I HAD enough street glow to see by, but not the other guys. For them the place was pitch black. Both sides stepped away from each other and drew guns.

"Wait-" I began, then the lights flared on again, the sudden brightness making me wince. I was still in the middle, looking everywhere at once and hoping to God no one got stupid.

"What the hell..." said Bristow, his hand inside his coat.

"Not now, Myrna," I muttered through clenched teeth.

"Who's Myrna?" he demanded, pulling a semi-auto clear of its shoulder holster. He aimed it square in my direction.

The lights remained on, but no one relaxed.

"Who's Myrna?"

"Someone with a sense of humor." And bad timing, I silently added. In the past when there was trouble, Myrna played with the lights as a warning to me. I could appreciate her concern, but things had been under control without her help.

"Where is she?"

"Backstage. We got electric problems, crossed wires. Throw a switch the wrong way, and this happens. It's nothing to worry about. You can put away the heat."

He threw me a glare, then nodded to his men. I sent the same message to Gordy's crew, and everyone eased back. They were all walleyed now, trying to look around the lobby while keeping watch on each other. Wilton had vanished behind his marble-topped bar. I could just hear whispering and thought he was praying until I caught Myrna's name in his litany.

"Get your wires fixed," said Bristow, holstering his gun.

"I certainly will."

He looked hungover and bloated but sober. If Gordy kept on with his plan to keep the man drinking, there'd be no need to put him out of the way; his liver would do him in. None too soon. These guys were far too edgy. Other things were going on under the surface, and I could guess it meant tough times for Gordy. I fastened Bristow with a not-too-evil eye and a warmly sincere smile, desperate to calm things down. He was the key. "Nice to see you again, Mr.

Bristow. Sorry about the rough start, but I'm sure you'll have a fine time here tonight."

Hostility melting away, his expression went blank for a few seconds. With his men frowning, we shook hands; his grip was reassuringly lax.

Bingo. I'd pinned him square and had to fight to keep from visibly sagging with relief. There would be no gunplay, at least not from him. "I think you'll be able to work things out with Gordy as well," I added, softly confidential with no threat in it, nothing to alarm his guards.

"You do?" Sleepwalker voice.

"Gordy's a stand-up guy, runs things great. No need to make changes, don't you think?"

He had no time for a reply; Gordy came in, two more men along, one of his own and the other with Bristow's crowd, creating a distracting shift in the men already here. The hypnotic priming was over, but even this small touch would be sufficient for the present. If Gordy wanted more, with specific instructions, I could oblige later. For now I was just grateful to get the burning fuse out of the powder keg. Neutral territory my ass.

"Fleming," he said. A greeting with an infinitesimally raised eyebrow. He'd picked up on the leftover tension.

"Gordy. Good to see you." I held onto the pleased-host face. After all, I was just a saloonkeeper. "Is your party all here? Ready to go in?"

Bristow came more alert but with only a shadow of his initial belligerence.

"Yeah, let's get this show on the road." He led the way in, his men following. The first two shot me a fishy glare, suspicious that I'd been up to something. They'd have a fine debate trying to figure it.

"What did you do?" Gordy wanted to know.

I kept up the innocent act. "Just greasing wheels. You may find him in a better mood than before, but I can't promise how long it'll last."

The corners of his eyes crinkled. "Thanks."

Wilton rose from behind the bar. I made a thumbs-up at him, but it didn't do much to clear his worry. The check girl ventured to poke her head out. I signed for her to come take Gordy's things. He granted her a benign smile and a twenty-dollar tip. She nearly floated away. Chances were she'd risk coming in again tomorrow.

I wanted a change of subject. "You follow that kidnap case in the papers?"

Gordy got updates about the job from me as part of our usual shop talk. "The one Charles has been working on?"

His attention shifted unhurriedly from the girl to me. She had great legs. "Yeah.

Bad deal on that society bum getting clear."

"Dugan's not clear yet."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I'm going after him."

"Sounds good." No need for him to ask for details. He knew I'd fill him in after the dust had settled.

