I'D BEEN MORE or less ready for that one and went partially incorporeal the second he released me. Semitransparent and considerably lighter in weight and mass, I was able to twist around and gain control of my fall. The arrested spin wouldn't look natural, but I was banking on the visual confusion of my blurred movement to cover up the stunt. The bad light shining in their eyes would help.

The chair clattered as it hit first and skidded out of the way. When my feet swung under me I went solid again and landed upright on the concrete floor with only a mild jolt. My hand Mailed and struck the far wall as I recovered balance, but it was much better than having my whole body smash into it.

As though nothing unusual had happened, I made a calm business of straightening my clothes. Under all the show, I was plenty mad and needed the time to cool down before turning to look at them.

Leadfoot Sam and Butler were rooted in place and openly gaping. Sam's fingers splayed out flat on the table in preparation to jump in any given direction. When I didn't move, he groped blindly for the bottle and drained away a healthy amount with a desperate swallow. It was terrible stuff; his eyes began to water. Butler came around the table, his mouth still open, and he studied me good and hard. His shaven head swiveled back to Sam.

"Did you see... ?"

Sam had no answer. Both of them had touched something totally outside their experience. When the world gives you that kind of a lurch it's hard to know what to do. After a long, long moment, silent except for their harsh breathing and thundering hearts, Sam gave out with a brief laugh. It sounded nervous and artificial compared with his previous efforts. Whatever control he thought he had of the situation was lost, and that sick little exhalation was his response to the painful truth.

I came forward and leaned my hands on the table. Sam sat back in his chair, unconsciously putting distance between us.

"Tell Butler to take a break," I said. I used no influence on him; it wasn't necessary.

"Yeah." Not an answer or a question, the word came out of him all on its own, a meaningless sound. The jokes and threats were gone now. He was afraid.

Butler sensed it and didn't want to move. I fixed on his eyes and told him to relax.

Some of the sap went out of him. Without further hesitation, he turned and trudged up the spiral stairs. Somewhere above a door closed, leaving me and Sam alone in the basement.

Sam's hands were under the table and I could guess why. He'd be packing a gun the way a shop girl carries her face powder; it was part of the daily uniform. I pretended not to notice and let him keep it if it made him feel better. I didn't feel like going to the trouble of taking it away.

"We need to talk, Sam."

He slowly nodded. I took my time picking up the chair and bringing it back to the table. It was a tough old hunk of wood and hardly showed any new scratches as I put it right and eased onto it again.

"Where you been tonight, Sam?"

The question was plain enough, but not what he'd expected. "I been around."

"Around where?"

"The Hot Spot."

"What's that, a bar?"

"Yeah."

"Anybody see you there?"

"Anyone who wants to bet on the game that's coming up."

"How long were you there?"

His answer left him well covered for the time of McAlister's murder. I was disappointed.

"Where was Butler?"

"With me."

"Now tell me about Stan McAlister."

He'd lost some of his fear and was almost comfortable. "What about Stan?"

"I know you were after him."

"He owes me money. What'd'ya expect?"

His use of the present tense wasn't lost on me. He hadn't heard the bad news yet, that or he was wasting time as a bookie when he should have been acting in the movies. "I don't expect someone like you to take bets on margin."

He was a little embarrassed. "It happens to the best of us."

"How'd it happen to you?"

"We were having a few drinks and I was just drunk enough to do it. I went over the records later, saw that he owed me big, and got Butler to start looking for him. I got a lot of people looking for him, but he must have heard about it because he's lost himself good this time."

"You got any people with a grudge on?"

"Say again?"

"You or your people want to bump him off?"

"Huh? Why should I do that? If he gets bumped, I can't collect my two grand. I'm not so rich I can shrug off that kinda loss. Is someone after him? Is that why you're asking all this?"

"You could say that. Who wants to kill him?"

"Not me. You ask around."

"I'm asking right here. What do you know about his business? Who'd he come in contact with?"

"How the hell should I know? I just take their bets; I don't care how they get their money. Why don't you ask him?"

