Elrod—01 BloodList

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 Chapter 1

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 THE CAR WAS doing at least forty when the right front fender smashed

 against my left hip and sent me spinning off the road to flop bonelessly

 into a mass of thick, windblown grass.

 It was a well-engineered accident, involving no small skill on the part

 of the driver. A body, depending on its size and weight in relation to

 the speed and position of the car usually does two things: it either

 goes under the car or bounces over it. Going under, it can get dragged,

 leaving a lot of bloody physical evidence all over the road and vehicle.

 If it gets flipped up and over, the driver risks a dented hood and roof

 or a broken windshield or all three. The professional hit-and-run artist

 knows how to avoid such risks and will try to clip the target with just

 the front bumper or fender; that way he has only some scratched paint to

 touch up or at most a broken headlight to replace.

 I had been hit by such an expert. There was minimal pain, though, and

 that was swiftly receding. The idea my spine had been broken was the

 first real thought to surface in my cobweb-clogged brain since I woke up

 on the beach. I'd been groggy then, with only enough stuff working in my

 head to shakily stand and blink down at my soaked clothes. It never

 occurred to me to question why I was on a beach and in such a condition,

 and I was still in a thought-numbing state of shock when I climbed a

 short, sandy rise and found the road. There was no rational decision on

 what direction to go in, my legs took me left and walked. When I heard a

 car motor rumbling up behind me I stuck out a thumb and walked sideways.

 The small dot down the road swelled into a dark green Ford with a big

 lumpy-looking man at the wheel. While still a little distance off, the

 car slowed abruptly, its headlights raking painfully into my eyes. I

 shaded them, blinking stupidly as the motor gunned, gears shifted, and

 the thing shot forward. The driver held a straight course, as though

 he'd changed his mind about picking up a hitchhiker, then he swerved at

 the last possible second. If my brain had been running on more than one

 cylinder. I might have been able to jump away in time.

 The landscape stopped spinning and I lay belly-up, staring at an

 unnaturally brilliant Milky Way a few feet from my nose, wondering what

 the hell was going on. I tried moving a little, the initial pain of the

 impact was gone, but I was cautious of broken bones. Everything worked

 perfectly, though--I'd been incredibly lucky. Twisting onto my stomach,

 I stared down the road.

 The Ford stopped, the motor cut, and the lump behind the wheel was just

 levering himself out the door.

 The only cover for fifty yards was long grass. The beach was just across

 the road, but this particular stretch was clear of concealing rocks.

 Except for the car, the only option left was a stand of trees on my side

 of the road, which was much too far away.

 The man was coming up fast and had a gun in one hand.

 Anything was better than waiting for it. My feet dug into the ground and

 I bolted for the trees like a frightened rabbit. He spotted me, changed

 course, and yelled for me to stop. After hitting me with the car, he

 couldn't have really expected me to do him any convenient favors.

 In an open space a gunshot doesn't sound like a gunshot, not like the

 ones you hear at the movies. All I heard was a flat, unimpressive crack,

 then the impact sent me sprawling.

 It'd been a lucky hit; we were at a slight angle to one another and the

 narrow part of my body was toward him. The bullet entered my lower right

 back, just above the pelvic bone, traced through my vitals and out the

 front, just above the belt buckle. I doubled up and instinctively tried

 to hold things in, but there was nothing. The sharp, hot pain was

 already vanishing and my hands came away clean from what should have

 been a bloody mess.

 My would-be killer trotted up, turned me over, and stopped short as I

 stared accusingly at his stupefied face. He was puffing hard and looked

 ready to say something but gulped it back. He quickly leveled the gun

 with my eyes. The business end looked as big as an open manhole. His

 finger was ready on the trigger; orders were being sent from his brain

 to the tiny muscles, telling them to contract. Before they could respond

 I grabbed the gun and twisted it out of his hand. His finger was caught

 in the trigger guard, there was a soft pop, and he yelped with surprise

 and pain as one of the bones snapped.

 He fell back, trying to get away, and I seized an ankle, jerked, and

 pulled him down. His left fist swung up and slammed into my face, but

 with little effect. I managed a weak, backhanded swat and left him

 half-stunned. In another second his arms were pinned to the ground and

 he was utterly unable to break free. It was easy to hold him still even

 though he was built and muscled like a wrestler and outweighed me by a

 good eighty pounds. He looked up at my face hovering inches from his own

 and whimpered.

 The man's heart and lungs were thundering in my ears like a train. All

 my senses were sharp and new and wonderful. I could even smell the

 blood, an exciting scent when mixed with the sour tang of fear. On his

 thick, rough neck the skin seemed oddly transparent where the large vein

 pulsed. First it disturbed, then it tantalized. My mouth sagged open,

 dry and aching with sudden thirst. I felt drawn to it like a cat to

 milk.

 He gagged and his bladder let go as my lips brushed his throat, then he

 passed out.

 I jerked back, wondering what the hell I was trying to do. Pushing away

 until I no longer touched him, I lay facedown in the spiky grass,

 shaking like a fever victim until the thirst faded.

 With a hand under each arm, I dragged him backward over the irregular

 clumps of grass and sand to his car. I felt strong enough to carry him,

 but didn't relish coming into contact with his wet pants. Fortunately

 the key was in the ignition, so I was spared a search of his lower

 pockets. I opened the passenger door and stuffed him inside.

 My mind was more or less functioning again and full of questions. Who

 this stranger was and why he wanted to kill me seemed like good ones to

 start with, so I picked his coat pocket and went through his wallet.

 The driver's license was issued to a Fred Sanderson of Cicero.

 The name might have been fake, it meant nothing to me, but the town

 struck a sour note in my general memory. A bare ten years had passed

 since the Capone gang invaded the place and took over. Big Al was in

 jail now, gone but not forgotten if Sanderson was any example.

 Except for five dollars and the phone number of someone named Elsie,

 there was nothing informative in the wallet. I unbuckled Sanderson's

 belt and slipped it from his well-muscled waist. He was heavy, but in

 solid condition. As I'd thought, the leather strip had been specially

 constructed to overlap on the inside. Working it open, I took careful

 count and transferred the five hundred dollars hidden there into my own

 pants pocket without a single pang of conscience. After what he'd put me

 through he owed me, and I needed the operating funds.

 I looked long and hard at his face. The heavy jaw and thick lips were

 frustratingly familiar, but nothing clicked in my memory.

 It was very bright now, the sky all strange with the sun and stars

 shining improbably together. It was confusing until I realized it was

 the moon that was flooding the place with such brilliance. Like

 icewater, fear spread out in my guts and left me shaking at the edges.

 The night was too bright, it was wrong, totally wrong.

 Distraction. I needed distraction. Where was I?

 East of us were tall buildings in the distance. I was still more or less

 in Chicago. The last thing I recalled was some phone call launching me

 out of the hotel I'd just checked into. I'd left at midafternoon to do

 something and ended up that night soaking wet on a deserted patch of

 Lake Michigan shoreline with some crazy trying to kill me. Wonderful.

 I felt my head for lumps, found a swelling behind one ear, and smiled

 with relief. A concussion of some kind; that would account for the

 initial disorientation, the memory loss, maybe even make my eyes overly

 sensitive. I'd only imagined the gunshot and had taken care of Sanderson

 on adrenaline alone.

 Almost as an afterthought I checked my wallet and was surprised to find

 it in place and intact. I thought I'd been mugged. The papers were out

 of order and damp, but everything was there, including the money and

 change left over from the precious twenty I'd used to pay for the hotel

 room. It was when I returned the wallet to its inside pocket that I

 noticed my shirt front. A big burn hole was in it just over my heart,

 surrounded by water-diluted red stains. There was a smaller hole lower

 down, next to my belt buckle.

 I tore the shin open and found an ugly round scar just left of the

 breastbone. It was large, but looked freshly healed.

 The lapping of water on the shore sounded loudly in my ears. Far out on

 the silver lake, the streamlined shape of a rich man's yacht glided

 slowly east and disappeared behind an intervening point of land. My left

 hand twitched and clenched. I made it open again. The palm had more than

 a dozen puckered red circles on it. More scars, and I couldn't think of

 how I'd acquired them or what might have caused them. At least they

 didn't hurt. My right hand was also damaged with a narrow pink welt like

 a nearly healed cut just above the knuckles. It, too, was painless.

 Cautiously I spread a hand over my heart. It should have been banging

 away like a trapped bird, but there was nothing, nothing but the scar

 and still night-cool flesh.

 I rebuttoned the shirt, not wanting to look or speculate anymore and

 stared helplessly at the lake. It gave no answers or comfort so I opened

 the driver's door and slid behind the wheel. I rubbed my face and was

 surprised at the heaviness of the beard there. Reaching over, I swiveled

 the rearview mirror around and stared with an icy shock of comprehension

 at the empty glass.

 No.

 Please, God, no.

 Death had come to me that night, unexpected and unfair. Death had

 changed me, then left, taking with it the memory of that supreme moment

 we all must face. Eyes shut, I hung on to the steering wheel and vainly

 tried to adjust emotionally to what had once been a distant and purely

 intellectual concept. In a way I was more frightened by the idea that

 someone had wanted to kill me than by the fact that they'd succeeded. It

 was too much to take in, the best thing was to shut down the feelings

 for the moment. I'd get used to things soon enough, not that there was

 much choice about it now. In a larger sense it was what animals and

 mankind had faced since old Adam found himself outside the garden: adapt

 or die.

 Having died already, there was only one alternative left, even if it was

 mentally distressing.

 For something to do I tied Sanderson's arms behind his back with the

 belt and used his flowered necktie on his ankles. Rooting around in the

 glove compartment turned up several road maps, so I was able to make a

 good guess about our present location and figure out how to get back to

 my hotel.

 It was a tight fit behind the wheel, we were about the same height, but

 my legs were longer. I didn't bother adjusting the seat, that was always

 more trouble than it was worth. The starter started, the engine kicked

 and caught, and I eased it into first. Thirty minutes later I stopped in

 what looked like a safe, secluded place and cut the motor. We were about

 a mile from my hotel according to the maps; an easy walk through the

 sleeping neighborhoods. This was a dead-looking business district, with

 a few tired stores, some dusty warehouses and empty lots decorated with

 weeds and broken glass. From the look of things, the Depression hadn't

 been kind to the place.

 Sanderson was awake, but playing possum, the altered rhythm of his heart

 and lungs betraying his condition. He was either very controlled or too

 scared to flinch when I plucked his yellow silk handkerchief from his

 front pocket. I used it to rub my prints from the steering wheel,

 dashboard and gearshift, and stuffed it back in his pocket. His gun was

 weighing heavily in my own pocket as I leaned across the seat and gave

 his cheek a solid pat.

 "You can open your eyes now, I know you're awake." My tongue played over

 teeth which had receded to their normal length. At least I'd be able to

 talk without lisping. "I said you can open your eyes." I gave him a hard

 shake.

 They popped wide.

 "Name?"

 "F-Fred Sanderson."

 "Sure it is. What are you doing in town, Fred?"

 "Visiting friends."

 "They got a boat?"

 He shut up until shaken again. "Yeah, so what?"

 "Why'd you run me down?"

 "Wha-"

 "You heard me, why did you try to kill me?"

 The heavy jaw snapped shut again, his eyes rolled toward the door, and

 he struggled against his bonds. I lost my patience then, and for the

 first time took a great deal of pleasure hitting a man. I pulled the

 punches, though. I wanted to persuade, not kill him, and it took

 surprisingly few blows to soften him up. Despite his tough looks, he had

 no tolerance for pain.

 "Frank Paco--said--I--just a job--" he burbled through a bloody nose.

 "He your boss?"

 "Yeah." Sniff.

 "He wanted me dead? Why?"

 He coughed messily.

 "Why?"'

 "You wouldn't talk."

 I got the handkerchief again and wiped his nose. "Neither are you."

 "He wanted the list, you wouldn't tell him where, so he-He froze. "How

 did you--it was right in the heart--

 "I got a bulletproof vest. Come on, keep talking."

 Sanderson looked anything but convinced. "You know all this." His voice

 was rising with panic. "Why do you ask, you know all--"

 "What's the boat's name?"

 "Elvira. "

 "What's the list? What's on it?"

 "I dunno--honest, I don't. You got it, you know what's--

 "How did I get it?"

 "I dunno."

 "Answer. "

 "It was Benny Galligar. You got it from him. You got it! I dunno

 nothing, I swear! Just lemme go!" He was all but screaming, and the

 panic had him rolling around, trying to break free. I tapped him again,

 did it too hard, and that ended the questioning for the night. Shoving

 the exasperation to one side, I went over the car again for prints and

 found it was registered to International Freshwater Transport, Inc. It

 might not be of much use, but I filed the name away for future

 reference.

 Outside the car, I wiped the handles clean with the bottom of my coat

 and repeated the action on the passenger side. Sanderson's head was

 lolled over, leaving his neck taut and vulnerable, with the blood-smell

 rising from his body like perfume. I stepped back quickly before

 something regrettable happened, and hurried down the street.

 Sooner or later, God help me, I would have to feed.

 * * *

 The hotel night clerk was half-asleep when I asked for my key.

 "That's two-oh-two?" he mumbled, groping for it, but there was no key

 hanging next to the number. "Hey, you're not Mr. Ross."

 "No, I'm Jack Fleming and I want my key."

 "Fleming? Oh, yeah, we had to move your things out. Don't worry, I got

 them right back here."

 One thing after another. "Why'd you move them out?"

 "Well, you only paid for the one night and when you didn't come back, we

 couldn't leave the room go empty. There's a convention in town an' we

 gotta rent the room while there's business. You know how it is."

 "Yeah, I know. Can I have my stuff?"

 "Sure, no problem." He hauled out a battered suitcase and a smaller, but

 no less battered case that held the means of my livelihood, a

 typewriter. I found my clothes intact, if sloppily folded, and my

 portable seemed to be in working order. While I checked my things, the

 clerk had woken up and was checking me.

 "Been having some trouble?" he asked cautiously. His eyes trailed with

 open curiosity from my unshaved face to my damp, grubby clothes.

 "Something like that." I pulled out another coat from the suitcase,

 turned my back to the clerk, and changed the old for new.

 "Jesus Christ, are you all right? There's a big hole and blood all over

 your back!"

 It was annoying. In sparing the guy the sight of my punctured

 shirtfront, I'd given him the full benefit of the back, where the bullet

 that killed me had exited. I buttoned up the fresh coat and tried to

 bluff it through.

 '' Hey, you shoulda seen the other guy.''

 "No kiddin', there's--"

 "Yeah, well, don't worry about it," I snapped. "The less you know, the

 better for both of us, if you know what I mean."

 "Yeah, sure." He backed off unhappily. Perhaps as a longtime resident of

 Chicago he knew exactly what I meant.

 "Do I owe any on my bill?"

 "Just for one more day, that's all."

 "You could have left things alone for another day, couldn't you?"

 "Huh?"

 "Couldn't you have left my stuff up there for one more day?"

 "Mr. Fleming, you were gone--"

 The man's tone alerted me. "Gone for how long?"

 He looked in his book. "It was right here, you checked in Monday, then

 left your key with the day clerk--

 "Did I get any phone calls?"

 "I dunno, we don't keep records of that. The switchboard girl might

 know. Anyway, when you didn't come back by checkout time Wednesday, we

 packed your things up. It's Friday now and we couldn't keep the room not

 knowing if you were coming back or not, not for no three days we

 couldn't."

 Friday morning.

 I paid up and left the hotel on shaking legs.

 I wandered around for a couple hours, unhappy and frustrated by the

 lapse of memory. Perhaps it was the shock of being killed. Some people

 could block out horrible experiences in that way, and being murdered had

 to rank pretty high up on the horrible-experience list.

 List. Whatever the hell that was.

 Benny Galligar. I might have known him from New York.

 It was getting brighter, the added light hurt.

 The moon was long gone, the stars were fading, and things were brilliant

 enough right now that if I were still out when the sun came up, my

 eyeballs would fry in their sockets. I spotted a hand-painted hotel sign

 at the end of the block and hurried for it.

 At the cost of fifty cents, and that was a severe overcharge, I got a

 monk's cell with a single dirty window overlooking a narrow alley. I

 locked the door, the lock a piece of bent wire that slipped through a

 metal eyelet screwed into the frame. The door still sagged open, so I

 shoved a rickety chair under the knob, but it was even money it'd all

 give way the first time someone breathed on it wrong.

 Despite the limited view, the sunlight might still find a chink in the

 dirt and come in. I thought of sleeping under the bed, but one look at

 the floor changed my mind. I had joined the ranks of the Undead, but

 still retained firm ideas about basic sanitation. A thin blanket hung

 over the window dimmed things, but not by much.

 I dragged my clothes off, poured water into the washbowl, and splashed

 my face and neck. Shaving would have to wait till tomorrow, there was no

 time tonight. It was creepy, anyway, not being able to see my face

 peering out from the mirror. I examined myself without one. Purple and

 black bruises were all over my stomach and flanks, with many short rows

 of small crescent marks that had cut the skin. I could guess they had

 come from brass knuckles. My wrists were encircled with raw-looking

 weals, indications I'd been tied down. Large crescents overlay the

 smaller ones, probably the result of some well-placed kicks.

 I'd seen bodies like this before, but only in the morgue when I'd been

 covering a gang killing. The sight was always sickening. Considering the

 amount of damage I'd taken, the shot in the heart might have been an act

 of mercy. The bullet mark was still there, but looked less ugly than

 before. I felt for the exit hole and found a large rough depression on

 my back. Both were painless. The small circles on my left palm were

 still a puzzle, but they were quickly healing as well, the angry red

 softening to pink.

 The sheer violence that had been directed so personally at me was more

 than enough to leave me emotionally stunned. Why it had happened was a

 total blank and overwhelmingly disturbing on every level.

 I rubbed down with a wet towel and pulled on clean underwear and threw

 out the old. Of the bullet Sanderson had fired, there was no sign,

 except for the holes it left in my clothes. For some reason I thought

 about what my mom once told me concerning underwear and accidents and

 smiled, then my limbs went all stiff and sluggish. The sun had just come

 up.

 Pulling the pillow and spread from the bed, I walked into the closet and

 shut the door. I dropped the linen on the floor to foil any light leaks

 and to put something between me and the dirt, then I dove headfirst into

 the pillow and didn't come up.

 Maybe I expected something like sleep or straight black oblivion, but it

 wasn't that good. Frozen in place for the day, the body was utterly

 still, but occasionally it sent a sensory message along to the brain.

 Hard floor.

 Footsteps somewhere in the building.

 Something crawling on the right hand.

 The brain noted it all, but wouldn't or couldn't respond. It was busy

 dreaming.

 Water, floating, darkness, pressure, blinding light. Cheap birth

 symbolism, but the midwife had brass knuckles and a gun. She had

 Sanderson's grinning face and stood aside so the doctor could aim his

 own gun and blast me back into the dark forever.

 Heat, bad air, clothes soaked with a thousand years of sweat. Voices,

 yelling, wanting something. Where is it? Where did you put it?

 Fighting them, but no control.

 Her hair was a dark nest on the pillow, soft and thick in my fingers.

 Sky blue eyes flushing deep red as I gave her blood and she gave me

 heaven on earth in return. Where are you? Where--

 --did you put it? Just tell us, we'll let you go.

 Liar, I forget. I don't know. I'm dying.

 I'd always bring her flowers. She didn't eat candy. She never ate. Our

 private joke.

 Leave me alone, I don't have it, but they kept at me, killing an inch at

 a time.

 Books tumbled open, the words clear and sharp and utterly false.

 Thousands of books lined up in uneven rows like an army before the

 uniforms are issued. One thick black book, almost, but not quite true.

 Her thick dark hair--forget the books, just love her, that's all she

 really wants. Give her--

 --the list, where did you put it?

 Where did you go? Why did you leave me?

 A boat, a big one, but the water still closes over us all, pulling us

 down into the cold--

 --and stiff, I've got to move. If I can just move I'll stop dreaming.

 God, let me sleep or wake, but not this.

 No control.

 A man screaming.

 Falling.

 Dying.

 No control.

 Sunset.

 Release.

 Chapter 2

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 I PUSHED THE pillow away and forced air into the dormant lungs. The

 dream dance whirled away into nothing, leaving a cold, stiff, frightened

 man to deal with the memory. Why hadn't she told me about the dreams?

 She told me what to do when death-time came, but never mentioned this.

 Maybe it was just trauma, maybe it would fade eventually, for now there

 was nothing I could do but try to shrug it off and get dressed.

 It was something of a trick to shave without looking, but if I got

 nicked I never felt it. It'd be interesting when it came time for a

 haircut, I'd yet to see a barbershop without a mirror.

 My other suit was too heavy for the weather, but the heat didn't seem to

 be bothering me. In a way it was disturbing not to be sweating. I took

 down the blanket, tossed it on the bed and cracked the window for the

 sake of appearance. The spread and pillow joined the blanket, and I shut

 the closet door.

 My shoes squeaked coming downstairs. The dip in the lake hadn't done

 them any good. I dropped the useless room key at the front desk and went

 outside.

 The first trash can I found became home for my bullet-ridden,

 bloodstained clothes. The labels and laundry marks got thrown into a

 storm drain farther down the street.

 A mercenary street kid charged me a nickel for directions to a district

 full of pawnshops. Most of them were closed by now, the ones still open

 didn't have what I needed. I leaned against a doorway, tired and

 restless. My senses were painfully sharp, matching my teeth. I pushed

 the canines back in their sockets with shaking fingers. I'd have to feed

 soon or drop in my tracks.

 The last open shop looked no more promising than the rest, but the first

 thing I saw inside was the big steamer trunk in the middle aisle. It was

 a good three by five feet and solid looking. Except for some travel

 stickers and dust, it was almost new. My satisfaction was apparent to

 the sharp-eyed owner and it took ten minutes to haggle the price down to

 a reasonable level. Once in agreement, money changed hands and I was

 hauling the trunk out the door.

 No cabs were in sight so I was resigned to walking the six blocks back

 to the hotel. The trunk was awkward with its bulk, but oddly lightweight

 because of my new strength. I went as quickly as I dared, hoping other

 pedestrians would be alert enough to get out of the way in time.

 "Hey, buddy, c'mere a minute."

 Startled at being addressed, I paused, then cursed myself. Just like any

 hick fresh off the farm, I was about to be mugged. The man in the alley

 was in deep shadow except where his gun poked out; fat lot of good it

 did him with my night vision.

 "Come on, put down the box and get over here. Now." He waved the gun.

 I eased the trunk to the pavement. I was fast enough now to take the

 guy, but the gun might go off and bring the cops, and I had no desire to

 risk putting bullet holes in my last suit. Wishing hard I were anyplace

 else, I stepped forward.

 The man shimmered, went gray, and vanished. So did the alley.

 As though from a long distance, I heard his yelp of surprise and the

 slap of feet as he ran away. That was of minor concern, though; I was

 having trouble with my senses again. No weight, no form, and just this

 side of total panic; I could see nothing, but was aware of shapes and

 sizes close by. I felt the wind pushing me right through the wall of a

 building, my body(?) was oozing between the cracks in the bricks. I

 shoved away hard and launched myself through the wall of the opposite

 building, and stumbled to my feet in a ladies' clothing store.

 It was great to have feet again and legs and all the other things that

 usually come with a solid body. I leaned on a table, delighted to have

 hands again. Reality was just wonderful

 I looked around and wondered how I was supposed to get out.

 All in all, dematerialization was tough on the nerves, but a hell of a

 great way to avoid a mugging.

 My escape from the dress shop was a reluctant undertaking. Going through

 the doors the usual way required breaking a lock and perhaps setting off

 an alarm. At least the place was closed. My sudden appearance out of

 nowhere might spoil business for the owner though it would have made for

 an easier exit out a door. I wasn't sure I could repeat the trick. In

 retrospect it seemed more instinctive than conscious, like trying to

 swim when thrown into water for the first time. Don't panic and the body

 would do all the rest.

 The third try was successful.

 One second I was in the shop, the next, outside with the trunk and

 making sure my body was all there. Everything was intact, but I was very

 tired and my throat ached with thirst.

 I turned the room light on out of habit, then squeezed the trunk through

 the door. Between it, the bed, and my belongings, it was beginning to

 look like a set from a Marx Brothers movie. I sank onto the creaking

 chair and miserably considered food. There was no way I could cheat

 around my condition. The mere thought of going out for even the rarest

 of steaks made me nauseous, but that in turn led to another thought.

 Hurrying downstairs, I whistled up a cab. By the time one arrived I was

 twitching with restlessness. I forced myself to move sedately getting in

 and remembered to sit close to the door to be out of sight of the

 rearview mirror.

 "Where to, mister?"

 "The Stockyards," I lisped around my teeth.

 We crossed water twice to get there, the opposing natural force pressing

 me hard into the seat as the cab lurched forward. The pressure was

 uncomfortable but bearable. The roaring emptiness inside was far worse.

 "You all right, mister?" the driver asked as I paid him.

 I nodded without speaking and kept my eyes down, not wanting to frighten

 him. I felt strange and no doubt looked strange. The last time I was

 this way a man had fainted, and a repetition of the experience would be

 inconvenient now.

 The air was permeated with the smell of blood. There were other smells,

 but this was the one that cut through them all and gave me a direction

 to follow.

 The place was full of people and noise, train whistles shrieked, cattle

 lowed and bellowed, men shouted and cursed--men were everywhere,

 including where I wanted to go.

 I went in, anyway.

 At this point I was challenged only once by a large specimen who, from

 the size of his shoulders, looked like he swung the sledgehammers that

 sent the animals on their final journey to the dinner tables. I couldn't

 understand what he was saying to me, except it was hostile in some way.

 He was nothing less than an annoying obstacle to walk past, but he

 stopped me with a slab of a hand.

 This kind of behavior irritates me at the best of times, but I was now

 to the point of physical pain. I swatted his hand away and snarled some

 threat, a mild enough reaction considering how badly I felt. We locked

 eyes in anger for an instant and for the first time I became aware of

 another human mind.

 I told him to leave, and from my brief contact with him knew he thought

 his sudden retreat was his own idea. I wanted to think about this, to

 examine and test it to make sure it was not just imagination, but

 something stronger and much more insistent was in charge. All it wanted

 was to end the desperate, empty agony that was turning me inside out.

 Clear thought blurred and faded, the body was taking over in order to

 survive. It needed privacy from the interference of others; sought and

 found it among the more distant cattle pens. It wanted a quiescent

 victim and chose the least alarmed animal from the dozen that milled

 around the enclosure.

 Here, too, was a mind; an alien one to my own, with simple dull impulses

 I could override. It stood rooted as I approached because I wanted it to

 do so. I drew close and touched one of its big surface veins, nearly

 sobbing with relief. For what I had to do there was no conscious thought

 or the least anticipation of revulsion. This was now normal if I wanted

 to survive. I closed in, intuitively knowing what to do, cutting neatly

 through the thick flesh with my teeth to open the vein.

 Warm and rich with life, it pulsed into my mouth.

 No more than a minute passed and I had all I needed. I released the

 animal; physically, mentally, and gratefully. A little blood dribbled

 from the wound, but soon stopped and it mingled with others, apparently

 none the worse for wear. I leaned against a fence rail and wiped my lips

 clean with a handkerchief. The pain and tunnel vision were gone, it was

 like waking up from the day's bad dreams. I had only to shake off the

 memory and start functioning again. My first idea was to leave the

 Stockyards as discreetly as possible. My newly learned vanishing trick

 might come in handy, but I'd have to wait awhile on that one and get

 used to the idea.

 Prosaically using my old dependable legs, I left the place and found a

 taxi, returned to the hotel, and had it wait. Upstairs, I threw my stuff

 in the trunk, carried it down, and checked out. The driver and I managed

 to secure the thing to the car. It stuck out the back, but was in no

 immediate danger of falling into the street.

 I hunched down in the backseat and asked to be taken to the same train

 station that had welcomed me to the city two days ago. Correction, six

 days ago, but I'd think about the amnesia later, right now I felt like a

 finalist from a dance marathon. It was not enough to feed and shut out

 the sunlight, I had to have earth around my body and it would have to be

 soon. I had to go home.

 Once at the station, I booked the trunk on the next train to Cincinnati.

 By the time a man came for it, I was already inside. To my delight I was

 able to vanish and reform without trouble and without disturbing the

 lock or thick leather straps. Gingerly perching on the typewriter case,

 I braced my arms against the sides and held the suitcase in place with

 my knees to keep things from rattling too much as I was bumped from one

 end of the station to the other. Packed in like a living pretzel, the

 trunk didn't seem nearly so large, but from the grunts and curses

 outside, the porter disagreed.

 The trip, at least at night, was very boring. I initially suffered

 through a couple bouts of mild claustrophobia, but was far too weary to

 let the cramped quarters get to me. I kept movement to a minimum, not

 wanting to alarm the baggage man, but still shifted around, vainly

 seeking a more comfortable position. It was tempting to get out and take

 a walk, but I was abnormally tired and unsure of my ability to get back

 inside again. At least I didn't need air.

 The train crawled toward Cincinnati, but the sun came up before we got

 there, and I was trapped in the dark with senseless memories for the

 day. It was just as bad as the last dream bout, but faded sooner, and

 when the train stopped I'd slipped into a semi-aware trance that brought

 no rest, but did abridge the passage of time. When night came again I

 was stationary and correctly guessed from the intrusive sounds that the

 trunk had been unloaded and was waiting to be claimed.

 I felt marginally better just being in Cincinnati, and drifted easily

 from the trunk to reform in a crouch among the other baggage. When no

 one was looking I slipped out and blended in with the rest of the

 travelers, keeping my hat pulled low. This was my hometown and I had a

 lot of friends, the last thing I wanted was to renew old acquaintances.

 Once outside, I ducked into a cab and gave directions that took us north

 of town and down a narrow, unlit rural road. The driver got a little

 nervous after awhile and asked me if I was sure I knew where I was

 going. I was sure, as sure as an iron filing knows where the magnet is.

 I had him stop and asked if he minded waiting.

 "Waiting for what? There's nothing out here."

 I took out a dollar bill and told him that was his tip, tore it in two,

 and gave him half. He still looked apprehensive.

 "I'll have to keep the meter running."

 That was fine. I left the road and walked up an overgrown private lane.

 Grandfather's farm was deserted now and the place seemed smaller than

 I'd remembered. In truth, the land around had shrunk over the years,

 sold off a few acres at a time to make the taxes. My father refused to

 sell the house itself, though, or the immediate acreage, not that there

 were many buyers these days. Grandfather and Great-Grandfather Fleming

 and their families were buried here along with a lot of memories. Run

 down as the place was, I was glad it was still ours.

 My parents lived in a smaller, more modern house in the city. Mom

 treasured her gas stove and indoor plumbing; no one lived out here

 anymore. I looked up at a corner window on the second floor that marked

 the room I'd been born in. This was my home as I'd never known it

 before, the house standing on the living earth I needed to survive.

 Searching the barn turned up some old feed sacks in good enough

 condition to use once the dust and field mice had been shaken out.

 Taking four sacks, I doubled them one inside the other, making two

 sturdy bags. Another search turned up a ball of twine and a rusty shovel

 with a broken handle. It would do. What it lacked in leverage I could

 make up for in strength.

 The cemetery grounds were still cared for, indicating Dad's occasional

 presence. I cleared a patch under the big oak tree of leaves and acorn

 husks and began shoveling dirt into the bags, working over a large area

 so the missing soil would be less noticeable. When the bags were

 three-quarters full I twisted the ends and tied them up tight with the

 twine.

 Despite the hard work I was no longer tired.

 A big stone that hadn't been there on my last visit a few years back was

 marking Grandfather's grave. I went over to touch the cool gray granite.

 The previous wood marker had borne the same deeply chiseled letters that

 spelled out my own name.

 In Memory Of

 JONATHAN RUSSELL FLEMING

 -

 I was glad no sentimental phrase was carved under the date, nothing

 would have been appropriate. A man like Grandfather or the family's

 feelings for him could not have been so neatly summed up.

 When I was eight, my puppy died. Like me it had been the runt of a

 litter of seven, and for that reason it was my favorite. With the

 dreadful practicality to be found on working farms, the body was

 disposed of in the trash burner. Unable to accept the idea, I hid under

 the porch all day holding the limp little ball of fur and wishing it

 back to life again. When the family missed me, I ignored their calls.

 After all, they'd ignored me and it was only fair.

 In the end Mom found me and dragged me out, promising certain doom on my

 backside as soon as I dropped my britches. Even at that early age I was

 mulishly stubborn, refusing to participate in my punishment and

 resisting all efforts to be separated from the puppy.

 Grandfather interfered.

 "Not this time," he told Mom. "I'll take care of him. I'm not as mad as

 you are." He took my hand and we walked down to the graveyard and sat

 under the oak tree.

 "You shouldn't have hidden out, Jack," he said at length.

 "No, sir. But they were going to burn Pete, and I don't want him to go

 to Hell." I held my breath; it was the first time I'd used a bad word.

 Incredibly, Grandfather nodded. "I see what you mean. Would you feel

 better if we buried him proper?"

 "Yes, sir, but I don't want him dead."

 "Neither do I, but there are a lot of things we can't do anything about,

 and death is one of them."

 "Why?"

 The old man considered the question awhile, trying to gear the answer

 for an eight-year-old mind. "You like summer, don't you?"

 "Yes, sir, no school."

 "But if it lasted all the time you might get tired of it, don't you

 think?"

 "I dunno."

 "When school comes along in the fall and you get to see all your friends

 again, aren't you glad of the change?"

 "I guess."

 "And when winter comes you do different things because of the snow, and

 that's a nice change, too."

 "Yes, sir."

 "Well, now--this is the interesting part, Jack--dying is a change, too,

 just like the seasons. People live in the spring like you and your

 brothers and sisters, they grow up to a long summer and autumn like your

 parents and me, and then sooner or later they die, and that's like

 winter. It's not a bad thing--it's only a change."

 "But don't people go to Heaven?"

 "Sure they do, but they have to change, they have to die to get there.

 Some folks are even glad of the change because it means they'll have no

 worries and something different to do. When your Grandma was dying years

 ago she was hurting and tired; she was ready for a change. We were sad

 when she was gone, but we also knew she wasn't hurting anymore. We knew

 she's gone to Heaven and was happy."

 Grandfather's voice had cracked. I was stunned to see tears rolling down

 his lined face. He pulled out a bandanna and wiped them away.

 "Now, I don't know everything, but I'll just bet you Pete was hurting

 somehow and knew he needed to die, and when he did, he didn't hurt no

 more. He didn't want to make you sad, but he just couldn't help it."

 "So he changed?"

 "Yes."

 "So he's in Heaven?"

 "I don't see why not, but it doesn't really matter what happens to his

 little body, it's all the same to him. The part of him that you loved

 isn't here no more--he changed. What really matters is that you know

 about this and that it's all right to feel sad. It's also good to be

 happy when you remember how he made you happy while he was around."

 I thought about it hard while we buried the puppy near the oak tree,

 ringing the small grave with some stones. Halfway through the job I

 started crying, and Grampy loaned me his bandanna without a word and

 went on with the work. When he finished, he looked up at the northern

 horizon and took a deep, cleansing breath.

 "I think winter is coming," he said, and winked at me. It was only

 September; I didn't understand. I did the next morning when we found

 he'd died in his sleep. I was the only one who didn't cry at the

 funeral.

 I couldn't help but think of my own change. "What would you think of me

 now, Grampy?" I whispered at the stone. I could almost sense the big

 bones resting in their pine box, patiently waiting for the Second

 Coming.

 I tossed the broken shovel back in the barn and stalked down the lane,

 the two thirty-pound bags swinging light in my hands.

 The return trip to Chicago was boring, but easier to get through with

 the earth packed into the trunk with me. Rested and more confident about

 vanishing, I spent most of the night sitting on top of the baggage

 reading a dime magazine. I could almost ignore river crossings, and when

 daylight came I was able to truly sleep, or whatever it was. The

 dreaming had faded. The presence of the earth even dulled the next

 night's hunger down to a low-level ache.

 It took a good half hour to claim my trunk. The Chicago station was very

 busy, just as it was when I first arrived. There was a week-old trail to

 pick up on, but I had a good idea about where to start.

 The trunk was laboriously loaded into a cab, and the cab took me to a

 small hotel the driver knew about that was within walking distance of

 the Stockyards. It was a cut above the fleabag I'd last stayed in. For

 ten dollars a week I got heavier curtains, a fan that worked, a radio,

 and a private bath. Its proximity to the Yards must have had an effect

 on the price and the presence of luxury extras.

 Not bothering to unpack or even drop off the key, I left the hotel to

 get some dinner. My visit this time was more discreet; I knew the lay of

 the land better and trusted my disappearing trick to keep me out of

 trouble. It was taking a little practice to get it just right, but I was

 catching on fast. Learning to wiggle my ears as a kid had taken a lot

 longer.

 On the way back, I stopped at a newsstand, bought some local papers, a

 copy of the one I'd worked for in New York, and a street map. The vendor

 gave me directions to the nearest Western Union office. The place was

 open with two fresh-faced young clerks in command. I filled out a

 telegram to my parents saying I'd arrived in the Windy City and managed

 to land a' terrific job at an ad agency and they'd advanced me some

 money for one of my ideas. Along with the message, I sent twenty-five

 dollars. They'd been having hard times since the Crash, and hardly a

 payday passed that I didn't mail them five bucks or so to help out, but

 this time the amount was conspicuously large. They might think I'd

 turned to bank robbery, which wasn't too far off the mark, but the truth

 was hardly something I could tell them about.

 I went back to the hotel. While the tub was filling I read the headlines

 and funnies and jotted notes on the rates for the personal columns.

 Using the hotel stationery, I printed out my usual message, all seven

 words of it, then shut off the tub taps and went downstairs.

 This place actually had a bellboy on duty. He was reading a comic book

 in an alcove with his wooden chair tilted back on two legs, making more

 dents in the floor. I asked him if he wanted to make four bits. He put

 away the book. It took a minute to straighten things out. His usual type

 of errand for a guest was to either locate a female companion or a

 bottle of booze or both, neither of which I had much use for at the

 moment. I gave him the four bits and enough money for him to place my

 message in all the papers I'd bought. It would run for two weeks.

 He promised to do it first thing tomorrow. I told him to bring me the

 receipts in the evening and he'd get another tip.

 Upstairs, my room had steamed up slightly from the bath water, so I

 opened the window and turned on the fan the thoughtful management had

 bolted to a table. It stirred the air around and felt good against my

 skin as I stripped.

 By now the bruising was nearly gone and the scar over my heart was fast

 disappearing. My body was making good use of the fresh blood I'd

 imbibed.

 I studied the tub warily before stepping in, grimacing at the flash of

 apprehension it caused. It was only the free-running stuff I had to

 worry about, really. Nothing happened when I stepped in and soaped up,

 it just felt like something ought to. I sank back and thought about the

 beach perhaps with the water around me I could go back the stars

 had been so bright, the lake stretching on forever silver and black.

 Before the peace of the beach there had been crushing darkness hard

 pressure pushing from all sides, weight dragging me down smothering

 pressure, growing worse--

 I was on my back on the bathroom floor along with a lot of water. The

 pressure was gone, but my left hand twitched as though electricity were

 running through it. My body trembled uncontrollably. It lasted a moment

 more, scaring the hell out of me, then abruptly stopped.

 If it brought this kind of reaction, I wasn't so sure now I wanted to

 remember my death. I dressed, nervously tried to push the incident from

 my mind, and vowed never to relax in a tub again.

 It was past midnight when I stepped out into the humid air and turned

 right. The address I wanted had been in the phone book and the map said

 it was on the same side of the Chicago River as my hotel. After spending

 the last two nights cooped up in a trunk I wanted a long walk. At least

 it would save on cab fare.

 Forty minutes later I reached the warehouse offices of International

 Freshwater Transport, Inc. There was no dark green Ford in the street. I

 didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

 The front door was a thick, no-nonsense steel thing. I tried to go

 through the metal, but found it to be more dense than building bricks or

 my trunk and couldn't pass until I slid under the thin gap between the

 door and threshold. I felt like sand dribbling through the skinny part

 of an hourglass.

 This operation had no budget for extras. The reception office was a

 small area divided from the warehouse by wood planks nailed to

 two-by-four framing. There was a steel desk, some broken-in chairs, and

 a couple file cabinets, suspiciously unlocked. The papers inside were

 routine and therefore useless.

 The desk held the promise of a single locked drawer that I opened with

 the help of a letter opener. Inside were two ledger books, the last

 year's and this year's, and a half-full fifth of whiskey. After looking

 at the books, it became obvious the drawer had been locked because of

 the whiskey. IFT, Inc. was just what its name suggested: shipments came

 in, stayed at the warehouse, and then continued to their destinations.

 Most of the traffic was between the U.S. and Canada, hence

 "international" in the title. Maybe it looked good on the letterheads.

 Maybe Sanderson's car was stolen, in which case I was wasting my time.

 I flipped through more papers lying on the desktop. Nothing. The blotter

 on the desk was a giant calendar. It was the last week of the month and

 covered with old doodles and odd notes. The first Monday was circled in

 red with an underlined notation. The ink had gotten smeared by something

 wet, so the specifics were lost, but there was one clear name in the

 mess.

 Mr. Paco. Something or other--Mr. Paco.

 Sanderson's boss. At least there was a connection, so I went through all

 the papers again more carefully, but had to give up. Aside from the

 single name on the blotter he wasn't mentioned again, but I went through

 the tried-and-true motions. I noted down names and addresses, anything

 that might prove useful later on. Taking no chances, I wiped away my

 fingerprints on the unlikely idea they might call the cops when the

 broken drawer was discovered. Finished with the office, I checked out

 the warehouse.

 It was big, of course, and despite my now-excellent night vision,

 gloomy, but that was only an emotional reaction. The actual level of

 light was more than sufficient. Predictably, it was filled with hundreds

 of wooden crates, each labeled and neatly stacked. Some were marked as

 farm equipment, others as spare parts, nothing there was of a perishable

 nature. I pried open a box and rooted around in the packing material,

 finding new metal junk that did indeed look like spare parts to

 something. The operation looked well organized and aboveboard, and

 nothing, absolutely nothing, was familiar to me.

 It was a quarter to four when I got back to my room. I thought I should

 feel tired, but wasn't, that I should be hungry, but there were no

 pangs. All the things one usually felt after an extended errand weren't

 there, and I missed them. I missed being human, even the physical

 discomforts would have been welcome. I was depressed and couldn't even

 get drunk to forget it.

 My trunk was unlocked.

 I stopped being depressed and got scared instead.

 The lid flipped up. I was hardly aware of doing it. My eyes vainly tried

 to focus on something that should have been there but wasn't.

 My precious bags of earth were gone.

 In their place was a folded piece of hotel paper. I grabbed it up. The

 paper was covered with cramped, precise handwriting.

 Dear Sir:

 You do not know me but, as you may gather, I know something of you. If

 you would learn more, meet me at the address below. I shall be there

 until dawn. You should have no difficulty locating the street, as it

 serves the Stockyards.

 Hopefully, A Friend

 Chapter 3

 =========

 WITH GREAT CARE I refolded the paper, thinking furiously. I knew no one

 in town, unless I counted Fred Sanderson, and the note sounded too

 high-tone for his ilk. The writer was certainly aware of my nature since

 he'd taken my earth. He also had to be crazy. Who else but a complete

 nut would want to make friends with a vampire?

 The map verified the meeting place was indeed only a few blocks from the

 Stockyards, no more than a ten-minute walk.

 I made it in four.

 Clearly aware it could be some sort of trap, I wavered awhile, torn

 between curiosity and caution. Grabbing the trunk and running back to

 Cincinnati was an attractive option, but the identity of my

 correspondent would remain a mystery, and probably one I couldn't

 afford. Somewhere down the line I'd been very careless.

 Curiosity and the need to recover my earth won out, but I still checked

 the area before going in. It was a business district, with small stores

 at street level and a scattering of offices on the upper floors. Many of

 them were empty, the rest were struggling hard to reach the prosperity

 which was supposed to be just around the corner. I circled the entire

 block of buildings slowly, making sure there were no surprises trying to

 hide in the shadows. Except for a few parked cars with cold motors, the

 place was deserted and asleep.

