Man was able to keep track."