"Then, wait a minute longer," Croyd said. "I've got to ask you something."
"What?"
"That body. . . . Why'd you take it?" The big man laughed.
"For money, of course. What else?"
"Mind telling me what they're paying you for it?"
"Five grand. Why?"
"Cheap bastards," Croyd said. "They say what they want it for?"
"No, and I didn't ask because I don't care. A buck's a buck. "
"Yeah," Croyd said. "Who are they, anyhow?"
"Why? What's it to you?"
"Well, I think you're getting screwed on the deal. I think it's worth more."
"How much?"
"Who are they?"
"Some Masons, I think. What's it worth?"
"Masons? Like secret handshakes and all that? I thought they just existed to give each other expensive funerals. What could they want with a dead joker?"
Darlingfoot shook his head.
"They're a weird bunch," he said. "For all I know, they want to eat it. Now, what were you saying about money?"
"I think I could get more for it," Croyd said. "What say I see their five and raise it one? I'll give you six big ones for it."
"I don't know, Croyd. . . . I don't like to screw people I work for. Word will get around I'm undependable."
"Well, maybe I could go seven-"
They both turned suddenly at a series of savage growls and snappings. The dogs-joined by two additional strays had crossed over during their conversation and dragged the small, insectlike body from its shroud. It had broken in several places, and the Great Dane held most of an arm in his teeth as he backed away, snarling, from the German shepherd. Two others had torn one of the grasshopperlike legs loose and were fighting over it. The poodle was already halfway across the street, a four-digited hand in its mouth. Croyd became aware of a particularly foul odor other than New York air.
"Shit!" Devil John exclaimed, leaping forward, his hoof shattering a square of concrete paving near to the remains. He grabbed for the Great Dane and it turned and raced away. The terrier let go of the leg. The brown mongrel didn't. It tore across the street in the other direction, dragging the appen- I dage. "I'll get the arm! You get the leg!" Devil John cried, bounding after the Great Dane.
"What about the hand?" Croyd yelled, kicking at another dog newly arrived on the scene.
Darlingfoot's reply was predictable, curt, and represented an anatomical unlikelihood of a high order. Croyd took off after the brown dog.
As Croyd approached the corner where he had seen it turn, he heard a series of sharp yelps. Coming onto the side street he saw the dog lying on its back snapping at the pterodactyl which pinned it to the pavement. The battered limb lay nearby. Croyd sprinted forward.
"Thanks, Kid. I owe you one," he said as he reached for the leg, hesitated, took out his handkerchief, wrapped it about his hand, picked up the limb, and held it downwind.
The pterodactyl shape flowed, to be replaced by that of a nude boy-perhaps thirteen years of age-with light eyes and unruly brown hair, a small birthmark on his forehead.
"Got it for you, Croyd," he announced. "Sure stinks, though. "
"Yeah, Kid," Croyd said. "Excuse me. Now I've got to go put it back together."
He turned and hurried in the direction from which he had come. Behind him he heard rapid footfalls.
"What you want it for?" the boy asked.
"It's a long, complicated, boring story, and it's better you don't know," he answered.
"Aw, c'mon. You can tell me."
"No time. I'm in a hurry."
"You going to fight Devil John again?"
"I don't plan on it. I think we can come to a meeting of minds without resorting to violence."
"But if you do fight, what's your power this time?" Croyd reached the corner, cut across to the island. Ahead, he saw where another dog now worried the remains. Devil John was nowhere in sight.
"Damn it!" he yelled. "Get away from there!"
The dog paid him no heed, but stripped a furry layer from the chitinous carapace. Croyd noticed that the torn tissue was dripping some colorless liquid.
The remains looked moist now, and Croyd realized that fluids were oozing from the breathing holes in the thorax.
"Get away from there!" he repeated.
The dog growled at him. Suddenly, though, the growl turned to a whimper and the animal's tail vanished between its legs. A meter-high tyrannosaurus hopped past Croyd, hissing fiercely. The dog turned and fled. A moment later, the Kid stood in its place.
"It's getting away with that piece," the boy said. Croyd repeated Darlingfoot's comment on the hand as he tossed the leg down beside the dismembered body. He withdrew the folded trash bag from the inner pocket of his jacket and shook it out.
"You want to help, Kid, you hold the bag while I toss in what's left."
"Okay. It sure is gross."
"It's a dirty job," Croyd agreed. "Then, why you doing it?"
"It's what growing up is all about, Kid."
"How do you mean?"
"You spend more and more of your time cleaning up after mistakes."
A rapid thumping noise approached, a shadow passed overhead, and Devil John crashed to the earth beside them. "Damn dog got away," he announced. "You get the leg?"
"Yeah," Croyd answered. "It's already in the bag."
"Good idea-a plastic bag. Who's the naked kid?"
"You don't know Kid Dinosaur?" Croyd answered. "I thought he knew everybody.
He's the pterodactyl was following you."
"Why?"
"I like to be where the action is," the Kid said.
"Hey, how come you're not in school?" Croyd asked. "School sucks."
