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appeal. At least in the imagination of man.
Many of the nonhuman species have their religions, too, but they do not go
for diversity and cuckoo. Only us humans need gods crazier than we are.
And we are the future of the world. The other races are the fading past.
Makes you wonder if there isn't a god of gods with a really nasty sense of
humor.
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For a couple of sceats No-Neck showed me both the former Shayir temple and
the Godoroth.
"Couple of real dumps," I said. "Tell me what you know about these gods."
Thought I would catch him while he had a grateful glow on. I glanced around.
Once you have experienced Chattaree it is hard to imagine such squalor.
"Cain't tell you jack, pal. Wisht I could. But it ain't smart even ta name
names, like Strayer, or Chanter, or Nog the Inescapable. Dey is nasty as hell,
all a dem."
"That's no surprise."
The Shayir and Godoroth were competing for the last hovel on the Street. It
was beyond the levee, leaned out over the river on rotting piles fifteen feet
tall. One good flood surge and it would be gone. But it was home to the
Godoroth, I guess, and nobody wants to get kicked out of their own house.
No-Neck told me, "Bot' places is closed down. Dey'll open back up in a couple
days."
"Under new management?"
No-Neck frowned. He didn't have a lot of brain left over to untangle jokes
and decipher sarcasms.
I asked, "Any reason I can't go in and look around?" There were no physical
locks on the doors.
"You'd be trespassing."
Right on top of it, my man No-Neck.
"I wasn't planning to touch anything. I just want to see the setups. For my
client's information."
"Uhm." He focused his intellect, frowning, investing heavily for a small
return. The No-Necks of the world are great for getting work done as long as
they have somebody to tell them what to do.
"I don't tink I unnerstand what you do."
I explained, not for the first time since we teamed up. I said, "It's like
being a private soldier. A client hires me, I'm his one-man army, except I
don't bust heads or break arms, I just find out things. The client I have now
wants to find out as much as he can about these two cults."
No-Neck made a connection. "Like dat might be somebody what has to help
decide who gets dat last temple."
"There you go." Far be it from me to disabuse a man of an erroneous
intuition. Not that he was entirely off the mark.
"I guess it cain't hurt. You ain't involved wit' dem. If you was involved
wit' dem I'd hafta raise a holler on account of some of dese gods would do any
damned ting to stay on da Street."
"Ain't dat da troot." If you are big time, going off with the holy rutabagas
won't get you no respect at all. Better gone than playing out of the Dream
Quarter.
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"Well, den let's look in dat dere place where da Shayir got bounced. But I
guarantee you ain't gonna see nuttin' exciting."
We went into the Shayir place. Always quick on the uptake, I muttered, "Not
going to find anything exciting here."
"Cleaned it out." No-Neck had a trained eye, too.
The dump was as bare as a thousand-year-old thunder lizard thigh bone,
emptier than No-Neck's head. He said, "We done took all da stuff down to da
place at da end. Goin' ta paint and fix up here."
I glanced right. I glanced left. I didn't stand all the way up because the
ceiling was too low. The place was barely fifteen by twelve, last stronghold
of an ancient religion, first bridgehead of a new one. It seemed touched by
the same sad desperation you see in middle-aged men and women who can't let go
of a youth that has long since stolen away.
"So let's stroll over there and count the silver."
"Silver? Dese is small gods, Garrett. Dey probably didn't even have no
copper. Down here dey're da kind we call pewter gods. Petty pewter gods. Da
pot metal boys." He leaned close, ready with a garlicky confidence. "You never
say dat where dey might hear you, dough. Da fard'er dey slip da more dey
demand respect, got it coming or not. You go on up dere to da high end of da
Street, dem gods you don't never see no proof dey even exist. Dey ain't got
time to be bodered. Down here, dough, dey might be running deir own bingos.
And you better not cut dem where dey can hear it."
That sounded like a notion worth keeping in mind.
"I been front wit' you, Garrett. Tell me something straight."
"I'll try."
"How come you got dat stupid stuffed bird on your shoulder?"
The Goddamn Parrot. T. G. was being so good I'd forgotten him. "He isn't
stuffed. He's just pretending." What the hell. I plucked the bird and studied
him as we climbed crumbling steps on the face of the levee. They were the
conclusion of the Street. No repairs had been offered them in recent
lifetimes. The smell of river mud hung like an all-pervading mist. The air was
thick with the flies that breed in the mud. They were nasty, hungry little
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