Maybe it was time. I was restless. We were getting on toward the
dog days, when my body gets terminally lazy but my nerves shriek
that it’s time to do something—a cruel combination. So
far sloth was ahead by a nose.
I’m Garrett—low thirties, six-feet-two, two hundred
pounds, ginger hair, ex-Marine—all-around fun guy. For a
price I’ll find things or get the boogies off your back.
I’m no genius. I get the job done by being too stubborn to
quit. My favorite sport is female and my favorite food is beer. I
work out of the house I own on Macunado Street, halfway between the
Hill and waterfront in TunFaire’s midtown.
I was sharing a liquid lunch with my friend Playmate, talking
religion, when a visitor wakened my sporting nature.
She was blonde and tall with skin like the finest satin
I’d ever seen. She wore a hint of unusual scent and a smile
that said she saw through everything and Garrett was one big piece
of crystal. She looked scared but she wasn’t spooked.
“I think I’m in love,” I told Playmate as old
Dean showed her into my coffin of an office.
“Third time this week.” He drained his mug.
“Don’t mention it to Tinnie.” He stood up. And
stood up. And stood up. He’s nine feet tall. “Some of
us got to work.” He waltzed with Dean and the blonde, trying
to get to the hall.