"I can't. C'mon, Sam, give me a name."

"There's Doreen Grey."

"Uh-huh, who else?"

"He's seeing a little blond named Kitty, but I don't remember if she had a last name."

"What do you know about her?"

"Only that she's cute as a button. He takes her around, shows her the sights. I think she's too clean for him, but he's had others like her before."

"Yeah?"

"You know the type, girls that like to slum. They look peaches and cream on the outside but inside they got a taste for... well, Stan ain't exactly rock bottom, but he's pretty close."

"You don't like him?"

"I don't give a damn one way or another about him. He's a customer. All I want is the money he owes me." Most of his confidence was back. "Your turn: what's your game with Stan?"

"I already told you, I'm trying to get some kid out of a jam. You gonna call Butler down for another tumbling act?"

The reminder put him off a little, or so I thought. "Nah, I don't need to do anything like that. What kinda jam?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"Just trying to be friendly. You been asking a lot of questions and I been giving you the straight dope, so you at least give me one thing: where's he hiding?"

"He isn't. Tell me about Doreen Grey. If you've got Butler watching for you, why didn't he bring her in?"

"Huh? Doreen? She wouldn't know anything. She hangs around Stan, not the other way around."

He sounded so certain that I briefly wondered if McAlister himself had even known about the trick mirror-but only briefly. "She a girlfriend?"

"Her and a dozen others that think they are."

"You mean he's a pimp?"

"No, nothing like that, though I wouldn't put it past him. He's just got a way with him and women. I wish I could figure it out, I'd bottle it and retire rich and happy."

"Is Doreen Grey her real name?"

"Grow up, kid. Women like her never had a real name."

"Women like her?"

"She's a hustler, or was. Calls herself an actress or model. Do I have to tell you what kind of acting?"

"Does she do photography?"

"I heard she sits on both sides of the camera. She's got a little studio for all the dirty work."

"Where?"

It was on the same street where the cabbie had dropped her off.

"This studio got a name or number?"

"I dunno. A place like that doesn't advertise to the general public. It's over a grocer's, second floor, you can't miss it."

"You know a lot about it, ever been there?"

He only grinned.

I felt I'd gotten all the information I was going to get and stood up to leave.

"Uh-uh," he said. "You stay right there. We're not finished."

"It's getting late, Sam. I gotta go."

He brought his hands above the table. One of them held a fistful of black revolver.

He was smiling all over his face again as he leveled it on me. "Not just yet, you don't."

I sighed, trying to be patient. "Okay, what is it?" 'Tell me where Stan is." 'With the cops." 'The cops? What for?"

"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Cut the crap and tell me what's going on."

If he'd been more polite, I might have answered without thinking. There was no reason not to tell him about McAlister's death, but I have an inherent dislike of being pushed around, and he'd pushed me plenty already.

"You'll read it in the morning papers," I said, and moved to go up the spiral stairs. Behind me I heard the soft double click that meant he'd thumbed back the hammer.

"Hold it, Lamont, not unless you want one right now."

I paused and looked at him. "Brother, I've already had more than one. All they do is put holes in the suit and make me mad."

"Think you're tough?"

"Let's put it this way... do you really want to end up the evening with a hunk of dead meat on your hands?"

"I don't have to kill you," he pointed out.

"Yeah, you're too late for that," I muttered. He was getting on my nerves with the thing.

"You step back here and sit like a good boy."

That tipped the scales for me. He needed a lesson. I turned, made sure he was watching, and vanished. When I re-formed, I was right behind him. It only took a moment, not nearly enough time for him to understand what he'd just seen or to begin to react to it. I wrapped one hand over his mouth and clamped another around the revolver. The idea was to prevent it from going off by keeping the barrel from turning, but I'd forgotten that by cocking it, it had already turned. But the gun didn't go off when his finger twitched. The back of my thumb was between the firing pin and the bullet.

Ouch.