 There was one lit window in the building I wanted, up on the second

 floor. Blinds were drawn over the glass. I could see nothing from the

 street.

 Inside, I climbed the stairs as quietly as possible, but the caution was

 wasted. Between the odd loose board and my shoes, the squeaks were

 deafening to my ears. At the landing were two doors facing each other

 with opaque glass panels set in them and numbers painted on the glass.

 The one with light shining on the other side was on the left. I went

 still and listened; in the room beyond a single set of lungs pumped

 shallowly.

 Pressing hard against the wall to present a narrow target, I turned the

 knob slowly and pushed. The door swung open easily and without a creak.

 I could hear a heart now and it began beating rapidly. His lungs worked

 faster to keep pace. Given the circumstances, mine would be, too, if

 they still worked regularly.

 The man's voice was belyingly calm. "I gather you found my note. Good

 evening to you, sir. Would you care to step into the light so we might

 better see each other?" He had a very distinct British accent.

 I hadn't any better ideas and eased away from the wall. Inside was a

 small, plain room with a single wooden desk facing the door. The man

 standing behind it was in his mid-thirties, tall and on the thin side,

 with a bony face and beaky nose. His sharp gray eyes were fixed on me

 and gleaming with excitement.

 On the floor next to the desk were my two bags of earth. He followed my

 look and took on an apologetic tone.

 "I hope you weren't offended by the theatrics, but it was the one thing

 I could think of that would guarantee your coming here."

 I was angry and let it show. He stiffened and clutched at something on

 his desk. Whatever it was lay under an open newspaper. It was too big

 for a handgun and the wrong shape for a rifle. I made myself calm down;

 he'd gone to considerable trouble and risk to get me here, I'd at least

 hear him out. A few moments passed with the two of us waiting for the

 other to make a move. His breathing evened out and I relaxed my posture.

 "You seem to know who I am," I ventured.

 "I only know the name you gave on the hotel register. However, I do know

 what you are."

 "And what do you plan to do about it?"

 "That depends entirely upon yourself." He gestured with his free hand at

 a chair near the desk. "Perhaps you would like to make yourself more

 comfortable, Mr tell me, is it really Robinson?''

 "Jack will do for now, and I like it out here well enough." I was

 acutely aware of the man's scrutiny, as if he were expecting something

 from me.

 "Then it is true."

 "About what?"

 "That you cannot enter a dwelling without an invitation. I occasionally

 live here, you see."

 I was liking the situation less and less. "Just tell me what you want."

 "Yes, I see I'm being unfair, but I don't know you and have no reason to

 trust you."

 "I could say the same thing." No invisible force like the want of an

 invitation was keeping me outside, only natural caution. I first wanted

 to know what he was hiding under the paper, and it did no harm to have

 him underestimating my abilities.

 "Indeed, but then you are a much more dangerous person than I am if all

 the stories are true."

 Great, the guy really was crazy. "How dangerous are you?"

 "To you, at least during the day, I might prove to be very deadly.''

 He was perfectly right. He knew my hotel and might have means of finding

 out where I'd go should I decide to bolt for home, or I could walk in

 and grab my earth and discover the hard way what he had under the paper.

 He watched me thinking it out. "I only said that to keep you here; I'm

 hoping you'll understand I need not be an enemy."

 "What are you, anyway, some kind of--Van Helsing?" I nearly said

 Renfield and changed it only at the last second.

 He was amused. "So you've read Dracula!"

 "Yes, and seen the movie." -

 "What did you think of it?"

 "They could have done worse."

 "Was it very accurate?"

 "In what way?"

 "Concerning yourself, of course."

 "I have yet to stalk around in a cape and tuxedo and drool over feminine

 throats."

 "But you do have to drink blood?"

 I found that very difficult to acknowledge.

 "Why are you so uncomfortable with that concept?"

 "Why are you so damned nosy? What do you want?"

 "I apologize. I am being frightfully rude to treat you like a lab

 specimen. Please don't be offended that I got carried away."

 The man seemed genuinely sincere. I shrugged. "I'm a journalist, I know

 how it is."

 "Thank you. What paper do you work for?"

 "I don't. I quit the one I worked for in New York and came here."

 "And?"

 "And nothing. I've been too busy to look for a job."

 "How odd you should need one. I would have thought that over the years

 you would have accumulated sufficient funds to be very comfortable."

 "You haven't quite got the right idea about me."

 "What do you mean?"

 "I mean I'm still new at this; I'm just four days old."

 That made him pause. "You've been a vampire for only four days?"

 "Nights, if you want to be accurate."

 "How utterly fascinating."

 "If you say so."

 "Could you tell me how you came to be this way? Were you attacked by a

 vampire?"

 The melodramatic question made me smile. I shook my head. "It's kind of

 a long story"

 He took the hint. "May I have your word that you won't tear me to pieces

 if I ask you in?"

 "It's not worth much since you don't know me."

 He shrugged. "You took a chance coming here. I'll risk it."

 A crazy man or a brave one. "You got it. Besides, this is my last good

 suit, I don't want to ruin it."

 If the joke was funny, he didn't laugh. "Very well, Jack, enter freely

 and of your own will."

 "Don't you think that sounds a little corny?"

 "It does at that, but does it work?"

 I walked in slowly, making a show of it. His heart was going like a

 hammer, but his face was calm; a frightened man, but good at hiding it.

 The idea that I was the inspiration for all this fear made me

 uncomfortable and nervous, so I'd have to put us both at ease. I stuck

 out my hand.

 "Jack Fleming."

 He carefully switched hands under the paper and gripped mine briefly.

 "Charles Escott."

 "Glad to meet you."

 "Please sit down." He again indicated the chair next to his desk. Good

 Lord, but we were so polite and formal.

 I sat and tried to look harmless. After a moment, he sank into his own

 chair, his eyes never leaving me. Whatever he expected me to be like,

 he'd apparently overestimated my ferocity. I hadn't been ferocious in

 years. Escott's heart slowed down and I breathed a mental sigh of

 relief.

 "It must be obvious that I am intensely curious about you," he said. "I

 would very much like to hear your story, if you don't mind telling it."

 I chewed my lower lip and did my own sizing up of him, look for look and

 his surroundings. There were two doors: the one I used and another

 behind Escott. The walls were bare of any kind of decoration but white

 paint. The place gave no clue to his personality, the man himself was

 the only clue. Piercing, intelligent eyes, thin lips, nervous hands; he

 reminded me of one of my long-ago college professors. His clothes were

 neat and nondescript; not expensive, not cheap, ordinary and therefore

 unnoticeable. I'd already figured he'd been following me around. He must

 have been good at it since I'd been looking over my shoulder all

 evening.

 "Do you plan to shoot me with whatever you have under the paper?''

 "Sorry, I'm just naturally cautious." He drew the paper away to reveal a

 cocked crossbow.

 This time the man knew his stuff. If anything could hurt me, it would be

 the wooden shaft lying ready in the contraption. I regarded it with some

 respect. "If it makes you more comfortable, you can keep it, just don't

 shoot me."

 Escott's brows went up, surprised that I had given him such permission.

 It indicated that I could take the thing away from him if I chose. I was

 sure I could, but not anxious to force the issue. He took his hand from

 the trigger, but left the weapon within reach.

 Having come to a sort of mutual truce, I felt more like talking.

 "It started in New York a couple years ago. There was a big publicity

 build for the movie Dracula. It was quite a hit, women fainting in the

 aisles and that sort of thing. My editor sent me down to interview

 people who'd seen the show, and write up about how scared they were. It

 was all pretty predictable stuff, but then I met this girl who thought

 the whole thing was terribly funny. She was really beautiful. We got to

 talking about the supernatural. At first I thought she might be into

 spiritualism or astrology or some other silliness, but she wasn't. She

 was like a butterfly collector I once knew.''

 Escott made an expression indicating he needed that one explained.

 "He had hundreds of butterflies, he knew all about them, and was willing

 to learn more, but he never actually wanted to be one. She was like

 that. She knew a lot, liked to talk, but didn't believe in it for a

 minute."

 "I see. I gather you liked her."

 "I fell in love the second I saw her." I left it at that, not knowing if

 Escott could possibly understand. I drew more air and went on. "We

 dated, just like a couple of kids, and one night she asked me over to

 her house. We ate dinner, at least I did. She never ate with me when we

 were out; I thought she was just kidding me along because of the movie.

 It was a private joke for us, you know? After dinner we listened to the

 radio, danced a little" My voice was getting thick, I couldn't help

 it.

 "Mr. Fleming, if this is too personal to you, you needn't go on."

 I pulled myself together. "Thanks. You get the idea of what it all led

 up to, going into details--'

 "I understand." He sounded as though he really did.

 "After that, we were together all the time, at least at night. It was no

 joke, she really was a vampire, but it didn't seem to matter much. I was

 in total possession of my faculties, too. I did research on the subject,

 of course, and talked to her about it. None of the books I found on

 vampirism remotely mentioned anything about what we had or felt for each

 other. They were full of a lot of stories of helpless victims and

 bloodthirsty attackers; kind of sick stuff, really. If you want to get

 psychological you could call it symbolic rape. When you get into the

 Freudian end of things it really gets weird, but none of that had

 anything to do with the reality we shared."

 "During this relationship did you--was there ever an exchange of blood?"

 He kept his voice carefully neutral.

 "Yes," was my brief reply.

 "The purpose of this exchange was to eventually make you like her?"

 "If it worked."

 "Worked?"

 "She said it didn't always work or else the world would be hip-deep in

 vampires. Almost everyone is immune to it, you see. It's like a very

 rare disease: some people can't catch it even if they want to."

 "You wanted to?"

 "For us to always be together, yes, and she did what she could toward

 that end, but it was never certain. We'd have no way of knowing until

 the day I died, but at least until then we'd always be together."

 "But something happened?"

 The words were sticking in my throat. "We had a date. I went to her

 house to pick her up and she wasn't there. She didn't have a lot of

 possessions, but a few clothes and toiletries were gone and she left the

 rest of her stuff like she meant to come back. Later I got a card in the

 mail. She said she was having some trouble, that some people were after

 her because of what she was, and to look out for them. She'd come back

 when it was safe. That was five years ago." I left unsaid the weeks of

 worry, fear, and frustration and the months spent trying to find her. In

 five years the pain had not faded and the wound was still raw to touch.

 He saw it on my face. "I'm very sorry."

 "I think maybe they found her." I got up suddenly and paced around

 the room, trying to work off the build of emotional energy. My back to

 him, I paused to look through the blinds at the empty street below.

 "You're the only one I've ever told the whole story to."

 "I apologize for forcing the confidence. It shall not be repeated to

 anyone."

 I believed him. "Thanks." After a while I got control again and sat

 down. "Life went on, I guess. I finally decided to leave New York. Last

 Monday I breezed into town, found a flop for the night, got a phone call

 and walked out. Sometime Thursday night or Friday morning last I woke up

 dead on a beach just west of the city.''

 He took a moment to digest it. "Who called you?"

 "I don't know, it might be someone named Benny Galligar."

 "How did you die?" He made it sound like an ordinary question.

 "I was shot. Before that I was beaten up badly."

 "Who did it? Why?"

 "I don't know!"

 "You don't--

 "Between Monday afternoon and Friday morning I can't remember a damned

 thing."

 "How extraordinary."

 "If you say so." Then I finished the rest of my story.

 "How utterly extraordinary."

 "You're repeating yourself."

 "Yours is a fascinating case."

 "You sound like a doctor. What are you, anyway? It's your turn to talk."

 "Certainly I owe you that. I'm a private agent; people bring me their

 problems and I try to help them. The vernacular here would be private

 investigator, but I find that particular label and its attendant

 connotations can give people the wrong idea about my work."

 "You mean you don't do divorces."

 He stifled a smile and leaned forward clasping his hands together. "Mr.

 Fleming, if you have no objections, I'd like very much to help you

 discover what occurred to you in those missing days--to help you solve

 your own murder, if you will."

 "Well, I don't know--"

 "We could be of great help to one another."

 "I'm listening."

 "For instance, you're a newcomer to the city, but I know it very well. I

 know the people who run things and the people who control them. Capone

 may be gone now, but the gangs are still active and they are very

 powerful. Frank Paco heads one of them. If he had you killed he must

 have had a very good reason."

 He straightened, reaching for the crossbow. I tensed and then relaxed.

 He'd been looking for a pipe that had gotten shuffled under the paper.

 "Do you mind?"

 "No, go ahead."

 "It sometimes helps me to think, mostly it keeps me awake." He tilted

 the chair back after the pipe was drawing, and stared at the ceiling. I

 stared at my shoes and thought about getting another pair the next

 night. These looked like something off a bum, but worse. The pipe smoke

 gradually added a pungent flavor to the air, but for some reason it made

 me uncomfortable and I considered pulling the blinds up to improve the

 air circulation.

 He was staring at me with open curiosity, and I was beginning to think

 it was his favorite expression.

 "Excuse me, but are you breathing at all?"

 "Only when I talk. I'm afraid it comes with the condition."

 "In the winter you shall have to remember to wear a scarf over your

 mouth or people might notice."

 "I hadn't thought of that. Listen, do you mind answering some of my

 questions?''

 "Not at all."

 "How did you find me and know what I am?"

 "I confess to a lifelong interest in the outre, but never expected to

 come face-to-face with a living, so to speak, example. I first saw you

 at the railway station and was instantly struck by the fact that we

 physically resemble each other, though of course, you're a bit younger."

 "I don't think so. How old do I look?"

 "No more than twenty-three or -four."

 "But I'm thirty-six," I protested.

 "Perhaps it's part of your changed condition. That is very interesting.

 But to continue, I enjoy watching people: I note their mannerisms,

 walks, faces, but I don't like to get caught doing it, that spoils the

 fun. People draw the wrong conclusions or become offended or both, so I

 practice covert observation."

 "Come again?"

 "I don't get caught watching. I follow them, face one direction and look

 in another--and I study their reflections in mirrors."

 "I didn't notice any mirrors."

 "True, but there were several panels of glass available that served just

 as well. Even the window on the door of the cab you took was useful. I

 saw your trunk and the porter, but could not see you. Something as

 unusual as that could not be ignored, so I followed you in another cab

 to your hotel. I listened as you registered and got your room number and

 the name you gave. When you came back down and went to the Stockyards I

 lost you there somehow, but by great luck you turned up again at a

 newsstand that was on your route home. Then you spent some time at a

 Western Union office, and when you left I tried to find out the nature

 of the telegrams you sent. To their credit, the employees were quite

 reticent, though one did mention you'd sent money to your mother. Then I

 had to leave, lest I lose you. I set up a vigil at your hotel, intending

 to call on you during the day to see if my suspicions were correct. You

 left again some time later, so I seized the opportunity to search your

 room.

 "Once inside, I took the liberty of going through your luggage and found

 those two bags of earth. It gave me quite a turn, because up to then I

 was still only half believing what my eyes had told me. Of course, you

 might have had some other reason for currying them around, but it would

 hardly explain your lack of a reflection. I wanted to meet you and talk,

 but had to do it without placing myself in unnecessary danger. It would

 have to be under controllable conditions. My knowledge of vampires is,

 at present, limited to Stoker's book and that film. I had to hope they

 were correct. Leaving you my note, I took your bags to guarantee your

 coming, and set my defenses."

 "Just the crossbow?"

 "And the hope that you could not cross the threshold without an

 invitation."

 "That's it?"

 He opened the desk drawer and drew out some garlic and a large crucifix.

 He was puzzled when I didn't flinch away, and his eyes went wide with

 alarm when I actually picked them up. 1 wrinkled my nose at the garlic,

 but then I never did like the stuff I gave it back to Escott. "You can't

 win them all."

 Hi fingered the cross with astonishment. "But I thought--"

 "Yeah, 1 did, too, once. Look at it this way: I was basically a decent

 guy before someone killed me, and I don't feel any different now. Maybe

 if I were, say, the real Dracula with his life history, I'd twitch if I

 saw a cross, too. As for the garlic, in the part of Europe where it

 originated as a weapon against vampires it's a basic cure for just about

 everything. You got a cold, rheumatism, a headache? Try a little garlic.

 Troubled by vampires? Use garlic, it can't hurt. It can't help, either.

 What good is something that smells bad against someone who doesn't have

 to breathe?"

 "That is a good point," he admitted. "Was I at least right about the

 threshold?"

 " 'Fraid not. How do you think I was able to get into the hotel in the

 first place?"

 "Oh."

 "How did you get into my room?"

 "With the aid of some highly illegal, but very useful lock picks, which

 also served well for your trunk. I must compliment you on that for a

 very good idea; a large trunk is certainly less noticeable than a

 coffin."

 "It was the only thing I could think of. Besides, it beats taking a flop

 in a closet."

 "I'm sure a coffin might bar you from the better hotels as well."

 I gave him a look. He was joking.

 "Why, though? Why get to know me? If you're crazy it doesn't show.''

 "Thank you, I think." He shook his head. "I'm not sure if I can explain

 why. Perhaps I suffer from terminal curiosity. If you'd been a different

 sort of person from what you are, I don't think I'd have taken the

 chance I did tonight."

 "What do you mean?"

 "Well, any man who sends money home to his mother can't be all bad."

 "Good grief."

 "How did you evade me at the Stockyards?"

 "Like this." I vanished, floated through the door, reformed and came

 back inside. Escott hadn't moved a muscle, but his heart was thumping

 hard and his eyes had gone a bit glassy.

 After a long time, he said, "That was very interesting, not to mention

 unnerving. Would you mind doing that again?"

 I didn't mind a bit, it was good practice. He was still unnerved. When I

 thought I had enough control, I tried a partial disappearance while

 still sitting in the chair. It was all pure show-off.

 "That is absolutely astounding," he said. He looked like a kid with a

 new toy. "I can see right through you. It's like a photographic double

 exposure. Can you talk while in this state?"

 I moved my lips, there was still some air left to form words. After a

 second my reply became audible. Faint and hollow, I said, "Don't know,

 haven't tried."

 "It seems the more solid you are the better the quality of sound." He

 stood and reached toward me. "May I?"

 "Sure."

 I was finding it interesting as well, though it was disturbing to see

 Escort's hand passing right through my midsection. I was certain I could

 feel it, like a tickling within.

 "Rather cold," he commented. "And you have a tendency to drift."

 "I have to concentrate when it's like this." I relaxed and materialized

 completely. "It's draining in a way."

 "I should think so. Everything about you vanishes--your clothes and

 effects, that is--I wonder what your limits are." He held out his pipe.

 "Would you mind, just once more?"

 I didn't. Escort took back the pipe and puffed on it. "Still lit I

 find that very interesting."

 "Why?"

 "It means things are unaffected when they go with you. That could prove

 to be very useful."

 I pondered on what he wanted to use it for, disappeared again, and came

 back. "There may be a weight or size limit. I tried to take the chair

 with me this time and couldn't."

 "Perhaps you need more practice. We can research all this thoroughly,

 I'm sure. What you do is certainly not covered by the present laws of

 physics." Another idea struck him. "Are your teeth--may I examine them?"

 I shrugged and opened my mouth.

 "You're very fortunate; they're perfect."

 Erf-ik?"

 "You've never had cavities."

 "Uh-Ah-aah-"

 What?" He let go.

 "But I've had cavities."

 "Then you've no fillings."

 "You sure? Check the back on this side."

 He did and only found unblemished molars. "Your condition is not without

 its beneficial side effects."

 I moaned, "This is getting strange."

 "One more look?" He gently pushed back my upper lip and probed the gum

 area above the canines. "They would seem to be retractable and very

 sharp." He tugged at one. "Extends at a slight outward angle mm

 about half an inch longer than the others." He released the tooth, and I

 felt it slowly slide back. "Extension probably the result of an

 involuntary reflex occurring when stimulated by hunger pangs. Is that

 correct?"

 "Yeah, they come out when I need them."

 "I might like to see that sometime." He fiddled with his pipe.

 I found the man's clinical interest, at least on the subject of my

 dining habits, to be annoying.

 Escott continued to poke and cluck to himself, oblivious to my growing

 irritation. It was like a medical exam, and I never liked medical exams.

 In the end, I had to take off my coat and shirt so he could see the

 bullet scars.

 "There's hardly any mark in front at all now, but there is a large

 discoloration on your back very slight, though, and it appears to

 have shrunk. From your description of the chest wound, I'd say you were

 shot at close range by a large-caliber bullet, perhaps a dum-dum."

 "I took a forty-five auto off Sanderson."

 "I'd wondered what you had that was making your coat pocket sag so. It

 would certainly meet the requirements."

 "Here." I dug it out and gave it to him.

 "And he shot you that second time without harming you?"

 "It hurt and did not improve my suit. I didn't like it at all." I

 buttoned my shirt.

 "I should think not." He looked out the window. "Well, well, it is

 getting rather late for you, and I'm a bit sleepy myself. Could we

 continue this discussion tomorrow at your convenience?"

 "I'd like that, sure."

 "In the meantime, I shall begin inquiries into your case."

 "Well, go easy, you can see how rough these boys play. You better keep

 the gun."

 "Very well, at least as evidence."

 I picked up my bags of earth. "I'll be by a little after sundown."

 "That would be perfect. Good night to you, Mr. Fleming."

 "Good morning to you, Mr. Escott."

 Chapter 4

 =========

 NOT MUCH OF the night was left. If I rushed it I could pull out and find

 another place to stay before the sun caught me. Instead I walked home,

 dumped the bags of earth back in the trunk, and got undressed. My

 instincts about people were fairly sharp by now, and I had a good

 feeling about the man. The question of whether or not to trust him had

 only been briefly considered. With something close to fear I realized I

 was alone, I needed a friend badly.

 There was no hunger the next night, so I could skip visiting the

 Stockyards and go straight to Escott's office. The afterglow of the

 sunset made my eyes burn, though, and I made a mental note to acquire a

 pair of dark glasses at the first opportunity.

 It was only eight. A fair amount of traffic still cluttered the street

 and my mind was on sunglasses, so I almost didn't notice the dark green

 Ford parked in front of Escott's stairway until too late. I approached

 the stair opening and at the last moment continued past without breaking

 stride. Two men were at the top, just emerging from Escott's door.

 I raced around the block to get a good look at them from behind. Peering

 around the last corner, I was in time to see them stowing a long, heavy

 bundle of carpeting into the trunk of the Ford. They were red and

 puffing; their burden seemed overly heavy for its size. The trunk lid

 slammed down and they dusted their hands off. The one on the left had a

 bandaged right forefinger. It was Fred Sanderson.

 Their backs to me, they opened the doors and got in. Before those doors

 shut I was making a beeline for the trunk, crouching low. There was no

 time to try opening it. The engine was kicking over, giving me a face

 full of exhaust. Not having any better ideas, I vanished and seeped

 through the crack between the lid and the car's body before they pulled

 out. I cautiously resumed form again, making sure there was enough room

 to do so.

 I was on my side, crammed uncomfortably against the rug which smelled of

 dust, grease, and other less pleasant things. It was difficult to hear

 well over the rumble of the car, but I was sure I detected muted

 breathing beneath the layers of nap. Reasonably certain it was Escott, I

 hoped we'd stop soon before he smothered. Under the present

 circumstances it was impossible to unwrap him.

 After the first few minutes of the ride I lost all sense of direction

 and had to fight off motion sickness. We crossed water, and soon the

 sound of the wheels on the road steadied. There were no more stops and

 turns, and the speed was steady, so I gathered we were on a highway.

 This was worrying; if the ride were too long, I'd be stuck somewhere

 without my earth, but long before this could become a problem the car

 slowed and made a sharp right turn onto a very bumpy dirt road. We slid

 to a stop and the motor was cut.

 I pressed an ear to the bundle and was reassured by the sound of working

 lungs, though I didn't think their owner was conscious yet. Outside,

 crickets and other small creatures made their little noises. Awkwardly

 close at hand, the two men lurched out of the car. Not wanting to be

 discovered in such a tactically poor position, I floated from the trunk

 and reformed where I hoped I wouldn't be seen.

 Trees were all around, but too sparse to offer adequate cover. When I

 turned to face the car I thought the game was up, Sanderson was looking

 right at me, then his eyes skipped blindly past. He didn't have my night

 vision. His friend even gave him a flashlight to facilitate their work.

 They opened the trunk and with a none-too-gentle wrench, hauled the

 bundle out, and dropped it on the ground. From their movements, I'd have

 to interfere soon, but dark or no dark, I didn't want to risk being

 recognized by Sanderson. I tied a handkerchief cowboy-fashion over my

 lower face, feeling foolish about the melodramatics, then turned up my

 coat collar and pulled down my hat.

 The men were professionally matter-of-fact about their task. They yanked

 one end of the rug up and Escott's unconscious body rolled out onto the

 leaves and dirt.

 "You want to do it here?" the other, younger man asked Sanderson.

 'Nan, we might get blood all over us takin' him to the river."

 "We could carry him in the rug."

 "Georgie," came the patient reply, "we would then have to throw it in

 with him. The boss don't like wasting a good gimmick, he'll want to use

 the rug again someday, and then where would we be? Come on and get the

 legs."

 They grunted and lifted their burden. Before they'd gotten ten feet, I

 darted in and punched Sanderson for all I was worth. I felt and heard

 bones give under my fist. The big man's head snapped back, and he shot

 straight away from me and smashed against a tree.

 His partner had little time to react, but he was fast. He dropped

 Escott's legs and clawing for his gun when I knocked the wind out of him

 with a gut punch. He doubled over with a whoosh and was made unconscious

 by a more restrained tap on the head.

 I tore my mask away and knelt by Escott, checking him over. There was a

 swelling behind his left ear and a little blood from a cut lip, but he

 seemed otherwise uninjured. On a hunch, I searched Georgie and found a

 whiskey flask. I sniffed to make sure it was drinkable and dribbled a

 little into Escott's sagging mouth. I was surprised at my own enormous

 relief when he coughed violently and opened his eyes. He was

 understandably dazed; it took a few more minutes and another swallow

 before he was up to asking questions.

 "Dear me, how ever did we get out here?"

 "By way of the Fred Sanderson taxi service."

 "They caught me like a bloody amateur," he complained, painfully probing

 his lump. "Did they get you, too?"

 "Hardly. I hitched a ride when I saw them load you into the car. Neither

 of them looked like carpet layers." I indicated the discarded rug.

 Escott was unsteady, but made a game effort to get to his feet. I helped

 him. "I am very much in your debt, Mr. Fleming. I hope that I may

 somehow--"

 "Don't worry about it," I interrupted. "You could have aced me with a

 hammer and stake anytime today, but you didn't. We're even."

 "But, my dear fellow, such an action never occurred to me." Escott was

 truly shocked.

 "But I thought of it. The way I am now I gotta be careful who I trust,

 but I know you're gonna be square with me. Now before we get all

 maudlin, let's pack these two mugs in the car and get back home."

 I left the flashlight with Escott and got busy manhandling Georgie into

 the backseat. Having had some practice at it, I removed his tie and

 secured his hands together behind him, then went back for Sanderson.

 Neither of us had to venture very close to know something was seriously

 wrong. Sanderson's utterly loose posture was enough to alert Escott, who

 gingerly felt for a pulse. I already knew that to be a futile effort.

 Escott turned the body face up into the light and his breath hissed

 sharply. I looked quickly away, sickened by what I'd done.

 Twenty minutes later we were almost back in Chicago. Sanderson's body

 was in the trunk, wrapped in the rug. Occasionally Escott would check

 the backseat to make sure the now-blindfolded Georgie was quiet. I'd

 been silent, driving carefully to avoid the unwelcome attention of any

 cop with a quota to fill.

 "You've got to understand," I finally said, "this is scaring the hell

 out of me."

 "I do understand. A healthy dose of fear will certainly temper your

 actions from now on."

 "That's not it. I'm afraid of what I've become. What I did back there--I

 knew what would happen if I hit him like that, and I did it anyway."

 "Good."

 I glanced at him, surprised. His face showed a dour expression that must

 have matched my own. "Good?"

 "Mm. Do you honestly think I harbor any regret or pity for a man who

 would have been the agent of my death and was by your own guess

 responsible for yours? Your feeling of guilt is misplaced. Were our

 positions reversed I should give no more thought to the matter than a

 soldier does when he must shoot at the enemy."

 Half a lifetime ago I had shot at the enemy. I hadn't liked it then,

 either.

 "He would have met his death sooner or later, for such was his life, and

 then at the hands of someone with far less conscience. If it is any

 comfort to you, I'm sure he never knew what hit him."

 " What is the magic word. What have I become? I'm no longer human."

 "That is utter nonsense and for your own good I suggest you put it from

 your head as quickly as possible. Do you in all truth really believe the

 biological changes within you have stripped you of humanity? You still

 possess your mortal clay, you still have emotional needs. I think you

 are giving far too much credence to a fictional character created out of

 the imagination of an actor's manager."

 I gave him a sharp look.

 "No, I'm no mind reader, but I can follow your line of reasoning. The

 character Dracula was a monster. He was also a vampire. You are now a

 vampire, ergo, you are a monster."

 "What makes you think I'm not? Maybe I should pull over and strangle the

 kid in the back."

 "If you feel it's necessary, but you won't."

 He was right, it'd been a stupid thing to say and said in anger.

 "You're feeling guilty, hence this black reaction. Feel guilty if you

 must, but leave self-pity out of it, for it is the most destructive of

 all emotions."

 "What makes you so smart?"

 "I read a lot." He bowed his head in weariness, looking green at the

 edges.

 "You still want to go on after this?" I said, meaning the investigation.

 "Oh, yes, but not just this moment."

 I heard something in the back and checked our prisoner from the mirror.

 "He's waking up," I whispered.

 Escott nodded, tapping his lips with a finger. We kept silent for the

 rest of the trip while Georgie played possum in the backseat.

 Following gestured directions, I negotiated the streets and pulled into

 a no-parking zone. We rubbed the interior down for fingerprints, got

 out, and Escott lifted the hood. He fiddled briefly with something as I

 kept a nervous lookout. We both jumped as the street was filled with the

 earsplitting blare of the car's horn. Escott dropped the hood, swiped at

 it with his handkerchief, then grabbed my arm, and we hustled out of

 sight around a corner.

 "What was that for?" I asked as we left the area.

 "There's a police station not a hundred feet from the car. Once that

 horn gets their attention they can take Georgie in at least for

 disturbing the peace. After they find Sanderson they can become more

 creative in their charges."

 "Why didn't you want to question Georgie about this?"

 "He wouldn't have known anything useful. I'm already certain Paco

 ordered my untimely demise because I was clumsy somewhere in my

 investigations. I did quite a lot of poking around today and he must

 have got the wind up, and can only expect more of the same until one or

 the other of us has been eliminated."

 "You're pretty cool about it."

 "Only because my head hurts too much at the moment for me to be overly

 concerned about the future."

 "You can't go back to your office, they might be watching."

 "I have other places to uh lay low for the time being. However, I

 do have to return to my office to fetch some paperwork; it's too

 important to leave. I'd be most obliged if you accompanied me. I don't

 feel well at all."

 "Be glad to, but what if some of Pace's men are there?"

 "I'm inclined to think only Sanderson and Georgie were involved with

 this job, but we won't know until we get there, which we won't do unless

 we find a cab."

 Taking the hint, I left Escott resting on a bench outside a barbershop

 and went looking, turned up a cab near a hotel, and returned to pick him

 up. He gave directions and paid the driver off some two blocks away from

 our goal. We walked the rest of the way, eyes peeled, and turned onto

 the street that ran behind his office. He approached the door of a

 modest tobacco shop, produced a key, and went in, motioning me to

 follow. It was full of crowded shelves and fragrant smells, the second

 floor was devoted to storage and full of dusty crates. Escott pulled one

 away from the back wall and made something go click. A three-foot-tall

 section fined between the wall studs popped open like a door. Two inches

 beyond this opening was another apparent wall. He put his ear to it and

 listened.

 I made a reassuring gesture, then realized he couldn't see it, for we

 were in almost total darkness. "There's no one on the other side or I'd

 hear them," I murmured.

 "Oh," he said. He pushed on the wall, opening another narrow door, and

 eased himself through. I followed. We were standing in a small washroom,

 but only for a moment. Escott went on to the room beyond.

 I correctly guessed it to be Escott's living quarters behind the office.

 Except for a radio acting as a nightstand next to an army cot and the

 window blinds, the place was depressingly bare; even a hotel room had

 more personality. I found myself fidgeting as Escott moved smoothly

 around in the semidarkness. He'd pulled a suitcase from under the cot,

 opened a tiny closet, and was busily packing.

 "You dropped a sock," I observed.

 "On purpose. Should they send anyone here later I want them to draw the

 conclusion that I've departed in a great hurry, which is what I am no

 doubt doing. Besides, it was developing a hole."

 He went to the office. His desk had been searched. He paused and

 grimaced at the mess, then stopped and grabbed up some scattered papers.

 "I'll have to sort this lot out later," he muttered. The crossbow was

 still on the desk; he picked it up and took it back to the bedroom. I

 wondered what his attackers had thought of it.

 "This will hardly fit in my bag, I'll have to leave it in the tobacco

 shop for the time being. It is a bit too conspicuous to carry right

 now."

 "How did you happen to have it in the first place?"

 "It's a working prop left over from my acting days. I made it for a

 small part I had in the Scottish Play.''

 "The what?"

 "Macbeth," he said sotto voce. "As a weapon these days it's a little

 bulky, but it is powerful, lethal, and silent. I have smaller ones, but

 thought you might be more impressed with something large."

 "You thought right."

 "Then you're certain wood can harm you?"

 "The lady I knew in New York mentioned it."

 "Ah." Escott returned to the washroom and shoved the suitcase through

 the doors, along with the crossbow. He paused at the medicine cabinet,

 dropped some shaving items into his pockets, and then, to my puzzlement,

 tugged at the frame of the cabinet itself. It swung out, revealing a

 flat metal box standing on edge in the space behind. He opened it,

 making sure the papers inside were still intact before taking them away.

 "Who did your carpentry?"

 "Oh, I did it all myself," he said with some pride. "I love this sort of

 thing, don't you?"

 As Escott locked the tobacco shop door, I asked, "Do you own this

 place?"

 "Half of it. The other owner actually runs it. I help him financially

 through these hard times and he helps me by maintaining a good hiding

 place and, if necessary, escape route with twenty-four-hour access and

 egress."

 "Are you rich?"

 "Sometimes." He swayed a little. "Sorry, that bash on the head is making

 itself felt."

 "Lemme take your bag."

 "Only if you insist."

 "Where to now?"

 "I'm not sure. Not knowing just where I slipped up on my investigations,

 I can't be certain which of my other places would be safe."

 "Then stay away from them and get a hotel."

 "Mr. Fleming, I don't think you have grasped the tremendous influence

 the gangs have on this city. If I show my face at the wrong hostel I am

 very likely to get it blown off, putting to naught your efforts tonight

 on my behalf. Within hours, if not already, Paco and his men are going

 to know of my miraculous escape and be looking for me. It's very bad for

 their image when someone thwarts them, you see."

 "Then you'll leave town?"

 "I'm not sure." Beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead and his

 face was gray. He was having some kind of delayed reaction. I caught his

 arm to support him.

 "Hey, you're really sick. Come on, we'll sneak you up the backstairs of

 my hotel, you can flop there."

 "But I really shouldn't--"

 "You can't think in the shape you're in now. You'll be safe enough there

 under my name."

 He protested mildly once more, but now and then everybody needs a

 keeper. I appointed myself his and dragged him off.

 Once back at the hotel, Escott collapsed with a groan on the bed while I

 ordered up some ice and poured out a double from Georgie's permanently

 borrowed flask. With the whiskey on the inside and the ice on the bump

 outside, he went into an exhausted but healing sleep. I was stuck with

 the whole rest of the night and wondering what to do with it when

 someone knocked at the door. It was the bellhop returning with my change

 and receipts.

 "You wasn't here when I came on, or I'da brought 'em sooner."

 "That's all right, I was busy. You got them all?"

 He held up a few pounds of newsprint. "Sure do."

 I tipped him and told him I'd want copies of each paper every night and

 to put it on my bill. He grinned, knowing I'd have to tip him each time

 he brought them up. I winked back and took the papers inside.

 I spent the rest of the evening reading. My notice appeared in the

 personal columns of them all and by some miracle the wording and

 spelling was correct.

 DEAREST MAUREEN, ARE YOU SAFE YET? JACK

 It was the same notice I'd been putting in the papers without a break

 for the last five years. If she were alive, if she only glanced once at

 it, she would let me know. After all this time I'd little hope left.

 Checking the papers for a reply each day and getting none had eroded

 most of it away. I fended off the inevitable depression of

 disappointment by sifting through the rest of the pages.

 The war in Spain was heating up, FDR was confident the economic crisis

 was over, and there was an encouraging rumor on the fashion pages that

 hemlines were going up. The shoe ads reminded me it was high time I did

 something about my footwear, so I squeaked downstairs to look for my

 friend the bellhop. I gave him a picture of what I wanted with my size

 scribbled next to it, five bucks, and a silent blessing for not asking

 questions.

 It was a longer night than usual, with nothing to do but listen to

 Escott sleep. The papers filled the time up, though, and I kept my eyes

 and brain focused on them or else I'd be seeing Sanderson's mangled face

 instead. Before turning in I wrote a note for Escott, telling him he was

 welcome to stay as long as he wanted and to put any meals on my tab. I

 opened the window wide, turned on the fan, and took to my trunk for the

 day.

 He was gone when I woke up, but there was a note on the radio stating

 his intention to return after dark. I was uneasy but let it go and went

 through my nightly ablutions, dressed, and strolled downstairs to buy

 something to read. The bellhop had my shoes, and I let him keep the

 change for his tip. He was making a fortune off his oddball guest, but I

 didn't mind; he was honest, incurious, and the shoes more or less fit.

 We got on so well he loaned me his own copy of Shadow Magazine. When

 Escott let himself in later, he found me comfortably engrossed in

 something called "Terror Island."

 "An intriguing title," he observed. "Here, I borrowed your key."

 "Anytime, I've got other ways of getting in." I marked my place and put

 the magazine to one side. He cocked an amused eye at it. "I know the

 writer; I like to keep up with his work," I said, trying not to sound

 defensive.

 "I have serious doubts that anyone can, he turns them out at an

 astonishing rate."

 "Well, they usually have more than one guy working on the stuff."

 "Not for this one so far. Certain elements of his style have been

 constant."

 "You don't seem the type to go for stuff like this."

 "You are the first person who ever thought so."

 "I take it you're feeling better?"

 "Apart from the slight headache and some bruising, I am quite myself

 again, thank you."

 "What were you doing out in broad daylight?"

 "I was safe enough after I retraced my steps by making a few calls on

 the phone downstairs--"

 "Have a seat"--I dragged a pile of newsprint from the chair-- "and tell

 me all."

 "Thank you, I will. Yesterday I paid a visit to International Freshwater

 Transport and while enquiring about their rates, took a good look

 around, especially at the faces of their help. At least three of them

 had no obvious duties other than to watch me, and the names of the daily

 work schedule were suspiciously neutral."

 "Neutral?"

 "John Smith, John Jones, John--"

 "I get it, go on."

 "As I was leaving the warehouse, I spotted Sanderson. With your

 description of him in mind and the fact that his index finger was still

 well bandaged, he was impossible to miss. He looked twice at me as well,

 perhaps for a moment he thought I was you. I left and then spent time

 researching the business. Several hours and false trails later, I

 determined that Frank Paco does own the business, but is overly modest

 about it. IFT is not a growing concern, they seem to make only enough to

 keep their heads above water--excuse the pun--but not much more. They

 also do not appear too interested in improving things, either. They were

 not at all anxious to do business with me, and the rates they quoted

 were discouragingly high."

 "So you think they have only a few select customers?"

 "Yes, and to me that indicates smuggling."

 "What kind?"

 "Almost anything: stolen goods, drugs, people wanting in or out of the

 country Such business can be most profitable if properly organized.

 Perhaps if we returned to their warehouse and opened a few crates we

 could discover the source of their profits."

 "I'd be happy to try again."

 "Anyway, after all these labors I was quite starved and stopped in at a

 little cafe I like, and there made my downfall. It was pure carelessness

 on my part; that and the fact that Mr. Sanderson was a man very skilled

 at following people. His young partner Georgie was with him and sat

 nearby nursing some coffee, while the more noticeable Sanderson remained

 discreetly in his car. Georgie heard me order my meal sans the American

 accent I'd used at IFT. He must have mentioned it to Sanderson, then

 they followed me to my office."

 "How did you find this out?"

 He coughed slightly. "One of the waitresses there is somewhat fond of

 me, I can't imagine why, and she happened to notice their car tagging

 behind me when I drove off, and didn't like the looks of it. From there

 I can deduce their later movements. Having found my office, Sanderson

 probably called his boss to inform him of my suspicious activities at

 the warehouse. Paco is not known for his tolerant attitude toward the

 curious, so he sent them after me. I think it was Georgie who did the

 actual violence to my person. His shoes were rubber soled."

 "How could he sneak up behind you in that small area?"

 "Sanderson was using his car for a distraction. He was racing the motor

 with the bonnet up as though there were some problem with it. When I

 went to the window to see what the noise was about, Georgie coshed me.

 They went through my desk, as you saw, and fortunately for me, waited

 for darkness before taking me downstairs in the rug. You know the rest."

 "Except what you did today."

 "With that out of the way I went home for a change of clothes and to

 make more calls. Georgie is still in jail and his friend Paco has never

 heard of him. I've also found out Paco is no longer actively seeking

 me."

 "Why not?"

 "That is a good question. Perhaps he's under someone else's orders or

 something else has him busy."

 "Who or what?"

 He shrugged. "It or they have my gratitude in the meantime. I think I

 may have turned up an interesting possibility for you. If you've nothing

 better to do we can look into it more closely tonight."

 "Are you kidding? I'll get my hat."

 We went down and got into a black Nash that had been a luxury model a

 few years ago. The outside had some dimples in the metal running in an

 almost straight line from front to back, but the finish had been well

 polished and the interior was as clean and blank as his office.

 "What are those marks? They look like bullet holes."

 "They're bullet holes. I had them repaired, as they ruined the paint

 job."

 "Bullet holes?"

 "Bullet dents, actually."

 "How'd they get there?"

 "I understand someone took a few shots at the previous owner with a

 machine gun." He busied himself starting the motor.

 On the front seat between us was a hat, a brown derby with a red satin

 band. On one side of the band was a miniature stickpin in the shape of a

 diamond-trimmed horseshoe. He took his own hat off and put this one on.

 He was wearing dark gray so it figured he had some good reason to look

 so mismatched. He saw the question forming on my face and smiled.

 "It's our passport," he explained, which explained nothing. He liked his

 mystery game, so I let him enjoy it. He was working on my case and

 whatever he wanted was fine with me.

 We drove to an area he said was called the Bronze Belt, which was

 Chicago's version of Harlem. Once there, he cruised the streets slowly,

 scanning them for something or someone. I asked him which.

 "Oh, definitely a person. One has only to make the right contact and one

 is in."

 I nearly asked in what, but that would have been too obvious, and I'd

 been thinking of something else, anyway. "Have you turned up anything on

 this Benny Galligar?"

 "From my local sources I learned he is considered to be only 'small

 time,' though he specializes in safe-cracking and lately some bodyguard

 work. No one has seen him for a week or more, but I have several

 inquiries going. He should turn up soon."

 "Hope so, I'd like to know why he called me, if he did call me."

 "He is originally from New York. The logical inference is that he knows

 you from there. If you can recall anyone with that name--

 "He'll be changing his name like other people change socks. I did know

 one or two Bennys, though. In New York you practically trip over them;

 maybe if and when I see him--"

 "He was described as a small man, graying hair, lined and lived-in face,

 forty to forty-five, nervous manner, sometimes affects an Irish accent

 when he's in the mood--"

 That rang a bell. "Wait, Benny O'Hara, sometimes he'd sell me a tip, you

 know, where to go to see something interesting."

 "For a story?"

 "That's how it usually worked. I knew him as Benny O'Hara. How could he

 have known I was in town?"

 "Perhaps he was staying at your hotel. I'll check on it. I've been there

 once, the night clerk remembers your last visit quite clearly, perhaps I

 can persuade him to go back a little further in his memory."

 "Yeah, between him and the day clerk there must be something useful."

 "Be assured, I shall try."