"I may want particulars on the rest of the gang. Stuff the cops wouldn't have."

"Whatever you need."

"You know any of those guys?"

"Not personally. They're nothing. Some theft, some hot checks, one guy shoots morphine. Small-change chumps. My people wouldn't use 'em for anything, especially the doper. I can have 'em all bumped if you want. Even the fancy-pants." Gordy could arrange a hit on anyone, any place, especially if they were in jail.

"Don't think that will be necessary, but I'll keep it in mind."

He gave a minimal shrug. Offering helpful information or death were all one to him. Guards before and behind, he lumbered off to the main room just as the band warmed into the first dance number for the night.

Wilton's smile was fixed and brittle. Gordy had been speaking low, but perhaps our conversation had carried.

I went over. "You okay?"

"I guess." He didn't sound convinced.

"Did I hear you talking to Myrna?"

He nodded. "Seemed the thing to do. Told her to stop with the lights. She's a great kidder, huh?"

"Yeah, so's a lot of people who come in here. You know?"

"Yeah, sure, Mr. Fleming," he said slowly. "Everyone's a kidder."

"Glad you understand that."

His gaze flicked behind me. Another party coming in. Good, we could both do with something normal. "Back to work," I said, cheerful again.

They were high-hat types I'd not seen before, three couples, very well-dressed and young, but old enough to drink or they'd not have gotten by the doorman.

There were too many at once for me to deal with, but I managed to snag the first man with my usual welcome speech and beamed charm at the rest. They were oddly tight-lipped as they took in the lobby; it usually inspired approving murmurs.

"Oh, do come along, Anthony dear," said one of the girls to the man. Her eyes were bright and guarded, passing right over me. Her message was clear: stop wasting time with the servants, dah-ling. No skin off my nose, their money spent as good as anyone else's, and they generally had more to throw around.

Anthony dear took her arm, and the group wafted in, keeping their hats and coats. Barhoppers sampling a new place, I figured. They'd have at least one drink then decide where to go afterwards, but the breed was more common on Fridays and Saturdays. This bunch either kept bankers' hours at work or didn't work at all.

The main room was about a third full, very good for the middle of the week.

The high-hatters were clumped at one of the lower booths just inside the entry.

They were trying to figure out the drinks order with the waiter while shedding their coats. Anthony dear saw me, then looked elsewhere a little too casually. What was his game? Order pad in hand, the waiter hurried off to the bar.

I made the rounds, stopping a few moments with the regulars, making sure everyone had what they wanted. Gordy wasn't at his down-front table tonight. He and Bristow were high on the third tier, removed from the noisy crowd and music, the better for talking. They seemed to be deep into things, heads forward, faces unreadable. I couldn't tell how well my influence was working on Bristow, but I expected Gordy would let me know.

By the time I reached the bar, the waiter was back from serving his posh table.

"Those new ones in the far booth," I said. "What did they want?" You can tell a lot about people from their choice of drink.

"Four martinis, a horse's neck, and a Four Roses. A triple."

"Which one got the whiskey?"

"Skinny guy on the end."

That was Anthony dear. What had him so nervous to want that much ninety proof? The booths each had a small lamp; the low light picked out the red flush of his skin from the booze he'd busily slugged back. If he kept up that pace, he'd put himself in a coma.

Roland Lambert and Bobbi had a table close to the stage. As a matter of habit I noted their drinks: grape juice on the rocks for her, coffee for him, apparently still on the wagon. Not many were up to resisting the call of demon rum and its many cousins, so I gave him credit for that. I wanted to like him, and would have, had I missed seeing him fooling around on his new wife. Maybe he and Faustine had a free-love kind of marriage, if that's what those were called. I didn't get it. If you don't plan to stick with your one partner through thick or thin, then why bother to team up permanent?

Bobbi laughed in response to whatever Roland was telling her. They seemed to be getting on fine. Show-biz chat probably. His past experience in Hollywood would be irresistible to her; she'd want to know everything as part of her preparation for breaking into movies.

