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Democrats and Unitarians to boot. Hell, their oldest boy Billy's joined up with 'em.”
    “Maybe we can go talk Ritchy into filing a complaint,” said Fred. “That music will curdle his milk. Or maybe we oughta do a little complaining ourselves.”
    “Now you're getting an idea,” hissed Bubba. “Now you talking, son. The three of us, we go pick up Spud and Joe. And Dick Wilding, he's off duty now; hell, Dick'll go. Six of us be plenty. We'll get us some ax handles and ball bats and go over there. I mean clean house. Put the fear of God in 'em. They're just germs, you know, no more than germs or flies or rats. People that sink to that level ain't fit to live in a country like this. Let's do Uncle Sam a favor and clean out that rat nest.”
    “Right, boy, right,” said Fred. “I didn't risk my life overseas to come home to something like this. I don't want my folks living around trash and traitors that'd sell their own country to the Reds for a bottle of pills. I say run 'em right out of the country. Better than that, hang 'em.”
    Andy was nodding and grunting and thinking of his baby sister. The trio finished its beer. “Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Bubba.
    “You're waiting for somebody to turn your heads around straight,” said a clear calm voice from the bar. The three men looked up to find the stranger who had been sitting with his back to them, on the nearest stool, now looking into their faces—smiling. “The ladies and gentlemen whom you desire to assault are showmen—jugglers, fire walkers and yogic acrobats—whose mission it is to entertain and enrapture children of all ages. They bring into the lives of ordinary Americans the color and splendor of the Orient, especially of those Asian cultures whose folkways have been abolished by Communist invaders. They are no threat to your freedom for it is in the name of freedom that they perform their magical feats.”
    Fred cocked his right arm and Andy growled. Both made a move to rise, but were restrained by Bubba. Bubba was more observant than his drinking companions, perhaps that was why he was an auto parts salesman and they laborers on the river docks. While the stranger had been talking, Bubba had been sizing him up. He was dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt and although his hair was fairly long, he was clean-shaven and did not have the weirdo look. More importantly, he was
built
. Shoulders wide, hips narrow, biceps like eggplants shoved up his sleeves. He had moved very little on his barstool but the slightest turn of his head suggested a superb athletic grace. He was a few years older than they and looked as if he'd caught a few punches, although not enough to scar his face. “This joker would go through Andy or Fred like thin shit through a tall Swede,” mused Bubba. “He wouldn't be a pushover even for me.” Bubba was discreet. “You from around here, buddy?” he asked in his best no-nonsense John Wayne baritone.
    “No, I work for a logging outfit up near Aberdeen, Washington,” the stranger explained in his willowly drawl. “Been whoring around San Francisco for a few days, and now I'm about to deliver a bab—a pet, to a friend of mine near here. My name is Plucky Purcell.”
    There was activity in the front of Bubba's brain. He looked the stranger over well, his eyes squinting, his mind wrestling with the uncomfortableness of associations. The frayed ends of his thought patterns seemed to bleed into the stranger's space, merging with him in some sweep of self-canceling perception. And then he hit upon it, or rather, tripped over it, fell on top of it, held it down like a farm boy trapping a pig. “Purcell,” Bubba purred slowly. “Plucky Purcell. Say, you ain't the Purcell who played ball, the one who stole . . . ? Yeah. You are him, ain't you, huh?” Bubba's teeth showed big and yellow inside a heavy timber-cat grin. His jowls were candy red.
    “Well,” said Purcell with hesitation, “all that happened a long time