 We paused for a red light and a skinny brown kid suddenly poked his face

 into my window.

 "I thought this buggy looked familiar," he said, grinning at us. "You up

 here lookin' for a shine, Mr. Escott?"

 "Hello, Cal. Actually I'm looking for a shoe. How are you?"

 "Same old stuff, a day late an' a dollar short."

 "I cannot overcome your time difficulties, but I can possibly aid your

 monetary problems." He passed a dollar over to Cal, who made it

 disappear.

 "You're a real friend. Next time you need a shine, you look me up, it's

 on the house."

 "Where will you be?"

 "I could be anyplace, but if you go down three blocks and turn right

 one, the gents on the corner can tell you proper. You just say I sent

 you." He flashed his teeth, pushed away from the car, and went off with

 a quick, pavement-eating stride. The light changed and Escott followed

 the directions, easing the big car into an empty space on the curb and

 letting it idle.

 A group of dark men were standing just outside the cone of light from a

 streetlamp on the corner ahead. Escott told me to stay put and got out.

 The men had been talking and continued to do so, but their posture had

 subtly changed. It was apparent they were fully alert to our presence,

 but content to wait and let us make the first move. Two of them dropped

 their cigarettes and stood a little straighter, their arms hanging free

 so they could more easily get to the angular bulges their tight-fitting

 coats were unable to hide. Two more shifted their weight to the balls of

 their feet. They moved out and bracketed Escott when he got close

 enough.

 His head moved slightly as he acknowledged them and there was some low

 conversation I couldn't quite hear because of the noise of the car. He

 said something to the armed men; the one on the left shot back a

 suspicious question. Escott touched his hat and looked reasonable. The

 man was dissatisfied with the situation, but Escott kept talking and

 once gestured back to the car, presumably about me. I had half a mind to

 get out and come over, but this was his show and he didn't look to be in

 any immediate danger, despite their belligerent attitudes. I sat and

 stewed and unsuccessfully tried to read lips.

 The man on the left made a decision and sent one of the brackets into

 the building they were guarding. He came out after a minute with a

 report even more dissatisfying to the leader, but he nodded grudgingly

 to Escott. Escort came back and opened my door.

 "We're in."

 "What, the frying pan?"

 The Shoe Box."

 "Is it a speak?"

 "It used to be. Now it's a respectable nightclub."

 "Just how sticky are things?" I gestured with my eyebrows at the men.

 "Not very, nothing to worry about now. The gentleman we will see is a

 cautious fellow, but will welcome us as long as he has sufficient

 notice. He has a very strong dislike for surprises."

 "Gang boss?"

 "What a colorful way you have of phrasing things, no doubt due to your

 journalistic training."

 "And the fact we're in Chicago, it seems to be a major industry here."

 "For only a fractional percentage of the population, I assure you. Not

 everyone here is a boss, someone has to do the support work."

 "Like him?" One of the brackets was walking toward us.

 "Yes, well, let's go."

 I shut off the engine, pulled the keys, and got out. He closed the door

 and walked away. "Aren't you going to lock it?"

 "There's no need, no one would dare touch it now."

 I made a casual glance around and noted a few dozen faces watching us

 from windows and doorways up and down the street; men, women, and even a

 few kids. They all had the same attentive look about them as the door

 guards. The Shoe Box was a well-surveyed fortress. I felt like a target

 in a shooting gallery, which led me to speculate if any of them were

 armed. Escott seemed comfortable, though, and he was nowhere near as

 bulletproof, so I told myself to relax. We followed the bracket into the

 building.

 There was a small entry hall and then a long passage with a wood floor

 that acted like a drum to our footsteps. I heard loud and fast music

 vibrating through the right hand wall, mixed in with the thrum of

 conversation, clinking glassware, and laughter. We passed by a closed

 double door that led to the fun and went on to the back of the building,

 stopping outside another door. Our bracket said he could let Escott in,

 but he'd have to search me. If it would speed things along, I had no

 objections and held my arms out. He was efficient and had the quick,

 light touch of a pickpocket, which might have been his usual occupation

 when he wasn't pulling guard duty. He found my pencil, notebook, and

 wallet and nothing more lethal in my pockets than some change. He tapped

 my shoe heels, checked my hat, decided everything was harmless, and

 opened the door and stepped to one side.

 It was a big room, furnished with sofas, overstuffed chairs, and low

 tables. One of the tables was really a fancy model of radio that cost

 more than I'd made in a year. It was playing softly, just loud enough to

 mask off the sounds coming from the nightclub. At the far end of the

 room was a small bar near a long dining table where a man was seated

 alone, eating what appeared to be his dessert. As we came in he tapped a

 napkin to his lips and turned to look at us.

 His skin was sooty black, his hair cut close to the scalp with a short

 beard edging his jawline and elaborately trimming the mouth and chin.

 Dressed in light brown with a deep red silk shirt and tie, he looked

 almost foppish, but was easily getting away with it. He stood up, a big

 man and not one you could ignore.

 Escott spoke first and in a voice rather louder than required to carry

 across the room. His tone was a mixture of anger and pity. "O thou

 Othello, that wert once so good/ Fall'n in the practice of a damned

 slave/ What shall be said to thee?"

 Our host was still for a moment, staring at Escott, whom I was sure had

 need of a straitjacket and gag, then he responded in a rich voice: "Why

 anything/ An honourable murderer if you will/ For naught I did in hate,

 but all in honour." Then he barked out a short, delighted laugh and came

 over to wring Escott's outstretched hand. Both men were grinning.

 "Charles, you's.o.b., what do you mean showing up like this with the

 derby? You could have mentioned your name to the boys! How the hell are

 you?"

 "I am in good health and only wanted to see if it still worked.

 I would have called, but you'd moved and left no forwarding number or

 address I could acquire."

 "Then it's your own fault. You should come around more often. You gave

 my men a start with that old-hat routine."

 "As I had intended--it keeps them on their toes."

 "Well, it doesn't go with the suit, so dump it. Have you eaten yet?

 Dessert, then; we've still got some pie and coffee."

 "That would be fine, but please allow me to make some introductions.

 This is a friend of mine, Jack Fleming. Jack, you have the honor of

 meeting the best Othello I've ever had the pleasure of working with;

 Shoe Coldfield."

 Coldfield stuck out his hand. "Any friend of Charles--and that's short

 for Shoe Box. I got no bones to pick on how I started out. Just watch my

 smoke, I'm going to be mayor of this town someday."

 "Really now, you can do better than that," Escott said dryly.

 "All right, governor then, but only if they raise the pay. How did you

 find the place?"

 "We saw Cal, or rather he saw us."

 "Smart kid, that."

 "He's grown."

 "He's eating regular."

 We sat down at the table and coffee was brought in by a kid in a busboy

 jacket who was also doing duty in the nightclub. Through the walls I

 could still hear music, which made an uneasy counterpoint with the

 radio.

 "What brings you here, Charles? Working on a revival?"

 "I heartily wish. Should I return to the boards, you will certainly be

 the first to know. In truth, I need a favor."

 "These days who doesn't? What's on your mind?"

 "I'm working on a little problem for Mr. Fleming, and since yesterday,

 for myself, in which Frank Paco is involved."

 Our host sobered up, taking a cautious tone. "Just how involved is he?"

 "Yesterday two of his men tried to kill me, and were it not for Mr.

 Fleming's timely intervention, they would certainly have succeeded. He

 survived an attempt on his life only last week from the same source and

 has been laying low ever since."

 "Can't say as I blame you. What do you need? Smuggling out of town?''

 "Nothing quite so drastic. Let me apprise you of the whole situation."

 Escott told him the basic truth, but said I sought him out and wisely

 omitted all the facts concerning my condition. " so until Mr. Fleming

 knows what occurred during those missing four days he will always have

 this rather nasty problem."

 "How do you think I can help? He needs a head-doctor."

 "I was hoping you could help us get into Paco's house."

 Coldfield shut right up, from sheer disbelief I suppose, since I was

 feeling the same way. "My mistake," he finally said. "You are the one

 who wants a head-doctor."

 "Shoe, I am quite serious."

 "If Paco is after you, you oughta be. Why get into his place?"

 "For a good look around and to find out what he's up to."

 "Hell, I can do that from here. What do you want to know?"

 "Some information on International Freshwater Transport might be

 useful."

 "It's just his smuggling operation, everyone knows that."

 "But what does he smuggle?"

 "It used to be booze and he still brings in some of the fancy foreign

 stuff. If the price is right he'll take most anything, including people

 in or out of the country. Lately it's been machine parts and chemicals

 coming in."

 "Is it possible to find out whom they go to and for what purpose?"

 "I can try tomorrow, but can't guarantee anything. I generally keep my

 people away from his territory. I suppose you want specific names for

 the chemicals, p'fesser?"

 "It could help identify what he's up to, but please do not expose your

 people to undue risk. Yesterday I only made casual inquiries and his

 reaction was most violent."

 "Don't worry. You gonna put him out of business?"

 "That would be nice."

 "Yeah, we can dream, but he's got friends. Word has it he's been dealing

 with Slick Morelli out of New York."

 "Is that name familiar to you?" Escott asked me.

 "Sure, he's a big nightclub owner there, ran a lot of speaks, then

 fancied them up into top spots after Repeal. He sold a few and

 concentrated on one or two of the biggest. He always had the best acts

 and the prettiest girls. Of course, this is only what I've heard, I

 never had the chance to take a look." Or the money, I silently added.

 "He hasn't changed much," said Coldfield. "He's done the same thing for

 one of the biggest clubs in town up on the north side; he's got a

 half-interest in it."

 "The Nightcrawler?" asked Escott.

 "Yeah, maybe he likes fishin' or something."

 "Does he own a yacht?"

 He nodded. "A nice one, too, if you can have any other kind. The

 Elvira."

 I stirred in my chair at the mention of a ship.

 Escott noticed, but continued. "Who is the other owner of the club?"

 "A fat guy named Lucky Lebredo. He oversees the gambling there."

 Escott glanced at me. I thought about the name, then shook my head. He

 turned back to Coldfield. "Do you know of any connection between Paco

 and Morelli?"

 He shrugged. "If there is, it's probably money. Paco likes to spread it

 around and always needs more, Morelli keeps his in a mattress and the

 Good Lord help you if you borrow from him. He takes his loan interest

 right out of your hide."

 "Do you think Lebredo is involved with them?"

 "I don't know. Maybe not, all he seems to do is gamble. He's got an

 adding machine for a brain, and a deck of cards is just another part of

 his body." He paused. Escott was looking at something we couldn't see,

 hovering just over the table centerpiece. We waited him out in silence

 until his eyes blinked a few times.

 "You back?" Coldfield asked casually.

 "Yes, just thinking, but I need more information."

 "Then you're still serious 'bout going in?"

 "Very serious."

 "What did you have in mind?"

 "Have you read the social columns?"

 "Never miss 'em," he said with a trace of sarcasm.

 "Then you may have noticed Frank Paco is hosting a reception at his

 estate this Friday. The place is going to be filled with politicians,

 hangers-on, and the man Paco plans to support in the next gubernatorial

 election."

 "Yes"

 "The whole thing is certainly going to be catered."

 Coldfield thought it out and smiled. "You mean you can cook, too?"

 "No, but I can pass as a waiter."

 "Not on this one you can't. You know damn well one of my joints is doing

 the food and service, and face it, Charles, you're just too white for

 this job."

 "Then I can work as a white waiter."

 "And stand out like a sore thumb. No sir, Paco likes his staff well

 done. Besides, what white man would be working for me? Whites work for

 white caterers, and once in a while they take on a colored kid 'cause he

 works cheap, but it just ain't done the other way around."

 Escott's pride had been piqued. "Am I or am I not a character actor?''

 "The best, but no blackface makeup is going to pass a close look, and

 your nose is all wrong, anyway. If you were me, would you want to take

 the chance?"

 "I agree," I said. "Paco might know your face, Georgie could be out on

 bail by now, and if either of 'em spots you, you're scragged and so are

 the caterers."

 Escott's eyes snapped at me a second, then he visibly calmed and

 shrugged it off. "Of course, you're both right. We'll have to think of

 something else. Perhaps I could get hold of an invitation or forge one."

 "Not easy, they check 'em against their guest list. You'd have to be in

 someone else's party to sneak past, and then you still have your face to

 consider. Look, why does it have to be this Friday? Try some other night

 when Paco is gone and just break in. I can stick one of my boys on the

 catering staff to case the place for you."

 "That is most kind."

 "Great, anything to save your ass. Listen, how 'bout we all have dinner

 tomorrow night, right here."

 "Dinner, yes, but it's on me--to make up for too long an absence.

 Mailman's, I think."

 "You're joking, Charles. I couldn't get past the door."

 "You most certainly will if it's my party. If you plan to run for

 governor you'll have to get used to breaking open some doors."

 "When I do that, the cops get nervous."

 "And well they should. Eight o'clock?"

 "That's early for me, but I'll be there, and try to have some dope on

 the warehouse from my boys."

 '' Please advise them to use all caution; that thump on the head they

 gave me was nearly fatal."

 "Your skull is too thick. I heard something was fatal to Paco's chief

 gun, Sanderson. They found him in a trunk the other day. That anything

 to do with your problem? The papers are saying Georgie Reamer hit him

 with a sledgehammer." He was looking at me with interest.

 I was careful not to look at Escott for a clue. How much Coldfield knew

 or guessed about last night would be my affair. I shrugged. "Hey, I used

 to be a reporter--don't believe everything you read."

 We left without hindrance from Coldfield's men, one of them even nodded

 and smiled as we went out to the untouched Nash. I gave the keys back to

 Escott and we got in. The watching faces were still around, but were not

 as interested in us as before. Word must have been passed that we were

 welcome in the neighborhood.

 "He's some guy," I commented.

 "Yes, I met him in Canada when we were both young and hungry. I was

 already in an acting company when he walked into the theater with his

 shoe shine box and asked for work. We got to be friends and with a great

 deal of argument, persuaded the manager to hire him on permanently. He

 worked at moving scenery and in wardrobe at half-salary. Occasionally,

 I'd do him up in white-face so he could carry a spear in the background

 when we were short of players, but he was being wasted. If you could

 have seen us in Hamlet as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, he nearly

 sweated his makeup off and gave the game away. At least it showed the

 other actors in the company that he was more than capable, but our

 manager was a pigheaded old reprobate. He refused to even consider Shoe

 for the obvious part of Othello."

 "But he did play it?"

 "Oh yes, but it was a bit of a challenge for me to arrange it. The one

 thing I did manage was getting him the part of understudy to the lead.

 The manager allowed that much."

 "Then the lead got sick?"

 "Not precisely I had to help him along. Between the chloral hydrate

 the company Iago slipped him and the ipecacuanha I provided to treat his

 symptoms, he was in no condition to play the Moor of Venice, and Shoe

 had his chance. I must say he brought the house down with his

 performance."

 "What about the lead?"

 "He recovered in a week or so and no harm was done. By then he had

 received a telegram offering him a radio announcing job in New York and

 he left. I'm afraid we didn't miss him much, a very unpleasant ham, he

 was."

 "Was the telegram genuine?"

 "Why, what a suspicious mind you have, Mr. Fleming."

 Chapter 5

 =========

 I GOT MY trip to the Stockyards out of the way and was ready and waiting

 at a quarter to eight when Escott picked me up. He was in an ordinary

 suit, which was a relief to me because Hall-man's sounded like a

 white-tie-and-tails joint and I was fresh out of tuxedos.

 "I may have a problem at this place," I said.

 "What would that be?"

 "Let's just say that I have a very restricted diet."

 He opened and shut his mouth. "Dear me, I'm afraid I never even thought

 of that."

 "Neither did I. Doing business over food is a very normal thing. We take

 it for granted.

 Escott considered it. "Yes, I can see--you must have a tremendous amount

 of free time to be unfettered with having to stop and eat every four or

 five hours."

 "I'd gladly go back to it if I could."

 "Would you rather skip this evening, then?"

 "No, I'll just say it's stomach trouble and nurse a coffee. As long as

 we're on my case I want to be along every inch of the way, if it's all

 right with you."

 "I've no objections. I made more inquiries after Benny Galligar/O'Hara

 today, but with negative results."

 "If he was in trouble with Paco, he's probably blown town by now."

 "I agree. He's set a very sensible example for us."

 "Yeah, too bad I ain't got any sense."

 Mailman's was a white-tie place, after all. Escott must have noticed my

 lack when he went through my room last Monday, and I silently blessed

 him for his consideration in wearing a regular suit. Like many swank

 places in Chicago, Mailman's was cheek-and-jowl with less savory

 neighborhoods. The street it faced was a high-tax area with bright

 lights, expensive shops, and other classy restaurants, but cross the

 alley behind it and you were gambling with your skin. Sometimes it was a

 gang, sometimes a loan operator, but both types shared an avid interest

 in acquiring someone else's money. The cops had regular beats in the

 area, but could hardly prevent the odd out-of-towner from getting picked

 off by local hunters. When Escott got out of the car this time, he made

 a point of locking it.

 A uniformed man at the canopied entrance guarded some potted palms and a

 red carpet that ran out to the curb. He held the door for us and bowed

 slightly.

 "Good to see you again, Mr. Escott."

 "Thank you, Mr. Burdge. Can you recommend anything tonight?"

 "Any of the veal dishes, but stay away from the fish. Our regular fish

 chef is off tonight and his replacement did his training in the army."

 "An inland army, no doubt."

 "You got it."

 We went in and checked our hats, telling the maitre d' we were still

 expecting one more and would wait by the door. It wasn't a long wait; at

 eight a gleaming new black Nash drove up and stopped next to the red

 carpet.

 "I see you have similar tastes in cars," I commented.

 "Well, he did give me such a good deal on my present transport a few

 years ago that I couldn't turn him down. I must say he still knows how

 to make an entrance, a natural talent. The stage lost a very fine actor

 in him."

 The chauffeur was out and opening the rear door of the Nash; Burdge, the

 doorman, stood a little straighter and held the door to the restaurant.

 It was some credit to his self-control that he wilted only a little when

 Coldfield emerged into the light. He was postcard perfect in a

 custom-tailored tuxedo with a satin-lined cape and a silver-headed

 stick. He carried the clothes comfortably, like Fred Astaire, albeit a

 much larger-sized Astaire with coal black skin and a beard. He sauntered

 up to the doorman, who was looking a bit confused as to how to handle

 the situation. Coldfield gave Burdge a look that banished any

 inclinations of refusing him entry, and then came in.

 Escott tapped his hands together in soft applause. "Well played, sir. A

 pity it could not have been preserved on film."

 Coldfield was pleased. "You said it, history is being made tonight." He

 nodded to me. "Ready to get tossed out with the best?'

 "I'd like to see anyone try."

 The maitre d' was well trained; his eyebrows only bounced up an eighth

 of an inch and back down again before he got hold of himself.

 "Your usual table, Mr. Escott?" he asked. In a minute I understood why.

 Escott's usual table was in a discreet alcove off to one side of the

 main dining area. The man was only reminding Escott he wasn't trying to

 shuffle our dark companion out of sight. Whether he wanted to or not,

 I'd never know.

 We sat and went through the business of ordering drinks and studying the

 menu. Playing my part, I read through it and shook my head.

 "Anything wrong, Mr. Fleming?" Escott asked. 'I'm not up to eating

 anything yet. I got a bad burger for lunch and the thought of more

 food--" I made a queasy face and shrugged.

 "What a pity, perhaps a little broth to recover? No?"

 "No, thanks, I just gotta let things run their course so to speak. Don't

 mind me, you two go ahead and enjoy yourselves."

 They did. Escott had veal, Coldfield a steak, and I watched the other

 patrons between our bouts of conversation. The smell of food did make me

 feel a little sick, but it was the memory of eating that really nettled

 me. I'd finally made it into a fancy place with someone else paying the

 bill, and all I could enjoy was the decor.

 We got our share of looks. One group quite obviously cut short their

 meal and left, their backs stiff with indignation. They wouldn't have

 minded or even noticed him if Coldfield had been part of the cleanup

 staff, but being a fellow customer was too much for their tender

 sensibilities. The maitre d' would have caught their verbal wrath had he

 been by the door as they left, but being an alert man he'd removed

 himself from the area in time. This graceless show was not lost on the

 other diners, who had been wondering what to do themselves. Happily,

 they had the good taste to mind their own business, and the conversation

 buzz soon returned to normal levels.

 "You may have pulled this off, after all, Charles," Coldfield murmured.

 "So it would seem. I should like to live to see the day--"

 "Yeah, I know, I know. Well, you at least got me in here--"

 "No, you got yourself."

 "I'm hell on doormen," he agreed. "But you're just lucky."

 "How so?"

 "He had a pretty good idea I wasn't Jewish."

 Halfway through the meal a waiter came up with a telephone. "An

 important call for you, Mr. Escott."

 Escott said hello into the mouthpiece and scowled a lot. I couldn't

 quite hear what was being said on the other end, even if I had any

 business in doing so.

 He shook his head. "No, I couldn't possibly, this is a very bad time

 What? All right, then, but hurry." He hung up and the phone was taken

 away.

 "What's the problem?" I asked.

 "I shall have to absent myself for a few minutes. One of my sources of

 information wants to talk and will only do so face-to-face. He's coming

 by to pick me up."

 "Can't he come in?"

 "Not this one. He likes to keep on the move, so we have to go through

 this little comedy now and then. We drive around the block a few times,

 then he drops me off. Strange fellow, but often useful. If you gentlemen

 will excuse me, I should be back in time for dessert." He stood up with

 a quaint little bow that only the English can get away with, and left.

 Coldfield watched his departing back with an indulgent smile.

 "How long have you known him?"

 "Off 'n on, about fourteen years. Haven't seen much of him since he took

 up this private-agent stuff, but then I've been busy, too."

 "Do you mind his kind of work?"

 "Why should I? He doesn't seem to mind mine."

 "What do you do?"

 He gave me a look of mock surprise. "Why, I run a nightclub."

 "At a considerable profit?"

 "No point being in business if you don't make a profit."

 '' How long has he been a private agent?''

 "Awhile."

 "You play it close to the chest."

 "That's how you survive in this town."

 He never gave a direct answer to any questions that were too probing,

 and I asked quite a few before catching on. It must have been the

 reporter in me. After I figured things out, we stuck to neutral subjects

 and watched the place slowly empty. Then we watched the staff cleaning

 up. Our waiter hovered just within sight, broadcasting polite but clear

 signals that he thought it was time we left.

 "Think he stiffed us for the check?" I said jokingly, looking at the

 clock on the wall. He'd been gone nearly forty minutes.

 "No, they'll just put it on his account. He's been coming here for

 years."

 I worried anyway. The phone call could have been a trick to get him

 outside. Coldfield read my face and told me to relax.

 "Charles can take care of himself."

 "I hope so."

 We waited. A lone busboy in thick glasses shuffled around cleaning the

 tables. His walk and movements bothered me for some reason, and when I

 caught a glimpse of his blank face I knew why. His was the careful

 heavy-heeled, loose-limbed walk of the mentally retarded. He moved from

 table to table, cleaning up and wiping down, then looked at us and

 wondered why we hadn't left yet. He was about fifty, with overlong gray

 hair, a thrusting box-shaped forehead, and thick gray brows that grew

 across the bridge of his nose. His mouth was open slightly as he stared

 at us and then at the waiter, undecided on what to do.

 "Maybe we should wait outside," Coldfield said.

 The waiter came up and said something to the man, pointing to the

 kitchen. He nodded and went away.

 "Yeah, we can do that."

 We got up, much to the staff's relief, and went out into the warm, muggy

 air. The potted palms were inside by now and the doorman locked up

 behind us.

 "Have you any idea who called him?"

 He shook his head. "Come on, let's get my car."

 Coldfield told his chauffeur to wait by the restaurant door in case

 Escott turned up, and got into the driver's seat and turned the key. He

 opened the other door for me and I barely shut it before we were moving.

 He swung sharply around the block, his lips tight. He was worried, too.

 We made a futile figure-eight circuit of the two facing blocks, so he

 pulled up and parked next to the canopy and cut the engine. Tension was

 coming off of him like heat, but he kept it controlled. His door wasn't

 slammed shut in frustration as he got out, and I tried to follow his

 example.

 We hung around awhile longer. There was an alley between the restaurant

 and another building and I heard noise coming from it, but it was only

 the staff leaving for the night. They filtered out the side door one by

 one and the manager locked up. I spotted the doorman and went after him.

 He'd seen Escott get into an old car with someone and they drove off,

 but I couldn't get him to be more specific. He hurried off to his ride

 home and I went back to Coldfield with the negative news.

 His eyes were scanning up and down the street, his hands clenched tight

 on the silver knob of his stick. "Damn him and his work," he growled.

 I silently agreed. A car cruised past but didn't stop. Each new set of

 headlights put our necks to swiveling, but in vain.

 Another sound came from the alley--footsteps--but it was only the

 middle-aged busboy. He carried a box, which I remembered seeing him

 fiddling with in the alley while the other workers left. He walked past

 us, staring at Coldfield either in recognition or because of his color,

 and went on to the parking lot, disappearing around the corner. Almost

 immediately after, we heard a brief cutoff noise coming from a surprised

 human throat. Coldfield, the chauffeur, and I exchanged looks and

 hurried to investigate.

 The busboy had his back to the brick wall of the restaurant,

 protectively clutching his box. In a semicircle around him were three

 young men still in their teens. Clustered by Escott's Nash were four

 more of the same type: hard-faced and hard-muscled street kids with all

 the social conscience of wharf rats. It didn't take a genius to figure

 they'd been trying to steal the last car in the lot, and the poor busboy

 had interrupted them.

 For a few seconds we were all frozen and staring in a sort of tableau,

 each side summing up the other, then the chauffeur smoothly pulled out a

 .38 and held it at ready. He started to say something, but a long, thin

 shape arced out and smashed down on his thick arm. He swallowed his

 scream as his knees buckled and fell on top of his dropped gun. One more

 kid lurched out from his hiding place behind us, swinging an iron pipe

 down on the man's bowed head.

 The time it took to raise the pipe up and down must have been brief, but

 to me he looked like he was moving through cold molasses. Without really

 thinking, I stepped in, plucked the pipe away from the kid, and hit him

 in the stomach with my free hand. I remembered in time to pull my punch,

 though. I didn't want to rupture his internal organs.

 The other boys took this as a signal to attack, three of them going

 straight for Coldfield, who defended himself with his stick, giving as

 good an example of dirty street righting as I'd ever seen. He was big

 and holding out well enough, but we were still badly outnumbered. Two

 kids rushed in on me with knives, which I simply took away from them

 since they seemed so slow to me. I shoved them away and sent them

 staggering into a third kid, and the whole group went down. I used the

 breathing space to lift the chauffeur to one side, and grabbed his gun.

 The three shots I fired at the sky did the trick. The punks disappeared

 like water into dry ground before the last echoes faded.

 Coldfield was a little winded but none the worse for wear, except his

 tux would need some repair work. He came over and knelt by the

 chauffeur.

 "Is it broken?"

 The man felt the arm carefully and shook his head. "Nan, he caught me

 too high. Cracked maybe, be a hell of a bruise."

 "We'll get the doc to look at it. I'll finish driving tonight. You

 okay?" he asked me.

 I pretended to be breathless and nodded. "No problems."

 "Goddamn punks. The streets just ain't safe anymore."

 I was about to ask him if the streets in this town had ever been safe

 when I noticed the busboy cowering against the wall. "Hey! You all

 right?"

 He hunched over his box, too shaken to move, the eyes behind his thick

 glasses were bugged halfway out of their sockets. I walked over slowly,

 trying to say reassuring things so as not to frighten him more. He let

 himself be led out into the glow from the street lights. His teeth were

 chattering. I asked him where he lived.

 He moved his head vaguely around. "Bad boys hurt."

 "Did they hurt you?"

 "No." He stared at the chauffeur's arm. "Hurt?"

 "Where do you live?"

 "Number five." He held up five fingers and counted them off.

 "That's very good. Where is number five?"

 He counted again, this time going to ten in one rush and waited for my

 approval.

 Coldfield sighed. "I hate to say it, but maybe we should just look for a

 cop who knows where he belongs."

 "He might have an address on him. Have you got any papers?"

 He looked blank.

 "Wallet?" I tried. Another blank look. I pulled my own wallet out and

 showed him. "You got one, too?"

 He fumbled in his pockets after putting his box down and found one. I

 opened mine and showed him the papers inside, but instead of following

 suit, he just stared at it. Impatiently, Coldfield took it from him, and

 the man instantly burst into tears of protest.

 "Mine," he said feebly, and looked at me for help, his face streaming.

 "Mine--"

 Coldfield had backed away so he could get a better light on the wallet,

 then he folded it, stalked over, and punched the bus-boy in the face,

 knocking him flat. His eyes were blazing. "You goddamn son of a bitch!"

 The chauffeur and I gaped, then looked at the busboy who was just coming

 to his feet, holding one side of his head. What we were seeing didn't

 clearly register at first, but it looked like part of the man's forehead

 had peeled bloodlessly away from the skull. He put his thumb under the

 loose flap and tore it completely away and rubbed gingerly at what would

 soon be a black eye.

 "Do I get that catering job now?" Escott asked.

 It took us all awhile to get on speaking terms again. I felt like

 punching him myself, but Escott apologized profusely, especially to the

 chauffeur. His original plan had been to get into his car and drive up

 to us, but the punks had interfered. Once the explanations were out

 Coldfield settled down.

 "But I ain't sorry I hit you, 'cause I'd have done it anyway," he said,

 still annoyed. I remembered he hated surprises.

 "I don't blame you for it, old man." Escott opened his trunk and stowed

 away the box which contained his clothes and makeup equipment. He

 brought out a flask and passed it around, which did a lot to improve the

 general atmosphere. "My question still stands: do I go in with the

 caterers?"

 Coldfield sighed. "Yeah, why the hell not? If you get killed it'll even

 us up for tonight."

 We went to the Shoe Box and Coldfield got busy arranging a doctor for

 his chauffeur. In the end one of his other men was summoned to drive him

 to the hospital, where the arm could be properly examined. He laid no

 blame on Escott for it, saying the car thieves would have been there

 anyway, and went off with his friend. As they walked down the hall I

 heard him giving a highly dramatic account of how he came by his injury

 and how the boss had stepped in and single-handedly saved the day. He'd

 probably get a lot of drinks out of that story, and Coldfield's

 reputation wouldn't suffer, either.

 Drinks were waiting for us when our host had finished his business. He

 drained his own and sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. The radio

 was off and the club band apparently on break. The only noises now were

 the customers a few rooms away and someone banging around in a nearby

 kitchen.

 "Hey, Jack." He jerked me back from wherever I'd drifted.

 "Come on and have a drink. You deserve it after all that rumpus."

 I joined them. Escott was perched on the edge of a couch, a sheet of

 paper in his hand and his forehead wrinkled. What's that?"

 "A list of the stuff Paco has been shipping in and keeping, but don't

 ask me what they add up to; that's Charles's specialty." He went to the

 bar and made another drink. Returning, he nodded at my untouched glass.

 "Don't you like my booze?"

 "It's fine, I'm just not much of a drinker."

 "You're more a fighter. I was busy, but saw some, and I've never seen

 anyone move that fast in my life."

 "It's amazing what you can do when you're scared."

 He snorted and raised his glass. "Here's to being scared."

 I was going to pretend to sip, but it was no good, he was watching me

 too closely. I braced myself and gulped. The stuff dropped down my

 throat and hit my guts like hot lead.

 Coldfield read my face all too clearly. "I guess you really aren't much

 of a drinker."

 "Bad stomach is all, always had it." I kept gulping at nothing, trying

 to keep the stuff down, feeling like a balloon about to burst. Escott

 provided some distraction as he shook his head over the paper.

 "There is definitely something to this, but I need more information.

 Tomorrow I shall have to find out who actually ordered this and where it

 ends up after removal from the warehouse."

 "All right, but just make sure you're at the caterers by six, or they

 leave without you. I'll let them know what you're trying to pull and

 tell them not to make a fuss. You goin' to do this act again?"

 "Oh, yes."

 "What about Jack? You said you wanted him in, too."

 "Not exactly. I shall ask Mr. Fleming to remain nearby with the car. If

 things get too warm for me, I'll slip out and he can drive us away." He

 looked at me. "Are you all right?" He'd been too absorbed to pay

 attention earlier, but now his eyes darted from the empty glass to my

 face and he understood what had happened.

 I tried a weak smile, but kept my lips firmly together, telegraphing to

 him that I had an urgent problem.

 Escott thanked Coldfield, said that we had to get moving, and hustled me

 out of the Shoe Box and into the car in record time. After a short block

 I asked him to pull over. I couldn't stand it any longer. He did, I

 opened the door and leaned out for the explosion. The booze shot into

 the gutter like a burst from a firehose. I spat out the last drops,

 blinked at the dirty street below, and forgot to clutch the doorframe

 when the dizziness hit. Escott grabbed my arm to stop--

 "Mr. Fleming?"

 --me going over the rail into endless black water. A heavy hand on my

 neck forced my head down--

 "Fleming?"

 --retching, no air, blood pounding behind my eyes--

 ' 'Fleming!''

 He yanked me upright and kept me from sliding under the dashboard.

 "What's wrong? Fleming?"

 "A dream on the boat."

 '' You remembered something--what?''

 He had to wait a long minute for the shaking to pass, and my left hand

 was still trembling while I told him what I could. He looked at it, then

 up a me.

 "Touched a nerve, has it?"

 "It's almost over."

 "Then you've had this kind of seizure before?"

 "Seizure?"

 "When I see someone going all boneless as you did, I call it a seizure,

 and you seem familiar with it."

 "Yeah, I had one a few days ago when I tried to remember what happened

 before I woke up on the beach. It's like I'm not here anymore. I don't

 like that loss of control."

 He made a sympathetic noise. "Was your last experience as dismaying as

 this one?"

 "Unfortunately. Except last time I was trying on purpose to remember.

 This time getting rid of that stuff--"

 "Spontaneously triggered the memory?"

 "Yeah, what you said."

 He ah-hummed like a doctor and motioned for me to shut the door, then

 worked the gears and pointed the car in the general direction of my

 hotel.

 "What's on your mind?" I asked.

 "Just an idea I thought a reenactment of your final moments on the

 boat--"

 "I get it, but it's kind of hard to reenact something if you don't know

 how it was enacted in the first place."

 "We know you were beaten and shot."

 "You want to beat me up and shoot me?" I said cautiously.

 "It is only a suggestion, mind you."

 "Let's keep it that way until I can think it over."

 "As you wish. After all, I could lose my license by assaulting a client,

 even if it is in his best interest."

 I watched the streets glide past, waiting for the tingling in my left

 hand to subside. "You still want me along tomorrow?"

 He was surprised. "Why would you think otherwise?"

 I made a fist and opened it, stretching the fingers. "Because of this. I

 might conk out on you."

 "I'm willing to risk it."

 "And because I've met some private inves--agents before, and usually the

 last thing they want is their clients breathing down their necks while

 they work."

 "That is usually true, but then you don't breathe."

 "Funny."

 "Besides you are essential to our success. Surely you're aware of the

 extreme usefulness of your abilities?"

 "For sneaking around unseen? Uh-huh, except I'm not too sure what I

 should be looking for."

 "In this case, you might know it when you see it, like a half dozen

 crates marked as spare parts. You'll have much more freedom of movement

 than I. You need only to avoid getting caught."

 "I figured that much, but how do I get there? I'm not up and around at

 six."

 "You can use my car. I'll leave it at your hotel after I've finished my

 inquiries for the day. There will be a marked map on the seat showing

 you how to get to his place."

 At a quarter to eight the next night I was out and following his neatly

 written and meticulous directions. In addition to the map was a sketch

 of the house and neighboring grounds, and an X marked a shrub-sheltered

 spot off the road where I could safely park. Paco took his privacy

 seriously. There were warnings about armed guards, high fences, and even

 watch dogs, all of which I intended to avoid.

 The place was just far enough from town to give the illusion it was in

 the country. The land around was brilliantly lit by star and moonlight.

 There was no darkness for my eyes, to rest in; even the deepest shadows

 under the trees had been reduced to soft gray patches devoid of mystery

 and fear. Darkness had been ended forever for me. Perhaps tonight I

 would see the man who was responsible.

 Twenty careful minutes later I was crouched under the window Escott had

 designated, mentally keyed up but devoid of the usual physical signs of

 excitement. My lungs drew no quick gulps of air, my heart wasn't

 hammering in anticipation of action, I wasn't even sweating. My hands

 were paper dry. The only evidence of inner turbulence was the iron-hard

 stiffness that seized my spine. It did help me to keep very still while

 I waited; that alone was enough to make me invisible to the occasional

 patrolling guard. I was just another shadow in the bushes.

 Escott softly called my name from the window. The coast was clear,

 inside and out. My body vanished, reappearing just behind him and still

 in a crouching position. I came out of it slowly, orienting. We were in

 a bathroom.

 He'd been peering out the small window and then whirled with a stifled

 jump. "My God, but that's unnerving," he whispered, and I tried very

 hard not to smile at his reaction. "Are you all right?"

 "I'm fine." I stared in fascination at his makeup job--it was perfect.

 "How can you see through those glasses?"

 He pulled out a sheet of paper with a rough sketch on it. "Here's the

 kitchen, where I'll be They've set me to washing dishes for now and

 I've got the window over the sink open if we need to talk. This is the

 dining room, the guests are still there, about thirty of them, give or

 take the odd gunman. The caterers are only allowed into these areas, the

 rest is your territory. Pace's office shouldn't be difficult to

 identify, but in particular you might seek out the basement. There is a

 locked door to it in the kitchen, but I'm willing to guess there's

 another entrance as well."

 "You think the locked door is to protect more than just his liquor?"

 "I certainly hope so. I want to know where he put all the money he

 borrowed from Slick Morelli."

 "Anything in particular I should look for?"

 "Whatever looks out of place in a normal house--or even this one for

 that matter. Perhaps even your list, if they're careless enough to leave

 it lying around. In the last week they could have acquired it from Benny

 Galligar."

 "O'Hara."

 "Whatever."

 I nodded in agreement because he looked nervous. "Okay, don't worry

 about me. How long will you be here?"

 "My group is supposed to leave around twelve. I'll have them drop me off

 near the car, and wait for you there. You should have as long as

 discretion allows."

 It seemed like plenty of time and I said so. "You better get back to

 your dishes. If I turn up anything, I'll let you know."

 "I've learned to be a patient man, Mr. Fleming. Good luck."

 He slipped out the door and I was on my own, without even my reflection

 for company. I gave him time to get away, then floated out of the

 bathroom. Considering its proximity to the dining room and kitchen, it

 would have a regular parade of intruding patrons. Feeling my invisible

 way down the hall kept me safe, but I'd have to solidify soon to get

 some bearings. Two men walked past, their voices flat and muffled in my

 ears. I followed in their wake until they faded away. Pressing what

 would be my back against a wall, I tried a partial re-forming.

 The confusing buzz of background noise became the familiar tones of

 clear conversation coming from a large room on my right, with double

 doors leading in to dinner. There was a T intersection down the hall on

 the left. I picked the left branch of the T and began opening doors.

 There were plenty of closets, some small bedrooms apparently belonging

 to the permanent staff, and another bathroom. It was a water haul so I

 tried my luck with the other branch of the T and found more of the same,

 except for one encouragingly locked door. I ghosted through it and felt

 the floor drop away in a series of descending right angles. It was the

 other basement entrance. At the bottom landing was another locked door,

 which also proved useless for the owner.

 Inside, I partially materialized and discovered the jackpot. It was a

 brightly lit laboratory crammed with the kind of stuff I'd last seen at

 college, when I'd slept through the required chemistry courses. It was

 nearly as big as my old classroom, but neater and newer looking. The one

 thing it didn't have in common with higher learning was the

 lantern-jawed mug sitting at his ease about five feet away from me. Only

 my lack of sudden movement and his complete absorption in a magazine

 kept him from spotting my intrusion. I vanished, got behind him, and

 reformed.

 His face was unfamiliar, but his flashy clothes and callused knuckles

 were enough to identify his probable line of work. On a table next to

 him was a half glass of milk with crumbs floating on top and a plate of

 cookies that he occasionally dipped into. His magazine caught my eye--he

 was also interested in the Shadow's adventures and halfway through

 Terror Island. Someday I'd have to write Walter and tell him about his

 mobster fan.

 Without disturbing him, I very quietly checked out the rest of the

 joint. At the far end a door with a glass panel set in it led to a dark

 service area for the furnace, and eventually went on to the kitchen

 stairs. There was also a locked wine cellar, a laundry, old furniture,

 and a lot of dust. Going back by way of the lab, I went back upstairs to

 the T, down its base, and explored another hall. This area was not very

 promising, with only some socializing rooms; nothing like an office

 until I got to the last door. It was locked, but no problem.

 Paco liked to show off. The inside of his sanctum looked like a

 decorator's idea for a president's office. It was full of velvet and

 leather upholstery, black stained wood, and gold-framed oil paintings of

 conservative landscapes. The only portrait was of a bullish-looking man

 with heavy features and pop-eyes. He looked enough like Sanderson to

 have been a close relative. It was hard to judge how tall he was, for

 the painting was done on a larger-than-life scale. No memories stirred

 for me and I wondered how good a likeness it really was.

 My training as a detective was limited to what I'd learned watching

 movies, so I started looking for a safe behind the paintings, but with

 no luck. The desk drawers were locked, and since Escott didn't want any

 obvious signs of intrusion I left them alone and sorted through the

 papers left on top. Nothing important was on them, just some notes about

 the party and a few doodles.

 I tried upstairs and found only more bedrooms and baths, gave up, and

 snuck back to the kitchen. I could make little sense of the noise and

 muddle of voices there, and drifted outside to look through the windows.

 The curtains were open and the sashes had been raised to let in some

 breeze. The kitchen was steamy and filled with people busy with

 mountains of food. Peering through one window, I was face-to-face with

 Escott, who was bent over a pile of dishes and up to his elbows in soap

 suds. I softly tapped for his attention and told him to go to the cellar

 door. He nodded dully, as if to himself, staying in character so well I

 had some doubts whether he'd really heard and understood. But a few

 minutes later, when I unlocked the door from the inside, he was turning

 the knob one second and standing next to me on the small landing the

 next.

 I explained the problem with the laboratory: I could get in anywhere,

 but lacked his knowledge.

 He pocketed the fake glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I can absent myself

 from the dishes long enough to have a good look. Lead the way."

 We went straight to the glass-paneled door and from the safety of the

 dark on our side, looked in. His eyes lit up at the sight of all that

 equipment. He stared at everything for nearly a minute, then grabbed my

 arm and backed us away.

 "What's it about?" I whispered.

 He shook his head with a small, impatient movement. "I've got to get in

 there. Can you get rid of the guard?"

 "How permanently?"

 "Nothing fatal, if you don't mind--wait, he's moving."

 We shrank deeper into the shadows, watching through the glass. The man

 left the magazine open on the table, massaged his back, stood, and

 stretched. He checked his watch, yawned, and unlocked the stairway door,

 then secured it again from the other side.

 I darted forward, sieved through our door, and let Escott in. "You've

 only got a few minutes."

 "How do you know?"

 I pointed to the now-empty glass of milk. "He's headed for the can to

 get rid of that, so he won't take long."

 "Excellent deduction," he approved, and went to work, prowling the

 length of the room, inspecting the variety of glass tubes and flasks,

 and poking nosily into cabinets. In one of them he found a handwritten

 notebook of some kind and in another was a small safe. He suppressed a

 bark of triumph, dropped on his haunches, and tried the handle. We were

 both surprised when it turned and the door swung open.

 "What's inside?"

 "Something odd," he said more to himself than to me. He opened the book,

 scanning page after page, visibly puzzled.

 "Anything wrong?"

 Too occupied to pay attention, he reexamined some sealed glass

 containers that seemed to be filled with liquid chrome. He tapped one

 and the convex surface vibrated like a molten mirror. Leaving them, he

 searched for and located a supply of chemicals in a walk-in closet. He

 read the labels but opened a container anyway to make sure of the

 contents. A smell like rotten eggs drifted into the air, and he looked

 like a kid who'd just gotten everything he ever wanted for Christmas.

 "Come on, what is it?"