She rarely talked about it with me anymore, knowing how I usually reacted to the subject, which was to clam up. She sometimes mistook that for anger, but it was my way to avoid saying anything stupid-like asking her not to go. That was a tiger trap I wasn't about to drop into. She'd helped me realize my dreams with this club; it was only fair to do the same for her, even if my heart wasn't in it.

Part of me tiredly repeated I wouldn't lose her; another part tormented with the likelihood that she'd leave and never return. It had happened before. No matter that the circumstances of losing Maureen-the woman who gave me this dark change, a woman I'd loved just as much-had been very different; the scars were in my memory. On bad nights they still bled. If I didn't watch myself, Bobbi would suffer from my past pain. Neither of us needed that.

Bobbi saw me watching her, smiled, and waved. I smiled back, not quite ready to join them. It was close to show time, anyway.

Consciously shrugging off the mood, I strolled to one side of the dance floor where a microphone was set up. I used to be awkward, but coaching from Bobbi and plenty of practice turned this aspect of my job into an enjoyable boost, just the thing for a sagging spirit. Applause helped, even if it was only a polite smatter.

I caught the band leader's eye partway through the current number. The music slowed and softened, and a blinding spot-light smacked me hot in the face. I switched on the mike and introduced myself. The regulars clapped; the high -

hatters gave curious stares. I thanked everyone for coming in, told them they were lucky to be here tonight, then explained why by introducing the lovely and talented star of stage, screen, and radio, Adelle Taylor.

The band boomed her lead-in fanfare, the house lights dimmed, and the spot swung to fix on her as she glided from the wings, taking center stage for her first song. I made an unobtrusive exit, job finished for the night. Anyone could have done it, but I'd grown to enjoy those few seconds of attention, playing the good host.

Now I was free to invite myself over to Roland's table, gesturing him back as he started to rise. "We're informal here. Is Bobbi treating you right?" I took a seat next to her, getting comfortable.

"I'm learning plenty about Chicago," he said, pitched barely loud enough to be heard over Adelle's voice. Dancers sifted by, pairing up on the floor in front of the stage. "I used to only pass through here between Hollywood and New York.

Seems I missed a lot."

"You planning to stay?"

"We haven't decided yet. Faustine and I want to look around first. I need to get used to the U.S. of A. again, and she needs to meet it, period. She's looking forward to working again, if she can find any in her line."

"Isn't there a ballet company here in town?"

"She's checking that, trying to get a decent agent." He pulled out a gold cigarette case with his initials on it and offered us a smoke. Bobbi declined, thinking it was bad for her throat. I tried one. It was black with no filter. The taste was strong and exotic, reminding me of Faustine.

"They should be glad to have a Russian-trained dancer around," I said.

Roland shrugged. "Anyone would be, but there might not be much open for me here as an actor. I'd thought I'd talk with Adelle, find out what sort of opportunities are in radio. God knows I can fake nearly any accent in the British Isles by now." His gaze rested fondly on Adelle as she shimmered in the spot, her rich voice rising with the music. "If there's some Shakespeare afoot, I'm sure she'll help me get in."

I kept my face frozen as best I could, but Bobbi shifted next to me; she'd have to trust that I'd keep my yap shut, and I would. For now.

A waiter came over, wondering if we wanted anything. I gave my usual negative reply and asked Roland if his coffee needed hotting up. He asked for a large glass of ice water. The waiter nodded and left.

Bobbi said, "I was just pointing out local celebrities to Roland, but I don't think he believed me."

"How so?"

Roland indicated a direction with his cigarette. "That big guy up there, he really is with the mob?"

There was only one truly big guy in the place, so I didn't have to turn to know he meant Gordy. "Let's just say he's a businessman and leave it at that." I gave a quick wink and smile.

"But he's a friend of yours?"

"And Bobbi, too. Gordy can be a good friend."

"He's like Al Capone though?"

"He's a businessman. Chicago style."

"And Adelle's seeing him?"