It wasn't nearly as awful as actually getting shot. The pain was best compared to a bad toe stubbing-brief, but of an intensity all out of proportion to the area involved. I knew now why they called it a hammer, since the firing pin had neatly nailed itself into me. My hand jerked away, taking the gun along, and I had to release my hold on Sam. I shoved him across the room and pried back the hammer to free my thumb from its painful trap. I must have looked like an idiot standing there alternately shaking my hand down and sucking the side of my punctured digit.

Then Leadfoot Sam gave me something else to think about when he caught his balance, turned, and broke out a nasty-looking switchblade. In his confusion over the last few seconds, he must have forgotten that I was the one with the gun. I still held it loosely in his direction and was grinning at him. Actually it was less of a grin and more like a show of teeth. My fangs weren't out, but the effect was just as satisfactory, if I could tell anything from his flinching reaction.

"Hold it, Sam. Start thinking twice."

He did, with his wild eyes fastening on the revolver in an interesting mixture of rage and fear. His next move might be to call Butler down, but I didn't want any more witnesses. He needed distracting.

"See this?" I broke the cylinder open, pushed the extractor rod, and let the bullets drop out. He stared, wondering what the gag could be. I turned the gun upside down to get a firm hold on the grip and cylinder, then gave them each a hard twist in opposite directions.

The metal groaned quietly and snapped. I knew I was strong enough to damage the thing, but was pleasantly surprised at this development. I tossed the two pieces on the table. Sam stared, his jaw dragging the floor again. I was still grinning.

"Sam?"

He appeared to be very sick.

"Do you know what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"

He made a sick little sound in his throat.

"Well, I do." At that, I reached up and flicked my index finger hard against the bare bulb of the room's single light. The glass shattered with a dull pop and plunged us into total darkness.

The sick sound began to descend into a prolonged whimper.

"So you watch yourself from now on... because that's what I'll be doing."

I couldn't see him-our complete insulation from outside light prevented that-

but I could hear his heart banging away, and by now I could clearly scent the fear smell rolling off him like a tide. He'd recover soon enough, maybe even convince himself he'd been tricked, but he'd never forget it. I didn't care, as long as he gave me a wide berth from now on.

Dematerializing, I swept past him, making sure he got thoroughly chilled. Some spine-tingling laughter would have been appropriate, but I didn't trust mine to be sinister enough for the occasion.

Once up the stairs, I bumbled my invisible way out. Butler and the driver were still in the back storage area, quite oblivious to what had been going on in the basement. I didn't bother with them and seeped through the door into the rear alley, where the Caddy was parked. The keys were gone, but Escott had once taught me how to do a neat hot-wire job. I figured after all the trouble I'd been put through, they owed me a ride back. Neither of them made it out of the building in time to see me driving away.

I'd spent long enough on my forced detour and went straight to Doreen Grey's studio. The general location was a short cross street with T intersections at both ends. Down on the corner the bar was open, but everything else was dark. A single grocery store with hand-painted signs obscuring the dusty windows took up space in the middle of the block on the left side.

I parked the Caddy some distance away and walked. Next to the grocery door, narrow stairs led up to the second floor. On the vertical part of each step someone had carefully painted advertisements for the businesses within. None of them had to do with photography.

Nothing to do but bull on and hope that Sam's information was as square as he claimed. The stairs brought me to a long, dim hall lined with doors at regular intervals. The hall went through the width of the building and ended with another identical opening at the far end that served the next street over.

I checked each door and its sign. Two of them were empty and for rent, and one of them had no sign at all, only a number painted onto the aging wood. It was sufficiently different from the rest to invite closer inspection. Listening, I could pick up no sound from the other side. With no change in my posture I sieved through, solidified, and straightened in an unlighted room. The darkness was thick even for me. A little seepage from the hall around the base of the door was barely sufficient for my eyes to use.

A table and some old chairs constituted the room's total inventory, unless you counted the dust in the comers. As a reception area, it was stark and discouraging.

Opposite the entry door was another, firmly closed. I listened here as well, then passed through.

The room on the other side was as pitch black as my basement hiding place.

Since my change, true darkness for me was rare, so this was not a comfortable thing to experience-especially when my ears told me I wasn't alone. I held perfectly still. If I couldn't see them, they certainly couldn't see me.