 "No real heat source except those Bunsen burners," he muttered

 thoughtfully, "but that could be talked around. Well, well! We can leave

 now.''

 "Glad to hear it."

 He returned everything to its place except the book, and we got out

 about ten seconds before the guard returned. He got comfortable with his

 magazine again and began reading.

 "Why isn't he at the party?" I whispered.

 "Probably shy. Come on."

 Back at the kitchen stairs, he sat on the second lowest step, pulled out

 a small flashlight, and studied the book. Five minutes later he was

 shaking so hard with silent laughter he had to close it up to get his

 breath back.

 He held it out to me. "If nothing else, this would be proof enough of

 Frank Paco's criminal tendencies, for is it not well-known that you

 can't cheat an honest man?"

 "What is it?"

 He rolled the Latin out slowly and with evident pleasure. ' 'Magnum

 opus.''

 "What great work?"

 "Open the first page, read what is printed at the top."

 " 'What is above is as that which is below, and what is below is as that

 which is above.' What's it about, burying people?"

 "A kind of philosophy, a seeking for enlightenment which has since

 become corrupted and obscured by ignoble charlatans. You saw the mercury

 and sulfur. All that was lacking was a purifying furnace. This, my dear

 fellow, is alchemy."

 "Alchemy," I repeated blankly. "Paco is trying to make gold?'

 "Pah! The man hasn't the education."

 "He's got a tame chemist, then."

 "More likely a chemist cum physics." He shook his head. "Not a genuine

 one, but a fraud in every sense of the word."

 "A con man?"

 "Precisely."

 "Somebody's convinced Paco he can turn lead into gold?"

 "Not lead, but mercury. It's next up from gold on the periodic table.

 The notes in that book indicate they plan to use radium--"

 "Radium?"

 "--in some exotic process that will knock an atomic number or two from

 the mercury so they end up with either gold or platinum."

 "That's impossible."

 "In theory it seems quite possible, but that is just in theory."

 "It is impossible?"

 "Given the present state of science, yes, but the idea can be so

 beautifully profitable if presented in the right way to greedy and

 receptive ears. This is a confidence trickster of rare genius and no

 small audacity. It would be an honor to meet the fellow."

 "But where can he get radium?"

 "He doesn't have to get any--that's what I found in the safe."

 "An unlocked safe? But radium is more expensive than gold."

 "Astronomically more expensive and far more dangerous to have lying so

 casually around. Only four years ago there was a case of a Pittsburgh

 man who died horribly from ingesting a quack medicine containing

 radioactive salts. The radium they have tucked away in that unlocked

 safe is nothing more than a convincing substitute. No doubt it was

 purchased by the mark for a large sum of cash from the con artist's

 partner."

 "So the phony radium and all this lab equipment are just so much window

 dressing?"

 "A new twist to a very old game, don't you think?"

 "Yeah, I also think that maybe Paco is wise to it and pulling the

 strings of the con man. He's got a lot of money swilling his booze

 upstairs and might take some of the greedier ones on a little tour down

 here."

 "A good point," he admitted. "Again, I seem to have underestimated the

 opposition. All right, we discard the outside con man for the moment and

 put Paco in his place instead. He chooses a few gullible prospects from

 his guests, leads them to think he can make an unlimited quantity of

 gold by using radium as a modern-day Philosophers' Stone and offers them

 the opportunity to invest--"

 "Or help buy the radium--"

 "Then the experiments end in failure and Paco pockets the unspent cash."

 "You think he borrowed the cash from Morelli to start with, just to

 build this lab?"

 "It makes quite a convincing backdrop, does it not? I talked with Shoe

 again today and he was able to confirm that Paco had borrowed a quantity

 of cash from Morelli about a month ago, before you came to town."

 "You don't think this is connected with me?"

 "I really don't know. For the moment the most I'll say is that it seems

 unlikely."

 "It's a beautiful situation, though."

 "In what way?"

 "Pace's left himself wide open--I mean if anything should happen to that

 lab"

 "Are you suggesting we do something precipitant?"

 "Any objections?"

 "After what Paco nearly had done to me, I don't give a bloody damn what

 happens to him so long as it's something terribly unpleasant."

 "You got any ideas?"

 "Yes, but I want Shoe's people well clear of this before we do anything.

 Is the car in place?"

 "Just like you marked on the map."

 "Good. I must ask you to go there and wait for me. The catering staff

 leaves at midnight."

 "Sure, but what are you planning to do?"

 We'd been too loud, or our voices had carried in some freak way, for the

 glass-windowed door to the lab opened and the basement lights flared on.

 Escott's back was to them, and his body shielded mine with shadow. He

 slipped his thick glasses back on and whispered a one-word order for me

 to hide. The last I saw of him was his startled expression as I

 vanished.

 "Hey! Who are you?" Heavy aggressive footsteps approached and braked.

 "Hey! I'm talking to you! What are you doing here?"

 "I wash up," Escott mumbled in the same voice he'd used to such good

 effect last night. I moved up behind the man; if there was going to be

 trouble, I wanted to be in a position to take care of it.

 "Yeah? Well, what's to wash down here? You dunno, huh? Get back up to

 the kitchen. Gowan--move. It's more than your ass is worth if you come

 down here again."

 They both trooped up the stairs. He pushed Escott out, locked the door,

 and clomped down again. He moved around the basement, checking to see if

 he missed anyone, but eventually returned to the lab with a weary sigh

 and shut off the lights. He sounded bored, which wasn't good. A bored

 man is on the lookout for distraction. Whatever Escott had in mind, we'd

 have to be careful.

 I floated upstairs and outside, appearing at the window as before.

 Escott was busy scrubbing, trying to catch up on lost time.

 "I'll be at the car," I whispered.

 He nodded as though in time to some unheard inner musk, and splashed

 another of pile of dishes into the soapy gray water.

 The guards patrolling the estate were visible a mile off. I had no

 trouble avoiding them, but the dogs were another matter. They'd been on

 the other side of the grounds when I'd first arrived and were now making

 an importune circuit of my escape route. One of the men had a big

 mongrel on a short lead that caught my scent. Its ears went flat and he

 came charging, dragging his master. I like dogs, but this time my

 vanishing trick was never more welcome.

 I was near a pine tree and used it to orient myself, hanging close to

 the trunk to keep from drifting in the slight wind. The man and dog

 approached and he let the animal sniff around. However, it did not like

 blundering into the space I was occupying, and at first contact the dog

 gave an unhappy yelp and decided to seek something else to threaten that

 was a little more within his experience. He broke away and ran off, his

 master in hot and annoyed pursuit.

 It was way past time to quietly beat it out of there. The commotion was

 drawing the kind of attention that was only welcome in a three-ring

 circus. I formed up solid again and, moving fast, got away from the

 clown-and-dog act and found the fence I'd climbed coming in. It was a

 long five minutes of tearing through brush, brambles, and long grass to

 reach the car and something of an anticlimax once there, since I had

 nothing to do until Escott came. For the next couple of hours I plucked

 greenery from my clothes, kicked at stones, and ducked every time a set

 of headlights appeared on the nearby road.

 Shortly after twelve a large truck rumbled up from Pace's and stopped

 for a few seconds. A single tall figure hopped from the back, waved to

 someone inside, and was left in the exhaust as the truck drove off.

 There was a spring in Escott's step, as though he were on vacation and

 hadn't spent the evening washing dishes for a man who'd tried to have

 him killed.

 "Sorry about that interruption. I'm certainly glad the fellow missed

 seeing you."

 "You didn't get into trouble?"

 "Not at all. I think the man was reluctant to inform anyone that a

 person of my apparent intellectual capacity managed to get down there in

 the first place, as it would make him look bad."

 "Good, I didn't want to have to do anything he'd regret. You going to

 get rid of that face?"

 "Yes, I'm beginning to sweat it off, anyway." He opened the Nash's trunk

 and turned on a small flashlight with a piece of red glass over the bulb

 instead of the usual clear covering. He noticed that I noticed. "You may

 have excellent night vision, but I must preserve my own as best I can."

 He fixed the light so he could work, and hauled up a large metal box;

 the layered, unfolding kind used by fishermen to hold their lures and

 other equipment. Instead of spare hooks and lines, it contained a wide

 assortment of greasepaints, powders, brushes, sponges, and a dozen other

 things I couldn't identify in all the clutter. It was the only thing of

 his that was not starkly clean and neat.

 Working quickly in what for him was very dim light, he removed the

 glasses, false forehead, some protruding teeth from his lower jaw, a

 ragged gray wig, and odd tufts of hair. He smeared cold cream on and

 wiped the rest of the makeup off on a thin towel that had seen better

 days, then closed the kit up. He shrugged out of the white dishwasher's

 coat and buttoned a dark shirt on in its place.

 "Now we can get to work."

 "My question still stands: what have you got planned?"

 He reached into the trunk again and pulled out my answer.

 "You're kidding. You carry that stuff around with you?"

 "I try to be prepared and I am not kidding. You can put this where it

 will do the most good."

 "Where? Up Frank Paco's--"

 "Don't be crude. He has unwisely indebted himself to Slick Morelli to

 construct facilities to 'produce' his dream gold. You have suggested

 that if those facilities were destroyed--"

 "Well, not in so many words"

 "This could be a setback he can't afford."

 "Couldn't he just start over?"

 "I think not, since his credibility in the criminal community would be

 destroyed as well once the story got out, and I can make sure it does.

 It's cost him a lot to set things up, and he might not be able to clear

 the debt with his creditor."

 "He might get rubbed out."

 "That is a possibility. If you have second thoughts let me know now, for

 this is a felony.''

 "My murder was a felony. Paco owes us both one, so let's go collect."

 Chapter 6

 =========

 SILENTLY ENTERING THE house by way of the kitchen, I started to re-form,

 but became aware just in time to dodge two men making a late raid on the

 icebox.

 "Did you see that?" a distorted voice asked.

 "See what?"

 "I thought something moved over there."

 "Check it out, then."

 I held still, even when something alien intruded into my amorphous body.

 "Jesus, it's cold as hell in here. Shut that box up."

 "You see anything?"

 "Nah."

 'Boss'll think you're drinking, you talk like that."

 "I could use one."

 I left them to their food and moved on to the basement. The lab was as

 I'd left it, complete with the "milk and cookies" guard. Try as I might,

 I couldn't work up any dislike for the guy, and it took a real effort to

 tap him a good one behind the ear so I could do my work undisturbed. To

 make up for the assault, I eased him gently to the floor and

 thoughtfully folded his magazine into his coat pocket. Then I went

 through the lab like a dose of salts, opening cabinets and leaving them

 open, dumping drawers and looking for papers that might be useful.

 Escort had been thorough, though, and anything really important would be

 upstairs with Paco.

 Now I hauled out Escott's present, a single stick of dynamite with a

 five-minute fuse attached. It would do the job, but I wanted to be

 certain of the lab's utter destruction, and for that spent the next few

 minutes sloshing several gallons of alcohol all over the room. The

 walk-in storage closet was full of usable items, and anything marked

 flammable was added to the general mess. I made sure the air vents were

 wide open. There were no windows to the outside or I'd have opened them

 as well. After that I gave the gas taps for the Bunsen burners a good

 twist and listened to it hiss invisibly into the room.

 Propping the dynamite on the one clean table in the middle, I lit the

 fuse with some nervousness. In the five minutes it would take to burn

 down I planned to be in the car with Escott and tearing down the road

 back to Chicago.

 I hoisted the guard with the sweet tooth over my shoulders, my new

 strength making him seem remarkably light, then unlocked the lab door

 that led to the T-intersection and set it to lock again once it was

 closed. Trudging upstairs with my burden, I opened the second door into

 the hall and put the man down to one side. My back was to the hall while

 I was busy with the door. Too late, I heard the sharp clunk of a machine

 gun bolt being drawn back. My guess that the hallway would have less

 traffic than the kitchen was wrong.

 "Freeze right there, buddy," a voice told me.

 I had to obey and wondered how I could stall them. If I left now they

 might check the basement and, depending on their luck, foil the

 explosion or be blown up. There were two men behind me. One of them

 approached, and I raised my hands slowly.

 "Stay outta my line of fire, Harry."

 Harry grunted in acknowledgment. He searched me with quick, professional

 slaps. "He's clean," he announced, and stepped back.

 "What's going on?" demanded another, more authoritative voice.

 "We caught ourselves a burglar, Mr. Paco."

 "Check out the lab, Harry."

 I made a move to stop him, but was told again to stay put. Harry slipped

 downstairs. "The door's still locked, Mr. Paco," he called up.

 "Then how'd he get Newton out, dummy? Get up here and check 'em. He's

 gotta have keys or something."

 My muscles had gone all tight. Frank Pace's voice had touched a dormant

 nerve in my brain. I needed time to think, to remember

 "You! Turn around."

 I turned slowly, enjoying first the puzzlement, recognition, and then

 shock on Paco's face.

 "Fleming," he breathed softly. Only I could hear him. I felt an awful

 smile crawling across my features.

 The portrait in his office had been too flattering--the artist must have

 wanted his commission very badly. He'd caught the wide face and pop

 eyes, but had omitted the ingrained hardness and suspicious set to his

 mouth. He was shorter than Sanderson, but built much the same; stocky

 with muscle, rather than flab, and not afraid to use it, but now,

 because of my face, he fell back a step in fear.

 "Mr. Paco?" the man with the machine gun said uncertainly.

 The need to assert his authority overrode his confusion. He straightened

 and glared at me, rejecting his first instincts. And why not? As far as

 he knew, Jack Fleming had died over a week ago.

 "Who are you?"

 "My name is Gerald Fleming. I believe you know my older brother. Jack."

 Paco seized the explanation as I knew he would. Once more on firm

 ground, he was able to deal with the situation. "Yeah," he agreed

 reasonably. "I know your brother."

 "You met him the other week, didn't you?"

 "Yeah, we had some things to talk over. But you answer the questions

 here, punk. What are you doing in my house?"

 "I thought we could talk."

 "We'll talk and you better answer straight. What are you after?"

 I said nothing and my bloodshot stare made him uncomfortable.

 "This guy's some kind of freak. Take him out and get rid of him."

 Harry and the machine gunner each grabbed an arm and marched me past

 Paco and down the stem of the T. "Get rid of me and you'll never find

 that list," I shot back. My escort hesitated.

 "What makes you think I want it?"

 "My brother told me you were after it. He gave it to me. I know you got

 him. I'll trade you the list for him."

 Paco was chuckling. I'd given him a lot to laugh at.

 "What if I got it already?"

 "Then you wouldn't bother talking to me now." Maybe the bluff would

 stall things longer. I had no idea if there was enough truth in it to

 give him doubts, but I was certain I hadn't talked aboard the Elvira. He

 might still want his list. "I came here to look for my brother. You

 caught me square, but I'm willing to deal."

 "I'll just bet you are." Paco came closer, his eyes absorbing my face. I

 hoped my reclaimed youth would pass the hard study. "I'll deal with you

 the same as I did with him." His hand came up and he tried to knock my

 jaw off its hinges. I faked the impact, snapping my head hard over and

 letting my knees buckle. The two men on either side kept me standing.

 Not that I paid them much attention, my guts had gone cold. (They were

 going to kill me they were going to beat me to death)

 "You hear me, punk?" Paco's voice jolted me back to the hallway. "You

 start talking. You tell me how you got in here. You tell-"

 "Frank?"

 "What?" His head jerked around in irritation. Another man strolled up.

 He was in evening clothes, holding a glass, and his face had the

 broken-veined, dissipated look of a confirmed alcoholic.

 "Ask him what he was doing in the lab. Is the lab safe?"

 "He musta got in somehow to get Newton out, Doc," said Harry. "The

 door's locked now and I don't have no key to check."

 "Oh, of course, hold my drink." The man fumbled in his pockets. "I have

 mine right here um somewhere."

 "I told you, I was only looking for my brother," I insisted, needing to

 sidetrack them.

 "Then why were you dragging Newton around?"

 "I thought I could use him as a hostage."

 Paco didn't believe that one at all, not that I blamed him. He threw a

 hard punch to my stomach. I doubled over, remembering to force air from

 my lungs. I sagged between my supports, gagging a little, and hoped my

 performance was convincing.

 "How'd you get in here?" Paco repeated.

 "Snuck past men--open window--"

 "Frank, do you have your key, I must have left mine--"

 "Not now. Doc!"

 "You'll think not now if he's damaged anything down there."

 Paco growled and slapped through his pockets. I straightened, worked

 saliva into my mouth, and spit right in Paco's face.

 It was a more than sufficient distraction. Paco gaped at me, frozen in

 sheer disbelief. His big hand came up slowly to wipe it away. I found a

 perverse enjoyment in the situation and let it show.

 "Leave it there," I suggested. "On you it looks good."

 He went beet red, then hit me hard enough to knock me from the grip of

 my two supports. Stiff-legged, he bulled after me with his fists ready,

 and I made a big show of cowering and backing away. Paco struck again

 and again. I was only distantly aware of the blows, feeling impact

 rather than pain. He'd wear his hands out before he could do me any real

 harm now. I put on a good act, though, crying out, throwing my arms up,

 trying to protect my face and groin and each second moving farther and

 farther away from the basement door.

 I heard it a split second before anyone else and, down already, I just

 covered my head and lay prone.

 The blast roared up the stairs, knocking the bottom door to splinters

 and shattering every window in the house. The whole structure shook;

 plaster and framed pictures alike jumped from the walls to the bucking

 floor. The men in the hall were bounced away by the concussion, and the

 machine gun went off and tore holes in the ceiling.

 Paco, Doc, and Harry were knocked flat, Paco actually somersaulting over

 me. People were yelling alarms in other parts of the house and beneath

 it all, like the purr of a tiger, I heard the fire. It was time to go.

 I got my feet under me and stood in time to greet the reinforcements

 rushing in from the dining room. Spotted as the outsider, two of them

 grabbed me while a third aided Paco. He threw off the helping hands and

 came straight for me. He halted inches away, glaring.

 "Take this bastard to my office. Somebody call the fire department."

 They dragged me to the office on the other side of the house. Behind us

 Paco was talking to Doc.

 "Get up, you goddamned lush. We got work to do."

 I faked weakness, hoping they might get careless and take their eyes off

 me for a moment so I could disappear, but there was no such luck, not

 with the boss right behind them. They kept their eyes and guns locked on

 my head until Paco came in, dragging Doc with him.

 Doc was the worse for wear and dropped onto a couch, holding his head.

 Paco went to the massive desk, unlocked it, and began cramming papers

 into a briefcase.

 "What's Slick going to say about this?" Doc wondered out loud.

 "I already know," said Paco. "And if you got any brains in that skull

 that ain't been pickled yet, you'll figure it out, too."

 "What will we do?"

 "A quick trip outta town with a few of my best boys until this blows

 over."

 "An apt phrase."

 "And this mug's coming, too. Slick and me screwed up with his brother,

 but I won't be taking any chances with this one. If I come up with his

 list and hand it over, Slick will cancel all my IOUs."

 "Assuming you get him to talk."

 "He'll talk. He don't have his brother's guts."

 Oh, yeah?

 "What about me?"

 "Don't worry, I'll find a safe spot for you until we can set things up

 again." He snapped the case shut. "Come on."

 They opened the door to a smoke-filled hallway. Paco's men were losing

 out to the fire. He slammed the door, coughing. "We'll take the back

 way," he said, and started for another door across the room.

 Just as he touched the knob, the lights went out. Not knowing how long

 it would last, I took advantage of the situation. In seconds I knocked

 Doc and the other two men out cold. The sounds alerted Paco. He swung

 around, a gun in his hand.

 "What's going on?" he demanded. "Doc? Sam? Answer me!"

 I grabbed his wrist, pushing the gun away and squeezing. He grunted in

 pain, dropping the gun from suddenly nerveless fingers. He was trying

 not to scream. I eased off, but only a little.

 "Fleming, it's you, ain't it? We can still talk. I can still give you

 your brother--" Now he did scream, my grip on his wrist tightened

 involuntarily and the bones snapped. He dropped the briefcase and sank

 to the floor when I released him.

 "No deals, Paco," I whispered from the dark.

 "What d'ya want? Just tell me"

 What I wanted he didn't want to know. The hate inside me was growing

 like a separate living thing, and I wanted to turn it loose on this man

 and let it tear him to bloody ribbons. I picked him up by the clothes

 and shoved him against the wall. He made a small movement with his left

 hand. I should have paid attention, but was too crazy to notice. He drew

 a slightly deeper breath and briefly held it, which was a warning, but

 then it was too late. The hard snout of a nickel-plated derringer was

 pressed up under my rib cage and he triggered both shots.

 Two red-hot comets tore through me, leaving behind the harsh, ringing

 aftershock of pain. My body spasmed once for each bullet. I must have

 cried aloud in reflex, because it hurt like hell. Paco let his breath

 out in relief and waited for me to fall away.

 Instead I slapped the gun from his fingers and laughed. It sounded ugly

 to me, and I could only imagine what it was doing to him. My lungs ran

 out of air and I was still laughing, shaking with it, drunk from the

 look of fear on his face. He fought to get away, but I hoisted him right

 off his feet and pinned him to the wall. There was just enough thin

 light coming from the windows for him to see my face. His pop eyes

 bulged even more, his head shook, and he looked ready to scream, but it

 was reduced to a whimper that seeped out of his mouth like dribble.

 "What's on the list?" I said, giving him a shake to punctuate the

 question. His heels knocked loosely against the wall.

 "N-n-numbers."

 "What numbers?"

 "C-code--don't know--"

 "What do you want it for?"

 He was struggling again. "You're dead, I shot you--"

 "You're damn right I'm dead, you son of a bitch. You tell me why.''

 " dead, shot you--"

 "What is the list for? Why do you want it?"

 "Slick!" The name was screamed out. It could have been an answer or a

 call for help.

 "What does Slick have to do with it?"

 "He wants Him--you get him. Lemme go, oh God, lemme go!"

 "Who killed Fleming?"

 "I dunno."

 "Did you?"

 "No!" The denial was too fast and forceful. "It was Slick! He said to do

 it. Him!"

 "Why?"

 "Shut him up. Please, lemme--"

 "Where?"

 "Yacht."

 "The Elvira!"

 "Yes."

 "Who else was there?"

 "Fred, he tried to tell me. Oh God, tried--"

 "What? Tell you what?"

 "You're dead. Go away, go away." Tears streamed down the man's cheeks

 from his wide-open eyes.

 The hot, living hate was banging around inside me, fighting to get free,

 clouding my brain like the smoke that was just starting to ooze into the

 room. Our eyes were locked. He couldn't turn away, and then it was too

 late. He stiffened under my hands like a corpse. His mouth dropped wide

 and a gagging noise came out. The noise shaped itself, rose in volume,

 and lengthened into a full-fledged shriek that had no humanity in it. I

 let go and stepped away. Something else inside me released him as well,

 and the screaming died away. Paco dropped facedown on the floor and

 didn't move.

 I stared, afraid and wondering what I'd done to him. I was cold all over

 and shaking, feeling drained and weak. Out in the hall someone ran up,

 shouting for Paco. The door opened, and smoke billowed into the room

 along with two blinded, coughing men.

 Paco was still alive, but he didn't respond when I turned him over and

 there was a heart-sinking blankness in his eyes. As surely as I'd broken

 his wrist, I had shattered his mind. Considering what he had done to me

 and who knows how many other poor slobs who couldn't hit back, I felt no

 pity for him. I picked up his briefcase and retreated a few steps

 through the door we were to use before the lights went out. By then, the

 newcomers were tripping over unconscious bodies.

 What the hell? They're all out Mr. Paco? Mr. Paco?"

 But Paco was still oblivious.

 "We gotta get 'em outta here." The back way?"

 "Too slow--open the window."

 I quietly left while the men were busy lowering bodies into the flower

 beds outside. No one really noticed as I crossed the open grounds this

 time. All eyes were on the house. Some of them had been late-staying

 guests still in evening dress, others were servants, the rest looked

 like the thugs they were, and all huddled in little groups and stared at

 the smoke rising from the windows to the sky. Shouts from the other end

 of the house brought help to the men who were getting Paco out, saving

 me the trouble. I may have hated his guts, but I wouldn't have let him

 burn to death.

 Turning away, I walked unchallenged out the front gates and down the

 road. In the distance I could hear the first fire trucks approaching.

 Escott was standing on the fender of the Nash, craning to get a better

 view of things.

 "You were successful?" he asked when he could see me.

 "Yeah, it was a real riot."

 "Anything wrong?"

 "No." I got in the car and tried to pull myself together. I felt the

 same as when I'd hit Sanderson and turned his face inside out, only this

 time it had been Paco's mind. I wasn't sorry about it, but I was

 frightened that I had such an ability and of what it might do to someone

 who didn't deserve it.

 Escott started the car and got us well on our way back to the city. He

 was looking at me, wanting to ask what was the matter, but forcing

 himself to be patient. I shrugged and shook myself as though I'd solved

 a problem. It wasn't solved by a long shot, but I could at least push it

 aside for the moment.

 He took my movements as an opening to conversation. "What is in your

 case?"

 I'd forgotten it. "Some of Paco's papers. He seemed to think they were

 important enough to carry from a burning house, so I took them away

 instead."

 "Dear me, yes, they should prove to be most interesting, indeed. But did

 he not see you?"

 "Yeah, he saw me, but I passed myself off as my younger brother Gerald,

 who I invented just then, and he swallowed it."

 "Then will he not be in pursuit of Gerald?"

 "The explosion and fire were some big shock to him. I don't think he'll

 be looking for me at all. He was talking about finding a deep hole and

 pulling it in after him. If his boys are smart they'll be doing the same

 thing."

 "If they're smart. What else happened?"

 "I think I met the alchemist; they called him Doc. He was drunk, but

 still had more brains than the others, he nearly spoiled the boom. I

 last saw him being hauled out a window, guess he got too much smoke. He

 was worried about what Slick would say once the news was out, which was

 why Paco was leaving town. Morelli holds all his markers."

 "He may have a difficult time collecting now."

 "I I started to remember things, Pace's voice--I nearly had another

 seizure, but snapped out of it. I found out for certain I was killed

 aboard the Elvira for some kind of coded list. Paco and Morelli were

 both after it, so it wasn't just the loan and money tying them

 together."

 "At one point it was you and what you knew."

 "When I didn't talk I know they beat the hell out of me before

 Paco"

 (He raised the gun to my chest and fired. The flash filled my eyes, I

 fell)

 My head bumped hard against the dashboard. My shoes were stained with

 grass and damp. Escott said my name in a worried tone and brought the

 car to a stop. He pushed me upright against the seat, and I shook my

 head like a dazed prizefighter, my eyes blinking as I tried to regain

 the present.

 "Fleming?"

 "I'm all right." I was a little surprised; the guy was really concerned

 about me.

 "You don't look it," he said.

 My ears were ringing from the memory of the shot and I felt weak; my

 vision was fuzzy around the edges. The shock of

 -

 memories coming back I couldn't help, but I could handle the cause of

 these new symptoms.

 "I just--just drop me at the Stockyards. I'll walk home from there, if

 you don't mind."

 He didn't.

 Maybe I'd talk with him later, for right now things in my stirred-up

 brain could wait. We were both tired. For something to do I opened the

 briefcase and rummaged through the papers. There was a lot of junk I

 didn't feel like wading through just then. No doubt Escott would enjoy

 every bit of it later. Then I found an interesting item at the bottom of

 the case which I could immediately understand. If the printing on the

 homemade wrappers could be believed, I was holding five neat bundles of

 one hundred twenties--ten thousand dollars all in one lump sum sitting

 in the palm of my hand. After spending so many years living close to the

 edge, all that cash felt pretty damn good.

 "Who says there's no justice?" I mumbled.

 "What?"

 "You want some?"

 Escott spared a glance at the money and managed not to run us off the

 road. "Well, well."

 "You think it's marked?"

 "Knowing Paco, I think not, but it won't hurt to make a thorough check."

 "You mean we keep it?"

 "Why not? You once asked me if I were rich. I said sometimes. This is

 one of those times. A little extra cash is always handy.''

 "I thought you might be above this sort of thing."

 He looked pained. "A Free Agent is entitled to whatever rewards his

 conscience will permit. If this is Paco's money, my conscience can

 become quite elastic. It is? Then I think we should consider this to be

 sufficient recompense for our work tonight. I shall put my share to good

 use, such as interior improvements to my home."

 If he meant his two-room office, he could use a lot of help there. I

 looked down at the shredded cloth on my stomach. "I think I'll get some

 new clothes."

 Escott looked at the holes. "I thought I smelted cordite. What

 happened?"

 "I annoyed Paco."

 He wisely decided to leave it at that.

 After feeding and a good day's rest I felt a lot better, and the next

 night I made an effort to find a men's store that closed early, so I

 sifted through the ads in the papers, squinted at my map, and located a

 place nearby that might fill my needs. Then I went downstairs, got a

 handful of change at the desk, and folded myself into a phone booth. The

 operator put me through to Cincinnati.

 "Hi, Mom. What's going on?"

 After last night I needed a dose of reality, and happily used up my

 change talking to her and Dad about mundane things. We argued about

 money a little.

 "Don't think we don't appreciate this. Jack," said Mom, "but you can't

 afford to be sending us twenty-five dollars all the time. You have to

 save a little for yourself.''

 I thought about the five thousand dollars Escott would be bringing by

 tonight. My current expenses were running about fifteen dollars a week,

 including rent and tips. My food, of course, was free. At that rate I

 could easily spare my folks twenty-five bucks a week for the next two

 years or more. Maybe by that time Roosevelt would have the economy back

 on keel.

 "I'm saving a little How are my siblings?"

 "What?"

 "How's the family? Any new nephews or nieces?"

 "Yes, Sarah Jane wrote just the other day" And she went down the line

 chattering about my three brothers and three sisters and the growing

 brood of grandchildren, then had to hand the phone over to Dad.

 "Where are you staying so we can write you?"

 "I'm just at a small hotel for now, and I may be moving on if I find a

 better place," I hedged. I didn't want them knowing I was staying under

 an assumed name. I asked him about the store and about his drinking

 buddies and what he thought about Hitler, safely distracting him away

 from questioning me. I'm a lousy liar at the best of times and my

 parents were always able to tell when I was trying to give them the

 business. The best thing was to keep my distance until I could figure

 out what was safe for me to tell them about my condition, or if I could

 tell them anything at all.

 "What happened to all that reporting?" he demanded.

 "What's all this about an ad agency? I thought all those places were in

 New York."

 "They have a few out here, and they pay good money to bright boys like

 me."

 '' Like--what--oh, your mom asks when you coming back for a visit?"

 "When I get a vacation."

 "When's that?"

 "I don't know, I just started. Give me some time to get settled into

 things."

 "You know you got work here if you need it."

 "I know, and thanks."

 "Well, this is costing you a fortune. Write next time."

 "I will, don't worry."

 He gave the phone over to Mom, who said pretty much the same stuff, then

 repeated it all over again to make sure I understood.

 "And remember what I said about saving some for yourself."

 "Yes, Mom."

 "And be careful about what you eat. No drugstore hot dogs."

 "No, Mom, I promise."

 She said good-bye, gave the phone over to Dad again, and he told me to

 stay out of trouble, and we said good-bye.

 I stayed in the booth for a while, my head down and a cold hard ache

 inside. I hadn't been really homesick since I first left for the Army as

 a kid. At least back then I knew I could return again, that home and

 things would be the same as ever, but that was a kid's thinking. Their

 lives had changed and I had changed and grown up. I didn't necessarily

 like the situation, but there wasn't a whole hell of a lot anybody could

 do about it.

 I backed quickly out of the confining space of the booth and went

 outside, trying to put distance between myself and the loneliness. The

 depression followed, but its hold lessened with the distractions the

 long streets offered. Thirty minutes of roundabout walking put me in

 front of a men's shop that had been advertised in the papers.

 It was closed and no one would be in the back working late, which was

 exactly why I picked the place. I didn't need any hovering clerks asking

 awkward questions about my aversion to mirrors.

 I slipped inside and got oriented. The front window shades had been

 pulled, but the low level of illumination was more than adequate.

 "Riming the lights on would have just annoyed a passing cop. After

 poking around, I located a pencil, receipt book, and a pair of gloves,

 not necessarily in that order, and proceeded to wait on myself.

 Careful to print, I recorded the purchase of several shirts, ties, a

 couple of suits, some other odds and ends, and the real corker: a

 tuxedo, complete right down to the white fringed scarf to drape around

 my neck. I figured the scarf would make me look more like Fred Asia ire

 than Bela Lugosi.

 The clothes were high quality and with a price to match, but aside from

 rent and a few tips, I wasn't spending my money on very much else. I

 overpaid the purchases by three bucks since I was out of small bills,

 but thought it would be sufficient compensation to the shop owner for my

 inconvenient nocturnal intrusion. I could have just walked out with the

 stuff, but I'm basically an honest guy. Besides, if the incident were

 reported to the cops, they would probably do nothing. The stuff was paid

 for and then some. They'd have bigger fish to catch than some customer

 who took self-service very seriously.

 After packaging everything up into a stack of long, flat boxes, I tried

 leaving by the back door in order to avoid witnesses to my impromptu

 Houdini act. There were alarms on all the doors, set to go off if they

 were opened, so I was forced to dematerialize to get out. Not all the

 boxes went through, the ones that didn't tumbled to the shop floor. I

 made several trips in and out after that, holding the larger ones close.

 Since I had to enter the back door of my hotel by the same method, I got

 a lot of practice in that night. The boxes all bore the name of the

 store I'd "burgled" and I didn't want to be seen entering the lobby at a

 late hour with an armful of incriminating evidence. Should the story of

 the honest thief make the morning papers, the last thing I needed was to

 have some night clerk putting things together. Maybe I was being overly

 cautious, but sometimes paranoia pays off.

 Before midnight had rolled around, my new duds were hung up, their

 labels removed and flushed. Taking another short walk out the back way,

 I disposed of the boxes and wrappings in some isolated trash can.

 Escott was sitting in my armchair smoking his pipe when I returned.

 "You certainly waste no time." He nodded at my open closet and its new

 contents, and his eyes went to the top hat on the bureau. "Planning an

 evening out?"

 "Maybe. From what I hear about the Nightcrawler Club, I figure a plain

 old suit and tie wouldn't get me past the hat check girls."

 He murmured agreement. If he had questions about how and where I came by

 the stuff, he kept them to himself.

 "Is this a social visit?"

 "More or less. I was wondering if you had seen the papers."

 I knew what he was talking about. "Yeah, but you know how these things

 can get distorted. Editors like to punch things up; it sells papers."

 "True, but even taking that into consideration, there was quite a lot of

 copy devoted to Frank Paco's mental condition."

 "He must have been running close to the edge. The fire may have pushed

 him right over--either that or he's faking to keep Morelli from

 collecting."

 "Has your memory come back on anything since last night?"

 "Haven't thought about it," I lied. "I've been busy."

 "And I as well." He pulled five thousand dollars from his inside pocket

 and gave them to me.

 "Clean?"

 "Very clean."

 "I'll try not to spend it all in one place. Don't I owe you something,

 though?"

 "For what?"

 "For this case, or are you working for free these days?"

 He made a noise that was something like a laugh. "Mr. Fleming, I have

 already received a very exceptional fee for this case and it is safely

 lodged in my home, all five thousand of it. You have been more than

 generous, believe me. As it was, I had not planned to bill you anything

 at all, especially not after you prevented Sanderson from dumping my

 careless carcass into the river."

 "All right, we'll call it even, then."

 "You don't keep banker's hours. You have a safe place to keep your

 share?"

 "Don't worry, it's locked away."

 "Very well." He changed the subject again, but kept the conversational

 tone in his voice. "Did you know that several of Paco's key men have

 been arrested on suspicion of arson?"

 "Fancy that," I chuckled.

 "I've also been going through the papers you brought out."

 "Is it good stuff?"

 "It is excellent stuff. I made copies for future reference, and then

 anonymously turned them over to the right people. If Paco were in his

 right mind, he would certainly be in jail by now, rather than in

 hospital."

 "Better that he's in the hospital; he can't make bail and leave the

 country."

 "He does have a police guard on him."

 "Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy."

 "What did you do to him?" he asked in the same quiet tone.

 I wasn't ready to talk about it. He could see that, but just sat there

 and waited.

 "Was it something to do with your condition?" he said after a long time.

 After all the activity last night I had needed to go straight to the

 Stockyards, so he knew I hadn't touched Paco's throat. Such an assault

 might have driven the man around the bend, though at the time it hadn't

 even occurred to me to try. Escott was fishing around for something more

 subtle.

 I avoided his eyes. "You've seen him?"

 "I talked with a nurse who had."

 "How is he?"

 "The same as he was last night."

 He wanted to know very badly.

 "Was that a result of one of your powers?"

 I caught myself avoiding his eyes again and stopped. "You make it sound

 like I'm Chandu the Magician."

 "More like Lamont Cranston."

 He was referring to the introduction of "The Shadow" radio show. Every

 time it came on, the audience was reminded of his power to cloud men's

 minds. "Yeah, I guess it was something like that."

 "What kind of control do you have?"

 "I don't know, that was the problem."

 "Are you going to learn how?"

 "No!"

 He gave me a few minutes to cool down. I paced the little room and

 looked out the window for a while. The street was still down there. I

 thought about Maureen and all the things she hadn't told me.

 "Mr. Fleming"

 His formality was annoying. "Why don't you call me Jack?"

 ' 'I was going to wait until your case was cleared away. I prefer to

 keep things on a business level with my clients until they cease to be

 my clients."

 I looked at him now. My mind was concentrated and I prayed controlled.

 His gray eyes had ceased their normal movements and were locked onto

 mine. It was so damned easy.

 "Call me Jack."

 His pipe dropped to the floor with a clack, and the tobacco inside

 scattered from the impact. The movement distracted me just enough. His

 eyes blinked and his face resumed the expression he had a few seconds

 ago.

 "Where's your pipe?" I asked.

 He found it and apologized for the mess.

 "But how did it get there?"

 "I must have dr--" He let his breath out slowly. "You did it just now?"

 "Yes, I told you to do something. The pipe falling was just a side

 issue. Now do you see why I want to leave this alone?"

 "Induced hypnotism"

 "No--"

 "Jack, this is not something you should avoid, this demands responsib--"

 "Am I still your client?"

 It was an oddball question and he wondered why I'd asked it. I told him.

 "You see how it is? You weren't even aware of what I did. You think it's

 your own idea. If I told you to jump out the window singing 'Swanee'

 you'd do it."

 "If it were hypnosis, I would not."

 "Yeah, I know all that. You can't get a person to do anything against

 his will--but that's for the normal kind, and this isn't."

 "How do you know that?"

 "Because I saw what it did to Paco."

 "Did you do it on purpose?"

 "No--I don't know--it was an emotional thing as well. I don't know how

 it works, it just happened. It got away from me and I'm not going to try

 anything like that again. I have no right to."

 "And how do you plan to control it if you choose to ignore it?"

 "I don't know I'll work things out. I could avoid all this arguing by

 just telling you to forget all this."

 "Then do so."

 "No. I'm not going to go banging around in your brain with a monkey

 wrench and have you ending up like Paco."

 Escott nodded thoughtfully and refilled and lit his pipe. "I almost wish

 other people were as morally minded as that, but then I should be out of

 a job."

 It took me a minute to figure out what he meant by that beyond the

 obvious, but at times I could be pretty damn slow. His needling had been

 more of a test than curiosity. Apparently my reaction was satisfactory

 and I almost resented his game. Almost, because if our positions were

 reversed I might have done the same thing to him.

 I tried to laugh, but it came out sour. "Yeah, I'm a goddamned Jack

 Armstrong."

 He stood up. "If you've nothing else planned, would you care to go for a

 drive? I find it to be quite relaxing and I've something you might like

 to see."

 I didn't, so we did. He took the Nash as far north as the streets led

 without actually being in the lake, then took an east-west road. He went

 dead slow past a two-story brick building that took up the whole block.

 The place was dark except for a couple of upstairs windows.

 "The Nightcrawler Club," he said, in case I'd missed the dark neon sign

 on the front. "I thought you'd like a look at it. They're closed on

 Sundays."

 He drove down a block and pulled over. We got out and walked past the

 place, then around to the back. I noticed someone standing in the rear

 alley and told Escott to keep going. We turned away from the club, going

 north again until we were stopped by a railing that overlooked the lake.

 We stood only ten feet above the black water, but I hated any kind of

 height, and kept away from the rail. Escott leaned on it and stared at

 the garbage swelling against the concrete boundary of the land.

 "Who was in the alley?"

 "An off-duty waiter, maybe, but he was dressed fancy."

 "We can try again later."

 He pushed away from the rail and headed east along the water. There

 wasn't much to see: a few boats tied up, others were at anchor farther

 out; they all looked asleep at this late hour.

 "Do you see anything out there?" He pointed to something large out on

 the lake. The last time I'd seen it was in profile. Its stern was toward

 us now, but I had no trouble reading the name.

 "The Elvira."

 "I couldn't be sure of her in the dark, but she is in the same spot she

 was in this afternoon. Morelli's on board now with his lady friend. He

 spends his free time there when he can."

 "Must be nice."

 "What does it bring to mind?"

 I shook my head. "Sorry. Right now it's just another boat."

 We walked on and made a big circle before coming back to the club. The

 alley was clear this time, but there wasn't anything worth seeing. It

 was wide enough for the delivery trucks, and had no more than its share

 of trash at the edges and the usual loading platform and steps that go

 with back doors. When I took an incidental breath, the place stank with

 a wet and used smell-nothing extraordinary--it could be found in any

 alley with bad drainage the world over.

 I shook my head again to his unasked question. As a memory jog, the

 place was useless. We walked back to the car, or at least tried. The

 fancily dressed man must have taken a turn around the block himself. It

 was hard to tell who was more surprised. Automatically his hand went to

 his belt, where he kept his gun.

 "What're you doing here? Get out!"

 We were more than ready to oblige and moved away from him, but like a

 yapping dog, he trotted up behind to make sure we left. Things were

 peaceful enough until someone else stepped out the back door.

 "What is it, Ed?"

 "Couple of guys and they're leaving."

 "Who are you with?" he said to us.

 "Just ourselves, takin' a walk home," said Escott. He had an American

 accent now and sounded slightly drunk.

 "And where's home?"

 "Nonayur business. You want us out, we're out." Swaying, he grabbed my

 arm and started away.

 "Ed."

 Ed needed no further instructions. He came around in front of us and

 pulled the gun. I hoped it was too dark for him to see our faces

 clearly.

 "What's the big idea?" protested Escott. "We're gotn'."

 "In a minute," said Ed. "Turn around and keep your hands out."

 He marched us up to the loading dock, the second man joining us at

 street level. He also had a gun. With his other hand he was pulling out

 a lighter. While he rumbled to get it working, I felt Escott's muscles

 tighten. It wouldn't do us any good if those bozos got a clear look at

 us. While they were watching the sparking lighter, Escott released my

 arm and twisted backward, grabbing Ed's gun hand and forcing it down. I

 jumped the other guy and tried to do the same. He had the gun up and

 fired once, but I knocked it to the outside before it could do any

 damage. I didn't waste time pulling it away from him, but just hit the

 side of his head and stunned him. He went down hard and ceased to be a

 worry.

 I checked Escott. Ed had lost his gun and they were both scrambling and

 rolling on the concrete to get it. I kicked it out of the way and when

 there was an opening in the punching and flailing, leaned in and knocked

 him cold. I dragged Escott to his feet, and we ran out of the alley for

 the car before the one wild shot could bring reinforcements. Escott had

 the keys out and ready. He opened the passenger door, dived in, and slid

 over. The Nash was started and in gear almost as fast.

 He was breathless with a thin sweat on his face, but his eyes were

 gleaming happily. The man was crazy, he'd been enjoying himself back

 there.

 "That was good exercise," he puffed. "At least we know they take their

 security as seriously as Paco."

 "That could be a problem."

 "But not for you, my dear chap. Thanks for the helping hand, that fellow

 was awfully fast."

 "Anytime. Are you done for the night or do you want to take on any

 wandering longshoremen just to cap things off?"

 "Another time. Believe me, I did not think they'd react so suspiciously.

 The one on the steps must have seen through my drunk act. A pity, it

 went over well enough on stage. I shall have to show you my press

 clippings sometime. Oh, dear."