"They like each other fine. He respects her. Treats her right. Looks after her very closely. Like the army at Fort Knox. Smart men don't cross him." Bobbi tapped her foot warningly against my ankle, but I judged I'd dropped enough hints for Roland to think about.

"But a gangster?"

"Love's screwy, and you can't argue with it."

Finally Roland seemed to catch what I was throwing and eased back. "True. I count myself quite lucky Faustine felt inclined toward me in that way."

Except, apparently, for those hot moments in Adelle's dressing room last night.

I hoped bringing Gordy so firmly into the picture would spark some common sense in Roland, keep him from a repeat performance. Much of that would also be up to Adelle, it taking two to tango and so on. Hopefully, Bobbi could take care of that part of the job a little later. I planned to keep Roland busy telling me about European politics during her set break, giving her a chance to go backstage for a girl-to-girl chat with Adelle.

"Who's the college crowd?" Roland asked, his focus shifting to the high-hat table. "They don't seem to be enjoying themselves."

I'd noticed. They had their drinks, but no smiles to go with them. Anthony showed a very red face, having drained his triple in an amazingly short time, but was still upright and responding to conversation. "They're new. Probably still getting used to the joint."

"I've seen them at other clubs I've worked," Bobbi put in.

"Oh yeah?"

She shrugged. "I don't know the names, except for the black-haired girl next to the skinny guy. She's that society deb, Marie Kennard. Oh, don't worry, Jack, she's allowed to drink now. Her coming out was enough years ago. I was with the band singing at her big party. Thought she'd be married by now. They usually are."

Roland chuckled. "My dear, by now she could have done that, gone to Reno, and shed her husband like an old skin. It's embarrassingly easy these days. Ask Adelle."

Bobbi's mouth popped open with shock. "Roland, I didn't mean-"

He stubbed out his cigarette and patted her hand, eyes twinkling. "Of course you didn't, I'm a poltroon, but I wanted to see the look on your face. It was darling. I promise to behave in future. Actually, Adelle and I are quite easy about those times. I was a perfect beast and had it coming. We've forgiven and forgotten. Certainly she deserved a better man than I was back then. I hope she's done so with that gangster fellow, but one can't help but be uneasy. I still care for her- as a friend."

"She's never been happier. I heard her say so."

He pantomimed being shot in the heart. "Oh, a mortal wound to my vanity, but you can heal it in an instant if you'll honor me with a dance."

He was smooth. Great delivery. He swept Bobbi onto the dance floor before she knew what hit her. I should have been jealous, but I wasn't. She'd get her balance back soon enough, then he wouldn't know what hit him.

Young Anthony dear of the high-hats had left his group. I wouldn't have noticed his absence except for his friends staring my way. Soon as I looked, they went into a too-casual huddle. They must have been talking about me, but I couldn't imagine why. The only notoriety I had was over six months out of date, having to do with a murder victim found in Crymsyn's basement. It got my picture in the papers, but the case was long over and done.

I thought about vanishing and drifting over for some eavesdropping but couldn't risk it. I'd pulled that stunt plenty of times, but only in places where I never expected to return. Lady Crymsyn already had a resident ghost; no need to start rumors that the owner was one as well. Instead, I smoked Roland's exotic cigarette, deciding I liked my own homegrown brand better, and stayed put. It was good not to be doing anything strenuous. Despite the blood I'd taken from Bobbi earlier, I wasn't fully revived. Last night had been a lot of work. Very shortly, I'd make a bank run to deposit receipts, then stop at the Stockyards for some serious restoration. Until then, loafing was allowed.

Roland and Bobbi finished their turn on the floor and came back. She asked him to repeat a story he'd related about dancing with Marion Davies at a Hearst mansion weekend party. He had my full attention, since I'd always had a soft spot for that actress.

Apparently she was a good egg with a better sense of humor than William Randolph. She'd been in a costume epic and wanted a sword-fighting lesson from Roland, since it looked like fun. He'd managed to smuggle a good supply of liquor onto the teetotaling grounds of the estate at San Simeon, though, and had been drunk as a skunk at the time.