Odds were that the single set of lungs and swiftly beating heart belonged to Doreen Grey. She'd probably heard my footsteps in the entry and was scared to death.

"Doreen?" I asked, hoping to put her at ease.

My voice seemed very loud in the claustrophobic blackness, but not so loud as her brief, terrified scream and the gunshot that followed.

The muzzle flash fixed an image of the whole room in my eyes. I got a general impression of the layout of the furnishings and a specific one of Doreen crouched in a corner holding a pistol in my direction. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, her arms held stiff and straight. All that crowded onto my retinas to be sorted out later, since a split second after the shot I was too busy ducking to think about it. Bullets don't cause me any permanent damage, but I don't enjoy getting hit.

" Doreen! It's me-the guy with the cab fare!"

No second shot came.

"What?" Her voice sounded as shaky as I felt.

"I was at the Boswell House-cab fare-remember?"

"Wha-what do you want?"

"Talk, that's all. Put down the gun."

"No."

A sensible answer-if I were really dangerous to her. She was about three yards to my left and I was flat on the floor with no other cover within reach. Not having all the time in the world to talk her out of her fear, I opted for a more direct method and vanished.

I floated toward her, extending invisible arms until we touched. She was already shivering and gave out with a violent shudder at this freezing contact. I got very close, positioning what would be my hand over hers and her gun and making sure my thumb was well clear of moving parts. It might go off, but this time the noise didn't matter.

A good thing, too. She shrieked like a crazy woman when I re-formed holding onto her like a lover. She was ready to kick and fight till doomsday so I pried the gun from her hands and quickly backed off. Suddenly released, she stumbled away and scrambled for the door, sobbing all the way. She wrenched it open and escaped to the reception room while I was taking the gun off cock and slipping on the safety. I caught up with her again in the second she spent fumbling to unlock the outer door.

She screamed and kept on screaming when I slipped an arm around her waist to pull her back. I put a hand over her mouth and tried to talk her into calming down.

Eventually she did-not from my efforts, but from simple lack of energy and oxygen.

Her legs stopped thrashing and caved in. Propping her up seemed like too much work, so we both sank to the floor. I held her firmly but took away my hand so she could breathe.

She collapsed against me, still sobbing. Not knowing what else to do, I cradled her and told her everything was all right and hoped it would get through. When she seemed settled, I reached up with a questing hand and flicked on the overhead light.

It hurt my eyes until they adjusted to the brightness.

"You okay?" I asked. A dumb question, but every opening can't be clever.

The sobbing had diminished to irregular hiccups. She twisted around to see me.

"Remember me now? I'm one of the good guys."

She shook her head in denial and struggled to find her feet. I let her go, being between her and the nearest exit, and stood up as well. She backed away to the opposite wall and turned to stare. There wasn't much of a show to see, all I did was dust off my knees and straighten my hat.

"How'd you get here?" she asked, her voice thick.

"I talked to your cab driver and he told me where he dropped you. Your former landlord gave me your name. Mine's Jack."

"What do you want?"

"Only to talk. I'm not going to hurt you."

She still wasn't ready to believe me. She kept her back to the wall and walked crab-wise to the other door and slipped into the next room, hitting the light. I followed and watched her pace nervously around, her eyes on the floor.

"Looking for this?" I held up her automatic.

She stopped dead cold, her heart racing fit to break.

"Take it easy, darling. I'll just keep it for the time being." I made a business of returning it to my pocket. "Why did you try to shoot me?"

"I didn't know... know that..."

"What? That I wasn't Leadfoot Sam? Why are you afraid of him?"

"Because it's stupid not to be."

If I'd been sitting alone in the dark, scared shitless from listening to approaching footsteps, I might have done the same thing. I could handle someone like Sam, but Doreen didn't have my unnatural advantages.

"It's a nice little gun. Did Stan give it to you?"

"It's mine."

"This place, too?"

"Yeah-yes."

