Dean scowled, not flattered, as he brought me a cold lager. He put down more food for the cats.

I asked, “Singe, you got any thoughts about tonight?”

“Not unless you want to hear your species belittled.”

“Belittle away. If you have any useful observations.”

“Useful, how? John Stretch and I went along and tried to help, but we do not understand what you hoped to accomplish. That may be because you were not clear on that yourself.”

I need new people around me. My old crew knows me too well. “Dean. Any sign of life from His Nibs?” I could run what I had through the bone bag’s multiple minds.

I’m not as dumb as I let on. Hard to be, some might say. There were at least two different things going on. Maybe three. All getting tangled up because of a common denominator named me.

Dean was not encouraging. “The thing remains inert. Sadly, it’s still too early to dispose of the remains.”

“Way too soon,” Melondie Kadare piped. “There’re a dozen sparks still burning inside that blubber pile.”

“You can tell?” I asked. “You can read that sack of rotting meat?”

“I need a drink. And it better be something more substantial than this off-color lager. Something with a little kick.”

“I’ll give you a kick, Bug. Answer the question.”

“Nope.”

“Nope? Nope, what?”

“Nope, I can’t read him, Biggie. Not the way you want. All I can do is tell he ain’t gone. He might be thinking about going, though.”

“Huh?” I dumped another mug down the hatch. Having started late, I had to hurry to catch up.

Another frosty mug settled in front of me. A dream come true. It was hailing beers. Dean earned himself a suspicious glare. There’s always reason for caution when Dean caters.

He was up to something, hoping that getting me tanked would distract me from something or make me agreeable to something. Again.

John Stretch shipped an admirable quantity of beer in one big gulp. “It was an interesting evening.”

Singe told me, “Find out what he found out right now, Garrett. He does not handle alcohol well.”

So I focused on the big rat in the rodent underground and listened to what he had to say. Which didn’t make much sense, since, evidently, regular rats mostly understand their surroundings in terms of sounds and odors.

Interesting.

Melondie had little to report. Except that she hadn’t gotten much from her cohorts. Yet. She promised, over and over, to deliver the best from the rest after she sobered up.

Dean filled our mugs. He was smug. Things were going his way. We all were concentrating on getting outside as much beer as possible. The four-legged, furry crew focused on filling feline bellies. Nobody asked him uncomfortable questions.

Full of sausage, bread, and milk, the kittens piled into their bucket and fell asleep in one warm, purring pile.

We talked till we could no longer understand one another. Dean excepted. Killjoy boy hit the sack as soon as he was done cooking.

The second morning was nothing like the first. I wakened in a foul temper, head pounding. Dean and I needed to share a word. Cutting costs is all very well, but not by buying cheap brew. Just so he could pocket a few extra coppers that, no doubt, he’d waste on food for cripples and orphans.

I was first downstairs. Except for Dean, of course. But Dean was out shopping. Or something. Because he’d left food on the table, around the suffering remnants of Melondie Kadare.

The John Stretch leftovers would be around the house somewhere, too.

The rain-on-your-parade boys from the city were on the job. They pounded the oak occasionally. It stubbornly refused to open. Eventually, they gave up.

The rules are odd. And Relway sticks to them like a limpet-if he suspects that you might be one of the good guys.

Those associated with the dark side increasingly show an alarming tendency to disappear. Alarming to the bad boys, that is.

People applaud that, saying nobody with a clear conscience needs to worry. Till Relway’s troops show up because they’ve done something that, in their reasoned opinion, wasn’t really a crime. Never mind what the law says. Let’s review:

— Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

— The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

— No good deed goes unpunished.

All applicable where Deal Relway is concerned.

Brother Relway has only the best interest of the people at heart.

I have trouble faulting the man. Sometimes. “He needed killing” is a valid argument before the bench. Director Relway seems able to meet the burden of proof when challenged.

I ate. Biscuits with honey. Biscuits with damson preserves. Leftover sausage from the previous night that the cats hadn’t gotten.

The sweet buns with sausage inside aren’t good cold.

Finished eating, I scooped up Melondie and headed up front to hand her over to her own people.

Through abiding and ancient habit, I used the peephole.

There were people out there. Big, ugly, hairy people. Only one wore green pants. The rest were incognito. Every man jack came equipped with bandages. One had an arm in a sling. Another had a leg in splints. He and a third were getting around on multiple crutches. None of them seemed to have concluded that bothering me was not a good idea.

Penny Dreadful’s friends. What had become of her? She’d faded like a wisp of steam once Melondie identified her.

The Ugly Pants Gang had to be in an even bleaker mood than I was. Considering the state they’d been in when last seen, I assumed they would be grumpy.

Trust sweet old Garrett to get stricken paranoid. Why would this crew be on my doorstep?

I shrugged. Not a worry. I had a ton of food laid in. I had a backup keg of beer. Dean had a platoon of homely nieces he could stay with during a siege. If he was smart enough to spot the watchers and stay away.

Meantime, I could do some speculating. Why was I involved in this? And I could figure out some way to waken the Dead Man.

I went back to the kitchen, made tea, took a mug into my office. Eleanor wore a sneer of disdain. “So you’re in a mood this morning, too.” Which only squeezed more juice out of the lemon.

Somebody pounded on my door. I didn’t go see who. I was comfortable with my brooding and Eleanor’s dreary mood.

I shunted from puzzle to puzzle, free-associating. The medicine I’d added to the tea quieted the worst pounding inside my head. What really happened at Whitefield Hall?

“Meow.”

A cat climbed my leg. A second bounced into the client’s chair. Two or three more chased each other around the room, then back into the hall. I scratched and petted the one in my lap, then hoisted him and gave him the full eyeball bath.

He was just a baby cat. Though chunkier than most. Maybe his daddy was a bobcat.

“What’s so special about you, little guy? How come the world’s ugliest fashion retards are out to get you?” But were they? That deserved reflection, too.

He didn’t answer. Flat refused to solve any puzzles for me. The people-and critters-you have to deal with in this racket. Ugh.

“Eleanor. What do you think? Is it all about the cats? Or the bucket they came in?”

Eleanor didn’t say. I felt her worrying about me being slow to grasp the obvious.

The drill instructors and senior sergeants figured me out quick in the Corps. They’d already seen every get-around and get-out-of-it scam ever invented a long time before I turned up making like I was dumber than a bushel of rocks. But I can work that on most people here in TunFaire. People in this burg see what they want to see. I strive to remain underestimated. Or so I tell myself.

“This feels good,” I told Eleanor. “I could just lean back with a lapful of cats and nap the afternoon away.” Then I’d go out tonight because I couldn’t sleep. Somebody would tell Tinnie Tate, who thinks she has a claim on me. And does. And vice versa. But I’ve got the worst case of Retarded Commitment Capacity Syndrome west of Morley Dotes. Morley being of international-competitor status.