"I dimly recall chasing her around the swimming pool with a dessert spoon instead of a sword," he said. "We didn't want to do each other an injury, you see.

Marion was laughing so hard she fell into the pool, and it was only gentlemanly that I jump in to save her. We were having a fine time splashing about until Hearst turned up. Seemed he didn't care to have his lady friend dripping wet with her clothes clinging to her, not with all the other guests to see, anyway. Marion laughed it off, but the next morning I woke up on an airplane heading back to Hollywood with no idea how I'd gotten there. She later sent me a note, apologizing. I still have it somewhere. Lovely girl."

Bobbi asked him to tell another one, but Escott came in and walked over.

Whatever his phone call to Vivian had been about left him in a good mood. He bowed over Bobbi's hand, smiling warmly and complimenting her on the Snow White dress. That made her sparkle a little brighter. If I had a soft spot for Marion Davies, then Bobbi had one for Escott. Must have been his accent. I introduced him to Roland. They said the usual things, sized each other up, then Roland asked what part of London he was from.

"Oh, several places at least," was Escott's light but gently discouraging reply.

He didn't talk much about his past. "I understand you had some success on the stage there. Quite an accomplishment. May I inquire what productions and theaters?"

Roland was more than pleased to share stories about past triumphs, then with a prompt from Bobbi, talk changed to the Gladwell kidnapping. Escott kept things on the most general of terms, but she wanted details. He seemed ready to supply them. Then Anthony dear came back to his friends.

"Good lord," Escott muttered under his breath.

"Something wrong?" Bobbi asked.

He wore a peculiar, stretched smile. "A slight digestive upset. I think I'll see if the barman has something to help." He excused himself and walked unhurriedly away, his back firmly to us and the other table.

Roland looked puzzled. "That was a quick onset of symptoms."

"I'll see if he needs a doctor," I said, excusing myself, too.

Careful not to make a beeline, I threaded between tables, playing host, until reaching the bar. Escott had a brandy instead of a bromide in front of him.

"What's up?" I asked.

The left side of his mouth twitched, and he remained turned from the room.

"That young fellow with the large group is related to our infamous Hurley Gilbert Dugan, that is what's up, old man."

It was a struggle, but I resisted the urge to check over my shoulder at the high-hatters. "You're kidding."

"I assure you I am not. He's one Anthony Brockhurst, a distant cousin. His picture was in the papers, those society events Dugan went to with his late mother.

This is no coincidence. What the devil could he be doing here?" he wondered, irritated.

"Following you."

"Or you."

"How would he-oh." If Dugan remembered our hypnosis session he'd be curious and ferret out my partnership with Escott pretty quick. Part of that could be asking a few staunch supporters to go to my club and play spy. Now I understood the stares and backhand talking. How much had Dugan told them?

Were they in on the kidnapping? I got an itch to corner Anthony dear for a private

"chat." The rest of them, too. They couldn't all be as crazy as Dugan.

"This is not amusing," said Escott, his face sour.

"Dugan probably had you under a microscope within an hour of his arrest.

Those birds will know we work together. No sense staying glued to the bar, so relax."

"I suppose not. I just hadn't expected this, particularly from a pack of bloody amateurs."

It did rankle. Usually we were the ones shadowing people and making them nervous. "Well, I wasn't exactly watching for tails when we left home tonight."

"I advise a change in that for the time being."

"No kidding. Think Dugan's got a real detective after us?"

"It's a possibility to consider. I would, in his place." Escott turned around, one elbow casually resting on the bar. Despite his tense mood, he showed nothing of it in his posture or expression now, which was that of a man free of cares, in a celebratory mood, even. He was one hell of an actor.

Still too pissed off, I knew better than to try mimicking him and stayed in place. "You see any contenders?"

After a few minutes, during which he would take a mental picture of everyone in the room and compare it to the filing cabinet in his brain, he said no. "None that I know or have seen, at any rate. There are none here with the look."