A plain backdrop nailed to the ceiling covered one wall. Several different light stands were aimed at it. A stack of pillows cluttered the floor next to a dressing screen. Another closed door interrupted the rear wall. I checked it. The room beyond was a washroom converted to a darkroom, its single window made lightproof with a thick coat of black paint.

"Where's your camera?"

She didn't answer, but her eyes darted to her suitcase, which was parked by the pillows.

"What about your photos?"

"I don't have any."

"A photographer with no photos. C'mon, Doreen."

"Look, you just get out of here."

"It's too late for that." I circled around and shut the inner and outer doors.

She kept plenty of distance between us and ended up against the backdrop. A photo of her now would not be too flattering. Her carroty hair was in every direction and her clothes were thoroughly mussed about. Both knees on her stockings sported ladders. She became conscious of me looking at her and abruptly retreated to her purse to find a powder puff. While she repaired things, I brought two chairs from one side and set them down facing one another.

"Park it here, Doreen. It's time for a heart-to-heart."

She closed her compact with a decisive snap. "Is it?"

"Uh-huh. It's either me, the cops, or Leadfoot Sam. Take your pick."

She didn't like any of the choices. "Who are you, then? Why are you here? I don't know anything."

"Have a seat and we'll find out."

Her jaw settled into firm defiance. The tears and panic were gone and she was ready to deal with me. She glared, waiting for my next move.

Every little bit helped.

It took longer than usual. She was on her guard and I didn't want to overdo the pressure. This was different from the simple suggestions I'd shot at Butler and the hotel manager. A give-and-take conversation was more complicated, requiring greater subtlety and care on my part.

"You can relax, Doreen," I whispered.

After a long, long moment the tension leached from her posture.

"No one's going to hurt you."

Her lips parted and her eyes went glassy.

"Relax..."

Her face softened as her lids drooped and closed. She was asleep on her feet and as vulnerable now as she ever would be. I could get the answers I needed. All I had to do was come up with the right questions and listen.

While I thought on where to start, I noticed her body as though for the first time-her long legs and crown of fluffy red hair. I became very aware of her beating heart and the blood surging through it. I recognized the feeling stirring within me, but this time its irresistible intensity was startling.

Hunger.

Or thirst.

For a vampire they're much the same.

The red life I'd taken and exchanged with Bobbi was as deliriously fulfilling as any sex I'd ever experienced as a living man. The blood I drank from animals gave me the joy of pure energy and strength greater than I'd ever imagined. Now I was facing a combination of the two: to have human blood in quantity-and to take it from this woman.

The temptation was a very solid, thriving thing and much more difficult to put off than on other occasions when I'd faced it with Bobbi. I had always taken care with her and found it easy not to overindulge for fear of hurting her. The difference this time was the woman herself. She was a stranger to me, unimportant, nothing more than a small-time blackmailer and hustler.

Someone no one would miss.

Her scent filled my head. Human flesh, a trace of cheap perfume, salt from the dried tears on her face, and beneath them all, the bloodsmell. The rest were like bits of flotsam floating upon its deep river. I licked my lips, my tongue brushing against my lengthening canines. To drink from that dark river...

I caressed her neck with the backs of my fingers; first one side, then the other.

Lightly. Softly. She was utterly fascinating. It was as though, turn in turn, she were hypnotizing me.

Eyes shut, she responded with a slight tremor and sigh. I knew well how to give pleasure. She would love me for what I was capable of giving and doing to her.

Because of the influence I was exerting she would not be able to help herself.

My arms wrapped protectively around her, pulling her body close. She swayed and rested against me, her heart quickening. Her head went to one side, exposing the tender white column of her throat. I tasted it with a slow kiss. The big vein pulsed rapidly beneath my lips. My mouth yawned wide, my teeth gently brushing over the thin barrier of her skin. We were both trembling. The blood suddenly welled up, pouring through me like scarlet fire as the first shock of ecstasy took us.

She would love me and I would love her. I was loving her.

Her heart fluttered against my chest. Her breath was full and warm as it whispered over my neck.

I had wanted her, I was taking her, and she was loving it. I drank from her and drank deeply. She was an endless fountain of shimmering strength.

