The Law (The Dresden Files #17.4)(17)

I pulled up to the address, peered at the house, and double checked what I’d written down, because it wasn’t the kind of place where I expected a high-priced lawyer to settle.

Valerious’s place could best have been described as ‘quirky.’ For one, it was painted a bright canary yellow with sky blue trim. There was a large oak tree in the front yard, along with high, wire fencing and a chicken hutch. A dozen chickens in a dozen different shades and patterns of feathers clucked around the yard, under the sleepy watch of a droopy-eyed basset hound. The house didn’t have a driveway, but the car parked out in front of it was an old sedan from somewhere just after World War II, and its personalized license plate read ‘LAWYUR.’

I swung out of the Munstermobile into the sultry summer evening and squinted at the house for a moment. The windows were open, and I could see half a dozen fans whirling in front of them, taking in air on the shaded front side of the house and pushing it out the side still facing the sunset.

I walked up to the gate and squinted at a wood-burned sign that read, ‘No solicitors or proselytizers welcome, business clients and known personal friends only, everyone else is TRESPASSING, please leave packages in the box inside the gate, mind the chickens, beware of dog, this sign does not constitute an invitation of any kind.”

I squinted up at the basset hound and said, “Beware of dog. That’s you, huh?”

The dog gave me a look and yawned. Then he heaved himself to his stumpy legs and padded down the sidewalk, pausing to nose a chicken fondly, and sat down to regard me with the saddest eyes in the canine kingdom.

“Max!” called a woman’s voice from inside the house. “Max! There’s a weirdo at the gate!”

A man with a shock of grey hair stuck his head out one of the open windows, squinted at me, then quickly withdrew. He stuck his head out a second time, this time with a pair of thick gold spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and he gave me a thorough peering. “Huh!” he said after a moment. “I think I know who you are!”

“Do I call the police?” the woman called from deeper inside the house.

“Not yet!” the man who was presumably Max said. “Don’t call your mother though!”

“Fine!” the woman’s voice shouted.

“Hi,” I said, rather lamely. “Nice dog.”

“I know that,” Max said. He stared at me, took a deep breath and said, “Stay there. You aren’t invited in.” Then his head popped back in the window, and footsteps sounded clearly inside the house.

I lifted my eyebrows at that. Most people didn’t get all technical about invitations unless they were savvy to the details of the supernatural world. I hadn’t been invited, and I’d had considerable education in a number of schools of courtesy (don’t look at me like that, just because I know it doesn’t mean I have to use it), so I leaned on my staff and waited for Max Valerious.

He was maybe five foot five, and built like a long distance runner, all made of wire and gristle. He wore soft brown linen pants, brown sandals, a white linen shirt, and a spring green waistcoat with it, from which hung the chain of a pocket watch. His grey hair stuck out everywhere, and that included his beard, though his moustache had been tamed into a pair of curling handlebars with wax. He stuck his thumbs into his belt as he walked toward me, pausing to absently pet the dog’s ears as he came to stand beside the beast.

“Hi,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to Maximillian Valerious about business.”

“You found him,” Max said, studying me thoroughly. “And you must be Harry Dresden.”

“That’s me,” I said.

He grunted, turned, and said, “Come on, Pepper.”

The dog swung languidly to her feet again and began padding after him, her ears dragging the ground.

“Hey!” I said.

“Not interested!” Max said without turning around. “Supernatural business is supernatural business, and I don’t mix with it! Good day, good luck, nothing against you, just don’t want to stand in your blast radius, Mister Dresden!”

I blinked after him and then said, “I need your help, sir. I’ve got a client who is about to be ruined by Talvi Inverno.”

Max stopped in his tracks.

“Please, sir,” I said. “If I could just talk to you for a few minutes, maybe you could at least give me some advice.”

The older man turned his head just enough to catch me in the peripheral vision of one eye.

“Max!” called the woman from inside. “You know better!”

“Heloise,” Max called back, clearly taken with familiar irritation, “I pick the clients!”

“Where did that get you last time, eh?”

“Ah!” Max said, in lieu of cursing, and waved his hand toward the back corner of the house, presumably where Heloise was.

“You’re a fool!” Heloise called calmly. “Does he like grape Kool-aid?”

Max turned and eyed me with a scowl. After a second, he ducked his head toward Heloise and looked at me as if I was thick.

“Who doesn’t like grape Kool-aid?” I asked.

“Two, Heloise!” Max called. He kept scowling at me the whole time and then said, “You might as well come in. Mind the chickens.”

I’d been threatened in voices less hostile.