I could trust his conclusion. He was better at spotting cops or PIs than Gordy, which was saying a lot. "So we just have the society types to worry about, huh?"

"Indeed. They're amateurs, which is something of a relief, but one never knows what tomfoolery they could get up to."

True. This wasn't our usual kind of opposition where we could swap fists in a back alley with mugs who knew the ropes. Anthony's well-scrubbed and perfumed bunch seemed fit for nothing more harrowing than a college fraternity party. They were playing way outside their field.

Escott pretended to watch the dancers as they swung in time to Adelle's latest song. "I'm getting the impression they're waiting for someone. Dugan, perhaps?"

Hell. I didn't want him here dirtying up the place. "Maybe. I can find out. If any of them leaves for the John, they'll have a detour they won't remember."

He puffed a laugh.

"Take your drink back, make like everything's normal, and lemme see how this plays. Tell Bobbi I'm working, whatever's safe to say in front of Roland. She'll get it. Gordy's here-"

"I noticed. Isn't that Hog Bristow with him?"

I'd not mentioned him, but I wasn't surprised he knew the man by sight. Escott was a walking encyclopedia when it came to crime bosses. "Yeah, they're talking business, though, Gordy's gonna be working on that."

"Just as well. No need to trouble him with such a minor annoyance."

Minor? I hoped he was right.

We went our separate ways. I took my time, again stopping at tables, but managing to miss Anthony's. Carefully not stealing a glance at him or the rest of his crowd, I felt them watching me as I left.

Between the lobby and the main room there's a small blind spot in the passage, just this side of the portrait. It wasn't anything planned by the designer, just turned out that way, and at times like this it was very useful. Once there, I vanished and streamed quickly back toward the party.

I hovered over Anthony's table but only picked up a word or two; it was hard to hear with Adelle's singing going on. They were a sulky bunch, not saying much.

Then a woman, Marie Kennard by the bored tone of her voice, said, "I think he's gone for a while, Anthony. Time for another call."

"Right," came the reply. I sensed Anthony's slow exit from his seat. "I'll be a minute."

"We'll keep what's left of your drink warm."

He grunted. I tagged along as he walked. The music faded, replaced by the brief creak of hinges as he closed us into the confines of the lobby phone booth.

Coin in the slot, dialing, then he greeted whoever was on the other end of the line.

"Hello, hello? Gilbert?... Yes, it is I, who else?"

I experienced a warm feeling of satisfaction, slightly marred by the frustration of getting only half the conversation. I'd have given a lot for Hurley Gilbert Dugan's side.

Anthony went on. "He's left... No, I don't know where... Follow him? But you told us to stay together and not draw notice... Oh, bother this. Why are you so interested in him?... Well, be that way. We're only trying to help... All right. All right... No, I'm not drunk... Yes, I'm sure I haven't the least idea where he's gone.

Probably in the building if you've not seen him. His friend is still here. I think they spotted us, though... No, we did not do anything; he's a detective and must know his trade... All right. Yes, I'll call again if I see him ... Well, don't let yourself freeze... Yes, good-bye."

He snorted and hung up in disgust.

"He's completely mad," he said, apparently to himself, then shivered. I'd not been careful about avoiding contact with him. He shoved the folding door open and slipped clear. I trailed again; he headed for the main room instead of the John, which was too bad. Not that he was in any condition for hypnosis. His slurred speech told me the futility of that ploy, but there are other ways of getting information that don't leave marks. I intended to ambush him in the passage, but he moved too fast for me to materialize and grab him.

Damnation. Aiming for his table, I got there just as he sat down. He repeated his private comment to his friends.

"He's going through with it?" a girl asked. Marie Kennard again. She sounded less bored now.

"If that Fleming fellow ever decides to cooperate. Blast. Gilbert will catch his death out there waiting for that fool."

Interesting. So Dugan himself was on the watch for me? I didn't want to miss him, but I also didn't want to miss whatever else this pretty crowd might have to say.