Not endless.

It didn't matter. She clung to me; she didn't want it to stop. Besides, no one need ever know.

No one but me.

Conscience invaded craving. They mixed, separated, and tore through my brain like summer lightning.

I would love her to death.

I drew back, as though it were part of our love dance. She sighed again, turning it into a protesting moan. Two threads of blood trickled down her neck from the wounds I'd made.

To death.

But no one need ever...

Teetering.

I wanted her badly, more than anything else I'd ever dreamed of wanting.

To death.

I backed off until we ceased to touch. It helped. It helped more to picture her limp and heavy in my arms, her skin gray, her heart silent. I had killed before, but not for this, not for the convenient satiation of hunger.

The room was heavy with bloodsmell. I forced air from my lungs and did not replace it. I backed off another step.

The fusing of desire and appetite was nothing new and had conquered stronger men than myself. The absolute power I had over her-over anyone I wished-was an awful, frightening thing. I retreated from it, seizing on the quickest escape with a desperate will.

My body dissolved and floated free, tumbling a little from the inertia of its last faint movement. I remained in that state until the fever ebbed away and the grip of hunger eased and finally released me. Still, it was a very long time before I re-formed, and then only after I'd pushed far away from her. I drifted through the thin partitions of wood and lath until I stood in the outside hall of the building.

Air, icy cold and bitter, cut at my throat and lungs. I drew a second painful breath and a third. It was glorious. I felt like a swimmer unexpectedly breaking the surface after being sucked to the bottom of a whirlpool. My legs still shook, but eventually everything settled down as the world started spinning along its usual course.

I stood and stared at nothing, and tried not to feel what I was feeling.

I felt it, anyway.

Terror.

She could have died. I'd come that close to going over the edge with her. And I still wanted to finish what I'd started. My hunger was quiet, but not yet sated, and tugged at me to return to her.

Was it because of my changed condition, or had this always been within me? Was I a rapist or an animal fulfilling a physical need?

Or both?

I'd had lapses of temper and of sanity and had used them against people; I'd never before had such a lapse concerning hunger or had ever been so close to killing because of hunger. Until tonight I'd regarded myself as being a man with a condition that could be controlled-that was under control.

That safe and comfortable image was altered now, and I wasn't sure of anything anymore. I only knew I was scared.

And inside me, her blood fused with my own.

She was standing in the same spot when I returned, her face closed and defenseless with sleep. I made myself look at her, to see all that she was, all that I'd nearly destroyed. Her name was Doreen. She had a right to feel and learn and love, to choose for herself. She had a right to live.

She was human. I was not.

I went to the darkroom and wet my handkerchief under the tap there and used it to clean her throat. The marks were small and hadn't bled much. She might not notice them. I drew her collar up a bit, then touched her cheek, not with desire, but with a caring that had been missing before.

"Wake up, honey."

Her eyes flickered open.

"You okay?" I wasn't sure if she would remember anything.

She nodded. One hand came up to touch the spot on her neck where I'd kissed her, then fluttered away in confusion. "I think... I mean..."

I searched her face for the least sign of awareness of what had happened. The only thing I could see was puzzlement. I should have been relieved, but was just too emotionally hammered out to feel much of anything. Shoving my hands firmly in my coat pockets, I turned my back to her and took a few aimless steps. "There's a bar down on the corner. You think it's still open?" 'Yeah, it'll be open."

"I thought maybe I could buy you something." It was half statement, half question.

She accepted the offer with relief and gratitude. It went double tor me. .

She wrapped up tight and we walked across the street to a place with no name that I had noticed. Socially, it was somewhere between the Top Hat and the Stumble Inn. I bought a couple drinks at the bar and carried them to a booth in the rear, where we sat opposite each other. She put half of hers away in one needy gulp and fell back to catch her breath.

"All right?" I asked.

"Yeah. It was getting pretty cold up there in the studio."

"Cold?" I was worried about how much I'd taken from her.