"Now, wait a minute. I had to quit school in ninth grade and I never got to go back. I always regretted it."
"Why? You're doing okay."
"There's all that stuff I missed. I wish I hadn't."
"Like what?"
"Well. .. Algebra. I never learned algebra."
"What the fuck good's algebra?"
"I don't know and I never will, because I didn't learn it. I sometimes look at people on the street and say, `Gee, I'll bet they all know algebra,' and it makes me feel kind of inferior."
"Well, I don't know algebra and it doesn't make feel a damn bit inferior."
"Give it time," Croyd said.
The Kid suddenly became aware that Croyd was looking at him strangely.
"You're going back to school right now," Croyd told him, "and you're going to study your ass off for the rest of the day, and you're going to do your homework tonight, and you're going to like it."
"I'll make better time if I fly," the Kid said, and he transformed into a pterodactyl, hopped several times, and glided away.
"Pick up some clothes on the way!" Croyd shouted after him.
"Just what the hell is going on here?"
Croyd turned and beheld a uniformed officer who had just crossed to their island.
"Go fuck yourself!" he snarled.
The man began unbuckling his belt.
"Stop! Cancel that," Croyd said. "Buckle up. Forget you saw us and go walk up another street."
Devil John stared as the man obeyed.
"Croyd, how are you doing those things?" he asked. "That's my power, this time around."
"Then, you could just make me give you the body, couldn't you?"
Croyd shook the bag down and fastened it. When he finished gagging, he nodded.
"Yeah. And I'll get it one way or another, too. But I don't feel like cheating a fellow working stiff today. My offer's still good."
"Seven grand?"
"Six."
"You said seven."
"Yeah, but it's not all here now."
"That's your fault, not mine. You stopped me."
"But you put the thing down where the dogs could get it."
"Yes, but how was I supposed to- Hey, that's a bar and grill on the corner."
"You're right."
"Care to discuss this over lunch and a couple of brews?"
"Now that you mention it, I've a bit of an appetite," Croyd said.
They took the table by the window and set the bag on the empty chair. Croyd visited the men's room and washed his hands several times while Devil John procured a pair of beers.
When he returned he ordered a half-dozen sandwiches. Darlingfoot did the same.
"Who're you working for?" he asked.
"I don't know," Croyd answered. "I'm doing it through a third party."
"Complicated. I wonder what they all want the thing for?" Croyd shook his head.
"Beats me. I hope there's enough of him left to collect on."
"That's one of the reasons I'm willing to deal. I think my guys wanted him in better shape than this. They might try to welsh on me. Better a bird in the hand, you know? I don't trust them all that much. Bunch of kooks."
"Say, did he have any possessions?"
"Nope. No belongings at all."
The sandwiches arrived and they began eating. After a while, Darlingfoot glanced several times at the bag, then remarked, "You know, that thing looks bigger."
Croyd studied it a moment.
"It's just settling and shifting," he said.
They finished, then ordered two more beers. "No, damn it! It is bigger!"
Darlingfoot insisted. Croyd looked again. It seemed to swell even as he watched.
"You're right," he acknowledged. "It must be gases from the-uh-decomposition."
He extended a finger as if to poke it, thought better of it and lowered his hand.
"So what do you say? Seven grand?"
"I think six is fair-the shape he's in."
"But they knew what they were asking for. You've got to expect this sort of thing with stiffs."
"A certain amount, yes. But you've got to admit you bounced him around a hell of a lot, too."
"That's true, but a regular one could take it better. How was I to know this guy was a special case?"
"By looking at him. He was little and fragile."
"He felt pretty sturdy when I snatched him. What say we split the difference?
Sixty-five hundred?"
"I don't know..."
Other diners began glancing in their direction as the bag continued to swell.
They finished their beers.
"Another round?"
"Why not?"
"Waiter!"
Their waiter, who had been clearing a recently vacated table, ambled over, a stack of dishes and utensils in his hands. "What can I get-" he began, when the edge of a steak knife, protruding from the pile of crockery, brushed against the swollen bag. "My God!" he finished, as a whooshing sound, accompanied by an odor that might have been compounded of sewer gas and slaughterhouse effluvia filled the immediate vicinity and spread like an escaped experiment in chemical warfare throughout the room.
"Excuse me," the waiter said, and he turned and hurried off.
There followed a series of gasps from other diners, moments later.
"Use your power, Croyd!" Devil John whispered.
"Hurry!"
"I don't know if I can do a whole roomful. . . ."
"Try!"
Croyd concentrated on the others:
There was a small accident. Nothing important. Now you will forget it. You smell nothing unusual. Return to your meals and do not look in this direction again.
You will not notice anything that we do. There is nothing to be seen here. Or smelled.
The other patrons turned away, resumed eating, talking.
"You did it," Devil John remarked in a peculiar voice.
Croyd looked back and discovered that the man was pinching his nostrils shut.
"Did you spill something?" Croyd asked him.
"No. "
"Uh-oh. Hear that?"