 He pulled the car over fast, the right front wheel bumping the curb as

 we jerked to a halt. He was still breathing hard and his damp skin was

 gray.

 "Oh, damn. Oh, bloody damn." He pressed a hand against his left side.

 Blood was seeping freely between his fingers. "The bastard had a knife."

 He slipped sideways against me and fainted.

 Chapter 7

 =========

 DR. CLARSON WAS a small man with large brown hands that at first glance

 didn't look dexterous enough for the work they were doing. His tightly

 curling hair was cut close to the scalp. He was about fifty, but the

 gray at the sides made him seem older. His movements were economical,

 and if he had any opinions about patching up a white man in his tiny

 examining room at two o'clock on a Monday morning, he kept them

 professionally to himself.

 Escott was out cold again on the exam table. The room was too small for

 anyone else but him and the doctor, so Shoe Cold-field and I had to be

 content to cool our heels in the waiting room outside. There were six

 old wooden chairs, each as scarred as the matching floor, a small table

 that must have served the receptionist as a desk, and some ancient file

 cabinets, also of wood. The place was very clean, though, and smelled

 sharply of antiseptic. Shoe looked worried, but not overly anxious.

 However shabby the place was, he had trust in Clarson's medical skills.

 I was restless and wanted to pace, but held it in check, trying to

 follow Shoe's example of patience. He sat quite still on one of the

 chairs, his eyes straying to the doctor and Escott, alert in case he was

 needed. All I could do was fidget around on my perch on the table and

 try not to look at the smears of blood we left decorating the floor when

 we brought Escott in. Bloody damn had been right, my hands and clothes

 were covered with the stuff. From literature I'd read in the past on the

 subject of blood and vampires, I should have been feeling something

 other than sick horror.

 The blood on my hands got sticky, and I asked if there was a washroom

 nearby. Shoe glanced up and led the way out to one down the hall. We

 cleaned up as best we could, but our clothes would be the laundry's

 problem.

 Things hadn't changed at the office. We sat down again. I chewed on a

 nail, a habit I hadn't fallen into since I was a kid. It tasted lousy,

 so I forced my hand down with the other and kept still. I looked at

 Coldfield and wondered why he hadn't asked for explanations, as he was

 certainly entitled to do, but then I hadn't volunteered any. I looked at

 Clarson's back and wondered what was taking so long and if we should

 call an ambulance.

 I had eased Escott down on the seat, pulled out a handkerchief, and

 pressed it against his side. It soaked through in what seemed like an

 instant, but I could see now that my reckoning of time had been

 distorted by fear. With his head level with his heart, he came to after

 a moment and said something unintelligible, then clearly said my name.

 'I'm right here. I'll get you to a hospital if I can find one."

 "No. Find Shoe closer."

 I had no better ideas and at least I knew where to go. Somehow I got

 over to the driver's side and drove like hell to the Shoe Box.

 Half a dozen dark men jumped when we screeched up outside the place, and

 I could hardly blame them. A couple came up to the car, and I recognized

 one man from our previous visit. He stuck his head in the window, his

 eyes going wide and curious at Escott's huddled form.

 "Is Shoe around? His friend Escott's been hurt."

 He wasted no time on the tableau, but straightened and shouted to

 someone by the nightclub door, who disappeared inside.

 "How bad is he?"

 "Don't know--it's a knife wound; he didn't feel it at first."

 "Yeah, that's how they are." He spoke from experience, but didn't

 elaborate.

 Escott's eyes were open, but he didn't seem aware of very much. His lips

 were blue and a sheen of sweat covered his cold face. I knew shock when

 I saw it and wished to God Coldfield would hurry. After a couple of

 years of pressing the sodden handkerchief, I looked up and saw his face

 in the passenger window.

 "Shit, what happened?"

 "Knife fight. He wanted to come here."

 "It's his lucky night," he said, and looked back at the club entrance

 and told someone to hurry. That someone was introduced as Dr. Clarson,

 who peered at Escott and got into the backseat, telling me where to

 drive. Shoe got in the other side and we took off. Three blocks later I

 stopped in front of a dusty stairway leading into a dark building. The

 street-level sign' declared the doctor's office was in room 201 and gave

 the hours.

 Shoe took over pressure duty while Clarson went up to unlock things and

 turn on the lights. Between the two of us. Shoe and I got Escott up to

 the office, hopefully without inflicting more damage. Escott must have

 been in some pain by then; his gray eyes rolled up at the harsh white

 light and kept on going to the top of his head.

 As the waiting telescoped, I became very conscious of Escott's soft

 breathing. Every few seconds I had to stifle the urge to get up and

 check things. Leg muscles would tighten, then forcibly relax as I willed

 myself to stay put so as not to break the doctor's concentration.

 Another twitch would bring up another excuse. For something to do I

 pretended to breathe. In that small and very quiet waiting room,

 Coldfield might possibly just notice its absence as Escott had.

 Escott

 When there was a long, descending sigh in the next room, Coldfield went

 bolt upright in his chair and looked at me.

 The doctor stood up straight and nodded over his work. His had been the

 sigh we had heard. We crowded into the doorway to see. Escott's clothes

 had been peeled away, leaving his trunk pale and vulnerable except for

 the bandages just under the line of his rib cage. Clarson washed up at a

 tiny sink in the corner and dried his hands carefully.

 "How do I handle it, Shoe?" he asked without turning.

 Shoe looked at me. "You want to tell me now?"

 I told him how it had happened and that it had something to do with

 Escott's investigation of my case. Clarson shook his head, giving his

 silent opinion of grown men trying to act like Saturday-afternoon serial

 heroes.

 "He won't be kicking off just yet," he told us. "So I guess there's no

 harm keeping this between us."

 "What do we do now?" asked Shoe.

 "Leave him here tonight, let him rest. He lost a lot of blood and got

 some muscle cut up, but no internal stuff or he wouldn't be here." He

 didn't specify if he meant the office versus an emergency room or among

 the living.

 "What about tomorrow?"

 "We'll see in the morning. I don't want him moved for now. I'm keeping

 him quiet for a few hours, so you two can go on. I'll call you at the

 club if there's any trouble."

 "Do you anticipate any?" I asked.

 "Not really, infection at the most. I cleaned him up good, but knives

 can be dirty.''

 Coldfield and I thanked him and went downstairs to the car. There was

 some blood on the upholstery, but it was dry now. We were just getting

 inside when a long, bony body lurched at us from behind. It was Cal, the

 skinny kid who shined shoes, but now he was minus his box and easy

 smile.

 Coldfield was surprised, which for him was the same as being annoyed.

 "What you doing out of bed, boy?"

 "Jimmy told me about Mist' Escott."

 "He's all right now--"

 "Can I see him?"

 "He's not even awake and the doctor says he needs rest. He's not hurt

 too bad, so come on and get in the car."

 Cal looked wistfully up the stairs, then reluctantly got in between us.

 I drove back to the Shoe Box and Coldfield had me park around the back.

 Without being told, Cal got out and trotted ahead of us to the back

 door.

 "He lives here?" I asked.

 "Yeah, him and a few other boys his age. They earn their keep and it's

 respectable work.''

 "What about their families?"

 "Some don't have any to speak of. Cal's dad was killed in an accident

 and his mama works in a bar so she can be close to the booze. When she

 climbs out of the bottle, Cal will move back with her, but until then

 he's got a home here."

 "In a nightclub?"

 The question should have annoyed him, but didn't. "My sister looks after

 them. This place is a castle compared to where they've been. I make 'em

 work and when they aren't working, they go to school. I don't force

 anything they don't want; they can leave when they like, and some do,

 but the smart ones don't."

 The headline, "Bronze Belt Boys' Town" jumped into my head. It would

 make a good story, but now was hardly the time for an interview.

 "Want to come in for a drink?"

 "Thanks, but next time. I need to get home and clean up."

 "You got a way home?"

 "I can walk."

 "Not in this neighborhood, you can't. Come on, my turn to drive you." We

 went to his newer Nash and got in. He asked where I lived and I told

 him. "That's a pretty long walk."

 "I like to walk."

 "In some parts of this town, you're better off running."

 "So I've noticed." I handed over the keys to Escott's car. "Here, I

 won't be by till late tomorrow, you take care of them."

 "Sure. You still going to mess with Morelli?"

 "I have to, now."

 "Take some advice and don't." He didn't mention the consequences. He

 didn't have to since we were both thinking about Escott.

 Back in my room I packed my dirty laundry up for the staff to work on.

 To save trouble explaining the bloodstains I just threw the shin away. I

 spent the rest of the night flat on my back and staring at the ceiling

 from the bed. It was depressing having to sit through the long

 early-morning hours alone and not be able to watch the dawn and the

 change of mood a new day can bring. The only good thing was the oblivion

 it brought as soon as the lid of my trunk came down, and then an instant

 later it seemed, there was another fresh night ahead of me, as though

 the day had never happened.

 I phoned the Shoe Box first thing and talked to Coldfield.

 "You been out all day? I tried to call."

 "Yeah. Call me for what? Is he all right?"

 "He's weak, but insisted on going home. I thought you'd want to know, is

 all." He gave me a different address from the little office and I wrote

 it down. "You ain't going to tire him?"

 "No, just apologize for putting him through all this."

 "It's no one's fault but the's.o.b. with the knife." I agreed and hung

 up.

 The taxi dropped me at a row of two- and three-story buildings that

 looked old enough to have escaped the Fire, or had been built

 immediately afterward. Kids played in the quiet street, and parents sat

 on the steps and fanned themselves in the twilight. It was a respectable

 middle-class neighborhood. It hardly seemed suitable for Escott, but

 then again I couldn't think what else would have been right.

 I rang the bell of a brown brick building of three floors and Cal opened

 the door.

 "Hi, Mist' Fleming. Shoe said you was coming."

 From somewhere close inside, Escott said, "Were coming, Cal."

 Cal grinned and said it again correctly, standing back for me. It was a

 small entryway, with a rack on the wall to hang hats and coats. Directly

 ahead were stairs leading up into shadows. On their left was a hall

 going through to the back of the house. An open set of double doors were

 parallel to the stairs, and beyond them was a cramped sitting room,

 where Escott was lying on an old chintz-covered sofa. He was in a deep

 purple bathrobe; the color made him look more pale than he was. There

 were tired circles under his eyes, but he seemed glad to see me.

 "Come and sit down. Will you have some tea?"

 The question was for Cal's benefit; I politely declined. "You look

 better than last night. How do you feel?"

 "Tired, but I'll live through it. Shoe invited me to stay at his place,

 but I wanted to come home. We finally compromised, and he let me go, but

 only on condition that Cal stays over and keeps an eye on me."

 "Good, I was afraid you'd be alone."

 At second look, the place only seemed cramped. The high ceilings made

 the floor area appear smaller in proportion. The floor was highly

 polished, reflecting the lamplight and a few comfortable old pieces of

 furniture. Several pictures hung by long wires from the upper moldings.

 They were all large mediocre prints of naked women reclining on clouds

 with naked babies and doves, and were hardly consistent with Escott's

 character.

 "Did this place come furnished?"

 He noticed where I was looking, his eyes crinkling. "Do you like them?"

 "They're interesting."

 He didn't miss my expression. "You have excellent taste. They shall

 no doubt prove profitable to the junk dealer as soon as I can get around

 to it."

 "They came with the house?"

 "Yes, certainly. It has an interesting history. I have it on good

 account from my neighbors that the place was once a bordello."

 "The previous tenants are gone?"

 "Yes, the owner died some time ago, the place went for sale, and I was

 able to buy it quite cheaply, as no one wanted to live here. You know, I

 still occasionally have to turn away an old customer who hasn't heard

 the news yet. My life is not dull-sometimes odd, but never dull." He

 sipped his tea. "Shoe thinks I should talk you out of pursuing your own

 case and to turn it over to the police."

 "You know I can't go to them the way I am."

 "I know, but Shoe doesn't. He obviously has decided that I have no

 further interest in it because of this little incident."

 "I'm not too surprised; he mentioned it last night. I am sorry about

 this. If I'd been faster--"

 He shook his head. "No one else could have been faster, I've seen it and

 you did save me, after all, and I am grateful. Forget about it, I'll be

 up and doing soon enough."

 Cal came in with a glass of water and a small bottle of pills. "It's

 time."

 Grimacing and accepting two, he washed them down quickly to get it over

 with, then Cal took the glass away to the kitchen. As soon as he was

 gone, Escott spit the pills fastidiously into a handkerchief and tucked

 it into the robe's pocket. He drank more tea to wash away their taste.

 "What gives?" I asked.

 "They're morphine. I've seen what it can do to people, and I'd really

 rather endure the pain. At least I know it will go away. Clarson is an

 excellent fellow and discreet, but he really should know better. I had

 an armful of the stuff this morning and could hardly do anything for

 myself.''

 I wondered what he could possibly feel up to doing in his condition. "Do

 you need anything now?"

 "Only more patience."

 "You aren't talking me out of this mess?"

 "We're enough alike that I know better than to try."

 "I'm going there soon."

 "Tonight?"

 'Tomorrow. I want to give them time to cool down from last night's

 fracas. They wanted to know who we were with. You think they thought we

 were Pace's men?"

 "Possibly, or any of a dozen smaller gangs out for trouble. I'm inclined

 to think they were just naturally suspicious. What do you plan to do?"

 "I was a journalist two weeks agoI'll just check things out like it

 was any other story and see what happens." Vague at best as an idea, but

 it had worked for me on other occasions and had turned into acceptable

 copy. I was hoping to turn this into my missing memory.

 Escott was visibly tired, so I wished him well and left, walking around

 the city for a couple of hours. Coldfield was right about some places

 being dangerous, but I was a big boy now and could take care of myself.

 I was looking things over, getting acquainted with the streets and the

 personality of each block, slowly working toward the Stockyards and my

 inevitable stop there.

 By now I had ceased to be too squeamish about the blood drinking. That

 oddball reaction had hit me on my second visit there. My first feeding

 had been done in a kind of panic; "you must do this or die." It had been

 quick, dreamlike, and with no time to think. My second visit had been

 more leisurely, and when it came down to brass tacks, I almost balked.

 The thought of opening an animal's vein with my teeth and sucking blood

 from the wound was nauseating, but out of necessity I had to push the

 thought from my mind and get on with the business. Intellectually, I

 still had trouble handling the process, but by now I was at least

 getting used to it. It helped to think of it in terms of a habit, like

 brushing one's teeth; boring, but it had to be done.

 The blood completely satisfied my hunger and gave me strength, but its

 ingestion was a far cry from sitting comfortably around a table with

 friends and socializing into the small hours over real food and drink.

 Leaving the yards, I wandered a long time until I found an all-night

 theatre and went in. Leslie Howard pined after Merle

 Oberon in The Scarlet Pimpernel, and I watched it three times in a row,

 until I was rooting for Raymond Massey to win. He never did, so I went

 home and read the papers until dawn.

 The personals still carried my question to Maureen, but had no reply. I

 told myself again I was a fool to hope after all these months and should

 just give it up. As always, I gave a mental shrug. It wouldn't hurt for

 just one more week, it really wouldn't.

 But it really did. The trick was to ignore the hurt and keep hoping.

 The tuxedo fit well enough. 1 was one of those lucky ones who could buy

 things right off the rack, even pants. The new patent leather shoes were

 a bit snug, but they'd be well broken in tonight. A mirror would have

 been useful, for I was interested in how young I appeared. I'd fed

 heavily last night to obtain good color as well, as I planned to pass

 myself off as Gerald Fleming again.

 I transferred some cash into a new wallet and worked the stiffness from

 it. The rest of my money was locked in the trunk with my other personal

 papers. The wallet had a little pasteboard card with lines for printing

 one's name and address. I filled it in with the name of Gerald Fleming,

 a phony out-of-town address, and the name of Jack Fleming as someone to

 contact in case of an emergency. As a legal ID it was totally useless,

 but better than nothing at all. I draped the white silk scarf so it hung

 in front, and finished things off with the top hat.

 I left by the back door, partially from paranoia, partially from the

 idea that if anyone in the lobby glommed me in this memorable getup

 they'd raise my rent. A few blocks away I caught a cab and had it take

 me to the lion's den.

 Tonight the windows of the Nightcrawler were bright, and fancy people

 were streaming in and out even at this early hour. I paid the driver and

 trotted up the wide steps in order to slip inside with a knot of

 revelers, but found my way suddenly blocked by an agile mountain

 disguised as a man in a tuxedo. He had short blond hair, small eyes, and

 a chronically grim set to his mouth.

 "Good evening," he said civilly. I mumbled a reply of some kind, noting

 he was giving me careful study. His eyes flicked to some grillwork set

 like an oversized vent in one branch of the U-shaped entrance. The

 darkness of the small room beyond wasn't quite adequate to hide the man

 with the gun who sat there. He nodded and the mountain stood aside and

 let me by. I pretended not to notice this exchange, as they decided I

 wasn't a dangerous character. It was favorable to be underestimated. 1

 looked young and hopefully innocent--all that was needed was a touch of

 stupidity. Considering some of my antics from the past, that would

 probably be very easy.

 The doorman did his duty, but I paused at the threshold with a brief

 attack of doubt and insecurity. Though it would have been too dangerous

 for him, I wished Escott was along. I missed his confidence. Despite the

 advantages I had now, I could still get scared. For just one second I

 nearly turned back, but a silly-looking woman with frizzed black hair

 and too much makeup caught a look at me and whooped hello. Her party had

 preceded me coming in and were already more than a little drunk.

 "Whatcha waitin' for, a streetcar? Come on in, cutey," she shrilled.

 I couldn't stand this kind of drunk, but went in before I started

 thinking again. She latched on to my arm.

 "Isn't he cute? Hey, Ricky, isn't he cute, isn't he?"

 Ricky said, "Yeah," and swayed a little. How had they qualified getting

 in if the watchdogs had been so careful with me?

 "That's how I like 'em, tall 'n cute," she told Ricky reproachfully. I

 hadn't been cute since I traded my short pants in for an older brother's

 hand-me-downs, but let them drag me inside. Stepping away from the door,

 I heard the men behind us chuckling. Good. If they found my situation

 something to laugh at. they might also think me harmless.

 As politely as possible under the circumstances, I detached myself from

 the lady's grip and checked my hat and scarf in with the first of the

 many stunning blonds that worked there. Platinum was the dominant color,

 apparently a requirement for employment. They wore short black dresses

 decorated with silver sequins in the pattern of a spider's web. Over

 their hearts were black, red and silver pins of stylized spiders, all of

 which were a nice gimmick to tie in with the name of the club.

 With difficulty, I turned my attention from the girls to the rest of the

 place. It was very noisy. The barrage of conversation trying to be heard

 over the brassy orchestra was like a riot in a large dog kennel. With

 that image in mind it was easy to categorize the patrons. There were a

 few high-class ones with pedigrees, but the overwhelming breed

 represented were the mutts; well-dressed, but mutts all the same.

 Another blond came up and led me to a table the size of a dinner plate

 and told me the waiter would be by shortly. The place was surprisingly

 busy for a weeknight, but well organized. In less than a minute a young

 man appeared and took my order for Irish coffee, which also appeared in

 less than a minute. I pretended to sip, though bringing it to my lips

 was an act of will, and I had to stifle a gag. For distraction I looked

 around and caught several unescorted young ladies giving me a hopeful

 eye. I wasn't that handsome--they were working girls. I had no

 inclinations for that at the moment, so my gaze slid past to the swaying

 couples on the floor below. The band wound up the music, the dancers

 dispersed, and the lights went down. A single spot picked out another

 platinum blond leaning against the grand piano. She was in something

 long, white, and silvery, a nice contrast to the brief black skirts of

 the other girls and a perfect complement to her long shimmering hair.

 She sang something sad and shallow in a voice that was surprisingly

 good, filling the room and hushing even the worst drunks. As with any

 woman I noticed, I was comparing her to Maureen, looking for something

 wrong, but for once the lady was holding her own. She finished her song,

 and the lights faded and came up, but by then she was gone, leaving her

 audience wanting more. The band cut to another number and couples began

 to venture onto the floor again. I looked up and saw a pretty girl

 smiling at me, holding a tray full of tobacco products.

 "Bobbi always knocks 'em dead," she observed with a nod toward the

 stage. I made a business of picking out some cigarettes and got her to

 talk a little. In two minutes I found but where she lived, when she got

 off work, the time of Bobbi's next number, the location of the gambling

 rooms, and the requirements to get inside, which were specifically a-lot

 of cash and the willingness to lose it fast. Her interest cooled and she

 moved on, apparently having had experience with gamblers. I'd seen the

 type as well; men who would rather gamble than make love, more fool

 they.

 And here I was trying to imitate them. I abandoned my table and drifted

 over to a guarded door marked PRIVATE. The large man there asked my

 name. I gave the one I was using that night and was slightly

 disappointed to get no reaction. He consulted a telephone, a buzzer

 sounded, and he opened the door wide.

 It was another big room, but much quieter, lit by crystal chandeliers

 and dimmed by cigarette smoke. I'd been in places like this before, but

 never when they were in one piece. Usually I was hot in the wake of a

 police raid making a written account of the destruction and noting down

 who had been arrested for what. Prior to tonight I had never been able

 to afford this sort of decadence. It felt great.

 At the money cage I bought two hundred dollars in chips, blanching

 inwardly at the small pile they made in my pocket. For something to do,

 I lit a cigarette and studied faces. Not one of them was familiar, which

 was all for the best, since I didn't want to be noticed right away. I

 wandered around, looking for Slick Morelli. He was either not there or

 my memory was not cooperating the way it had at Frank Paco's. Maybe I

 was expecting too much from my traumatized brain.

 Giving it a rest, I found an isolated corner and got into a blackjack

 game, winning ten dollars and losing fifty before realizing I could

 cheat without getting caught.

 The dealer's face had about as much expression as a dead fish, but he

 had no control over his heart rate. When the immediate noise level

 occasionally subsided, I could just hear it. Every time he dealt the

 house a good hand it beat just a little louder and faster, and after

 some concentrated practice at sorting out the internal signals my rate

 of winning rose marginally. I didn't win every time, that was impossible

 with the other players and the natural fall of the cards, but I had

 enough of an edge to win more than lose. In an hour I left the table a

 thousand dollars ahead, excited at the prospect of a new vocation in

 life.

 Circling the room again, I looked at the new faces, checking out the

 suckers at the roulette tables and slot machines. One of the machine

 patrons was the singer, Bobbi. She looked just as good, if not better,

 close up as she did fifty feet away on stage. Now she was wearing a

 black sequin-trimmed wrap over her bare shoulders. It must have been to

 provide some modesty to her stage gown, but since the black material was

 practically transparent it had just the opposite effect.

 She pushed a coin into the slot and hauled the lever down with just

 enough precise force, indicating long practice. She got a cherry and two

 lemons. Her face revealed no disappointment.

 Her moves were automatic: push in a coin, yank the lever, and wait, push

 in a coin I was getting hypnotized. She won a small pot, added the

 money to the stack she kept ready, and started over again. I wondered if

 she'd rather gamble than make love.

 She noticed me out of the corner of her eye. Just my luck, the first

 emotion I inspired in her was annoyance. "The floor show's in the next

 room, ace."

 "Sorry, didn't know I was intruding."

 "You shouldn't look over other people's shoulders."

 I moved around to her front field of view and angled so I could look out

 across the room. Tapping out a cigarette, I offered her one.

 "They kill the voice and stain the teeth," she told me, pulling the

 lever down with decidedly more force. I put my props away unlit and

 offered to buy her a drink.

 "No, thanks, and before you ask me why I'm here, I'm supporting my

 crippled mother down on the farm."

 At least she was talking to me. She didn't say anything I wanted to

 hear, but she was talking. I watched her play the machine. There was

 more strength than grace in her automated movements, but the view was

 very absorbing.

 "You know Slick Morelli?" I asked.

 She kept up the rhythm, but her eyelids flickered. "Doesn't everybody?"

 "Where is he?"

 "Somewhere around."

 "Can you point him out?"

 "You think I'm the party hostess or something? Go talk to one of the

 boys over there.'' She jerked her head in the direction of the door. The

 movement dislodged a wisp of hair. She paused long enough to brush it

 with her fingertips, using the gesture to glance at me before going back

 to the machine. I tried to keep my smile neutral and non-threatening.

 "I heard that yacht of his is for sale," I tried. "The Elvira."

 She laughed. Another coin, down came the lever. I didn't see the result.

 She put in another coin.

 "Why not? He needs the money."

 This time the lever stayed up. Her eyes slid over to mine. I expected

 blue, but they were hazel. She studied my face, trying to fit me into a

 category and finally deciding; it was anything hut complimentary. "What

 do you want?" she said wearily.

 "An introduction to Slick?"

 She almost asked why, but thought better of it. "Go talk to one of the

 boys."

 "They're not as pretty. My name's Gerald Fleming I think Slick will

 want to talk to me about my brother Jack."

 The names meant nothing to her, which was a relief.

 "Jack met him two weeks ago, they were aboard the Elvira."

 Her heartbeat went up suddenly, but she kept her face straight.

 "He's built just like me and much the same in the face, but he's in his

 mid-thirties."

 Nothing new, she was still reacting to the mention of the yacht.

 "Frank Paco and a guy named Sanderson were there, too. Fred's dead now

 and Paco is headed for a nuthouse"

 She went white at those names, but still tried to cover it with a kind

 of defiance. "So what?" She wore a soft flower scent, but underneath the

 roses I could smell fear. I asked her why she was afraid. She didn't

 deny it. "Death and taxes, what else?"

 Slick Morelli or me?

 She kept her eyes on the machine. "I think you'd better go now."

 "I'd rather stay."

 "Suit yourself, it's no skin off my nose."

 "A guy could get discouraged."

 "Good."

 "I know Slick killed my brother."

 She had a lot of control, but now the fear smell was drowning the

 perfume. She went on playing, pretending she hadn't heard.

 "If you see him tonight, pass that on. I'll be around."

 "You're not kidding, are you?"

 "No."

 "Why do you think he--"

 "Because I was at Frank Paco's last dinner party, the one with the hot

 finish that made all the papers. I overheard things. Slick's name came

 up in the course of the conversation."

 "Aren't you being kind of stupid to march in here like this?"

 "Maybe, but Slick won't hurt me because I've got something he wants."

 "What?"

 "The same thing he wanted from brother Jack, but didn't get."

 "Okay, be cagey."

 "The less you know the better it is. I don't think you want to be in the

 middle of things."

 "So everyone tells me. Why should you care?"

 "You remind me of someone."

 "Thanks a heap."

 "She was afraid sometimes, too."

 She watched me, troubled and wary. I shut up and moved away, there was

 no more to say to her and I couldn't trust my voice. Maureen was still

 too strong within me and I was feeling guilty for being attracted to

 Bobbi. She was as beautiful as Maureen, but in a different way; she was

 also vulnerable and worked hard to hide it. She gave me a lot to think

 about and I drifted blindly for a while. I lit more cigarettes, but

 didn't inhale. My body allowed me air to speak with, but rejected all

 foreign substances but one, and I had tanked up on that last night. I

 puffed superficially and added to the haze.

 In one of the alcoves a little away from the noise, a serious poker game

 was in progress. There were five players, but most of the chips were on

 one side of the table in front of a totally bald fat man with a tangled

 brown beard bunching along the edge of his jowls like a baby's bib. Just

 as I strolled up one of the players threw down his hand and folded for

 the night. He left with a sweat-slick face, his body giving off the kind

 of reek that only comes from a habitual gambler, the kind that loses. I

 was the only observer of the game, the fat man probably won far too

 often for it to be of any interest to onlookers.

 The cards went down and he raked in another pot, neatly stacking his

 chips according to color with his short, flat fingers. There must have

 been nine thousand dollars in front of him.

 "Care to join?" he said, not looking up.

 "No, thanks, I'll watch." I didn't like poker, tending to agree with

 Ambrose Bierce, who defined it as a game played with cards for some

 purpose unknown. I'd been listening to heartbeats and knew my little

 trick would be totally useless at this table with these veterans of the

 bluff. To test it, I mentally played a hand against the fat man, looking

 over the shoulder of another player. I lost repeatedly, as he registered

 about as much emotional reaction as the felt-covered table. All hands

 were alike to him. Bored, I finally left, sliding quietly out of the

 alcove. The fat man's glassy soulless eyes followed me before they

 snapped back to his cards.

 After patrolling the room once for Morelli, I went back to the blackjack

 table and settled in for some serious gambling of my own. As a game to

 play, it was much faster, and I enjoyed the mental workout it gave.

 Before I knew it, two hours were gone and I was the only player left. It

 increased my odds of winning, 1 had the dealer's reactions down well

 enough by now to practically read his mind.

 I flipped up my last card--it was a straight blackjack, I got them

 occasionally. It was time to quit. Hardly believing it, I gathered up

 fifty-eight hundred dollars in chips. At this rate I could buy Dad a

 whole new chain of stores. My conscience wasn't chafing a whole lot. It

 was Slick Morelli's money and he owed me.

 Shuffling the chips away, I looked up, my eyes locking on to Bobbi's

 face. She moved without hurry across the room, not smiling, not

 frowning, carefully blank. She sat on the stool next to me and gave the

 dealer a quiet signal. He closed the table and left.

 "You gave up on me pretty fast. Why?" she asked.

 "I thought that's what you wanted."

 "I don't know what I want right now."

 Dance music filtered in sporadically from the club room as the door

 opened and closed. I caught her scent again--roses and fear. It was

 strangely exciting. Her skin was very light and in the shadow beneath

 her jaw I could see the veins throbbing with life. I could smell that,

 too.

 Keeping very still, I waited for her to look up at me. She was so very

 beautiful and the first woman I'd wanted in a long, long time. When she

 finally looked, I suggested we leave the room. She stood and let me

 follow her through an unmarked door at the back. We were in a dim hall,

 silent for her; for me it was filled with the uneven rhythm of her lungs

 and the booming of her heart. She let the wrap slide back from her

 shoulders as her arms went up around my neck. The length of her body

 pressed warmly against mine, just as I had wanted it. I caressed her

 hair, tilting her chin up and kissing her red lips.

 But the passion was all one-sided. Her face was empty of all thought or

 feeling, her mind was in some neutral state, waiting for my next

 suggestion. I backed off in doubt, then, suddenly knowing it was wrong,

 I turned away.

 As a living man I'd never forced myself on a woman, and I wasn't going

 to start now. My changed nature had provided me with an all-too-easy

 route to seduction. Maureen completely avoided the use of this ability.

 She had wanted a willing lover, not a slave.

 Bobbi's arms hung loose at her sides, and gradually awareness returned

 to her eyes. If she had some idea of what I'd been doing, she made no

 sign. Perhaps she thought her own desire had brought us here. I put a

 hand on the doorknob, hers stopped me.

 "I think I should go."

 "No." Her voice was hardly above a whisper. "I had to tell Slick what

 you said."

 "I know, it's all right. That's why he sent you after me."

 "Was it that obvious?"

 "Just unexpected."

 "I can get you out from here. I'll tell them you got wise and ran."

 "Too risky for you, though."

 "I'll be all right." Her breathing was back to normal and she still held

 my hand. Her face was tilted up again and she was free from any form of

 suggestion now. I lowered my head and kissed her and felt elation when

 she responded. I wanted to stay there, but reluctantly had to draw away.

 There was a pleasant kind of pressure building in my upper jaw. It was

 different from hunger pangs, but just as intense, pushing out my

 canines. While things were still manageable, I pushed them back into

 place with my tongue. Now was not the time or place for that sort of

 thing.

 "This isn't Slick's planning," she said.

 "I know."

 "Look, maybe I can meet you tomorrow--

 "Tomorrow night. I have to talk with Slick first."

 "Why?"

 If I tried to answer that one we'd be there all night, which under any

 other circumstances would have been most desirable. I shook my head and

 smiled a little. "I'll take you back before you're missed."

 She crumpled. "I hate it when he makes me do this. He said it was a

 joke, but I know better. He wanted me to get you outside, for you to

 meet me out front so you're seen leaving the club."

 "I'll oblige him, but we'll leave you out of it."

 "But you're a fish on a hook now. Don't you see?"

 "Like my brother?"

 She was trying not to shiver. "I don't know about him, I really don't.

 Two weeks ago Slick spent several days on the yacht. He came back

 exhausted and in a bad temper, maybe your brother had something to do

 with it, but I just don't--"

 She looked like she needed a pair of arms around her, and I did the best

 I could. "Don't worry about it, it's my choice. I'm leaving now, by the

 front door."

 "He'll kill you," she said with certainty.

 "No, he won't." It was too late for that, but a person doesn't have to

 have a bullet drilled through his heart to be emotionally dead. I smiled

 again, got hers in return, and felt alive for the first time in years.

 Chapter 8

 =========

 I TRADED MY chips for cash at a grilled window under the hard gaze of

 two gunmen and folded the money away. The cashier made a big point of

 inviting me back again tomorrow night. He must have figured my

 beginner's luck would have worn out by then.

 The band was playing a last slow number and I emerged from behind the

 door marked PRIVATE. Bobbi had gone around by another door and was on

 the dance floor, floating in the arms of a man who was holding his face

 close to her gleaming hair. Some guys had all the luck. It might have

 been Morelli, but I was only guessing.

 The tables had lost most of their patrons. One whole section had been

 roped off and the mop-and-bucket boys were busy cleaning it. I collected

 my top hat and scarf, giving the girl at the counter enough of a tip to

 wake her up, and left by the front entrance.

 I wondered how much line they were going to give me before hauling me

 in.

 The cool night breeze off the lake felt clean and moist. The place was

 probably an Arctic hell in winter, but now things were just right. There

 were still a few hours before dawn. If they planned to try anything, I

 hoped the night would be long enough to accommodate them. I turned left

 along the front of the club, walking slowly. Behind, two sets of shoes

 were keeping pace with mine. I stifled a smile.

 Between streetlights I paused and glanced back. One of them was the

 walking mountain, the other was the guard from the casino door. I tried

 to not be overly optimistic that they were after me. They could be

 underpaid enough to just want my newly acquired money. I continued on

 and turned the corner. There were two more men standing in the way. One

 of them plucked a toothpick from his mouth and flicked it away. He must

 have seen that one at the movies.

 The guys behind caught up with us and completed the quintet. To make it

 look right I tried to duck past them for the open street. They were fast

 and professional and didn't even muss my clothes, but then I was not

 using my full strength to fight them. With arms held pinned to my sides

 and the white scarf over my eyes, I was marched quickly back to the

 club.

 Prom the length of the walk and the smell at the end of it, we were

 going in by the alley entrance. I made some stock verbal protests until

 one of them shoved my own handkerchief into my mouth. This was done only

 to shake me up. If I'd really started to yell for help, they'd have been

 a lot rougher. In silence I was dragged up some steps and over a

 linoleum floor. From the leftover smell of grease, I guessed it was a

 kitchen. We trod on wooden floor for twenty-eight paces, then I was

 stumbling up a flight of stairs. Knuckles rapped on wood and I was

 shoved forward.

 The door shut. I stood on carpeting in a room with two sets of lungs;

 one right behind me, probably the Mountain and the other about eight

 feet in front. A light switch clicked, and I felt a gentle warmth on my

 face.

 The scarf was yanked down. The warmth came from a flexible desk lamp

 whose bulb had been angled to shine right in my eyes. The rest of the

 room was dark, but it didn't matter; the man trying to hide behind the

 glare was quite visible to me.

 He was medium sized and dark haired, with a pale olive complexion

 slightly marred by old acne scars on his cheeks. In his young thirties,

 he had a set of sweet dark eyes that should have been on a woman. He

 would have been handsome, but his nose was too pinched and he had what

 looked like a razor cut for a mouth. His stare was intense and I shifted

 uneasily.

 He smiled approval at my reaction.

 I checked the room over so as not to look at him. It was a plain working

 office, but with a nice rug, a couple of paintings of ships, and an

 expensive desk-and-chair set. On the desk was a phone and blotter, in

 the corner behind me stood a file cabinet.

 There was no other place to sit, though some dimples showed in the rug

 where chairs had been. He was smart enough to know how well such minor

 intimidations can undermine a person's confidence. He sat relaxed behind

 his desk, gave me a good once-over, then raised one finger as a signal

 to the man behind me. Hands probed, and my wallet, half a pack of

 cigarettes, and a book of matches were dropped on the desk. He opened

 the wallet, ignoring the money, and his eyes rested a moment on the

 little pasteboard card.

 "I think you can consider this an emergency," he began. "Would you like

 us to put you in contact with your brother?"

 Figuratively speaking, I could breathe a little easier. I'd worried he

 wouldn't have accepted me as Gerald. I didn't answer, but squinted at

 the light as though trying to see past it.

 "I heard about you being at Paco's. They said you wanted to trade the

 list for your brother. I know where he is and I'm willing to deal with

 you."

 It was simply stated and the truth, but I didn't think he was dumb

 enough to think I was that gullible. He was only feeling me out.

 "Are you willing to deal with me?"

 "Only if you're Slick Morelli."

 He didn't answer except to move his hand slightly. The Mountain came up

 on one side and buried his knuckles in my stomach. That hurt a

 little--very little--and I faked the rest, going down on my knees as I

 had done at Paco's; no imagination, these guys.

 "You can call me Mr. Morelli, Junior," he told me. "Now say thank you."

 I was pulled to my feet and punched two more times before I got bored

 with the business and said what he wanted. There was a purpose to it

 all; get me to give in and obey him once and it would be that much

 easier for me to give in later about other things. He knew his business.

 I'd seen it done in other situations. The faces changed, but the

 technique remained constant. I let the Mountain hold me up and

 concentrated on breathing. Under the circumstances, they were both bound

 to notice if I stopped.

 "Now, where is the list?"

 Again, I said nothing; my memory had it in a place I could not reach.

 They'd killed me over it before, and they'd certainly try again--a

 difficult job in my present state, but not impossible. I had some

 control this time, though, and would stall to try and learn more, hoping

 my contact with them would trigger a memory.

 Morelli opened a drawer in the desk, drew out a long black cigar, and

 fitted it into a silver holder. The skin on my head began crawling in

 different directions, my left hand twitched, and I fell back a step into

 the Mountain. He held me firm as Morelli looked up and saw my fear. The

 reaction had come boiling up without warning, and it was all I could do

 to stifle the urge to tear away and bolt out the door. He finished

 lighting the cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling.

 "Start talking, Fleming."

 A film was over my eyes. I blinked uncontrollably. My hands jerked up to

 rub them clear.

 ("Start talking, Fleming.")

 The Mountain's grip kept me on my feet or I'd be on my knees again.

 (The cigar stink filled the little room. Its burning end pivoted from my

 eyes and pointed down to my left hand. The pain shot up the arm, into

 the brain, and came clawing out through my clenched teeth. I tried to

 tear away from it and the binding ropes)

 The Mountain shook me out of it. My jellied legs found the floor and I

 stood under my own power, staring at Morelli with hot rage. I wanted

 badly to let it out, knowing what it would do to his mind; good revenge

 for my past pain, but it would accomplish nothing. My eyes tracked

 another cloud of smoke. His leisurely manner reminded me that he had all

 the time in the world, I only had until sunrise.

 "What did you do to Jack Fleming?" I asked. "How did you get him?"

 "I ask the questions, Junior." This was punctuated by another punch.

 "Did you have Paco shoot him?"

 I was on the floor now and felt the distant blow of a shoe in the back

 of one leg. I made an appropriate noise in response. The Mountain bent

 down to pick me up. For the first time he spoke, whispering in my ear.

 "Tell him what he wants, kid. He won't let me let up."

 So he was supposed to be my friend, he had some pity for me. Maybe if I

 cooperated he'd pull his punches. Bullshit.

 "Where is the list?" Morelli pretended he hadn't heard his boy speak.

 I was made to stand. Favoring my kicked leg, or appearing to, I shook my

 head. The Mountain hit again and that's when I overdid my act. It was by

 accident, or by sheer clumsiness, that my body pitched too far and too

 fast off balance and my head connected hard with the edge of the desk.

 The thing was made out of very solid mahogany.

 Lights flashed behind my eyes, there were waves of dizziness, and if I

 went under they'd think I was dead. They'd sink me in the lake again and

 this time I might not come up. My eyes fluttered, I felt myself falling,

 but it was just the Mountain turning me over.

 Breathe, keep breathing.

 He was watching me closely. I looked back, concentrating on pumping my

 chest up and down and fighting the pain in my head.

 Breathe, breathe until the worst of the shock passes.

 "I thought he was gone for a second, but he seems okay, now," said the

 Mountain.

 "Then wake him up." Morelli sounded infinitely put out. "And, Gordy, you

 be more careful with him this time."

 He poured a glass of water I didn't want in my face and I spit it from

 my nose and mouth like poison. The door opened and a chair was dragged

 in. They put it under me. Perhaps Gordy the Mountain was getting tired

 of holding me up.

 "Tell him what he wants, kid," he urged.

 My head was bowed, I gently checked the sore spot. There was no blood,

 but it hurt. It hurt far more than Paco's gunshots. I remembered the

 time and let the sleeve ride up my wrist for a glimpse at my watch. Not

 good, but better than I expected.

 Morelli was still behind his desk, puffing on the cigar. The office was

 hot despite the air-cooling system, filled with smoke and the stink of

 sweat. Now I was glad they'd thrown the water; it would give the

 illusion that I, too, was sweating.

 "I'll clue you, Fleming. You talk now, or you are dead meat. We will

 work you over and you will die. Talk and you will live."

 For how long? I wondered.

 "Where is the list?"

 Same old song. I stalled and let Gordy earn his keep. He was not too

 creative, but he had a lot of endurance and muscle. He needed it since I

 kept falling from the chair as part of my act. It was a long and brutal

 quarter hour before I finally broke. I'd seen it done before in movies,

 in real life. I gave them the full treatment: sobbing, pleading,

 anything I could think of, and it was exactly what Morelli wanted to

 see. He was feeling good now; he'd ground a man down, opened his guts,

 and not even left his chair.

 I slid to the floor and made friends with the carpet, curling up to

 nurse bruises I didn't feel. It kept my face hidden and my voice

 muffled. Both were always dead giveaways whenever I tried lying. Between

 moans and groans I spun them a line of how Jack had passed the list on

 to his baby brother, but kept the details to the bare minimum; too many

 and they wouldn't believe it.

 "Very good," said Morelli. "But where is it now?"

 ' 'I took a room at Jack's hotel and waited for him. I figured you'd

 already been there and wouldn't come back again, and there was a chance

 Jack would for his stuff.''

 "Smart, Junior. Keep talking."

 "It's at the hotel, hidden in the basement. I'll have to show you where.

 You'll never find it otherwise."

 They had a lot of trouble swallowing that one, and it took a large chunk

 of the time I had left to convince them they had to take me along.

 My eyes were covered again, but this time they spared me the

 handkerchief. We went downstairs and waited in the kitchen. A car rolled

 up and stopped, its engine idling quietly. They opened the door, guided

 me down the concrete steps, and I was shoved into the backseat. I

 slumped low as if in bad shape--actually I was worried about the

 ever-present rearview mirror.

 Gordy was on my right and another man was on my left. They each had a

 hand tightly gripping my wrists, taking no chances on my making a sudden

 move. Morelli sat in the front with the driver, occasionally giving a

 direction.

 We crossed water once, twice, there were several turns, and we waited in

 silence for traffic signals. The car finally slowed and parked, the

 motor still running. The right-hand door opened and Gordy dragged me

 out. He pulled the scarf down and the first thing I saw was a gun ready

 in his hand. Next to him was the casino guard, who had a hand inside his

 coat like a latter-day Napoleon. His body blocked my view of Morelli in

 the passenger seat. Dead meat or not, he was careful not to let me see

 his face. It was fine with me, I was sick of it, anyway.

 "Go and get it," he said.

 The hotel was a block away on the same side of the street. Maybe the

 night clerk would remember me, but I wasn't planning to test him. I'd

 only gotten them back to this neighborhood because it made the story I

 told more plausible. I wanted them nowhere near my present hotel.

 As before, they marched along, gripping my arms. I was in luck, for a

 change. They'd have to pass the entrance of an alley that ran between

 the hotel and the next building. There was a risk they might catch on to

 my unusual strength, perhaps they'd put it down to desperation. It

 wasn't getting any earlier; pretty soon I would be desperate.