"They practically turn the heat off at night. I guess the idea is to discourage tenants from doing what I was trying to do. They got ordinances against taking a flop in a joint zoned for office space."

"You have no place else to go?"

"I figured it'd be okay for one night, then I could look for another hotel."

"Tell me about Stan."

Her face clouded and started to crumple. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Our encounter must have left a few positive aftereffects somewhere in her mind.

Either that or she really did want to talk. I kept my supernatural influences to myself and waited her out.

"It's just-the stuff I've done..." Tears ran out of both eyes and she blindly pawed the contents of her purse.

I gave her a clean handkerchief. I usually carried an extra. "It's all right, Doreen.

I've seen a thing or two."

She brought the snuffling under control and cleared her throat by draining the other half of her glass. "Stan was the one with the ideas," she explained, finally jumping in.

"Like that fancy mirror in his room?"

"Yeah. He was already doing stuff, but only in a small way. He'd get love letters and use them-that kind of thing."

"Rich girls?"

"Not rich. He wasn't in that crowd, but he did go for ones that had money of their own and a reputation to keep. He could spot a spoiled brat looking for thrills a mile away, then move in and take them. He'd get enough money from them to live on, but not so much that they'd scream for a lawyer or cop. Stan was careful not to push too hard. If it looked like she'd kick up a fuss, he'd back off and find someone else easier to deal with."

"How did you two get together?"

"He needed a photographer."

"And... ?"

"He heard I did artistic photos, so he came around and asked if I was interested.

He had everything all worked out about the hotel rooms. A place like the Boswell don't have any kind of house man, so it was easy to set up. We just moved in and I started taking pictures."

"He didn't mind being photographed?"

She smiled crookedly. "No, he enjoyed it. When he wasn't playing Prince Charming for the girls, he was just about the vainest creature on God's green earth.

He used to flip through the prints I made, get himself pretty worked up..." She began to blush. I was glad that she could still do it.

I smiled wanly. "I know what it's like, Doreen."

"I guess we all do."

"What happened with Kitty Donovan?"

"She was just another mark."

"You get pictures of them together?"

"No. She liked her own place better. Stan never could get her into that hotel bed."

I was happy to hear it. "Then why'd he stick with her?"

"Because of the people she knew. She was his ticket into the good places and the people with real money."

"Like Marian Pierce's crowd?"

"Yeah, she was part of it. Stan thought she was ripe for picking, except he couldn't get past that crazy boyfriend of hers." The smile melted away. "Oh, God, I can't believe he's gone."

I was fresh out of handkerchiefs and gave her the drink I'd bought as window dressing. "You loved him?"

"I didn't have any reason to, so I guess I did. That'd explain all this, wouldn't it?"

She gulped down a sob and got control again. "Look, would you tell me what happened to him? I couldn't ask the cops."

"And they didn't tell you?"

"Why should they? I was listening while they were in Stan's room. The way they were talking about him... I put it together that he was... was dead. I couldn't say anything, either. I was afraid they'd take me in if they found out about the racket we had going. It was horrible."

And what I had to tell her was no comfort. I kept it short. "Stan was killed at Kitty Donovan's place. Someone knocked him out and stabbed him. It was quick. He wouldn't have felt much."

She put her head down in her hands, moaning. I left the table to get another drink.

"Trouble?" asked the bartender.

"Death in the family."

He was sympathetic and pushed my money away. "On the house."

"Thanks."

"After this one, get her home, make her sleep."

"You know her?"

"She's been in a few times for a beer. She won't be used to the hard stuff. It'll hit her like a brick pretty soon."

"I'll watch out." I went back to the booth. "Doreen?"

She raised her head with difficulty and blew her nose into the sodden linen.

"I'm... I'll be all right."

"Sure you will."

"Do the cops know who did it? Do they know why?"

"They're looking for Kitty."

"That little girl scout? She couldn't do anything like that."

"I don't think she did. You knew him. Who wanted to kill him?"

She shook her head and kept on shaking it. "Leadfoot Sam, maybe. Stan owed him a bundle. That's why I got out while I could. I didn't want him learning about me and Stan or he'd try and muscle it out of me. I don't have that kind of money, but he wouldn't believe that."