Darlingfoot leaned to the side and bent low.
"Oh damn!" he said. "The bag's collapsed and he's running out the slash that guy made. Hey, kill my sense of smell too, will you?"
Croyd closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
"That's better," he heard moments later as Darlingfoot reached cut and uprighted the bag, which made a sloshing, gurgling noise.
Croyd looked to the floor and beheld a huge puddle resembling spilled stew. He gagged slightly and looked away.
"What do you want to do now, Croyd? Leave the mess and take the rest, or what?"
"I think I'm obliged to take everything I can."
Devil John quirked an eyebrow and smiled.
"Well," he said, "go sixty-five hundred and I'll help you get it all together in a manageable form."
"Its a deal."
"Then, cover me if you can so the people in the kitchen don't notice me."
"I'll try. What are you going to do?"
"Trust me."
Darlingfoot rose, passed the top of the bag to Croyd, and limped back to the kitchen. He was gone for several minutes and when he returned his arms were full.
He unscrewed the top from a large empty pickle jar and set it on the floor beside the chair.
"Now if you'll just tilt the bag so the opening is right over the jar," he said,
"I'll raise the bottom and we can pour him into it."
Croyd complied and the jar was well over half-full before the trickle ceased.
"Now what?" he asked, screwing on the lid.
Darlingfoot took the first from a stack of napkins he had brought with him and opened a small white bundle.
"Doggie bags," he said. "I'll just get all the solid stuff up off the floor and into them."
"Then what?"
"I've got a nice, fresh trash-can liner, too," he explained, stooping. "It should all fit inside with no trouble."
"Could you hurry?" Croyd said. "I can't control my own sense of smell."
"I'm mopping as fast as I can. Open the jar again, though, will you? I can wring out the rest of him from the napkins."
When the spilled remains had been collected into the pickle jar and nine doggie bags, Darlingfoot ripped the torn bag the rest of the way open and removed the chitinous plates that remained within. He set the jar on the concavity of the thorax and then placed it all in the fresh bag, covering it with pieces of gristle and smaller bits of plating. He set the head and limbs on top. Then he packed the doggie bags and rolled down the liner.
Croyd was on his feet by then. "Excuse me," he said. "I'll be right back."
"I'll come, too. I have to wash up a bit."
Above the running of the water Devil John suddenly remarked, "Now that everything's pretty much settled, I've got a favor to ask of you."
"What's that?" Croyd inquired, soaping his hands yet again.
"I still feel funny about the ones who hired me, you know?"
Croyd shrugged.
"You can't have it both ways," he said.
"Why not?"
"I don't follow you."
"I was on my way to deliver when you caught up with me. Supposing we went on to the rendezvous point-a little park up near the Cloisters-and I give them some bullshit about the dogs tearing the body apart and getting away with the whole thing. You make them believe it, and then have them forget that you were along.
That way, I'm off the hook."
"Okay. Sure," Croyd agreed, splashing water on his face.
"But you say 'them.' How many people are you expecting?"
"Just one or two. The guy who hired me was named Matthias, and there was a red man with him. He's the one who tried getting me interested in these Masons till the other shut him up..."
"That's funny," Croyd said. "I met a Matthias this morning. He was a cop.
Plainclothes. And what about the red guy? Sounds like maybe an ace or a joker."
"Probably is. But if he's got any special talent he wasn't showing it."
Croyd dried his face. '
"All of a sudden I'm a little uncomfortable," he said. "See, this cop Matthias is an ace. The name might just be a coincidence, and I was able to con him with my talent, but I don't like anything that smacks of too many aces. I might run into someone who's immune to what I've got. This group... It couldn't be a bunch of Mason aces, could it?"
"I don't know. The red fellow wanted me to come in to some kind of meeting, and I told him I wasn't a joiner and that we dealt right there or we forgot about it. So they coughed up my retainer on the spot. There was something about the way the red guy said things that gave me bad vibes."
Croyd frowned.
"Maybe we should just forget them."
"I've really got this thing about closing deals all proper so they don't come back to haunt me," Darlingfoot said.
"Couldn't you just sort of look it over while I talk to him, and then decide?"
"Well, okay. . . . I said that I would. Do you remember anything else that got said? About Masons, aces, the body anything?"
"No. . . . But what are pheromones?"
"Pheromones? They're like hormones that you smell. Airborne chemicals that can influence you. Tachyon was telling me about them one time. There was this joker I'd met. You sat too near him in a restaurant and anything you ate tasted like bananas. Anyway, it was pheromones, Tachy said. So what about them?"
"I don't know. The red guy was saying something about pheromones in connection with his wife when I came up. It didn't go any further."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else."
"Okay." Croyd wadded his paper towel and tossed it toward the wastebasket.
"Let's go."
When they returned to the table Croyd counted out the money and passed it to his companion.
"Here. Can't say you didn't earn it."
Croyd regarded the strewn napkins, the slimy floor, and the moistness of the empty bag.
"What do you think we should do about the mess?"
Darlingfoot shrugged.