 We breasted the alley and I shook free, connecting a mild backhand hit

 in the gunman's stomach and pushing Gordy into some garbage cans. He

 recovered fast, and was up and after me before I'd gotten halfway down

 the alley. His friend was catching up as I came to the wood fence

 blocking the far end. I went over it with an agility that surprised me,

 landed like a cat, and pounded away, gaining a good lead.

 The fence protected a street lined with residential brown-stones, each

 with steps and railings and deep doorways. There were plenty of places

 to hide if necessary. I went to the right, wanting to gain more distance

 before vanishing. That was one trick they didn't need to witness. I was

 looking for a suitable place to duck when one of them did the

 unexpected. It must nave been the gunman, Morelli had forgotten to tell

 him I was needed alive.

 What felt like a sledgehammer blow caught me between the shoulder

 blades. The pain made me forget my aching head for the moment. I was in

 mid-stride when my body was lifted and thrown off balance by the impact.

 I tried to keep my legs under me, but the shock to the system was too

 much, and they buckled and failed. I rolled hard onto the sidewalk,

 carried on by impetus until I hitched up against the wheel of a parked

 car. The two men trotted up and turned me over.

 I 'm too much of a joker not to take advantage of such a situation.

 Besides, it was a way of getting them off my back. I gave it my best,

 pulling my hands up to cover what should have been the exit wound and

 hoping it was too dark for them to see the lack of blood. As they

 approached, I gasped, twitched convulsively, and slowly let my last

 breath shudder out in a horrible rattle. I stared at them with glassy

 eyes. They stared back, then Gordy bent down to feel for a pulse in my

 throat. He straightened and looked at his buddy, shaking his head.

 "You're up shit creek," he pronounced.

 I was right about it being the gunman and saw why I hadn't heard the

 shot; a bulky silencer was fixed to his weapon. It was enough to damp

 the sound down so the local residents continued to sleep.

 A half minute later the car rolled up and Morelli erupted out before it

 stopped. He glanced once at his men, then glared down at me. I was sorry

 for not drawing my death scene out long enough to give him a cryptic

 message to worry about. He whirled on his men. Gordy pointed at the

 other guy, who had gone all white. Morelli went all purple, the neck

 tendons coming up as though to break through the skin. His body shook

 with rage and his breath came in short gulps. He'd gotten one last

 chance to find his precious list, and this guy had stupidly taken it

 from him. He snatched the gun away and, using it as a club, laid into

 him. When he finished, there was another body decorating the sidewalk.

 He gave the bloody gun to Gordy and stalked back to the car. Gordy

 picked up his buddy and followed a minute later.

 "What about him?" he asked. They were out of my line of sight, but I

 could imagine his gesture in my direction.

 "Leave him. He's got no wallet, they'll think he was mugged. Leave him."

 The car doors slammed and they drove away.

 I lay on the sidewalk and counted my blessings. When I stood up and felt

 my aching head I was in the mood to consider everything else. I was out

 of the Nightcrawler more or less in one piece and Morelli thought I was

 dead. On the down side, my new suit was a disaster area, I was missing

 fifty-eight hundred bucks and I still didn't know much more than when

 I'd begun.

 The sky was getting lighter and I had to go home. I started around the

 corner to my old hotel, but thought better of it. There was a remote

 chance that Morelli might be there, or return the next day and find out

 about the guy in the ventilated tuxedo wandering in and asking for a

 cab. No, that was a very bad idea. I kept walking, moving quickly in

 hopes of finding some other open business, or better yet, an available

 cab. No such luck occurred and by now the light was hurting my eyes.

 I was anxious enough to make an illegal entry into a closed drugstore on

 a corner and used their phone to call for transportation. There was

 still change in my pockets, so I left some on the counter for a pair of

 their darkest sunglasses and went outside to wait, scanning the street

 in worried hope. I was tied down to the place now, unable to move until

 the damn cab arrived.

 The gentle gray light from the east was blinding, and I could hardly see

 him when he did come. Tumbling into the back, I promised him a

 two-dollar tip if he could get me to my hotel in as many minutes. With

 that for motivation, he poured on the coal.

 When we reached the hotel, he had to follow me up to my room for the

 money, but I had to stumble down to the lobby again to pick up a key. My

 door was locked and my normal method of entry would have sent the man

 screaming into the streets. I was on a friendly basis with the night

 clerk, though, and that saved a little time. I persuaded him to give the

 driver the money and to put it on my bill. He did it with a smile, God

 bless him, gave me a key, and I fled upstairs.

 The sun was up now. I was moving through syrup and going blind. I found

 the keyhole more by luck than anything else and shoved the door shut,

 sinking to the floor. My head felt ready to explode from the weak

 reflected sunlight filtering through the window. I crawled to my trunk,

 but it was locked. I tried to seep inside but couldn't; the light was

 searing my brain, I could hardly think. Where was the damn trunk key?

 I groped in the closet, tearing the pockets of my old suit. Wrong guess.

 The bureau, I left them in a drawer Crawl over and visit them

 Middle drawer, under the shirts I groaned with relief as my

 stiffening fingers brushed them and clutched.

 I fumbled forever with the trunk lock and was ready to just break it off

 when it finally flipped open. I pushed the lid up, forced my legs to

 straighten, teetered a second, and fell inside. The proximity of my home

 earth helped, and my arms had just enough flexibility left to pull the

 lid down again, shutting me safely away from the light.

 Then consciousness was whipped away like dust into the wind.

 Someone was knocking at my door, but it was too close and loud. It was

 the trunk lid. Escott was the only one who knew I slept here, so I said

 come in and it opened a crack. I thought I saw a dim oval floating in a

 sea of purple sparklers.

 "Are you all right, old man?" it asked. "I've been trying to call for an

 hour."

 I shook my head, which made it ache more. I wanted him to go away and

 let me rest.

 "Good Lord, you look like death warmed over. Let me help you out."

 I started giggling like a fool and let him pull me up. It seemed that

 lately all I ever did was let other people haul me to my feet. I felt

 weak, though, and let him, until I remembered he was still recovering

 from that knife wound and the strain of lifting me wouldn't be doing the

 stitches any good. I put a hand on his shoulder for balance, got my legs

 out of the trunk, and stumbled for the bed, flopping on it. It felt

 great to stretch out. Something cool and wet was soothed over my

 forehead, a washcloth. Escott was a mind reader.

 "That's an extraordinary goose egg you have there. How in the world did

 you get it, or are you up to questions yet?"

 I tried to open my eyes again, rubbing them clear with the cloth. Purple

 sparklers still floated around, so I had to locate him from the

 direction of his voice.

 "What's the matter?"

 "I got caught by the sunrise, I can't see anything."

 Considering the situation, I must have sounded idiotically calm. I felt

 his fingers propping my lids gently open and heard a match strike. I

 thought I could see it as it moved from side to side.

 "You're tracking light and your pupils are reacting to it."

 "Then maybe it's temporary."

 "Are you in any pain?"

 "Only from the goose egg."

 "You have a nasty hole in your shirt," he observed calmly.

 "It matches the one in the back."

 "You must have had a very interesting evening."

 This time I took the opening and told him briefly what happened last

 night, just leaving out the part about Bobbi and the blackjack game.

 "Have things improved?" he asked, meaning my sight.

 "A little, I think." But I was only being optimistic and kept

 involuntarily blinking to clear my eyes.

 He waited a moment before cautiously suggesting the Stockyards as a

 remedy. I'd have to stop being so sensitive about my feeding habits.

 "It might help," I agreed. It couldn't hurt.

 He was apparently relieved at my reaction. "I'll be happy to guide you,

 but won't there be a bit of a problem with both of us trying to sneak

 in?"

 "There's so much coming and going, we probably won't be noticed. Are you

 up to it?"

 His voice, at least, sounded stronger. "I've had a good forty-eight hour

 rest. The stitches are itching and that means they're healing. I've even

 sent Cal home."

 "Okay, if you're sure. Can you help me change?"

 He did and somehow got me down the backstairs to his car. I thankfully

 left the rest up to him. He parked us close in and then put something

 into my hand.

 "What's this?"

 "Your dark glasses. They were in the bottom of your trunk. Should we run

 into anyone they will lend credence to any story I give them about your

 blindness."

 "As long as they don't become a permanent part of the act."

 "See here, if any blood will do, wouldn't it be easier if I just found a

 friendly dog?"

 I was shocked. "A dog? I like dogs, I couldn't--"

 "It was just a suggestion," he said hastily.

 I got out and waited for him. He took my arm and guided me slowly along

 the sidewalk, down curbs, up curbs, and from the noise and jostling of

 bodies, past the front gates of the Yards. The cattle stench was very

 strong now, I could hear them clearly and very close.

 "Try to find a place that doesn't look busy," I advised.

 He said nothing, plainly thinking me crazy since most of the place was

 busy all the time. There was a long, soggy walk for us before he finally

 found a spot that met the requirements.

 "Fence," he said. "Shoulder height, wooden, there are several cows on

 the other side."

 He didn't need to tell me, I could sense them. I felt for the fence,

 then glided right through it.

 I guess I should have warned him. He drew a shaky breath. "You could

 make a fortune haunting houses. That was quite an entrance."

 I made no comment, my hands were already reaching out to a warm, shaggy

 body. I calmed the animal with soft words and felt my way toward its

 head. I knew just where to go in. If nothing else, my fingers could

 guide me to the right spot, but I paused and looked back to where he was

 standing.

 "Escott?"

 "Yes?" he whispered back.

 "Would you mind not watching?"

 "Er um not at all, old man." His feet scraped as he turned around.

 Maybe he didn't understand why I was so touchy about this, but at least

 he respected my feelings. I could trust him to stay turned.

 The ache in my head subsided quickly. I stood slowly, feeling much

 stronger. The stuff spread a wonderful warmth all through my body like a

 slug of smooth liquor, but without the drunken side effects. I took off

 the cheaters and tried my eyes out. The purple sparklers were fading,

 and I could just make out Escott's outline above the fence and went

 over.

 "I think I'm okay now."

 "Your eyes--"

 "They're clearing already."

 "They're"

 "What?"

 "Nothing, I'm glad may we leave?"

 Escott clearly did not care for cattle at all. We got back to the car

 without incident and scraped our shoes off. Things were improved enough

 that I was able to drive, but Escott was more tired than he wanted to

 admit and remained quiet. It was fine with me, since I wanted to think.

 My first waking hour had been too occupied with trying to recover and

 all my day time had been spent in total oblivion. I couldn't remember

 dreaming, perhaps I no longer did.

 Physically I was all right, emotionally I was angry. It was still inside

 me, ready to be directed at Morelli or myself. I could have walked out

 of the club at any time last night, but stayed and went through the

 wringer again, hoping to find a memory. Except for the humiliation

 suffered at allowing another man to hit me when I could have hit back, I

 wasn't really hurt. Oddly enough, I felt no grudge against Gordy; the

 man's manner had been so completely neutral through the whole business

 that I thought of him only as a tool in Morelli's hand. I also

 remembered the bloody wreck of Sanderson's face. That had held me back,

 that and not wanting to tip my supernatural hand to them.

 There was a kid I knew in the Army whose right hand had been shot clean

 off. I saw him years later wearing an artificial hand covered with a

 glove. He'd gotten into the habit of hiding it in his pocket and

 pretending it wasn't there, and each time you looked at his eyes they

 stared hard into yours demanding that you pretend as well. There was

 another kid in the same unit who'd lost a leg from the knee down. I met

 him again in New York while doing a story for the paper. He was the lead

 dancer and director of a polka troupe. He, too, was ignoring his injured

 limb, but in a different way.

 My vampirism was just a peculiar condition, like a health problem. If I

 respected the rules it imposed I'd have less trouble, and that made it

 more acceptable to my confused brain. There were definite compensations

 for the rules, though. Otherwise I'd be at the bottom of Lake Michigan,

 forgotten and unavenged, along with who knows how many others. I'd

 changed in a greater sense than my grandfather could ever have imagined,

 but I'd been fighting it. That was why I'd been reluctant to have Escott

 watch as I fed. Had our positions been reversed I doubt if the thought

 would have even crossed his mind.

 My anger had a direction now.

 Morelli thought that kid brother Gerald was dead, and so did all his

 boys. It was a unique situation, certainly one of which I intended to

 take full advantage.

 "I'm going after Morelli again," I said.

 Escott nodded. "I can't think of a more choice subject for you to turn

 your talents upon. Have you worked out a plan yet?

 "Yes. In fact, you inspired it back at the Yards."

 "Indeed?"

 I explained my idea. With a chuckle he approved and added a few touches

 of his own. We changed direction to go to his house, picked up some

 stuff, then went back to my hotel. While I took a bath, he worked on my

 perforated tuxedo shin.

 "I certainly wish I could be around to see his face," he said, blowing

 lightly on the wet gore to dry it. Gingerly I put the shirt on, doubling

 my chin to get a good look at my front. A large part of it was covered

 with what looked like blood, but was actually some very

 realistic-looking stage stuff Escott had developed himself.

 "The trouble with real blood," he said cleaning his paint brush, "is

 that it dries out, gets sticky, and goes brown, but this will stay nice

 and fresh looking. Unfortunately, it doesn't wash out, but in this case

 that hardly matters."

 "Nope, the bloodier, the better," I agreed. It was good to be

 P. N. Brad

 doing something positive, not to mention sneaky, like a kid out on a

 college prank.

 I had good color again, but Escott opened his makeup case and toned it

 down, putting circles under my eyes and hollowing out the cheeks.

 "At least your face has the right underlying bone structure for this

 sort of thing. I find nothing more tiresome than trying to thin down a

 full face."

 "That's never been one of my problems." I'd always been on the lean

 side. "Did you learn all this in the theater?"

 "Yes, in Canada. I was apprentice to the makeup artist of a

 Shakespearean company for three years. I was also props, scenery

 painter, set builder, and as you know, occasionally played a part. I'm

 especially fond of character parts. The Soothsayer in Julius Caesar was

 one of my best roles, though hardly an effective one, considering that

 Caesar chose to ignore me."

 "Got any similar warnings for me?"

 "My dear fellow, in all fairness, I should call Mr. Morelli and warn

 him. He is in for a rough night. There, you don't look quite so bad as

 Banquo's ghost, but you'll do. It's subtlety we are striving for, after

 all." He gave me the keys to his car.

 "But I couldn't--"

 "I insist. Tonight, at least, so that you need not be delayed waiting

 for a taxi. You can drop me back home again and go on to the club from

 there."

 It made sense and I was very grateful for the loan. As he pointed out, I

 might have a problem getting a cab driver to take me as a customer the

 way I was got up now.

 "Look, I know you must be tired--"

 "Nonsense, it is not doing anything that tires me out."

 "Well, I thought if you felt well enough tomorrow you might ask around

 for a car for me."

 "That should be no trouble. I have a friend in the business. New or

 used?"

 I gave him enough money for a good used one. I had no preference of

 model as long as it was dark in color and fairly anonymous. I drove him

 to his door and promised to tell him all the details tomorrow, then I

 turned the nose of the big Nash north and headed for the Nightcrawler.

 Parking a block away and out of sight of the club, I carefully locked

 things up and went down the dark street, trying to look inconspicuous in

 the bloodied tux. It was damp and quiet; the hard heels on my dress

 shoes made a lot of noise against the sidewalk, at least to my ears.

 Having made a wide circle to avoid the front entrance, I eased into the

 alley, found it empty, and tiptoed up the concrete steps to listen at

 the kitchen door. A lot of activity was going on within, but I slipped

 inside anyway, feeling my invisible way along in the general direction

 of the twenty-eight-pace-long hall. They'd done me a favor with the

 blindfold last night, for it was very close to the method of travel I

 used now. I felt my way to the stairs and ascended, then partially

 materialized at the top to get my bearings.

 The upstairs hall matched the one below, but was longer, running the

 length of the building. Just to the left and across the hall was a

 likely-looking door for Morelli's office. The rest of the hall had doors

 at regular intervals. Some were open with lights inside, and nearby a

 radio was playing, competing with the orchestra down below in the club.

 Things seemed deserted for the moment, so I took the opportunity to

 check out the area. A partially solid form made it easier and quieter to

 move and my senses weren't so muffled, though it was almost like

 swimming in the air. I went to the office first; it was empty and I

 moved on to other rooms. There were several bedrooms, bathrooms, and a

 second set of stairs on the far east end. About a dozen of Morelli's

 boys seemed to be permanent residents, at two to a room. The place was

 like a hotel. The next door down from the office led to a much larger

 bedroom, probably Morelli's. I took a good look around, opening drawers

 and being generally nosy. He had a large tiled bath, a well-filled

 closet, and a door opening to a slightly smaller bedroom. From the decor

 and scent I knew it was Bobbi's.

 She'd be downstairs, probably in the casino. If she'd been singing, I

 would have heard her. I wondered if she knew what had happened last

 night. Morelli might not have told her. It was something to hope for,

 anyway.

 On the ground floor was another hall running roughly through the center

 of the building at right angles to the first, and it ended in a closed

 door. The hall served as a buffer zone between the casino and the

 nightclub. The door gave joint access to the hat-check stand and the

 casino cashier. I got curious as to where they kept the money they raked

 in, and went back to Morelli's office.

 After a short search, one of the boat paintings on the wall swung out on

 hinges, revealing a combination-lock safe. I was unfamiliar with such

 things, but had read a lot of lurid literature about them and seen a few

 in movies. I'd be able to hear the tumblers clicking into place and for

 the moment had nothing better to do. The office door was locked, so

 there'd be enough warning to vanish in case of an interruption.

 Playing with the dial was harder than it looked, and about a minute

 after I started, heavy footfalls were coming in my direction. I pushed

 the painting back, stood behind the door, and disappeared.

 They twisted a key and the doorknob at the same time and three bodies

 burst into the room, hitting the lights. There was silence for a while

 as they went over the place. I felt the tug of moving air when they

 whipped the door away from me.

 "He must have got past us," said someone.

 "He wouldn't have had time." It was Morelli's voice.

 "Then maybe the trip is on the fritz."

 They tested it out. I got the idea that the second the painting swung

 open it set off a signal elsewhere in the building. It was working fine,

 but Morelli left a man to keep an eye on things while they searched the

 rest of the place. The other two left. I waited a decent interval until

 he settled into a chair. From the noises he made he seemed disgusted

 with guard duty. I quietly materialized before him, and his expression

 when he looked up was worth a million. I had his complete attention, and

 that made the rest easy.

 "Don't move," I told him.

 He didn't.

 "I'm not here, you can't see me, you won't remember me. Take a nap."

 He folded his arms over the desk blotter, lowered his head, and dozed

 off. I watched and listened, but he was genuinely asleep. I suddenly

 shivered all over and stifled a nervous laugh. Had it once been like

 this for Lament Cranston? Only the Shadow knew

 I went to the painting, swung it open, and waited.

 My man woke up when the door crashed open. I could imagine everyone

 looking at the painting in vain, since it had been thoughtfully pushed

 back into place.

 "Did you touch it?"

 "I never went near it, Slick, honest! I been in this chair the whole

 time."

 Morelli growled and they tested it out again with no better results.

 There was a brief argument and in the end a second man was left to keep

 the first company. I waited long enough to give Morelli time to get

 downstairs, or wherever it was where he spent his evenings.

 The two men were facing each other, one behind the desk, the other in

 the chair in front. They were quiet, but from the small sounds produced,

 a deck of cards was in use. The first man had already been primed,

 hypnotizing the second was just as easy. They both got sent off to

 Slumberland, and I repeated my act with the painting.

 The next armed invasion was more fun. Morelli cross-examined his two

 stooges, unfairly accusing them of a lot of things, and then kicked them

 out, electing to remain there himself to do the job right.

 It was exactly what I wanted.

 I let him settle down. He made some calls on the house phone and then

 ordered up some coffee and a sandwich from the kitchen. He swept the

 cards into a pile and dealt out a hand of solitaire. I was behind him,

 partially materialized, and watched with interest. The hand didn't come

 out so he cheated until it did. I went away for a moment when his snack

 came and left him undisturbed as he ate. With what I had in mind, he'd

 need all his strength.

 When he was quiet again, I moved in, covering him like a blanket.

 Previous experience informed me that in this form I was on the cold

 side. He began to shiver almost immediately. I clung around him as he

 got up and fiddled with something on the wall, probably the air vent. He

 paced up and down, then got on the phone and made an irritable inquiry

 on the state of the air-cooling system. We both waited until the return

 call came that stated everything was working fine. He slammed the phone

 down and poured another cup of coffee to warm up. I drifted away, coming

 to rest on the chair I'd occupied last night.

 By very slow degrees I became visible, until I was sitting solidly in

 front of him, staring with blank, wide-open eyes. I thought my initial

 appearance should be underplayed.

 His reaction was quite gratifying.

 Perhaps he'd first noticed something just on the edge of his vision as

 he looked down at the cards, something that didn't belong. The eye

 automatically tracks movement, but I wasn't moving, only gradually

 becoming there.

 His eyes snapped up and grew until they were as wide as my own. His

 heart lurched and his breath stuck in his throat, and he stayed that way

 for nearly a minute, apparently too terrified to look away or even move.

 I thought if I said boo (and I was very tempted) he'd go completely to

 pieces, so I kept still and slowly faded away.

 Escott had said that my antics were unnerving. Now I was getting a

 firsthand look at their effect on the uninitiated.

 He was frozen in place for some time, his heart fighting against his rib

 cage. Cards and cold coffee forgotten, he got up and circled the chair.

 As soon as he touched it I blanketed him again to give a brief chill and

 then pulled away. He jerked back as though he'd been burned instead, and

 he was backpedaling for the door.

 I heard his steps retreating down the hall. While he was out I eased the

 door shut and locked it. Going to the desk, I gathered all the cards up

 into a neat pile, which I left in the exact center of the blotter,

 faceup. The top card was the ace of spades. I opened the hinged picture

 again, shutting it and vanishing just as the door was unlocked.

 He wasn't the first inside; he left that to Gordy, whom I recognized by

 his sheer bulk. Morelli was upset, but too proud to show it in front of

 his men, or to explain why he'd called them back so urgently. They went

 over the room inch by inch, testing the safe out again with negative

 results. I spent the time wrapped around Morelli to stay out of

 everyone's way and to wear his nerves down some more. He was gritting

 his teeth to keep them from chattering.

 Then he noticed the cards on the desk.

 "Which one of you did that?" he demanded.

 They were all innocent and said so. He shut up, probably brooding on the

 significance of the top card. In the end, he pitched all of them out,

 except Gordy. The chair went out as well and another was brought in. He

 left the door open and had Gordy stand in the hall to watch the stairs.

 He fidgeted awhile, getting up and patrolling the room, then dropping

 behind the desk in disgust. He had no further use for the cards and just

 sat there, fully alert and listening. I decided to fulfill his

 expectations.

 I appeared quite suddenly on the floor, recreating the position I d been

 in when he saw me dead on the sidewalk last night.

 It was a real sensation.

 He shot to his feet, sending his chair over with a crash that brought

 Gordy in just too late to see me.

 This time Morelli had him stay in the room.

 He ordered up some more coffee and lit a cigar; just the thing for his

 nerves, as far as I was concerned. I waited patiently.

 Gordy's suggestion for a game of pinochle was ignored. Neither man spoke

 much. Small wonder.

 The coffee came and went. Morelli got up and said he'd be back in a

 minute. After all that liquid and the chills, I knew where he was

 headed.

 He chose to go to the big tiled one in his own room. In his absence, I

 gently put Gordy to sleep and turned out the room lights. After making

 sure it was clear, I shut off the hall lights and then waited for

 Morelli to come out. When he did, he got very cold again. He hesitated

 in the fan of light from his bedroom, not wanting to venture into the

 dark hail.

 "Gordy?" His voice was not normal, nor very loud. He had to repeat

 himself several times before Gordy responded. The office light came on.

 "Yeah Slick? Why are the lights off?"

 "What the hell were you doing sitting in the dark?"

 "I dunno, I looked up and they were out."

 "Did you put 'em out?"

 "No, boss!" He sounded hurt. "Maybe one of the boys is playing a joke."

 "Then you go find 'em and tell 'em it ain't funny."

 "Sure. Now?"

 "Yes, now!"

 Gordy trundled off, stopping at the other occupied rooms to talk with

 the boys. Morelli's teeth were chattering, so I gave him a break and

 preceded him into the office. He opened a desk drawer and brought

 something out that clunked heavily when he put it on the desk. It wasn't

 hard to guess what it was. Well, if it gave him a sense of security,

 fine. I'd just have to undermine it.

 I partially materialized in front of him, my hands reaching out. He

 blanched, brought the gun up--it was a police .38--and let fly with all

 six chambers. In this halfway state I felt the bullets tickle through.

 They made sensation, but no pain. Nevertheless, I rocked back as though

 hit, and vanished. The room was full of smoke as his men charged in

 looking for something to shoot at, and they all asked questions, even

 the quiet Gordy. Morelli declined to answer and just said the gun went

 off by accident.

 "Six times?"

 For a gangster he was a lousy liar. "Shut the hell up and get out!"

 They got out.

 I hung around until four A.M. By then the club and casino were long

 closed, and the money counted and locked away behind the picture of the

 boat. Prior to opening the safe, Morelli had pressed a button under his

 desk, which I understood deactivated the circuit of the burglar alarm.

 At the time, everyone was out of the office while he twirled the

 combination lock open. No one was there to see me peering over his

 shoulder and getting all the numbers.

 He was feeling better after shooting at me and I'd been quiet for some

 time, which restored some of his confidence. All the same, he left two

 men in the office with the door open and strict instructions to keep

 their eyes in the same condition. Then he went to bed.

 Twenty minutes passed, and things were quiet. I put the men to sleep,

 found the button, and turned off the alarm. It took another quarter hour

 of twisting the damned dial around before getting the combination right.

 I'd been off on the last number and had to experiment. It was

 frustrating work and bad on my nerves because I had to keep half an ear

 cocked on the hallway, ready to vanish if I heard someone coming. In

 retrospect, I'm sure the time spent was pretty good for a complete

 novice. It certainly was profitable.

 I was an honest thief, taking only my fifty-eight hundred bucks in

 smaller, used bills, though there was considerably more inside. I shut

 things up again and put the alarm back on. They'd have a fine time

 trying to figure out how the money got lifted.

 I wanted to make a final grand call on Slick before leaving and more

 than that, look in on Bobbi, but the clock said it was late and I had to

 allow for car trouble or unexpected delays of some sort on the journey

 home. Playing it safe, I left, but promised myself and Morelli another

 performance.

 Chapter 9

 =========

 THE NEXT NIGHT Escott came by a little after sunset. He'd found a

 year-old dark blue Buick and said the dealer guaranteed it for at least

 a week. The interior was clean, the engine sounded good, and the outside

 only had a few dimples on the metal to show that it was no virgin.

 "I had a devil of a time with the paperwork," he told me. "The dealer

 wanted you there to sign things before I could have the car."

 "How did you get it, then?"

 "I didn't. It was your cash up front that persuaded him. That, and the

 veiled threat of finding another dealer who was less particular. Just

 sign here."

 I signed here. He gave me the keys and I gave him my thanks.

 "It was nothing at all. Have you a driving license?"

 "A New York one. I had to sell my old wreck to get me out here. Why?"

 "I was curious if you planned to acquire one for Illinois."

 "Good question. I would if I could."

 "I could do something about that as well. We resemble each other a bit

 in build and features, I could work at forging your signature and just

 go in for you."

 He seemed wistfully eager to break the law on my behalf and I said as

 much to him.

 "Well, this is a unique opportunity for a new experience--is there

 something amusing in this? I am serious, the law does not look lightly

 upon forgery."

 "I know, but you don't have to do this."

 "I don't mind a bit. To me, this is rather like going to a speak during

 Prohibition--have fun, but don't get caught. Now, depending on the

 expiration date of your old one, sooner or later you will need a new

 driving license, or would you prefer to have the police ticketing you

 for want of one?"

 "I doubt if I'd let things go that far, but I see your point."

 "Good. Of course, you know your best cover is to remain anonymous. The

 less people notice you, the safer you are."

 "You talk like I'm some kind of Bolshevik spy or something."

 "They're called Communists now, or is it Socialists? But you have the

 right idea. Prior to your--shall we say--conversion those years ago,

 what was your attitude toward vampires?"

 "I generally thought about Theda Bara if I thought about it at all, but

 other than that I didn't believe in them except as a myth."

 "What better shield could one ask for?"

 He had something there. We returned to my room and while I told him

 about last night's show, he made my face up again.

 "Suck your cheeks in All right raise your brows"

 "Wish I could see this stuff."

 "Yes, I can do a very effective job, if I do say so. You're looking a

 bit more gruesome tonight, I'm allowing for decomposition."

 "How thoughtful."

 "I knew you'd appreciate it. I could bring a camera next time. It would

 be interesting to see if your image can be recorded on film."

 "I have wondered about that."

 "There." He made one last touch-up and I relaxed my stiff neck. "Now, as

 we say, 'break a leg.' "

 "Hopefully Morelli's."

 "Have you taken into consideration he's probably checked up on you by

 now? He might be wondering why the papers carried no account of a body

 being found on that street the morning you were 'killed.' '

 "Well, this is Chicago and that kind of thing does happen."

 "Not that often, but all too true at times. He's bound to have friends

 in the police and other departments who are in a position to find things

 out for him."

 "I'll be careful, but as far as he's concerned, I'm a ghost and he's not

 about to tell anyone he's being haunted."

 He chuckled. "Then have your fun--"

 "But don't get caught."

 I parked my car in a new location, locked it, and walked a quick two

 blocks to the club. The place was busier, if that was possible, and

 there were more men out front. They loitered around, the lines of their

 monkey suits spoiled by the bulge from various pieces of lethal

 hardware, and checked the face of each new arrival. Morelli must have

 really been impressed last night, but I couldn't figure how he thought

 posting extra guards could protect him from supernatural forces. I gave

 them all a miss and vanished while still across the street in the cover

 of a doorway. There was always some disorientation, but I was improving,

 especially when it came to moving in straight lines. The street was a

 nice wide-open space, that could easily be crossed, and when I came to

 the outside wall of the club, I went up like an elevator. Feeling around

 for the window, I seeped in and materialized in Morelli's bathroom.

 Its door was open. I edged an eye around the jamb and saw Morelli fixing

 his tie in front of a big mirror, getting ready for the evening ahead.

 It would be a memorable one for him.

 I started things off by turning the taps on in the tub and flushing the

 toilet. He came quickly to investigate, probably without thinking, and

 stopped short when he saw the empty room. With slow cautious movements

 he shut off the water and looked around. It didn't take long, but by

 then I was in the bedroom, easing open all the drawers of his bureau.

 From under the bed I followed his progress by watching his feet tour the

 room. He angrily slammed one of the drawers shut, charged the hall door,

 gave it a jerk, and glared outside. No one was there to receive it, so

 he closed the door and began checking the closet, Bobbi's room, her

 closet, and under the beds, drawing a blank each time. He then made a

 circuit of the walls, tapping on them with something hard. This was

 puzzling until I realized he was looking for secret panels. While he was

 busy inside the closet, I floated back to the bath and flushed the

 toilet again.

 He was there in a shot, standing on the threshold, trying to keep one

 eye on the bath and the other on the bedroom. He rattled the flush lever

 uncertainly, took the top off and peered at the mysteries within. Out in

 the bedroom I flicked the lights off.

 He noticed immediately. The switch was by the hall door. He'd have to

 cross a large dark space to get to it. If he waited long enough, his

 eyes would get used to the dark and he could cross with ease. He didn't.

 With more steadiness than I would have had, he left the comfort of the

 bright bathroom and crossed over. His heart was pounding, but he forced

 himself to walk at a normal pace. After all, there was nothing there in

 the dark that wasn't there in the light. Personally, I'd always found

 small comfort in that bit of logic. His sedate pace gave me plenty of

 time to materialize at his feet and trip him.

 He went down hard, stifling a cry and throwing appearances to the wind.

 Scrambling to his feet, he was clawing frantically for the light switch

 while still a good ten feet away from it.

 I wanted to use Escott's makeup job while it was still fresh, so when

 the lights came on I was practically nose to nose with Morelli.

 At that point I think anyone coming into the room would have scared the

 hell out of him, but the fact that I was only inches away and not

 looking too healthy to boot could explain his reaction. He couldn't bolt

 out the door, I was in the way, but by now he was beyond coherent

 thought. He fell back from me with a scream and fainted away like some

 fragile heroine from a silent movie.

 I couldn't pause to laugh, that kind of yell would bring his bully boys.

 I moved fast, pulling drawers onto the floor, ripping the bedclothes out

 of place, and then ducking into the closet. I used the last few seconds

 to relieve the hanging rod of a fine collection of suits and coats

 before disappearing.

 Gordy yanked open the closet door; I knew it was him from his size and

 the quick way he moved. He surveyed the wreckage, made sure no one was

 hiding under the mess, then backed out. In the room there was quite a

 commotion as attempts were made to revive Morelli. His body was searched

 for any extraneous bullet or knife holes, and the other rooms were

 combed for intruders. None were found, and when Morelli did wake up he

 had no good explanation for his blackout or the tumbled condition of the

 room.

 His patience ran out quickly, as well as his temper, and having been

 found in such an embarrassing state didn't improve things. He kicked all

 of them out except Gordy, who didn't talk much.

 "Find out if anyone new came in tonight," Morelli told him. "Use this

 phone."

 It took only a minute. "Six of them, boss," he reported. "They came in

 with a bunch of regulars and have been in the bar all evening."

 Morelli growled and kicked one of the drawers. "Some jerk is playing

 jokes on us." I noticed the plural. He wanted to include everyone in his

 haunting to keep from being too isolated by the ghost. Otherwise it

 might mean the ghost had a legitimate grievance against him; which I

 did.

 "I'll check up on all the boys." Gordy was keeping his tone carefully

 neutral. Perhaps the thought that Morelli was going nuts had crossed his

 mind.

 "I want you to check up on Fleming."

 "Sure, boss, which one?"

 "Both, but especially the kid brother. Find out what you can, when he

 got into town, who claimed the body and where they are. Wake up people

 if you have to, I want to know tonight."

 "Sure, boss."

 They left the room together, stopping off at the kitchen to send someone

 upstairs to clean the mess I'd made. There was no point in troubling the

 hired help and I stuck with Morelli, literally. He was feeling cold

 again. Gordy went off to get his information, leaving Morelli to

 restlessly pace the club and casino while I hung around him like a pilot

 fish. He stood this for half an hour, then headed for the back exit. His

 car was ordered up and he left a message that he'd return at closing

 time. I enjoyed a short ride, albeit a blind one, and had no idea where

 he was going. He parked and got out, and I remained behind and

 materialized for a look around. We were at the waterfront, the car

 resting on a concrete pier that jutted out like a breakwater. It must

 have been a solid piece of construction going down to the bottom from

 the land, or I'd have felt the pressure I always experienced being over

 water.

 Morelli was just disappearing over the edge of the pier, where steps

 went down to the water. I left the car and quietly followed. He was

 easing into a small boat. I pulled back before he could see me. Out on

 the lake, serenely anchored in deeper water was the Elvira. All by

 itself, my left hand twitched and clenched.

 Morelli rowed clear of the pier. I was standing under a light, so he

 couldn't help but spot me. He broke off rowing and gaped, the current

 slowly taking his boat off course. I kept still, a scarecrow figure in

 stained and tattered clothes, watching him. Gradually I faded to

 nothing. Limited though my acting experience was, I knew how to make a

 good exit.

 I moved back beyond the light and reformed. Morelli was rowing quickly

 toward the Elvira where three crew members were standing by to help him

 aboard. Chances were they'd been watching him and hadn't noticed me,

 which was fine, I planned to be his exclusive ghost for the time being.

 It took ten minutes to walk back to the Nightcrawler. I strolled slowly

 to give things time to settle, and went in by way of the bath again. The

 cleaning crew was efficient; the place was back to normal after my

 rampage. Next door, someone was talking in Morelli's office, Gordy from

 the sound of it. I lounged against the wall and eavesdropped; it was

 better than radio because I was the star.

 Gordy was on the phone, vainly trying to get information on my

 nonexistent kid brother. He seemed an expert at delegating tasks, for he

 was calling people up, giving them the name of Gerald Fleming, and

 telling them to get a line on him. Almost as an afterthought, he threw

 in my real name. Some of the calls were to New York, and I wondered if I

 should start sweating. No mutually familiar names were mentioned and his

 tone indicated he was long used to dealing with the people on the other

 end. Somewhere out there was a very large network of eyes, ears, and

 busy Little pencils. He hung up and we both waited.

 In ten minutes the first incoming calls started. Locally, the police

 department never got a report of a body fitting Gerald Fleming's

 description, dead or otherwise. No area hospital had me with a gun wound

 lurking in any of their beds. When the hotels began reporting in I was

 glad for registering under another name. He received a single call from

 New York that stated I was an out-of-work journalist who'd left to look

 for greener pastures in Chicago. It was depressing to hear it put that

 way, but for once it was good to have a thoroughly undistinguished

 career.

 The office door opened and someone else puffed into the room. The voice

 was naggingly familiar, but I just couldn't place it.

 "Anything?"

 "No, Mr. Lebredo." Gordy sounded respectful rather than neutral this

 time

 Mr. Lebredo lowered himself into a chair with a sigh. "What did Miss

 Smythe have to say about him?"

 "She said he couldn't sleep and that he kept the lights on all night."

 "And you?"

 "He's been acting pretty strange."

 "So we've all noticed," he said dryly.

 The phone rang. "Yeah? Go on all right." He hung up. I'm beginning to

 think that the kid just dropped outta the sky. No one's heard of him."

 "If his name really was Gerald Fleming."

 "Slick said he was a younger version of the other guy. There's no doubt

 it was the brother and he was a green as a stick, he even had his name

 in his wallet. He was just a stupid kid."

 "As you say." There was silence for a while. "Fifty-eight, hundred was

 missing from the safe; fifty-eight hundred was what Morelli took from

 him. No one else has access to the safe that we know of, therefore

 Morelli might be trying to pull something. If it was for no other

 purpose than to buy a bauble to keep Miss Smythe happy, I shall let it

 go, but you keep your eyes on him as usual."

 "Yes, sir."

 "And don't forget the errand I want done. You've still got the

 address?''

 "Yes, sir."

 The man got up and left. I was curious about his looks and waited until

 he was down the hall, cracking the bedroom door a little. I was stumped

 for a moment because he was away from the original surroundings I'd

 first seen him in, but I did finally remember the fat poker player who'd

 invited me to join the game. He looked about my height, but had Gordy's

 weight, none of it muscular and most of it in his ass. Lucky Lebredo,

 half Owner of the club, was apparently playing a game other than poker

 behind Morelli's back.

 He waddled downstairs and I quietly shut the door. Hours stretched

 before me, unbroken and uneventful. I could go back to the hotel and

 wait there until Morelli returned, but decided to hang around. I wanted

 to see Bobbi again and was hoping she might come upstairs sometime

 during the evening. It was a slim hope and a foolish one, but something

 to think about.

 Hardly being in a fit state to greet her, I went to the bath, stripped

 off my coat and shirt, and scrubbed at the makeup. It was stubborn junk,

 but I left a lot on the towel as I rubbed my skin raw. Escott had used

 cold cream to clean his face, maybe Bobbi had some lying around. I

 decided to look and at the same time borrow one of Morelli's shirts.

 I shut off the taps and went alert. Someone was moving around in the

 next room. I peered past the door; Morelli's mirror reflected most of

 the room, including Bobbi, who was just about to leave.

 "Wait!" The word was out before I could think.

 She whirled in surprise. "Who's there?" She backed against the door,

 ready to escape.

 "It's me, Ja--Fleming. I'm in the bathroom," I added unnecessarily.

 She visibly relaxed, then tensed again. "What are you doing here?" she

 hissed. "Slick'll kill you."

 "You told me that once before, but he didn't." It was a relief to know

 Morelli hadn't told her of my apparent demise the other night.

 "You've got to get out of here."

 "It's all right, believe me."

 "Why don't you come out?"

 "I'm getting dressed and I'm bashful." It was true. I was very shy of

 that big mirror out there.

 She made a noise, it might have been a laugh.

 "Why don't you come over here?" I suggested.

 "Where's Slick?"

 "I left him aboard the Elvira. He said he'd be back around closing."

 "I didn't know he was gone, I thought you were him in there. Why are you

 here? The way he looked the other night--"

 "We came to an understanding."

 "And what about your brother?"

 "We're working things out." I wanted to change the subject. 'Would you

 turn the light off?"

 Her hand moved to the switch and paused. She looked like she wanted to

 question why, then thought better of it. We were both grown-ups. The

 light went out. I threw the towel in the hamper, picked up my shirt and

 coat, and shut off the light.

 She was halfway across the room and had to stop, uncertain in the dark.

 Her arms were crossed, hands gripping the elbows hard as she looked in

 my general direction. If she was afraid, I could easily change her mind,

 but that would have been a cheat, and I hate cheats, so I held back and

 let her decide what to do. I already knew what I wanted to do. Dressed

 in something white with simple clinging lines and silver combs in her

 hair, she was unsettling and inspiring.

 "You're very beautiful tonight." Not the most brilliant or original

 thing to say; she must have heard it often enough, but it was the

 stunning truth.

 "Why are you here?"

 A reasonable question. I didn't answer.

 "Did Slick send you?"

 "No. I thought you didn't like being too curious."

 "I think I have a right to be this time."

 "If you're worried about him, he won't be back for hours, so relax. I'd

 rather talk about other things." I cautiously moved closer, but didn't

 quite touch her.

 "Like how you survived the other night? I saw how he was. How'd you get

 out of it? He'll kill us both if he finds us."

 "I said we were working things out."

 "Is a night with me part of the deal?" She had no illusions of her

 effect on men. She took it for granted in the same way other people

 breathe. Her question also left me fairly shocked.

 "Good God, does he make you--"

 Her jaw lifted and set, taking the wind out of me.

 "I'm sorry--I--Slick knows nothing about me being here. I think maybe I

 should go now."

 "You really would leave, wouldn't you?"

 "Very reluctantly. I'm here because I wanted to see you again. I was

 going to wait in the downstairs hall after I--"

 "And get spotted by half the staff? That makes a lot of sense."

 "So who ever said I had brains?"

 "But how did you get here? He must know."

 I shook my head, forgetting she couldn't see me.

 "You're doing this just to see me?"

 "Do you want me to stay?"

 She considered the question carefully. That was something else I liked

 about her, the way she listened and weighed facts, an ability no doubt

 sharpened by living close to people like Morelli. "Only if we lock the

 door."

 "Consider it done," I said, and moved to do it.

 "Fat lot of good it'll do. Slick isn't the only one with a key."

 "I'll bet he's the only one who has any business using it, though, but

 he's not here, so let's forget him. What else would you like?"

 "Does it matter to you what I like?"

 For the men in her past and very likely the present, that might not have

 been a very important consideration. "Yes it matters to me very

 much."

 "You confuse me."

 "I do? How?"

 "I shouldn't feel this way, I--it's just bodies, after all."

 "Not for me, it isn't."

 "You're different?"

 I thought of a loaded answer and dismissed it. "Yes."

 Her arms reached tentatively forward, her hands brushing lightly down my

 bare chest. Standing so close and scented with roses, fear, and now

 desire, she was like a white candle and I was just beginning to feel its

 gentle heat. Her heartbeat drummed so loud in my brain I could hear

 nothing else. If she'd told me to leave then I doubt I'd have had the

 ability or understanding. Something primitive and as old as time

 overwhelmed all conscious thought and all caution, she was in my arms

 and nature was taking its course.

 A hot minute later she pulled away. "Not here, not in his room--this

 way." We went to her room, and she locked the door and turned her back,

 lifting her hair out of the way. I undid a few strategic buttons and the

 white silk fell in a heap around her ankles. It was a happy surprise to

 learn that like Jean Harlow, she disdained the wearing of underclothes.

 In another second we fell into the bed.

 My basic method of lovemaking was the same as when I'd been alive, and

 I'd never received any complaints, but knew this time from the signals

 my body was sending out that its ultimate expression had changed

 considerably. I was in the delightful situation of being able to lose my

 virginity twice in one lifetime.