"I talked with Sam earlier."

"You..." she blinked against the tears with surprise.

I made a calming gesture. "He's not so tough once you learn how to handle him.

Anyway, he doesn't know what's happened and I figure that that's the truth. He can't collect money from a dead man, so he's not really a suspect with me. Can't you think of anyone else? One of your clients?"

"Jeez, I just don't know. There were plenty of 'em sore as hell or hurt or embarrassed, but not enough to kill. He was careful, I said."

"Did he ever call one in?"

"What'd'ya mean?"

"The photos, did he ever use one and blow things for the girl?"

She was genuinely astonished. "Not that I know of. He only threatened, it wouldn't do him any good to push it that far. He'd just hold it over their heads.

They'd either call his bluff or pay off. Almost all of them paid off. He knew how to pick and choose. If they didn't pay, he'd just let it go and find someone else to work on."

"Did he always take money?"

"Brother, that's all he would take."

"What about jewelry?"

"Too much trouble to hock or sell. He left that for them to do." She finished off the drink. "Y'know, maybe it was that crazy boyfriend of Marian's."

"Why do you think so?"

"Stan said the guy was nuts, even took a swing at him once."

"When and where?"

"I dunno. One of those fancy places. Stan ducked in time and laughed about it later. He said all he did was have a dance with Marian, then the guy comes in and goes berserk."

I could believe that. "When did this happen?"

She leaned her head on one hand, mussing her hair. "I dunno, I dunno. I'm too tired to think. Will you just take me back?"

"Did Stan have any hiding places?"

"Huh?"

"Where'd he put his valuables?"

"Noplace."

"He must have stashed things somewhere. What about the bank? Did he have a safe-deposit box?"

"No, nothing like that. He carried everything with him. Not that he ever had much."

I remembered McAlister's turned-out pockets. "Wasn't it risky?"

"Safer than leaving it at that fleabag hotel. Stan had a gun, too."

"All the time?"

"Of course."

Whoever had clobbered and stabbed him hadn't given him the chance to use it.

"It wasn't on him."

The news didn't matter much to Doreen. Her head had slipped down onto her arms again. Those three doubles were having their effect.

"C'mon, honey. I'll get you home and put you to bed."

"You'n what army?" she mumbled, more than half-gone. I got her to her feet, waved a good-night to the bartender, and walked her out. The cold air revived her a little, but she leaned against me, as much for comfort as for warmth. We staggered up the stairs to the studio and I steadied her while she fumbled out the key and gave it over.

The entry was dark as before, but we'd left the light on in the inner room. Now it was off.

"Whatizzit?" she asked crossly when I wouldn't let her go in.

I signed for her to stay quiet and listen. The whole building seemed to be listening. Except for her own heart and lungs, I heard nothing. I went inside. When I turned on the light, she followed, tiptoeing unsteadily.

There weren't that many places to search, but the place had been thoroughly turned over. Her suitcase was open, the contents scattered, the pillows gutted, a file cabinet gaped in one corner. The darkroom was in the same shape.

"What did you keep here?" I asked.

She was too far gone to answer right away. "Photos, negatives, chemicals, nothing important. No cash."

"Maybe they didn't want cash." I checked some of the prints from the file cabinet that now lay on the floor. Girls striking different poses wearing little more than a provocative smile was the predominant theme. I recognized the backdrop and pillows.

Doreen knelt by her suitcase and methodically shoved the clothes back inside. She tenderly turned over the smashed remains of her camera, then left it on the floor.

"They got all my negs."

"What was on them?"

She sniffled, found a dry handkerchief among her things, and blew her nose.

"What'd'ya think? Stan's gone and now I got nothing. Absolutely, goddamn nothing.

I'm leaving this town before they take even that away."

"To where?"

She shrugged and began to shuffle photos into a pile. I bent to help her, but a creaking floorboard in the entry caught my attention. I didn't have time to do more than straighten and turn before Leadfoot Sam walked in on us.