"Oh, Anthony, don't make such a face," Marie said, petulant. "Gilbert won't blame you if the man doesn't cooperate. He'll just go home."

"Be sure to remind him of that, won't you?"

"I'll write a note in my diary. How much longer must we endure this place?"

"At least an hour more."

"So long? How perfectly dreadful."

Now, that just hurt my feelings.

"Marie, it's not as though we're on the front lines in a trench, so put on a brave face and think of how this is helping Gilbert. We're spies in enemy territory, sacrifice is de rigueur, and it is in a noble cause."

"I'll feel more noble after another drink."

They impatiently called for a waiter. I waited for more information, but they seemed to be stuck in their collective sulk; Anthony ordered another Four Roses triple. Hardy type. Might as well leave and see what opportunities Dugan presented, if any. I felt my way back to the blind spot and hoped no one would be there when I materialized again.

It was clear, and just as well. Dizziness struck with a vengeance, sending me staggering as though I'd been blackjacked. I swayed against the wall like a drunk, both hands on it to steady myself. Hot and cold shakes waved over my body, retreating slowly and leaving a clear message: get to the Stockyards before the hollow ache inside went out of control. I couldn't push further without risking all kinds of grief. When my version of hunger got too serious, common sense and restraint were the first to go. Food now, fun and games later.

No activity in the lobby. The check girl chatted with Wilton; both stood a bit straighter when the boss appeared, but I didn't mind so long as their work was caught up and the customers were promptly served. I gave the girl a message to repeat to Escott: that I'd be gone for less than an hour and to keep an eye on our special guests for me.

"An hour?" Wilton asked when she'd left.

"Got an errand."

"You okay, Mr. Fleming? You don't look so good."

"Just a little warm. You remember that fancy-suit stick who was just in here using the phone? Look out for him, see if he makes more calls, and write down when. If he or anyone else asks for me, I'm still around but unavailable."

His not to reason why. Wilton nodded, and I went upstairs. In the office I got the cash envelope from the safe, locked the door, and avoided the lobby by using the back alley exit to leave the club.

A slow walk around the building to the parking lot didn't flush any obvious stakeout. I fully expected one. Anthony gave me to understand Dugan might be lying in wait. I'd be pleased to find him, but only after I was in better shape.

Eyes peeled, I gave everything in view a good scrutiny, but the street looked the same as ever, no unfamiliar cars at the curbs or extra shadows in the doorways, just the wind blowing stray paper around. Nothing conspicuous here but myself, doubled by the fact I'd left my hat and coat behind. The cold didn't affect me as much as it had before my change. On a run to the Stockyards outer coverings weren't necessary; I moved faster without them.

If Dugan was on watch, where would he be hiding? My skin prickled as I imagined the kinds of things that could go wrong. Did he have a gun aimed at my chest? Hard luck for him if he fired. Metal bullets, whether silver or lead, can't kill me, but they hurt like hell, and getting shot would put me in exactly the right mood to break his neck. With Gordy's help, disposing of a body was no great challenge.

But all was quiet. I almost wished otherwise. It would bring an end to the matter for damn sure.

Uneasy but not able to wait, I got in my Buick, the cooled-off motor obligingly turning and catching on the first try. We'd not had any really bad weather lately, and it was still holding in the low thirties. Moderate for this time of year. That had been of great concern to Vivian Gladwell in her worry for Sarah. The girl's wasted, sleeping face kept popping to mind as I backed from my parking spot. It was depressing, made me feel like I'd failed her by not completely removing Dugan as a threat. I'd done my best, but would just have to try again.

For distraction I put the radio on loud and caught Fred Astaire in the middle of

"The Way You Look Tonight." We didn't share the same key, but I sang along for the hell of it and wondered if I could get him and Johnny Green's band to play at the club. They were famous and likely pretty busy, but it was worth a try. I'd ask Bobbi to look into it.