 There had once been the incredible sensual joy of being on the receiving

 end of Maureen's special kisses. Now I understood why she'd been unable

 to describe what it had been like for her.

 My lungs were pumping regularly, not to breathe, but to smell. The dark

 scent of red blood rushing swiftly beneath her skin was maddening. I was

 going too fast and had to pause, my lips were already seeking out her

 warm, taut throat. Shifting slightly, I took in the other pleasures her

 body offered, exploring her soft mouth and testing the firm muscle

 underlying her smooth skin. She was no stranger to the act and did all

 she could to please me, but as I learned long ago, my greatest

 satisfaction came from pleasuring my partner. I did my best, with the

 steady roar of her heartbeat stimulating rather than distracting me. She

 let me know she was ready, but I held off as long as I could, held

 off

 The kiss was painless to her, but not without its own unique intensity,

 and her body shook from it for as long as I held her and drew into my

 own starved body the hot, salty essence of her life.

 After many long, long moments I gradually pulled away. Her hands slid

 around my head to keep me in place, wanting me to continue, but I was

 afraid of going too far and taking too much. I was aware of my

 inexperience and didn't want her to suffer from it. She sighed

 acceptance finally and arched her back, pushing her head deep into the

 pillows. Through half-closed eyes she smiled, her lids drooped shut, and

 she dozed lightly, her heartbeat returning to normal. With an ear

 pressed against one soft breast I listened to the rhythm as declining

 waves of warmth surged and ebbed through me.

 Earlier in the evening I'd ignored the first faint tickle of hunger,

 planning to visit the Yards later, but that would have been mere

 feeding. This taking of blood was lovemaking, and for a vampire, there

 was a chasm of difference between the two.

 I eased my weight from her and lay on my side, stroking her hair with my

 free hand. It had been too long since I'd really touched anyone. So long

 that I'd almost forgotten how good it was to hold and be held. Distantly

 through the walls I heard the band playing something slow and

 sentimental, then the phone in her room began ringing.

 "Damn," she said. "I have to answer that." I didn't ask why, but moved

 so she could get out. A minute later she returned and snuggled in again.

 "That was the stage manager. I had a number to do and missed it."

 "And you told him you were sick. Are you?"

 ' 'I think you know better. I never felt anything like that before that

 lasted so long."

 "But you're not hurt or dizzy, are you?"

 "I'm fine, I'm terrific."

 I tilted her chin to one side with a finger, looking closely at her

 neck. The marks were surprisingly small and there was no apparent

 bruising. Her hand slid onto mine, which she drew up and kissed.

 "I guess you are different. What did you do to me?"

 "If it felt good, does it really matter?"

 "I just don't want it to have been a fluke of my imagination."

 "It was real. I take it you didn't mind that we didn't follow a more

 traditional method?'

 "No, this was so much like it, but more" She shrugged. "I can't

 describe it, I only know I want to feel it again."

 "That might not be good for you now. I'll come tomorrow night."

 Her face clouded. "What about Slick?"

 "I can get rid of him."

 "What do you mean? Kill him?"

 "Why do you think that?"

 "It's something you get to expect after a while. I have no illusions

 about what he is or what I am to him. We've used each other to get what

 we want. It's an old story."

 "It sounds very empty."

 She didn't want sympathy, and a hard edge crept into her voice. "I know

 it is."

 "Do you have to use him? What is it you want?"

 "I have it now. I'm the top singer in a top nightclub and I'm on a local

 radio broadcast once a week. Slick makes sure I meet the right people

 and I keep him happy. When he gets tired of me I'll use those contacts

 to move up in the business."

 "But are you happy?"

 "Yes, I think so."

 "Is that why you were working that slot machine so grimly the other

 night?"

 "That was just boredom. Even this place gets boring. I don't like all

 the people here and I get tired of being stared at, but Slick likes me

 to mingle. He likes to show me off."

 "But he doesn't like you to get too friendly."

 "At least with the wrong people. But sometimes it's good, it's really

 good, when I'm on stage and the spotlight hits me and the music comes

 up--that's what I really want. That makes me feel so alive and I don't

 care what I have to do as long as I can stay there and sing."

 "He's in a dangerous business. What would you do if something did happen

 to Slick?"

 "There are always others like him, and he's not so bad. My first

 boyfriend used to hit. Slick likes to roughhouse, but at least he

 doesn't hit me. Then there's the other owner of the club"-she went very

 still--"but I'd never go to him for anything."

 "Who's he?"

 "Slick didn't tell you? He's the fat poker player, Lucky Lebredo."

 "Colorful."

 "Just don't get in his way. Slick can be mean, but Lucky is worse, and

 he's a lot smarter. He's like some big spider, always watching things."

 "He watches you?"

 "What do you think? He hasn't laid a hand on me yet, and I don't plan on

 ever giving him the chance. I think he and Slick have some sort of

 understanding about me."

 "Nice guys."

 "You said it."

 "Do they have an understanding about Gordy as well--about who he really

 works for?"

 "Slick doesn't know about that and neither should I, but sometimes you

 overhear things."

 "Like what?"

 "I just caught the end of it, but Gordy and Lebredo were having an

 argument, or something pretty close to it. Lebredo asked him if he were

 planning to be awkward in the same way Mr. Huberman had been awkward,

 and then Gordy backed down, and I've never known him to do that with

 anyone before. Even Slick knows where to draw the line with Gordy."

 I remembered the Huberman scandal; it had been the nine-day wonder

 tabloid editors dream about. Someone had thoughtfully provided them with

 some especially lurid evidence of Huberman's romance with a knockout of

 a blond who was not his wife. Tame enough stuff, it happened often

 enough, but not always to senior state senators. The real lid came off

 when the general public was made aware of the true sex of the blond.

 Huberman was found on the floor of his office with the muzzle of the gun

 still in his mouth and the back of his skull blown off.

 "Does Gordy like girls?"

 "Sure, he does. I see what you're getting at, but that's not it.

 Lebredo's got something else on him."

 "Maybe it's time you left this place."

 "Not now, but soon. I'll leave when I'm ready."

 "But-"

 Her eyes snapped. "Don't go all protective on me, I can take care of

 myself."

 "Okay, I can see that." She was right, it was none of my business.

 "Mrs. Smythe didn't raise no dummy."

 "I'm not arguing."

 She took me at my word and calmed down. "You going to tell me your life

 story now?"

 "Not tonight."

 Her hand went to her throat. "But I want to know about what you did. Is

 it because you're really different, or that you know something new that

 I never heard of till now?''

 "Yes," I chuckled.

 "To both? Don't be a kidder."

 "I'm not."

 "Then what's this about?"

 "You ever hear the one about the one-legged jockey?"

 "Yeah"

 "Well, I kinda have the same thing. It's a sort of condition--"

 The sharp cough of the gun was the only warning we got.

 Preoccupied with each other, we hadn't heard his approach in the other

 room or noticed the light under the door. Perhaps he'd come to check on

 Bobbi after she'd missed her cue, and then heard us talking. The second

 after the bullet blew off the lock, he kicked the door open and lurched

 into the room like a boulder coming down the hill, or maybe I should say

 mountain. It was Gordy, playing the watchdog for his boss.

 He didn't know me in the dim light spilling from Morelli's room, but I

 was a man in a place where I shouldn't be and that was enough of an

 excuse for him to break things up. His gun was already up and aimed. I

 had barely gotten to my feet. I half expected the impact of a bullet,

 but he thankfully restrained himself and didn't fire again. Bobbi's

 breath caught in her throat, but she held back the scream. The room was

 dead quiet except for the squeaking hinges as the door swung a little in

 the aftershock of its sudden opening.

 I raised my hands slowly, uncurling the fingers, tore my eyes from the

 silencer-encased gun barrel, and stared hard at his face. All his

 attention was on me. Good, I wanted him to ignore Bobbi altogether. A

 few seconds had passed, and I listened for the arrival of

 reinforcements, but none came. There was a chance for jumping him then.

 It was possible despite the distance between us, but there was also a

 big, bad chance of Bobbi picking up a stray bullet, so that was out.

 He finally spoke. "Walk over here, pretty boy."

 Better, he wanted me out of the room. I held his eyes with my own and

 moved slowly, hoping Bobbi would know enough to stay where she was. I

 didn't speak or look at her; the situation was tenuous enough, and I

 wanted Gordy to concentrate on me alone. For each step I took forward he

 backed up into the light of Morelli's bedroom. Bad. I wanted it dark.

 Pretending to squint, I kept my hands in front of my face. This made it

 harder to watch his movements, but by now I'd cleared the door and Bobbi

 was safely out of the line of fire.

 He sensed I was planning something. The angle of the gun shifted

 downward. "Move and I'll blow your balls off."

 Vampire or not, that kind of threat will stop any man in his tracks.

 "Hands away from the face."

 There wasn't any choice, I'd have to play it out and see what would

 happen. I straightened, lowered my hands, and looked him in the eye.

 He still didn't know me right away, but then the last time he could

 consciously recall seeing me I'd been belly-up on a sidewalk, fully

 clothed and apparently dead. Now I was shirtless, disheveled, standing,

 and apparently alive. Small wonder the dawn came slowly.

 The lids peeled back from his eyes. I kept very still, staring at him,

 hoping he was as unnerved as I had been. He took a backward step toward

 the door and kept on going until he was on the threshold.

 "'Run," I whispered.

 The idea must have already been in his mind. He flinched, turned, and

 retreated heavily down the hall.

 Bobbi heard it; she was out of bed and peering past me, a few dozen

 questions on her face. I quickly grabbed up my discarded clothes.

 "Whatdid-

 "I can't explain now." I kissed her good-bye and darted out after Gordy.

 He was thumping down the backstairs. I pulled on the shirt without

 buttoning it and shrugged into the coat, not an easy thing to do while

 running, but I was able to keep up with him. He reached the bottom,

 looking indecisive, and turned for a backward glance. I ducked,

 dematerialized, and followed down after him.

 Uncertain of his route, I hung close to his coattails and was able to

 stick right along with him. He went through a door into an assault of

 noise, and I guessed we were in the casino. Here he stopped and caught

 his breath. Maybe he only wanted people around him. At a more sedate

 pace he moved through the room and passed into a smaller and much

 quieter area, probably the cloak room.

 "Hi, big boy, what's up?" a girl asked him.

 He didn't answer, but pushed past her to an even smaller room where the

 coats were hung. I heard a click and sensed he was working at something

 with his hands. A little unsteadily, he began repeating a call sign. He

 was using some kind of short-wave radio and trying to contact the

 Elvira. I moved in close to hear both sides of the conversation.

 Unfortunately he began shivering, but it couldn't be helped.

 They had a poor connection, and I hardly made out Morelli's voice.

 "Yeah, Gordy, did you find out--"

 "Boss, he was here, I saw him, I saw the kid."

 "You saw him?"

 "In your room--he was real, he was alive--"

 "Shut up and get out here, I'll have the boat waiting."

 "He's still up there with Bobbi--"

 "What?"

 "I caught them together, but I had to get out. Jesus, you shoulda seen

 his eyes."

 "You left her?"

 "I couldn't help it, I had to."

 "Then get your ass back up there and get her out, you hear me? You get

 her out and bring her to me"

 At this point I left, groping through the back door of the cloakroom and

 solidifying. The long, dim hall dividing the casino from the club

 stretched ahead. It gave backstage access to the bandstand and led to

 the farther of the stairwells. I raced to the far end and had to

 dissolve again because of two men sitting and smoking on the steps. I

 re-formed in the upstairs hall, hurtled into Morelli's room, and locked

 the door. Bobbi had just finished pulling on some clothes.

 "Gordy just called Slick about us; he's supposed to take you to the

 yacht."

 "So?"

 "So I don't think he's going to throw you a party."

 "Don't worry, I know how to handle it. I was more afraid that Gordy was

 going to shoot you just now.''

 "Never mind that, I've got to get you out of here."

 "This place is packed with his boys. Tell me how you plan to get past

 them."

 "I want you out of here."

 "I know, but I'm staying put. I can handle Slick and I won't split on

 you."

 "Bobbi-"

 "If Gordy's coming up you have to leave. Slick won't hurt me, but he'll

 kill you for sure. I don't care what sort of deal you have going."

 Before I could lose my patience, Gordy was banging on the door. He

 wasn't alone this time.

 "Slick's closet--get inside!" She shoved me in the right direction. I

 felt like I'd wandered onto the stage of a French farce.

 "Bobbi, I'm opening the door now," Gordy called.

 "Keep your shirt on!" She opened it first.

 For form's sake I got in the closet just long enough to vanish and was

 out again, keeping close to Gordy.

 "Yeah? What is it now?" she demanded. She didn't sound at all like a

 woman who'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

 "Slick wants to see you. You're going for a boat ride."

 She didn't ask why. While she threw on a light jacket, they searched the

 rooms, then hauled her downstairs to a waiting car. Invisibly, I went

 with them. She might have known how to handle Slick, but I didn't have

 her confidence in him. All too well I remembered the guy he'd beaten to

 a bloody pulp with his own gun.

 When we got to the docks I had a real check to face, the free running

 water of the lake. Any and all instincts I had or had recently acquired

 were sending out emergency alarms, and it took a lot of effort to ignore

 them. I clung to Gordy like a lamprey as we got into the rowboat. I

 didn't care how cold it made him.

 There were two men to handle the oars, but my presence aboard made it

 hard work for them, and they were panting from the effort by the time we

 drew alongside the Elvira. Bobbi was handed aboard, then Gordy followed

 struggling up the ladder as I hung on. I thought he was going to fall

 in, but he was very strong and someone lent him an obliging hand and

 pulled hard. We both lurched onto the deck. The craft was big enough to

 give me some stability, but my back hairs--if I had any in this

 form--were still up. The whole yacht, big as it was, had given a shudder

 as I came aboard.

 "Wind must be kicking up," someone remarked.

 "I felt that, but there's no wind, that was current."

 "Are they here yet?" I heard Morelli's irritated call from a short

 distance. Gordy moved toward the source, herding Bobbi ahead of him. We

 went below.

 From the size of it, we were in the main cabin. I found an unoccupied

 corner and settled in to listen. Things were quiet at first, I could

 imagine Morelli giving Bobbi a good looking over, trying to read her

 mind.

 "Who was he?"

 "You know already, Slick, so why play games?"

 "You tell me his name."

 "It was Fleming, the guy you sent me after the other night."

 There was a long silence.

 "Well, what's the matter? Didn't you want me to do it? He said you sent

 him."

 "Shut up!" There was another long pause, his voice calmer and colder

 when he spoke again. "Did you screw him?"

 "No." She sounded disappointed and disgusted. "Gordy interrupted

 things."

 "Then get out of here. Go to my cabin." There was movement and the door

 opened and shut.

 Morelli sounded tired. "Gordy, tell me what you saw."

 Gordy was less excited than when he made his call. "She missed a show so

 I went to check on things. I heard them through the door and shot it

 open. He was in bed with her and got out fast. For what it's worth, his

 pants were still buttoned. I didn't know who he was at first, but then

 he came out and I saw it was the Fleming kid."

 "Go on."

 "I know he was dead on that sidewalk. You saw him. So how does he show

 up alive now? Is he twins or something?"

 "Did you see how he got in?"

 "No, and I don't know how he could have got in. Secret passages, maybe?"

 Morelli's brief and obscene reply shut him up. He must have forgotten

 about looking for such passages only a little while ago himself. "He

 could have bribed someone, it happens. What did he look like? Was he

 normal? What was he wearing?"

 "Pants and shoes, I didn't see no shirt or hat, but I wasn't - there

 long."

 "What was his face like?"

 Gordy didn't understand what he was after. "It was a face, just like we

 left him, but God, his eyes--

 "What about them?"

 "I swear, they were red there was no white showing at all."

 "Red? Solid red?"

 "I saw him like I see you now. The light was good, better than this. I

 get the creeps thinking on the way he looked."

 "Well, don't," he snapped. They were quiet, then Morelli started again.

 "Look, I know there's something weird about all this and Fleming, but

 there's no sense in going chicken about it. We'll stay on the boat for

 the night after we close the club, then tomorrow we'll really look into

 everything."

 "Sure, boss."

 "I'll be in my cabin."

 I followed him out. The passage was short. He found another door and

 went through. I found another corner near to, but not quite touching,

 Bobbi, who was sitting on the bed.Well?" he said.

 Well what?"

 "Gordy saw you two together."

 "Being together doesn't mean we slept together."

 "Maybe you didn't have time to sleep."

 "What are you bellyaching about? It was your idea for the sleeping

 arrangements, not mine, and you've had a dozen other girls up there

 since I moved in, and I've never said a word, not even when I was in the

 next room."

 "You'd be in the same room if I wanted two at once. You like your job

 too much."

 Two at once, that's a laugh. You can hardly keep it up for five

 minutes."

 "You were caught, you bitch, so start shedding and I'll show you what

 kind of damage I can do in five minutes."

 "No."

 "If you can put out for a dead man--"

 "What do you mean, did you kill him?"

 "Yeah, I killed him. He was shot dead in the street two days ago, or

 didn't he tell you that?"

 "You're crazy."

 "You can ask Gordy, he was there. You like to screw corpses?" There was

 a tearing of cloth and the struggling sounds of two bodies against each

 other. She slapped him and cursed, but he forced her back and down. His

 mistress or not, I felt compelled to interfere and closed around him

 like newspaper over a mackerel.

 Seconds later he gave his first shiver. "What are you doing?" he asked.

 Vague as the question was, it was no surprise that she couldn't answer.

 He moved off her, falling back against a cabin wall his heart going

 fast. "You're here, aren't you? Why don't you come out? Come on,

 Fleming! I know you're here!"

 Bobbi sat still, probably deducing she was locked in with a dangerous

 lunatic. I didn't want to push him too much, so I eased off to let him

 get over his chattering teeth. Neither of them moved; Morelli was

 listening and Bobbi was watching him.

 "Are you all right?" she asked.

 "He was here, I knew he was here. He didn't want me touching you."

 "There's no one here, Slick. No one."

 "Didn't you feel the cold? He was here, he's probably still here,

 watching."

 "You're crazy. I'm going to my room."

 "No! You'll stay here."

 "What for, more roughhouse?"

 "If I want it, yes."

 "It's always what you want, isn't it?"

 The argument started to build again and that's when I saw my mistake.

 All the guff between them had been some sort of ritual. They were

 quickly working up to another knock-down-drag-out. Bobbi had been with

 someone else and Morelli was reasserting his claim and using his body to

 do it. Bobbi had said she knew how to handle him, and as for Morelli, I

 suppose it was none of my business how he expressed his masculinity, as

 long as he wasn't really hurting her.

 They were yelling now. She goaded him one step too far and then he was

 on her again and they got down to serious sex. I was not happy about the

 situation, but left them to it, exiting the cabin. No one had shown up

 to investigate the noise yet-apparently the crew were used to the

 histrionics.

 Gordy was still in the main cabin, helping himself to the liquor cabinet

 before he dropped on a window seat to rest. He seemed to be facing out

 into the room, making an unobserved materialization difficult. I found

 my corner again, hoped it was out of his immediate line of sight, and

 tried to solidify.

 I tried. It was like pushing a train uphill, caboose and all. I got

 scared, wondering if my remaining in a prolonged state of disembodiment

 had become a permanent thing. I tried again, harder. The train moved a

 little, but it was exhausting. The next time I really concentrated,

 visualizing each part of my body, willing it to come into being. There

 was weight. Arms felt like this, legs supported, eyes

 Like pouring cold molasses, I re-formed, the effort leaving me weak.

 Gordy spotted me right away, but he was surprised and it was little work

 to tell him to stay quiet and take a nap. He slumped over without a

 peep, leaving me to an undisturbed recovery.

 Solid again, with my heightened senses running at full, I was

 immediately and urgently aware of the vast amount of water all around.

 Now that I had back hairs again, they were at attention from the lower

 spine to the top of my head. There was little I could do about the

 situation except to try and ignore it if possible.

 The cabin was smaller than I thought, and I knew I'd been here before.

 My left hand, keeper of the memory, was twitching of its own accord. I

 tried to hold it still with the other. Outside I heard the occasional

 conversation of the crew, though I couldn't tell how many were aboard.

 Farther away were some distinct and unmistakable thrashing noises, and

 from the other sounds they made, they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

 A glance around the cabin revealed the bar, table, and chairs and a safe

 squatting against one wall. Thinking it might have a similar alarm

 system, I checked the small desk next to it. Almost in the same spot was

 the on/off switch. It was off now and though there might not be anything

 valuable aboard, it was worth a try while I had the chance.

 It was unlikely it had the same combination as the one at the club, but

 for the moment I could think of nothing better to do. The tumblers were

 clicking at the same spots, though, until I got to the last one and had

 to experiment. My mind wandered between the clicks. I was worried about

 the difficulty I'd had materializing. The fact that I was over open

 water was the obvious reason for the trouble, but some illogical twinge

 of guilt was nagging me about the fact I'd drunk human blood for the

 first time. Despite my extremely happy experience with Bobbi, 1 wondered

 if it made me some sort of monster, after all. As far as the books, the

 movies, and even the dictionaries were concerned, I was an altogether

 evil parasite. There was an extraordinary amount of bad press available

 on vampires and I was understandably worried. All I had to refute it was

 my own limited experience.

 I didn't feel evil. True, I was a predator, but unlike other hunters, I

 left my prey alive and in one case, feeling pretty good afterward. I

 knew I felt better. Perhaps it was just the euphoria of lovemaking, but

 I did feel stronger. Maybe human blood was the perfect nourishment, it

 was hands down certainly more exciting and pleasurable to acquire.

 The last tumbler clicked into place and the door swung open. Inside was

 a bundle of cash and unlabeled envelopes full of papers. This stuff

 looked more like Escott's specialty and there might not be a second

 opportunity at it, so I folded everything up and stuffed my pockets,

 leaving the cash. I was a crusading reporter, not a thief.

 "Don't move," Gordy said behind me. My attention had wandered too far,

 and I'd forgotten to keep an eye on him. He told me to turn around.

 For the second time that night his gun was on me. He was on the window

 seat, but far from relaxed if I could tell anything about his thudding

 heartbeat. Still, he was remarkably calm about facing the supernatural.

 I doubted I would have had anywhere near the same moxie. I thought about

 putting him to sleep again and turned it down. It was better to wait for

 Morelli to come; it was time to settle things up.

 He called to someone topside and told them to get Morelli. From the

 straining noises coming from the cabin down the way, such an

 interruption would not be welcome. I suppose I could have delayed things

 for another crucial moment, but why should one of my murderers have any

 fun? I listened, trying to keep a straight face as the errand runner

 knocked on the door. Morelli breathlessly told him to go away. The

 runner delivered his brief message. Morelli told him to go to hell. The

 runner left, his job completed and the damage done. Morelli had to work

 hard to get worked up and now his concentration was thoroughly broken.

 After a short while, he gave up and things got quiet. In another minute

 he came charging in, loaded for bear.

 "Goddammit, Gordy! What--

 Gordy just pointed at me with his free hand.

 Morelli went all white in the face. I was getting used to seeing him in

 that color. He was looking rumpled already, with his hair messed up and

 wearing only a bathrobe. I hadn't improved things.

 "Oh, God, it's him," he said out loud, but only to himself.

 "He's the one I saw, Slick, except his eyes aren't red now."

 No one moved. Perhaps Morelli was afraid I'd vanish again. It was

 tempting, but if I failed I didn't want to in front of them. The fewer

 weaknesses shown, the better.

 "Look at his clothes, there's the holes and the blood's still there."

 Gordy stood to be in a more functional position to shoot.

 Morelli was indeed looking at me. He noticed the clothes; I still hadn't

 buttoned my shirt and its tails hung sloppily out front. He also noticed

 that Escott's makeup job was gone.

 "He looks real enough," he said, trying to generate some courage. His

 eyes dropped to my chest. "It can't be the kid, this guy's never been

 shot."

 I beg to differ.

 "Or there was a mistake on the street," said Gordy. "Joe never hit him,

 after all, the kid faked it."

 "Then what about the other stuff?"

 "Some kind of trick, like you said. He could have drugged the boys and

 robbed the safe. See, I got him red-handed just now."

 Morelli looked past me. "Where are the papers?"

 "In his pockets."

 "Empty "em," he told me. It was the first time I'd been addressed

 directly. I didn't move. If he wanted his papers he could damn well get

 them himself. He ordered me again, lost his patience, and came for them.

 As exasperated as he was, he approached me like a ticking bomb, giving

 Gordy plenty of target area in case I tried something. He threw all the

 stuff on the table and checked for other things. My wallet came out, my

 old one. I should have left it at home, but one can't think of

 everything. He looked at the papers inside.

 The shock was almost physical. The wallet he held was supposed to be on

 a weighted body at the bottom of the lake, not in his own shaking hands.

 He dropped it and if possible, his eyes were bulging more than when he'd

 first walked in the room.

 Gordy sensed the change. "What's the matter? Slick?"

 Morelli's thoughts flashed over his face. He was trying to understand,

 trying to put reality right again and failing.

 I smiled.

 He broke. "Shoot him, Gordy! Shoot him now!"

 The gun was already level with my chest. Instinct made me throw myself

 to one side. The bullet caused a brief bright flash as it crashed

 through my skull, leaving behind white-hot pain. The force of the shot

 and momentum of my dive carried me forward, out of control, and my head

 connected with a solid crack on the sharp corner of the wood table, with

 all my weight adding to the force. By comparison, the bullet had been a

 pinprick. I lay stunned and still by the sheer agony that enveloped me.

 My body was turned over. My eyes stared at the light, unable to shut out

 the glare.

 "Must have just glanced him," said Gordy. "There's a wound, but no hole.

 I coulda swore I hit him square, though."

 "Is he dead?"

 A heavy hand on my chest, then he shut my eyes. I couldn't have moved if

 I wanted to. "He's dead, see for yourself."

 Before he could, there were quick steps and the door was thrown open.

 "Slick?" It was Bobbi's voice, frightened. "Oh, my God."

 "Get the hell out of here! No, wait--look at him, is he the one? Is he?"

 "Yes," Her throat was congested with tears. Grief for me or shock, I

 couldn't tell.

 "Shut up and get out!"

 Yes, Bobbi, get out so you don't have to see--

 "I said get out!" The door slammed. She retreated down the passage,

 trying to stifle the sobs.

 I'd been in such pain before and in this same cabin, lying helpless in

 the heat with voices and questions, the air thick with sweat and smoke,

 the stink of my own body burning my lungs.

 I slipped into the nightmare, embracing the horror of memory like a

 lover.

 Lover-- Bobbi--

 No, Maureen.

 Maureen .

 Chapter 10

 ==========

 WE WERE LAUGHING at some private joke. It was good to hear her laugh,

 she did it so seldom, but when I turned to look at her, she was gone and

 the smile within me died.

 I woke from the cessation of motion as the train stopped. It was a

 familiar dream, I used to hate it, but not anymore because I needed the

 shadow memory of Maureen to know that I'd once loved her and felt alive.

 She might have been saying good-bye to me this time, though. New York

 was behind me now, good memories and bad, and I wanted to start fresh

 again. That was what I told myself while threading through the crowded

 train station with my two bags. It wasn't much of a lie since I wasn't

 much of a liar, but the best for the moment, it would have to do.

 Chicago was not windy today, it was late summer and the humidity was up

 to lethal levels. The walk from the station was unpleasant, the bags

 dragged hard on my arms, and the sidewalk threw the heat up in my face

 as though it were my fault. I was getting punch drunk from it until a

 hotel with the right price on the sign invited me into the shade. It was

 cheap, though not quite a fleabag. Later, if the money got too low, I'd

 end up in one of those, but not today.

 Unescorted, I trudged upstairs to look for the door that fit my key. In

 these days of the Depression the hotel couldn't afford the luxury of a

 bellhop. The room was no worse than I expected, small and impersonal,

 with a sagging bed bolted to the floor, an ugly bureau and a chair to

 match, but it had a private bath and a phone and came with a fan, which

 I immediately turned on. I opened the window wide to let in the

 late-afternoon street exhaust and stripped out of my damp suit. I ran

 cold water in the tub and dropped in. Later on I'd hunt up a hamburger

 and read the papers to decide which one deserved to employ me.

 The water was just rising past my chest when the phone rang.

 I moaned and cursed, being one of those people who have to answer no

 matter what they're doing. It had to be a wrong number, the only person

 I knew in Chicago was the clerk downstairs. Lurching out and leaving a

 wet trail, I picked up the earpiece and said hello.

 "Jack Fleming?" It wasn't a familiar voice.

 "You got him, what is it?"

 "Jack, this is Benny O'Hara from New York. You maybe remember at Rosie's

 bar about a year ago--

 Benny O'Hara, a little guy with big ears who gave me a tip on an arson

 story in exchange for five bucks and a drink. I'd let the cops in on it,

 they caught the guys, and I got an exclusive for the paper with a

 by-line.

 "Yeah, Fourth of July, make it look like fireworks did it, collect the

 insurance. I remember."

 "Listen, I saw you leave the train station and followed you. I thought

 you could help me--"

 The same old story. He needed a soft touch, but I couldn't afford it

 this time. "I'm sorry, Benny, but I was just on my way out--"

 "No, wait, please, this is important!" He sounded desperate, I hung on

 out of curiosity. "You gotta listen. I've got something big for you, a

 hell of a story, believe me."

 "I'm listening."

 "Can you come down and meet me in the street? I can't tell it all on the

 phone. Please, Jack?"

 "What'll it cost me?"

 "You mean what'll it give you? This one is red hot."

 "Arson again?" I joked.

 "Please, Jack!" He was in no mood for humor.

 "All right, I'll be out in a minute."

 "Just walk outside, turn right, and keep walking. I'll catch up with

 you."

 It seemed overly dramatic, maybe he did have something important. If I

 came to an editor with a hotshot story ready to roll.

 so much the better my chances of getting a job, and with better pay. It

 was worth a try. I told Benny to hold tight and hung up, trying not to

 sound too eager.

 Dried and dressed, I left the hotel, following his directions, scanning

 the faces around me for his. About a block later he appeared at my

 elbow.

 "Don't look at me, for Chrissake!" he said in a low voice.

 The glimpse I'd gotten was not reassuring. He always looked to be just

 this side of starvation, that was normal, but now he was haggard and

 twitching at the edges. I wondered when he'd last slept.

 "Just keep walking and I'll tell you everything."

 "For how much?"

 "I'll tell you. When I'm finished you can take it or leave it."

 Now, that was out of character. If I hadn't been on guard before, I was

 now. "Who's following you?"

 "Nobody yet, I think, but we can't take chances. Just keep walking."

 I kept walking.

 "Ever hear of Lucky Lebredo?"

 "No."

 "He's a local gambler, owns part of the Nightcrawler."

 "He owns a worm?" I said blankly.

 "It's a nightclub," he said, pained. "Used to be a big speak, then it

 went in heavy on the gambling when he got part of it."

 "Illegal, of course."

 "Is LaGuardia Italian? Anyway, he's a name here to some people, but

 keeps a low profile and stays out of the way of the gangs, so not many

 people know him or his piece of the club."

 "So what's this about, Benny?"

 "Did Rosie tell you what I do for a living?"

 "She said you were a locksmith," I replied with a straight .face.

 "Rosie's a swell gal."

 "Benny--"

 "Okay! I'm getting to it. I have to take advantage of an opportunity

 when it comes up 'cause there ain't that many of them these days for

 locksmiths. I gotta flop with this friend of mine, and every Wednesday

 he has room in his place for a big-time poker game. These guys use

 thousand-dollar bills like other people use matchsticks. Sometimes the

 game goes on for days. It's usually out-of-town guys lookin' for some

 fun, and there's different ones every week, but Lucky never misses a

 game. He's a real crazy when it comes to poker and he always wins."

 "I've heard of people like that."

 "You gotta see to believe this guy. I swear, one week he went home

 eighty thousand dollars ahead. You gotta figure he don't declare that on

 his income tax."

 "How is it they let you in on this game?"

 "I don't play. My friend tells 'em I'm a bodyguard. He lends me a gat

 for the duration and I hang around and look tough. Some of these rubes

 even believe it, they treat me like Capone himself, and they tip good to

 boot. Anyway, I keep my eyes open and one night I decide to follow Lucky

 home, just to protect him, you understand."

 "I understand."

 "Well, he goes on into this house, and for a guy with that much money it

 ain't much of a house, so I figure he must have piles of it lying around

 unspent and unprotected. Maybe he might like to hire someone to guard it

 for him when he's out."

 "And you decided to apply for the job?"

 "Naturally, but the next night when I went back he was gone, maybe off

 to the club, but I tried the door, anyway, and imagine my surprise when

 it just opened right up. I thought maybe something might be wrong

 inside, so I had a good look around to make sure there wasn't no

 burglars."

 "Go on."

 "Thank goodness there wasn't and a good thing, too, because--I swear

 this is the truth--he walked out the door and left the safe wide open. I

 mean, how careless can you get?"

 "Tsk-tsk. Very careless."

 "Now, I thought it would be a shame if all that cash were to disappear

 into the wrong hands, so maybe I should take care of it for him."

 "Very thoughtful of you."

 "I thought so, too. There were a lot of large bills there and I don't

 have nothing to carry them in, so I pull out this big envelope from the

 safe that looks empty. There's only two sheets of paper inside, they

 don't take up any room, so I start stuffin' money into it and the whole

 kit and kaboodle leaves with me. When I get back to my flop I count

 things out and that's when I get a good look at those sheets of paper."

 "What was on them?"

 "They look like some kid was playing with a typewriter. Both sheets are

 covered with a lot of punctuating junk and numbers top to bottom, both

 sides of the pages. I figure right away it's some kind of code, and I

 like puzzles, so I try to solve it."

 "And?"

 "And it wasn't so easy, but I did it, and the stuff on those pages is

 enough to blow this state wide open."

 "What is it, then?"

 "A blackmail list. The names are big ones, ones you wouldn't expect to

 be there. It gives the names, where they live, the location of the stuff

 that's against them, everything. I checked."

 "Oh come on, Benny."

 "I swear! I got it with me and now I gotta get rid of it."

 "Why? And why me?"

 " 'Cause you're not on the list, 'cause you're new in town, and none of

 these mugs know you."

 "What mugs?"

 "One of Lucky's boys and others. They're with the Paco gang, they been

 after me for days, I can't get outta town. They've got the stations

 covered. I can't buy a car, boat, or bicycle without them finding out."

 "And you want to foist this off on me? Turn it in to the cops."

 "Don't you see anything? There's cops on the list--judges, lawyers,

 newspaper people--anybody with something to hide is on it. They'd bury

 it and me, too, if I went to them. I tried. But you're clean, you can do

 something with it, you can make a story out of it."

 "What do you want from me?"

 "Just some help getting out of the city. I can take care of myself from

 there."

 I'd always been an idiot when it came to thinking out the long-term

 consequences of snap decisions. "What have you got planned?"

 "You're a square guy, so I can trust you. I give you a couple of notes

 and you go buy a car for me, but in your name, then all we gotta do is

 drive outta town. You drop me in some burg in the next state, then I'm

 on my own and can lam it from there. For that, you keep the car and the

 list. Lucky and his boys don't know you from whosis, so you'll be safe,

 too."

 "That sounds okay to me. When?"

 "Right now. I gotta get out today before my nerves go. Take a turn into

 that alley ahead and wait for me. If things are clear, I'll be there in

 a minute."

 I went into the alley, walking half its length before stopping and

 turning around. It was dim and quiet. I took off my hat and wiped at the

 sweatband with a handkerchief. My only company was a one-eared cat

 picking through the garbage. Down the middle of the alley ran a trickle

 of water, and overhead someone's laundry hung dejectedly in the still

 air. I hoped Benny would hurry.

 Long before I thought of leaving, his scrawny figure appeared at the

 other entrance. His gait was a peculiar hopping walk, as though he were

 about to break into a run and always changed his mind at the last

 second. He hitched up close, puffing with his eyes darting all over in

 nervous jerks. He was looking down at the heels for all the dough he

 claimed to be holding and had the calm demeanor of a chain smoker who'd

 just run out of cigs.

 "Now we gotta be careful," he warned me, and gave me a thousand-dollar

 bill.

 "Is this for real?" I'd never seen one before.

 "Like Sally Rand's feathers. You might want to change it for smaller

 bills, but you can get a really good car with it. I can't cash 'em

 myself on account of I don't look that respectable enough, but for you

 it'd be easy."

 Not that easy, but maybe if I changed into my better suit I could pass

 muster at any bank. "Okay, now where's the list?"

 "Right here and welcome to it." He pulled out two sheets of paper folded

 double and gave them to me. I opened them up. As described, they were

 solid with typed symbols and numbers.

 "How do I read this stuff?"

 "It's easy, just substitution--"

 Someone coughed off to the left. It was an oddly regular cough, coming

 three times very close together. Benny's small body jerked and three

 large red holes appeared in his head, chest, and stomach. He fell into

 the dirty little stream on his side and lay oblivious in the water,

 pop-eyed and forever surprised.

 I won't defend my reaction, if it was cowardice or self-preservation,

 but I hurtled out of that alley and into the street as though my ass

 were on fire.

 Terror is a great stimulant. Three long blocks later I was still pelting

 down the sidewalk at full steam, leaving a trail of disturbance and

 sometimes destruction as I negotiated obstacles in my path. I never

 looked back. The temptation was there, but it would have cost me speed

 and headway. I just couldn't take the risk. Heat and lack of endurance

 took their toll, though, and I was forced to slow down; my passage

 through the afternoon rush was too noticeable, anyway. I ducked into a

 big department store and tried to collect myself while still moving.

 The list and the thousand-dollar bill were still in my hands. I tucked

 both away into my wallet and thought about calling for a cop. That might

 be a bad idea, though, since as a witness I was no good. I had, God help

 me, seen Benny die, but hadn't even glimpsed his killer. There could be

 more than one, from his talk. What story could I give, anyway? That I

 had accepted money from a thief to help him out? The truth wouldn't do

 at all, and from experience I knew I was a lousy liar. I kept moving,

 hoping to come up with some plan before somebody aced me.

 I was just starting to feel safe and looked around. Even as a stranger

 to the city I had no trouble recognizing them. I'd seen the type in

 lineups in New York. They could look like anyone physically, but there

 was a hard-to-define attitude that set them apart from ordinary people.

 A predator's hardness, perhaps, but I had no time to analyze the quality

 because they were coming after me.

 I located the back exits, tore through the stockrooms, upsetting

 employees, and burst outside onto a narrow street where freight trucks

 made their deliveries. The street ran into a larger one, with more

 people and hopefully safety. I heard feet pounding behind me and dived

 into the crowds.

 We played this game for nearly an hour. There were five of them, three

 on foot and two in a dark green Ford that followed me after I jumped

 into a taxi. They were smart and certainly professionals. I was a

 stranger in their territory and really didn't stand much chance of

 getting away, but had to keep trying to avoid Benny's fate.

 I thought of dropping the stuff in plain sight. Perhaps that was all

 they were after, and I was too unimportant to bother about. It seemed

 right, but there was absolutely no indication they would be so

 cooperative. I kept going.

 I was getting very tired. The taxi dropped me on Michigan Avenue, though

 it had given me a small respite, I'd have to go to ground soon. I needed

 time to rest and think and a safe place to do it in. That's when I

 looked up and saw the massive limestone structure of the Chicago Public

 Library. Libraries had often been quiet sanctuaries for me, so I went

 in.

 The first floor was useless, too open, full of newspapers and people

 reading them. I took to the stairs. The second floor was a haven for

 civil War relics, but not for me. I puffed up to the third landing and

 was greeted with the welcome sight of rows and rows of bookshelves. Like

 a fish returning to water, I slipped between their ranks and found a

 vantage point where I could watch the avenue and the stairs.

 I owed the taxi driver a medal for losing the Ford long enough for me to

 get to cover. Far below, its green roof cruised up and down the avenue

 for half an hour before they gave up and moved on. No dangerous-looking

 types came inside and I relaxed and retreated deep into the shelves.

 First I'd get rid of the list, then I'd get out of town until things

 cooled off; maybe even go home for a while and rest. I could write up a

 detailed account and send copies to the local D.A., the Feds, the

 papers, anybody I could think of who might be wondering who bumped off

 Benny O'Hara. It might not do any good, but it was as much as I was

 willing to risk at the moment. Seeing a man getting shot to pieces under

 your nose will take the starch out of anyone's backbone, and I never

 thought of myself as particularly brave. The last few hours had been so

 frightening I was ready to quit the papers altogether and go back to

 helping Dad at the store.

 At the moment, though, I was getting hungry and felt that the promised

 hamburger was long overdue. The mind deals with the shocks, but the body

 goes on prosaically dealing with the basics of living.

 Standing on my toes, I placed the two sheets of paper on the top of one

 of the shelves in the back. The aisle was clear, no one had seen»me. I

 made a note of which section I was in, and left, knowing they were safe

 as they'd ever be.

 I found a back stairway and used it to make my cautious way into the

 street again.

 The coast looked clear, no green Fords, no hard men, but I kept pace

 with the thickest parts of the crowds for many long blocks before

 relaxing enough to find a cafe. A small, busy place called the Blue

 Diamond smelled good so I went in and managed to get a table at the

 back. I ordered steak with everything instead of a burger, and while I

 ate I made notes on a napkin about what happened in my personal

 shorthand. I stalled over the meal, drinking coffee and having an extra

 dessert so as not to put off the waitress. When it was dark I left her a

 good tip and ventured into the streets.

 Taxis cost, but walking back to the hotel was too much for my feet.

 Besides, I had no idea where it was, just the name of the street it was

 on. I gave it to the driver and hoped he'd take a straight route. It

 didn't take long, he knew his business and dropped me at the right

 corner as far as I could tell, although it seemed different in the dark.

 I was still nerved up and tired, a bad combination.

 I kept my eyes open, but wasn't too worried. The men who chased me

 couldn't know where I was staying since Benny had been so careful. Poor

 Benny.

 And then it was poor me.

 Two of them appeared out of nowhere. They must have been watching the

 whole street knowing I might come back. I was practically lifted from my

 feet and trotted forward. The green car came up, a door was pulled open,

 and I was hustled inside. The whole operation didn't take more than five

 or six seconds and I was being driven off to parts unknown.

 The three of us staged an impromptu wrestling match in the backseat as I

 did my best to get out and they did their best to prevent it. Once I

 managed to get my hand on the door lever, but a fist hit the side of my

 head and another one gouged my kidneys.

 "Hey, settle down back there!" the driver growled.

 A few more hits and I was in no condition to continue the argument. They

 shoved me on the floor and kept me there facedown, their heavy feet

 resting with some force on my back and legs. I was dizzy from the

 punches and scared, and the swaying motion of the car in those

 claustrophobic conditions wasn't helping.

 "I'm going to be sick," I said to the floor.

 "What'd he say?"

 A little louder, I repeated myself.

 There was some laughter from the front seat, but the guys in back didn't

 think it was so funny. The one nearest my head took off my hat, turned

 it upside down, and shoved it under my nose.

 "You get any puke on me and I'll pop your eyes out," he warned.

 I gulped back my gorge and tried to get air in my lungs. It was a long,

 tough ride, but I managed to keep my dinner down. We pulled over once

 and the driver got out for a few minutes, leaving the engine running.

 The car rocked as he squeezed back behind the wheel.

 "Frank says we bring him to the boat, then you guys take a hike until he

 wants you again. Georgie, you take the car back to the house for me."

 "When do we get paid?"

 "Tonight at the boat, the usual."

 "Come on, Fred, we been after this guy all day."

 "Then argue with Frank, I don't pay the bills."

 Someone tied a rag over my eyes and I was hauled from the backseat with

 my arms fixed behind me. Two men had to hold me up since I couldn't

 balance. I smelled and heard the water lapping all around and had

 immediate visions of Lake Michigan and cement shoes. I tried tearing

 loose, collected a breath-stealing gut punch, and was dragged down some

 steps. The next few minutes were confusing as I was tripped into

 something that felt alive under my feet. I lost balance again and

 without my arms couldn't stop the fall. My left elbow hit something hard

 and so did my knees. I tried to twist to get upright, lost it all again,

 and my head snapped back and the hard thing caught me behind the ear.

 Despite the blindfold, lights flashed in my eyes before the dark closed

 everything down.

 It felt like I'd been asleep for weeks and was only now coming out of

 it. Some men were talking and I was annoyed that they were holding their

 discussion in my private bedroom. I wanted to tell them to get the hell

 out, but my mouth wasn't cooperating yet.

 "On ice and intact," a man said. I remembered his name was Fred.

 "You call that intact?" was the ungrateful reply.

 "He put up a fight, what can I say?"

 "You boys been paid yet?"

 "No, Mr. Paco."

 "Okay, here, and keep your traps shut. Get lost and forget today ever

 happened. Fred, you stay with me. Georgie, take the car back home."

 "Right."

 Men shuffled away. It didn't sound like a very large room and I still

 had a slight feeling of movement all around, which I attributed to my

 half-conscious state. My head hurt and I was sick in the stomach, and

 the more awake I got, the more hurts made themselves known. I started

 remembering other things, none of them too pleasant.

 "What did they do to him?" said Paco.

 "He took a fall when we put him in the boat."

 "Wake him up."

 Some water was dribbled in my face. That was when I realized they'd been

 talking about me. I thrashed around and shot fully awake and painfully

 alert. I couldn't move much, being firmly tied to a chair, but the

 blindfold was off, not that what I saw was very reassuring.

 The large lump holding the water glass was Fred. The shorter, more

 bullish man behind him was Paco. Neither of them looked friendly.

 The room was long with a low ceiling. The walls were oddly curved. I

 deduced we were on a boat and a big one. That explained the movement and

 my bad stomach; I was a poor sailor.

 "He's awake," said Fred. He and Paco drew back from my field of vision.

 My chair was in the middle of the bare floor facing a table. Leaning on

 the table was another man, darker and thinner than his friends. He

 unhitched his hip from his perch and came over to me. I heard a click

 and a slender, long-bladed knife appeared in one hand. The edge was so

 sharp it hurt to look at. I stiffened as he bent down near me.

 "Take it easy, buddy," he said, and cut the ropes. I could hardly move

 as they dropped away but tried flexing my limbs. Not a good idea, they

 went from numb to pins-and-needles pain as the blood started resuming

 its job.

 "You want a drink?"

 I managed a nod. He made a sign and Fred brought me a stiff double

 whiskey. I would have preferred water, but took what was offered. It was

 good stuff and made things comfortably warm inside. My benefactor smiled

 at me, I'd have smiled back if he'd put the knife away. Fred took my

 empty glass and returned it to the built-in bar. He was looking at Paco

 as though waiting for a signal. Paco was looking at the third man, whose

 attention was on me.

 "I think you know why you're here," he said. He had thick long lashes on

 his eyes, a woman's eyes, and I didn't like the expression in them.

 "Stand up."

 There was no reason not to, though I wobbled a bit and had to use the

 chair for support. Fred came over and pulled everything from my pockets

 and dumped it on the table. They went through it. I said good-bye to the

 thousand-dollar note. They looked at me and Fred was smirking.

 "I knew the little shrimp passed him something."

 "What else did you get off him?" asked Paco.

 They found the napkin my notes were scribbled on, but it wasn't what

 they wanted.

 "He's a reporter," said the third man. Fred laughed. They looked with

 interest at an old press pass he'd taken from my wallet and read my

 identification. "How long since you seen New York, Jack R. Fleming?"

 "Look, I don't know what you want, I just got off the train today--"

 "Did little Galligar call you in to help him?"

 "Galligar?" Probably Benny's Chicago name. "I don't know what you're

 talking about. This little guy starts talking to me in the street. He's

 got some kind of crazy story right out of Black Mask that I don't

 believe and says he'll give me a thousand bucks if I can get him out of

 town. I figure maybe the bill is a fake and he's trying some kind of new

 con game, then somebody shoots him so I took off."

 "Why don't you tell me the story?" he said, looking at my notes.

 "He just said some guys were after him because he lifted some dough from

 the wrong people."

 "Who's L. L. ?"

 "Louie Long or Lang, I think, I don't remember offhand." I sank back

 into the chair, tired. "The initials are only for my memory, I'll make

 up something later."

 "What do you mean by that?"

 "I'm a reporter, but I also write fiction. A real-life experience like

 that is too good to waste. I was thinking to do the whole thing up as a

 story and sell it to one of the detective magazines, maybe even make a

 book out of it. If I had to live on a reporter's pay I'd starve to

 death, so I write stories as well."

 They stared at me. For a few seconds I thought they believed it, then

 Paco burst into laughter. The other two joined him and my hopes sank.

 They next made me strip and I swayed for several minutes wearing nothing

 but gooseflesh while they went through my clothes. Piece by piece they

 tossed everything back, even my wallet and papers, except for the large

 bill, which remained on the table.

 "I know he had it, Mr. Morelli," said Fred, using the man's name for the

 first time. He didn't seem annoyed at the slip, which disturbed me. I'd

 heard the name before and something of the man who owned it, but saw no

 advantage in letting them know that, figuring my best chance with them

 was to pretend ignorance. "The other boys with me will tell you that,

 too."

 "Was he in your sight the whole time?"

 "Well, no, but we were right with him and we got him--'

 "Put a lid on it, Fred," said Paco. "You lost him long enough for him to

 stash it somewhere."

 "Hide what?" I tried to sound frustrated and angry. It was easy.

 "The list."

 "What list?"

 "The one Galligar slipped you."

 "All he gave me was a cock-and-bull story and that money, and then

 someone shoots him. I figure they'd shoot me, too, so I ran. Take the

 money, I don't want it, just let me go."

 Morelli interrupted Paco's reply. "All right, Fleming, we will he happy

 to let you go and you can keep the money. I'll even give you another

 thousand for all the trouble we put you through. You tell us where you

 put the list and you can go."

 "I don't have any list!"

 "I believe you. Just tell us where it is."

 "I don't know."

 He sighed. "Then we may have a problem."

 No problem for him, he just stepped back to give Fred enough room to

 swing. I tried to fight back and fight dirty, but he was too big, too

 experienced, and too fast. We broke some things up bashing around the

 cabin, but no one minded since I was the one falling over the stuff. I

 moved for the door, but he anticipated it, grabbed me from behind,

 whirled me around, and laid into my stomach. He stood back to catch his

 breath and I slid to the floor, unable to move. After a minute he hauled

 me up and dumped me into the chair.

 Morelli bent down to my field of view. "You feel like talking yet?"

 I couldn't answer right away, in fact there was only one thing I felt

 like doing at the moment. He saw it coming, said "Oh, shit!" and backed

 hastily out of the way. I had just enough strength to lean over the

 chair arm before giving up the steak dinner and the double whiskey onto

 his deck.

 None of them thought it was particularly funny. I did, but wasn't

 laughing. I just hung over the chair arm and tried not to look at the

 stuff. The acid smell filled the room and drove out Morelli and Paco.

 They made Fred clean it up, having decided he was to blame. He wasn't a

 happy man and cursed the whole time, most of his more colorful abuse

 aimed at me.

 When Fred finished he dragged me out on the deck. There were lights way

 in the distance, too far for me to swim in my condition, not that he

 gave me the chance to go overboard. He shoved me against a rail and bent

 me double so I was well over the water. With a heavy arm around my neck

 he pried open my mouth and stuck a finger inside and nearly down my

 throat. I bucked against this, choking until he pulled it out, and then

 I retched into the black water. He did this twice more until he was

 certain I was cleaned out, then let me drop on the deck.

 Utterly exhausted and panting like a dog, I hated Fred more than I ever

 thought possible. If I had a weapon or the strength, I would have

 cheerfully killed him.

 I never had the chance, he took me down below.

 Morelli and Paco were there, Morelli with one hip resting on the table

 much as I'd first seen him. Paco was sipping a beer next to the bar.

 Fred practically carried me to the chair and dumped me in it. Except for

 a faint tang in the air, there was no sign of what had happened.

 "You don't look so good, Fleming," said Morelli. He still had the knife

 out. He used it to slice the tip from a cigar and spent a minute

 lighting it properly. He blew the smoke in my direction. "Now, do you

 want to talk, or do you want to let Fred hit you some more?"

 I didn't want either, so I kept quiet. Fred hit me some more.

 He stopped occasionally to catch his breath and Morelli would ask me his

 question, get no answer, and then Fred started all over again. I

 harbored some hope that he'd get tired and go away, but when he did Paco

 took over--and he had brass knuckles.

 They came as a bad surprise. Just when I thought it was impossible to

 hurt more he jabbed them hard into my ribs. The first time it happened I

 cried out and that encouraged him. He was still fresh, slightly boozed,

 and enjoying himself. I fell out of the chair and he kicked me until

 Fred put me back again. They were careful with me. They left my face

 alone, it'd be hard to talk through a swollen, battered mouth, and they

 wanted me to talk. I knew if I did and they got the list I'd die. It was

 a very simple conclusion, even in my present state I could grasp that. I

 kept quiet and let them hit me. I wanted to live that much. After a

 while I stopped reacting to the punches and Morelli told him to lay off.

 Good old Morelli, my friend, I thought before I stopped being awake.

 They took a break, had a meal, and started again. The cabin got like an

 oven and the air was an unbreathable mixture of sweat, cigar smoke, and

 booze, though the windows were open. With surprise I saw clear blue sky

 and sunlight lancing through white clouds. It had to be an unreal

 vision. Men just didn't beat up other men on days like this; then I'd

 get a whiff of my own stink and know otherwise.

 Morelli gave me some water at one point, my tongue felt like it was

 someone else's property. "You can save yourself a lot of grief, Fleming.

 Just tell me where you put it."

 I must have been feverish. I heard someone laugh a little and say:

 "Where the sun don't shine."

 He threw the rest of the water in my face. It felt good until I passed

 out again, which felt better.

 I woke up. Something sharp in the air was burning my nostrils. 1 shook

 my head away but it followed. They'd turned up smelling salts from

 somewhere and were using them to keep me awake. It was necessary at this

 point, I kept conking out on them.

 "Never mind that," Morelli said when my eyes finally opened. He had more

 water and gave it to me. It tasted odd, but I drank without thinking.

 They left me alone and I started to drift away from the pain, but never

 quite made it, whatever was in the water wouldn't let me. My heart

 started pounding hard and fresh sweat broke out all over, I felt

 breathless. The hurts numbed by a few hours' rest began anew. To my

 humiliation, tears began flooding down my face. Fred and Paco found it

 very funny. Morelli just sat and smoked another cigar, letting them do

 all the work.

 By mid-afternoon they took a break.

 "I don't think he knows," said Paco, drinking another beer.

 "Don't be a sap. He knows, but he won't talk. If he didn't know he'd be

 making up another story about it or telling us he doesn't know. But this

 guy don't talk at all. He knows."

 Fred yawned. "I gotta sleep," he said to no one in particular. He went

 out.

 "Maybe we should go back and get Gordy," said Paco. "He's good at this

 stuff."

 "Nah, Lucky's got him busy looking for Galligar."

 Paco laughed. "He'll need a set of gills to do that. My boys took care

 of him good."

 "They screwed up, you mean. If they thought to shoot both of them we

 wouldn't be stuck here now."

 "I know, but we'll get him to talk. You wouldn't think he'd be' this

 stubborn, would you? Stupid, but he's got some guts."

 Their voices faded away. I dreamed about Benny, an uneasy

 Jewish-Catholic now buried forever without services from either faith,

 just another guy out of Hell's Kitchen scrambling for a buck.

 I dreamed about escaping. If I could get overboard with a life preserver

 I might be able to make it to shore. Even the prospect of drowning

 looked preferable to another session with Fred and Paco. All I had to do

 was get up off the floor. Fat chance that, they'd done their work too

 well.

 I dreamed about Maureen, dark hair and rare laughter, a nervous girl,

 looking over her shoulder, but needing love and giving it fully in

 return. Was she safe yet?

 I dreamed, but could not rest.

 Hours later I opened my eyes. The lids seemed to be the only part of my

 body that could still move. I felt like a shattered piece of glass held

 together with weak glue. The wrong touch and everything would fall to

 pieces. It hurt to breathe and the air was hot in my lungs. The windows

 were still open, but there was no ventilation.

 I wasn't thinking too straight, because even that hurt, but I wanted to

 get to one of the windows. Once there I'd think of what to do next.

 It was only ten feet away. Three steps for a healthy upright man, a few

 miles for me. Under it was a padded, built-in window seat. If I could

 get to it I would but I couldn't quite remember.

 I squirmed forward six inches and rested. I'd have to go easy and keep

 the glue intact. Six more inches and rest. Repeat. My shoulders ached

 from the effort, but then so did everything else, tell them to shut up

 and cooperate so we can--what? Window seat. It was a little closer. Six

 inches and rest. Window seats have windows, windows have air, we need

 air. We need to rest. Oh, God it hurts Shut up. Six inches and rest.

 Tears again, waste of energy, but they wouldn't stop. Eyes blurring,

 from tears or pain? Where was the window? Rest. Don't move, just lay

 down and die, serve them right. Anger. How dare they reduce me to this?

 How dare they make me crawl? Twelve inches that time. Anger was good,

 stay mad and escape. Keep crawling and hate their guts for it. Crawl so

 you can come back and do this to them. Crawl

 But the glue came apart before I was halfway there and for a long time

 there was nothing.

 "Jeeze, you wouldn't think he'd a made it that far." My admirer was

 Paco. I was looking at his shoes. I wished he'd give me a good solid

 kick in the head and end it all, but he was no pal to do me favors.

 "Put him in the chair," said Morelli.

 No, please don't bother.

 They put me in the chair.

 I fell out of it.

 They tied me to the chair. Wrists and ankles. Rough hemp rope. I looked

 at it, not knowing what it was.

 "Fleming."

 Oh, go away.

 "Fleming." He tilted my head back. I choked on some whiskey. Something

 had happened the last time I drank, but I couldn't remember.

 "Wake up, Fleming."

 I was awake, unfortunately.

 "Look at me."

 No, go jump in the lake. There was a lake all around us, which struck me

 as insanely funny. It hurt to laugh. Save it for later and laugh then,

 if there was a later. What was in the whiskey?

 "Fleming, look at me or I'll cut your eyelids away."

 That got my attention, but I didn't look at him, only the slender knife

 in his hand. Yes, it was possible they could hurt me more. The look in

 his eyes, his dark feminine eyes, promised that much. Lightly he drew

 the blade across the back of my hand, sure as a surgeon. Blood welled up

 from the cut. Yes, he could hurt me.

 "Fleming, you've got to talk to us, you've got to tell us where it is.

 Believe me, we've been going easy on you. You've only got a bad bruising

 so far, nothing that won't heal. If you don't talk it will get worse and

 we'll start breaking things up inside you. You could bleed to death on

 the inside. Tell us where the list is and I swear on my mother's grave,

 I swear we will let you go."

 I almost believed him. Talk and die or don't talk and die, anyway. I'd

 be damned before I'd give them the time of day. They won't kill me, not

 unless I told them and I'd never give them the satisfaction. Stupid,

 Paco had said. Yes, and stubborn.

 "Fleming, did you hear? Do you understand?"

 I nodded or at least tried to. My head dropped so all I could see was my

 lap. He pushed it back and I was looking at the ceiling which kept

 moving around every time I blinked. Something went down my throat. I

 gagged and coughed.

 In a little while my heart began to race. I was more alert. Fred put his

 hand in my field of view.

 "You see these?" he asked.

 Yeah. Brass knuckles. He gave me a good look at them.

 "Mr. Morelli says I don't have to pull my punches anymore."

 I caught a fresh whiff of stifling cigar smoke. "Talk, Fleming."

 No, I'm too stubborn--

 "Fleming"

 No.

 "Fred."

 Oh, God.

 He hit me twice and we both felt the rib give way. I heard someone's

 sharp whimper and passed out.

 It was daylight again when I woke. I was lying down, hot and shivering,

 with an ache all over as if my bones were too big for the skin and

 trying to bust out. Fred was looking at me. There was as much compassion

 in his face as a slab of concrete.

 "What?" he asked, and leaned closer. I must have said something. I tried

 to remember.

 "Leak."

 "Tell me where the list is and I'll help you."

 "I can use the toilet or the floor you want another mess to

 clean?"

 He did not.

 In the end he had to find a container to bring to me at the window seat.

 When he tried to stand me up it was too much to bear. I lay helpless and

 watched it dribble into a tin can. There wasn't much and it was dark

 with blood. I was sick again and thankful there was nothing in my

 stomach.

 He went away and told them I was awake. Somehow they kept me that way,

 hours or days went by. I lost track of time when the fever set in.

 Morelli gave me some aspirin and had them lay off me awhile. My buddy.

 The broken rib reminded me of its presence every time I breathed. Now

 and then I even thought of escape, but then we all dream when we're

 sick.

 The day, from what little I saw of it, clouded over. There was some

 concerned talk about a storm, but no one made a move toward shore,

 except Fred, who, storm or no storm, wanted to go home. I heard

 something ominous about just one more try.

 I was tied up in the chair again. The three of them were looking ragged,

 but still had the benefit of soap and water. I could only imagine what I

 was like with a thick growth of beard and no food for the past few days,

 not that I cared.

 Morelli made his little speech, he had to repeat it several times before

 I understood. All I wanted was for him to douse that damned cigar so I

 could breathe.

 Outside it began to rain. There was little wind with it, just the steady

 soaking kind of fall that farmers liked. Too bad it was all going to

 waste out here on the lake. It got dark. They turned on the cabin lights

 and added to the heat inside.

 "Talk, Fleming. Where is the list?" He waved the lit cigar near my eyes.

 I thought I was past feeling more pain or even more fear until he

 twisted it down into the palm of my hand. My tongue bulged against my

 teeth, I tried to tear away, vision blurred.

 "Where is it?" Again and again until my wrists were bloody and my hand

 red with burns. My throat was raw, I wondered if I'd been screaming.

 "Talk, Fleming."

 He stood back and let Fred have another try. Fred was out of patience

 and wanted to get to shore. He took it out on me and smashed in another

 rib. I felt things coming loose inside. He was finally going to finish

 the job, and I'd be out of my misery.

 But I didn't want to die.

 We were at the stern of the boat. They'd given up and were heading for

 shore. Morelli stood in the shelter of the hatch that led below, Paco

 was holding me up as Fred tied something to my ankles.

 "Slick says we're not far from the house," Paco was telling Fred. "One

 of his boys will row you to the dock. You walk to the house and pick up

 the car and meet us at the pier by the club."

 "Can't he call for his car at the club or get a cab?"

 "He says that's out. Lucky's got his car to look for that damned list

 and we gotta get back before he wises up to what we're doing. Cab

 drivers, we don't want; they got eyes and ears."

 "All this work and nothing to show for it."

 "Yeah, well, you gotta know when you cut your losses." He lifted my face

 to his. "This is your last chance, Fleming. Where is it?"

 Where was what? I couldn't remember.

 "He's too far gone, Frank."

 "Fleming? Ahh, the hell with him. Hold him up, there's one more thing I

 been wanting to do."

 Fred held me up. Paco pulled out his gun, a big one and he aimed it at

 my heart. It finally dragged a response from me. My last scream drowned

 out its roar as he fired.

 I felt nothing. A tug and a jerk of the body and then blessed release

 from the pain. My body was pushed backward, somersaulting into the dark

 water, and I sank quickly, leaving a stream of bubbles homing toward the

 surface. The weight of my ankles pulled me steadily down into cold,

 unbearable pressure. If I'd been breathing I'd have surely suffocated.

 The pressure grew and grew and I began to fight it. Something inside

 wanted out. It seized my inert form, encompassed it

 I floated, just another bubble compressed into a moving plastic sphere

 by the water. I was going to float to heaven.

 I made it as far as the surface. The thing that saved me now drove me

 over the water. Some instinct rushed us straight to the nearest shore.

 My mind didn't question this, it was perfectly normal the way the most

 outlandish things are normal when you dream.

 There was weight again. Solidity. Rain soaking my soaked clothes. Wind

 against my face, the same wind that drove away the clouds.

 I looked up and winced at stars as bright as the sun.

 Chapter 11

 ==========

 THE SILHOUETTE OF a head eclipsed the lights of the cabin. It looked

 familiar. I moved my hand in a feeble gesture to it, my fingers brushed

 against heavy satin. Not too far away I heard a woman draw a sharp

 breath, making a little surprised noise, the kind women make when they

 open a drawer and find a bug lurking in their frilly things. My ringers

 closed on the satin, but let go almost immediately because there was no

 strength in them. The angle of light changed on the silhouette and

 revealed some bony features.

 "Take it easy, old man, there's no hurry."

 Escott? What the hell was he doing here? I blinked and made an effort to

 get my eyes working again. He was a little green in the gills himself,

 and for some odd reason he was wearing that silly purple bathrobe of

 his. My hand had clutched at the heavy quilted lapels.

 "Isn't that too warm for the weather?" I asked idiotically.

 "There was no time to change."

 "Why not?"

 "My invitation here was rather abrupt."

 I thought about that one and blinked fully awake. "What the hell are we

 talking about?"

 "You're concussed. Just take it easy and you'll sort things out soon

 enough."

 He made it sound as though everything were fine, but something was going

 on that was very wrong, and I couldn't take it easy until I found out

 what. I got my elbows on the floor and pushed. Escott helped and I was

 sitting up, resting my back against a table leg. Feeling for damage, I

 found a bloodied patch on my head. It was sticky and the hair was

 matted.

 Escott moved and I could see the rest of the room. I was the center of

 attention of four pairs of eyes.

 Bobbi caught my attention first. She'd been the one who gasped when I

 first moved; she couldn't be blamed for that since she thought I'd been

 killed. She was in a loose black garment, her version of a bathrobe. Her

 face was drained of color and pinched, her hazel eyes wide with whites

 showing. She sat rigidly on the window seat, her hands clutching the

 edge of the cushion with her shoulders up by her ears. I smiled at her

 and tried to make it reassuring with a slight wink, and she relaxed, but

 only a little.

 Next to her but not too close was Slick Morelli. His eyes were big, too,

 his whole body radiating tension. Of the two of them, he was the most

 frightened. For him this was the third time I'd returned from the dead.

 God knows what was going on in his mind as he stared at me.

 To the left, backed against the cabin door, was Gordy, his head crowding

 close to the low ceiling and his silenced .45 automatic in his big hand.

 It wasn't aimed at me, but at Escott. Maybe he'd wised up somehow, I

 couldn't tell with him. He was looking more worried than scared and his

 eyes would twitch to one side, then back to me.

 The fourth pair of eyes were sunk deep in gray hollows, studying me and

 missing nothing. They were eyes that should have belonged to a victim of

 starvation, but their owner was anything but underfed, chronically

 unsatisfied, perhaps, but not underfed. The brown bristle of the beard

 ringing his lower face camouflaged the spare chins and made his head

 look like it was growing straight from the shoulders without the

 convenience of a neck. The skin on his bald dome was dull, and I

 wondered if he was unhealthy or just shaved too much. He alone looked

 almost relaxed, but then he apparently knew exactly what he was dealing

 with, in his hands and cocked with the wood bolt aimed at my heart, was

 a crossbow.

 Escott followed my gaze and looked apologetic. "Sorry, Jack. He turned

 that one up from my collection."

 "How much does he know?"

 "Rather a lot, I fear. Allow me to introduce you to Lucky Lebredo, the

 rightful owner of the list."

 "I know he's the owner."

 "Then you know I want it back," he said. He spoke as though the least

 amount of contact with me, even verbal, would somehow soil him.

 "How did you find this out?" I gestured at his weapon.

 His eyes flicked from me to Escott. "Tell him."

 Escott sighed and settled himself against the other table leg. "I'm

 afraid it got started when you rescued me from Sanderson and Georgie.

 Mr. Lebredo, through channels he refuses to divulge, got my name from

 Georgie Reamer. Being interested in Paco's activities, he became curious

 as to why a relatively unimportant private agent as myself should be so

 permanently put out of the way, and how I managed to avoid such a fate.

 Georgie said I had help, and so Mr. Lebredo had a watch put on me and I

 was followed. He must have been a very good man, too. My trips to your

 hotel were noted and he became aware of our association, and had you

 followed as well."

 "Even to--"

 "Yes, even to there."

 Lebredo had a look of supreme disgust on his face. It was fine with me;

 I didn't like him, either.

 "He learned of our visit to Frank Paco and of the little incident in the

 alley behind the club which cost me a bloodletting. He learned that you

 had been killed, apparently at least, by Morelli's man during a clumsy

 attempt to obtain the list. The same day he visited your room to search

 for it and found you in your trunk and wondered how you got there from

 the street. The earth in your trunk struck him as being very odd. He is

 not an ignorant man, nor an especially superstitious one, but it did

 require some effort to piece his bits of information together to a

 logical, if unlikely conclusion. Your plaguing of Morelli confirmed his

 guess, and tonight he decided to make his move."

 "So he kidnapped you to use as a lever?"

 "Yes. As I said, I had little choice in the matter when three of his men

 came crashing through my door. I couldn't put up much of a fight with

 these stitches, either. I am most frightfully sorry about the crossbow."

 I looked at Lebredo, he made me forget how much my head hurt. There

 wasn't much to read in his face except for disgust, and that got old

 pretty fast, so I looked at Bobbi instead to see how she was taking all

 this. She was holding up fairly well, considering she was learning some

 things about me the hard way, that is, if it was making any sense to

 her. Her mouth tightened. I think it was meant to be a smile, at least

 she wasn't afraid of me and that was something.

 "I want the list," said Lebredo in a flat voice. "I want it tonight."

 "It talks," I said.

 The crossbow moved slightly, I was one finger twitch away from dying

 permanently. "Gordy," he said.

 The .45 went off, the big silencer cutting the roar down to a manageable

 level. Escott jumped, jerking his hand. The bullet had gone between his

 spread fingers where they had rested on the floor. One of them had been

 nicked, he put it to his mouth. The guy had real guts, he wasn't even

 shaking. His eyes were on Lebredo, bright and cold. If their places had

 been suddenly reversed, Lebredo would have been dead and not easily.

 The fat man ignored him and spoke to me. "I will give you that one

 warning. The next time Gordy will shoot off his arm."

 Things were still, hearts and lungs were working hard. There were too

 many to tell one set from another, but I didn't need that kind of

 information to know he wasn't bluffing.

 I drew a short breath. "Okay. I'll get it for you."

 "Jack--" said Escott.

 "It's all right. I've remembered. Between Morelli and this boat, things

 jogged into place. I know where I left it." I looked at Morelli. "I also

 know what you and Paco and Sanderson did to me."

 "But it wasn't--" protested Morelli.

 "Be quiet. Slick," said Lebredo.

 "But it couldn't--"

 His voice raised slightly. "I won't tell you again."

 Morelli shut up.

 "That's better. Your skepticism is understandable, but your boundless

 stupidity is not. If you still need more proof, look at the girl's neck.

 The marks there are small, but not invisible."

 Escort's eyebrows went up and his mouth popped open and shut before he

 blanked out his face, wisely deciding that my love life was my own

 business.

 Morelli was not quite as liberal minded and he pulled at the neck of her

 wrap. Bobbi tried to shrug him off, but he forced her to hold still.

 When he saw them he let her go and crossed the room to get away from

 her. He even wiped his hands on his clothes. Bobbi glared at him--no

 woman likes that kind of rejection--then her eyes glazed at Lebredo.

 "You fat, stinking bastard." She got up and went to the door, stopping

 inches away from Gordy. Gordy looked at Lebredo for a cue, seemed

 relieved when he got one, and moved aside. She tore the door open and

 left. Morelli started to object, but Lebredo curtailed it.

 "This is a boat, where can she go? Her faithlessness can be dealt with

 later, or need I remind you that you were the one to encourage it to

 start with? You have forgotten that women are very dangerous children

 and should not be trusted."

 "Shut up!"

 "For now, we'll consider how to deal with you. You and Pace betrayed me

 to get the list for yourselves--

 "And why'd you go to Paco for it, huh? You could have asked me."

 "I'm not stupid enough to send an ape to look for a banana and expect to

 get it from him. I went to Paco because he obeyed orders as long as

 there was sufficient money, but he went to you, which was a very bad

 mistake. He found out exactly what he was looking for, then you both

 decided to keep it. I should have guessed at what was going on when you

 both disappeared for three days."

 "We still didn't get it."

 "That was very fortunate, or else I should have to take it back from

 you, perhaps even trying the same method you used with Fleming."

 "Try it and see how long you live. New York wouldn't stand--

 "Your New York friends and I have an agreement. They understand how

 valuable I can be even if you do not. I made sure of that. They're

 running a business these days and have learned that hotheads like you

 are a liability. Don't rely on them to avenge your carcass, because your

 crude actions have put you in a very bad spot. Three times you had this

 man in your hands and you failed because you didn't take the trouble to

 look for his weak points and play on them."

 Morelli shook his head and went over to the bar to pour out a stiff one.

 He drank it down straight and poured another, then lit one of his

 cigars.

 "Put that damned thing out," I said.

 He seemed surprised that I spoke to him but wasn't about to douse it on

 my order, so he kept puffing. I slowly got to my feet so as not to

 startle Lebredo. My head was still bad, but not unbearable. I went to

 Morelli, yanked the cigar from his mouth, and crushed it.

 "That is really a disgusting habit you got."

 He hit me in the face with his fist, this time I didn't fake being hurt

 by the blow. It jarred my head a little, but for him it was like trying

 to punch out a tree. He yelped and clutched his hand. I grabbed the

 scruff of his neck and tossed him across the room. He smashed against

 the wall, sank to the floor, and didn't move. I went to the window seat

 and dropped onto it, tired. Lebredo and Gordy hadn't budged, which was

 fine with me.

 "All right, let's go get your stinking list and clear this up."

 "Where is it?" asked Lebredo.

 "I hid it in the big library on Michigan Avenue, up on one of the

 shelves. I'd have to show you where."

 Gordy shook his head. "He gave us that kind of story before."

 "You weren't pointing a gun at my friend's head then."

 "The library's closed now," said Lebredo.

 "I have a way to get in. Let's go get it if it's still there."

 "It had better be."

 Morelli groaned and rolled over. That decided Lebredo, he didn't want to

 stick around for any debates. He took Gordy's gun in one hand, leaving

 Gordy free to find some rope. They had Escott stand and his hands were

 tied behind him and a gag was forced into his mouth.

 "Gordy" It was Morelli, looking groggy. "For Chris-sake, kill

 Lebredo."

 Gordy paused, not turning to look at him. "I can't, Slick, you know I

 can't."

 Morelli got unsteadily to his feet, leaning on the table.

 "I'm not going to forget you said that, Slick," Lebredo told him. "Gordy

 knows better than to cross me. He knows what defenses I have arranged if

 anything happens to me, and so do you.''

 "Damn you Goddamn you--" There was a soft click and Morelli threw his

 knife. It was the last thing he said and did. Lebredo ducked and fired

 twice. Morelli twitched back from the impact and lay still. He stared at

 us and we stared at him. Lebredo gave the gun back to Gordy and we all

 filed out.

 Lebredo either had control of Morelli's crew or replaced them with his

 own men; either way they got a rowboat ready for us without questions on

 the gunplay below. Gordy and Escott got in it first, along with a man to

 handle the oars. They reached the pier and their figures left the boat

 and slowly climbed the steps. They waited for us just outside the cone

 of light from the streetlamp. The boat returned and I got in, clutching

 the sides and trying not to think about the black water all around and

 the crossbow behind me. It took forever to row to the pier. My presence

 made the passage difficult for the oarsman. He was puffing and covered

 with sweat from the effort when we finally got there. I thankfully

 climbed up the steps. All I wanted was plenty of land between me and the

 water.

 Morelli's big car was waiting for us on the road. Escott and Gordy got

 in the front seat, Lebredo in the back. They put me behind the wheel and

 the first thing I felt was the crossbow brushing my neck. I could have

 whipped around and grabbed it, but that would have left Escott with a

 stomach full of lead and a convenient lake to sink him in. Lebredo,

 poker player that he was, held all the cards. I started the car, worked

 the gears as smoothly as I could, and drove to the big library.

 As directed, I parked on an empty side street in between the glow of the

 two streetlights. Lebredo told me to get out. I got out.

 "No tricks, no funny stuff. You get it and come straight back here and

 I'll tell you where your trunkful of earth is."

 "You took it?"

 "Ask your friend."

 Escott nodded in confirmation, his shoulders drooping. He was feeling

 responsible for the mess and could do nothing to make things right

 again.

 Lebredo went on. "You wouldn't have had it if you didn't need it. I put

 it in a very safe place, just in case Escott wasn't enough of a lever."

 A lot of things to call him came to mind as I glared at his impassive

 face. I might have been able to take him out, but was in a tactically

 poor position to take care of Gordy as well, and he was looking nervous.

 I pushed away from the car and walked around to the front of the

 library. It was well after two, but there were still a few lonely cars

 cruising up and down the street on their own business. A block away a

 beat cop was rattling doorknobs, but I couldn't ask him for help.

 Explanations would take too long and Gordy could cut him down easily

 enough if Lebredo told him to. The cop might even be one of his

 blackmailing victims, Benny O'Hara had made that much clear. For the

 moment I was stuck.

 I went inside and re-formed, climbing the stairs quietly to the right

 floor and keeping a look out for a night watchman. I was still dressed

 in what was left of my haunting clothes, odds were the guy would either

 shoot or have a heart attack at the sight of me.

 It was a big place; my steps echoed loud in my ears, the quality of

 sound giving me the creeps. I found the right section and went to the

 very back to the correct shelf. Raising a hand, I felt along the top,

 but my fingers scrabbled over smooth bare surface. Nothing was there.

 Partially dematerialized I let myself float up. The shelf was clean. Of

 all the lousy times to dust the joint

 I forgot to concentrate, went solid, and dropped to the floor with a

 jolt.

 Damnation. And a lot of other useless words.

 Lebredo would never buy it. Escott was a goner. I fumed and cursed and

 accomplished little in the way of coherent thought, wanting to tear the

 place apart, especially the jerk who had been cleaning. The papers could

 have gotten anywhere after all this time, most likely they were long

 lost to the garbage.

 I sulked past the main desk. The wastebaskets were empty. Just for the

 hell of it, I rooted around. Some of the drawers were locked, but after

 seeing the handles were strong enough, I broke them open anyway and

 discovered the lost-and-found box.

 Envelopes, magazines, a purse, eyeglasses, and a sheaf of loose papers.

 The two sheets I wanted were mixed in with them. If I'd been breathing

 I'd have sighed with relief.

 Lebredo's flat eyes took on a kind of gleam as he watched me return and

 get back in the car. Escott gave me a questioning look, I nodded, hoping

 Lebredo would keep his word and knowing that that was a long shot at

 best. Feeling naked, I turned my back on him and watched him in the

 mirror.

 "Hand them over."

 He took them and leaned back to examine them in the dim light. Escott's

 eyes were closed and the air hissed softly from his compressed nostrils.

 He wanted me to do something, but I was stuck until the situation

 changed. I was hoping Lebredo would not make his final move in the car.

 "Very good," he said, folding them into his pocket with one hand. "Now

 you will drive where I tell you."

 This was it, the kind of one-way ride that Chicago had made famous, only

 I was the chauffeur.

 "You got your stuff, let him go."

 "No." A simple, unarguable denial. "Stan the car and drive. I can kill

 you both now or later, I think even you would prefer a little more

 time."

 His undisguised disgust for me was reciprocated, but I did start the

 car. Teeth and gears grinding in frustration, I followed his directions.

 The route was familiar. Escott and I exchanged puzzled looks as I

 completed the last order and turned the car into the driveway that led

 to Frank Paco's big house.

 I braked next to the front door. Gordy got out and pulled Escott with

 him. Lebredo heaved his way from the back and held the crossbow on me as

 I emerged. The place was dark and quiet except for the sound of crickets

 and our feet crunching on the white gravel.

 "Is my trunk here?"

 ' 'Open the door.''

 It was unlocked, the others followed me into a marble-lined entry hall.

 The air still had a sharp, smoky tang to it and the ceiling showed signs

 of discoloration from soot. The electricity had been fixed. Lebredo hit

 the lights. I blinked in the sudden brightness. He wasted no time,

 planting his broad feet carefully and taking aim.

 I tried to buy more time. "Why here?"

 "Why not? Paco's men found you here the night of the fire. They've been

 squealing that often enough to save their skins from the arson charge,

 so the police know it, too. You've been connected with Paco and Morelli,

 the police will jump to the easy and obvious conclusion that Paco's men

 killed you out of revenge."

 "In an all-too-obvious location, don't you think?"

 "A thin case for the district attorney's office, but a suggestion or two

 from me and the investigation will go no further."

 "They're on your list, too?"

 "A few key people."

 "You don't ask them for money, do you? You don't really need it; it's

 being able to tell people what to do, to make them sweat."

 "No doubt."

 "But you don't have to do this. You must know I can be very useful to

 you."

 "But the only way I have of controlling you is with Escott and possibly

 Miss Smythe, and such an arrangement would be complicated and clumsy. If

 I can't have complete control over someone, I don't bother; my present

 arrangement is satisfactory. It's much simpler to kill you, you're too

 much of a threat to me and everyone else."

 "I can't see you doing this for the sake of saving humanity from my

 kind."

 "That's right, I'm doing it for myself." He pulled the trigger.

 I wasn't over running water this time, the second his finger tightened

 past the halfway point I vanished. The wooden bolt cut through the space

 where I'd been and imbedded in the wall beyond. At the same time a gun

 went off.

 Escott.

 I hurtled past Lebredo, materialized in front of Gordy, and grabbed the

 gun from him. He offered no resistance even when I shoved him hard into

 Lebredo. Both men staggered and Lebredo's hard-to-balance body went

 down.

 I expected to see Escott dead or wounded because of my delay and Gordy's

 speed, but he was standing, white faced, looking out the open front

 door. Gordy did, too, then glanced down at the grunting man on the

 marble.

 "Hey--somebody got Lucky."

 I truly believe he never meant it as a joke, but outside someone

 laughed. Bobbi walked stiffly into the room, both her small hands held

 together clutching a gun. Her lips were knife thin, her face hard with

 hate. We all stepped away from her, except for Lebredo, who was gaping

 and glaring in sheer disbelief. He'd forgotten to take his own advice

 about women.

 Gordy made a helpless gesture. "Bobbi, why'dya do that for? You know

 what'll happen to me?"

 "I know how to take care of it," she finally said. She was having

 trouble talking. Her breath was uneven as she tried to hold back the

 tears.

 Escott made an impatient noise. I pulled the gag out. It took a moment

 for him to work the saliva into his mouth to talk. I unknotted the ropes

 on his wrists. He thanked me and went to check Lebredo.

 "Keep away from him!" Bobbi's voice went up to a near-shriek. Escott

 stepped hastily back and looked at me.

 "Bobbi" I said.

 "I heard him in the car. I heard him telling Gordy what they were going

 to do with you and how they were going to get rid of Slick's body."

 Lebredo twisted himself upright with some difficulty. ' 'Gordy, take the

 gun from her. You know what will happen to you if I die."

 "Oh, do be quiet," Escott said irritably. He had the right idea. The

 more Lebredo opened his mouth, the worse he made things for himself.

 "Gordy--"

 Bobbi made a short, sharp noise, like she wanted to call him a name but

 couldn't think of one bad enough. Instead, she pulled the trigger.

 Lebredo yelled and grabbed his shoulder.

 "For Godsake, Gordy!"

 She fired again, clipping him in the side. Her eyes squinted slightly as

 some of the gun smoke drifted into her face.

 Lebredo bared his short, blunt teeth. "You dirty little whore, I'll make

 sure you--"

 She gave out a strangled half-scream of rage and fired again, hitting

 him square in the face. He flopped back spread-eagled, his big stomach

 jiggling a little, then going still.

 No one moved for quite a while. Bobbi's face took on more normal lines.

 She seemed smaller in some way. Without looking at us, she carefully

 wiped the gun down with the hem of her black wrap, placed it on the

 floor, and walked outside.

 Gordy chewed the inside of his lower lip and looked worried.

 Escott heaved a sigh, then calmly picked up his crossbow and clucked

 over some scratches on the stock. He went through Lebredo's pockets,

 fastidiously avoiding the silent red explosions, and pulled out the

 list, offering it to me.

 I shook my head. "You keep it, I don't even want to see the damn thing."

 I gave him Gordy's gun and went outside.

 Bobbi was leaning back against the car, her arms crossed with one heel

 resting on the running board. Her hair was a tangled, damp mess and her

 makeup had been smeared by a good cry. She was just beautiful.

 I was hesitant to approach her, but she looked up and smiled wanly.

 "I was afraid I'd be too late, I thought he'd gotten you."

 "How did you get here?"

 "The minute I was out of the cabin I rolled my shoes up in this robe and

 went overboard. It's not a long swim to the pier, and a person swims

 better naked." Feeling modest now, she pulled the wrapper more tightly

 around her shoulders. "I knew he'd use the car sometime, so I hid in the

 trunk."

 "Are you all right?"

 She nodded. "Now I am. I didn't think I could do anything but when I

 heard him talking--it doesn't seem like I did it now, it's like it

 happened to someone else."

 "He made it easy."

 "I wanted to help you and to get back for Slick. He was a roughhouse,

 but sometimes he was good to me. I guess it's not just bodies after

 all."

 "Where'd the gun come from?"

 "It's Slick's. He always kept a spare in the glove compartment. The

 cops'll think he did it." She looked at the open door of the house.

 "He couldn't do it and be dead on the yacht."

 "He can if we get Gordy to help."

 "Gordy? But--"

 "Lebredo's got some stuff on him, that's why Gordy had to play the

 stooge. I figure it's with his lawyer. You can imagine what kind of

 lawyer Lebredo had. We just offer him more money and buy it from him."

 And if he doesn't sell?"

 "Then you can burgle the place. From what I heard you've got a real

 talent for it."

 "You don't mind what I am?"

 "I don't care about that. You are what you are. You don't judge me, I

 don't judge you. But could you tell me how you got this way?"

 "Because of a woman."

 She shook her head and laughed a little. "I guess we're starting even.

 I'm the way I am because of a man." She went tiptoe and kissed me. "Come

 on, let's get this mess out of the way. I'm tired."

 With Bobbi's persuasion, we called a truce with Gordy. He drove us back

 to the yacht while she explained what she could do about Lebredo's

 lawyer. All Gordy had to do was transport Morelli's body to Paco's house

 so it'd look like they shot each other. I guess in a remote way they

 had.

 "With any luck," she said, "no one's going to know they're dead for a

 couple of days at least, and by that time we'll have found your stuff.''

 Gordy nodded agreeably, he trusted her. He set the brakes and started

 out of the car, and I grabbed his shoulder.

 "Where's my trunk?"

 "Trunk?" He winced. I eased my grip.

 "Lebredo took it," said Escort. "Where is it?"

 "But he didn't, said it was too much trouble. He told me to go along

 with him on that. He just let it drop to keep you both in line."

 I shook my head. "A bluff."

 Gordy shrugged. "Poker was his game." We all got out and watched him

 walk down the pier to the rowboat. He started talking to the oarsman,

 telling him about the change of situation.

 "I hope he remembers to leave his gun with Lebredo so the bullets match

 up," I said.

 "He might also wish to clean the clip and the unspent bullets left in it

 of any prints as well," Escott suggested.

 "I'll make sure," said Bobbi.- "We may need the car. Will you be able to

 get home all right?"

 "Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow night. Promise."

 She kissed me again and went to join Gordy.

 "What a very remarkable girl," Escott commented as we walked slowly

 away, headed for my car that I'd parked near the club.

 "I think so."

 "You know this makes us all accessories after the fact?"

 "Yeah, but do you think she should go to jail?"

 "Not for a single hour." He looked like he wanted to say more, but he

 was tired and it was a long walk for him. He eased into the passenger

 seat with a grateful sigh, then pulled out the list and squinted at the

 figure-covered pages.

 "Benny said something about substitution." I started the motor.

 "Then it shouldn't be too difficult to solve." He nodded at the eastern

 sky. "You'll have to hurry, the dawn does not wait."

 "I should be the one to say things like that."

 "Yes, but you're not as melodramatic as I am."

 "That's a shame. Considering what I've become, I really ought to go in

 for it."

 His eyebrows twitched. "You're not seriously thinking of acquiring a

 black opera cape?"

 I chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous. It's the wrong season and they cost

 too much anyway.''

 He looked relieved.

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