No one seemed to be in my wake on the short drive to the bank. They were either very good at tailing or didn't exist. The rearview mirror remained clear of anything troubling, though there was plenty of traffic. A disappointment, but not much of one. This wouldn't be the first time I'd gotten things wrong, but it always was better to err on the side of caution. I took a careful look around when I left the car to slip the money into the night deposit, but I was quite alone.

I was more cagey on the second leg of my trip, making a lot of turns and double-backs. A couple times I thought some-one was following, but I shook them too easily for it to be anything but my imagination. After ten minutes of circling blocks and beating out stop signals, my guts gave a sharp twist as a reminder. My corner teeth were beginning to bud all on their own. Next would come the tunnel vision. After that, a strange, lightheaded kind of insanity.

Hitting the gas, I endeavored to outrun it.

In order to feed the country, the Stockyards had to run day and night, but some areas slowed down sufficiently to allow me to get in without drawing notice.

My being able to vanish was a big help, allowing me to remain out of sight the whole time except for those few moments it took to feed. I knew the place so thoroughly by now that I could get around quite well in that state. It made things easier on the shoe leather, too. Less cleaning.

No such convenience tonight. I'd stretched too thin. Sure, I could still vanish, but coming back would mean another bout of sickness and having jelly for legs, not something I wanted to go through again. Playing ghost could wait until after I'd fed.

I had plenty of physical strength left, though; boosting over one of the fences was easy, and again when I found a pen full of prospects. Now all I had to worry about was keeping some cow from bowling me over on my ass. I'd done the milking plenty of times growing up on the old family farm; cattle could be skittish but were generally cooperative if you knew what you were doing.

Picking an animal in the small enclosure, I calmed it to my presence, knelt, and went in quick and clean on a leg vein, supping deeply. The lush red stuff filled me with vast warmth and reassurance. Weariness melted from my bones. Before my change, no food ever had this profound an effect. Drink came the closest. A shot of booze was remotely comparable, but that had dampened the senses; this brought energy and rejuvenation, pulsing life into a body with no beating heart. I drew on it, exulting in the primal joy of satiation.

Once again I speculated about taking away extra to store in the refrigerator at home. Escott and I had talked about it; he didn't mind, even suggesting placing it in beer bottles so their amber glass hid the telltale color. The scare with Bobbi earlier resolved me to figure out something. Blood wouldn't keep for long, but even if it lasted a few nights, my trips to the Yards would be cut by half. How much better to squelch around here only once a week instead of every second or third night.

It would also lower the chances of my being caught by one of the workers.

That had happened a few times. I'd dealt with it, hypnotically convincing them they'd seen nothing and to go on with work. The encounters had put the hair up on the back of my neck, and made me wonder if there had been others I'd not spotted.

That prickly feeling was on my neck again, but I was inclined to put it off as more imagination. Just thinking about a threat could bring out the heebie -jeebie sense. I'd been extra careful tonight.

Replete and restored, I pulled away, pinching the vein to slow the flow. The cow showed no great concern. It remained in place a moment, then abruptly snorted and moved off. Time I did the same.

On the other side of the fence, I fished out a handkerchief and swabbed my mouth for stains. God, that had tasted good. I felt ready for anything now.

Until I heard something toward my right, toward the street where I'd parked.

A narrow pass-way ran between the high enclosures, just wide enough for one animal at a time. Pelting down it at full speed was a man. It was a good assumption he'd seen something very disturbing. Like me.

I ran after. With the advantage of strength and speed, I closed up his lead. He didn't make a sound when I caught his shoulders and hauled him around. Not wanting to hurt him, I went easy on the spin, backing him against the fence. Cattle on the other side milled, alarmed.

It took me a long second to recognize him because he was so completely out of place. He was taller than I remembered and lot more animated, his pale face distorted by emotion, chiefly fear. But Dugan's mouth was the same, with its built-in smile. He showed teeth in that instant, then I felt him bury a solid fist in my stomach accompanied by some short, sharp pops. His punch hurt. Continued to hurt. Far too much. Only after seeing the blood did I understand the meaning of the close-in pops and realize he'd shot me.