I HAD rope, or rather Escott did, stowed in the basement. I helped myself to the whole coil and trussed up the guy after searching him. He had a wallet filled with twenties, a pock etknife, a fountain pen, three money clips holding wads of cash I didn't bother to count, wire-rimmed glasses in a hard leather case, keys, and a map of Chicago with the locations of this house and my club neatly circled. No identification, though, not surprising for his sort.

In another case, larger than the one for his glasses, I found a clean syringe and four small, unlabeled vials. Their dark amber glass effectively hid the color of the liquid contents.

I gave the guy a second glance. So, did he go in for morphine or cocaine? Maybe he had diabetes; he didn't look like a doper, but some people were good at hiding their secrets. I should know. The lack of a label on the vials gave me the idea that the stuff hadn't come from any corner drugstore.

Everything went on the kitchen table next to my hat. I blindfolded and gagged him with a couple of the dish towels and dragged him into the hall. In case he felt frisky when he woke, I tied him fast to the newel post at the foot of the stairs.

In the parlor, I edged open the front curtain and saw an unfamiliar Studebaker parked where I usually left my Buick. Some people have a lot of nerve.

The street seemed clear, but that didn't mean anything; might as well see if he'd brought friends. I unlocked the front and got the mail and papers, tossing things on the hall floor, then went outside to look at the car, offering an easily bushwhacked target. No one took the bait. Damn. I still had plenty of rope left, too.

The car's registration was to a rental garage by the train station. The paperwork bore an illegible signature. My prisoner and his absent pal must have been confident about getting in and out of town without trouble. Had they planned to disappear my body or just didn't think the cops were up to tracing a connection between us? Probably the latter. A lot of these guys were either stupid or brazen depending on how smart they thought they were. Unless someone in Gordy's mob squawked-and no one would-they'd do their job and walk away clean, simple as that. Maybe New York expected Gordy to do the mopping up for them. He'd have done so; those were the rules.

I phoned Derner, who picked up halfway through the first ring. He sounded a whole lot more tense.

"It's me," I said. "Everything's okay, and I'll be in later tonight."

"You sure? What's going on?"

Jeez, he was going to make me think he cared. Maybe he did. If I dropped out of sight, then he'd have to run things. "Expect me when you see me. Business as usual until then."

"Right, okay." Not a lot of confidence there, for which I couldn't blame him. "The cops have been by-it's about Alan Caine. They want to talk to you."

This was tricky. The lines were likely tapped, and Derner knew it. He was a smart man, so this could be a way of feeding the cops misleading information. Fine by me; I could play with the best of them. "They'll have to wait, I've got things to do tonight."

"They're wondering about Jewel Caine, too."

"What do you mean?"

"The way they were going on, she didn't kill herself like the papers said."

"She didn't?"

"Which means someone did her in as well."

"Maybe the same guy who bumped Caine?"

"Whoever that is," he said.

Oh, Derner was doing genius stuff tonight. "My money's on Hoyle. He's crazy. Didn't Caine owe him money?"

"I wouldn't know, but I wouldn't be surprised."

"Okay, see if any of the boys have seen Hoyle. I wanna know what he's been up to lately. If he's the one, we send him over. I don't want no trouble with the coppers."

"Right, Boss."

I hoped someone was listening in. "Another thing-see about making arrangements for Jewel Caine."

"What?" He sounded surprised.

"Arrangements-a funeral. Anyone claimed her? She got family?"

"Uh-"

"Look into it. She was a good egg, we can do right by her."

"Well... uh..." Derner hesitated. He'd be thinking about the money it would cost. The night's takings from just one of the slot machines in the Nightcrawler's back room would pay for a nice service. If necessary, I'd point that out to him. "What about Alan Caine?"

"See if he's got family, then ship him out. Jewel wouldn't want to share the billing."

I hung up, then dialed a number I'd scribbled in pencil on my shirt cuff the night before. There was a delay as I negotiated with a hotel switchboard operator, then Bobbi's voice came on.

"It's me," I said again, but my tone was a lot warmer. "You okay?"

"Are you?" she countered.

"I am now, sweetheart."

"Anything wrong?"

"All the time," I said cheerfully. "But I'm taking care of it."

Bobbi required a lot more convincing than Derner, and such convincing would require us to be in the same room so I could give her a hands-on demonstration. Hands, lips, skin to skin, I was more than ready to show her exactly how well I was doing. I was a little nervous about it, but it beat the previous mind-freezing terror I'd felt before. Escott's version of a pep talk had sorted out a lot of things.

I owed him, all right.

And... Bobbi didn't know about the fight yet, or she'd have-

"I'm glad you're better," she said shortly. "Now what the hell happened to Charles?"

Oh.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn, damn.

Given a choice, I'd rather have Coldfield come back and make me into a sparring dummy for a few hours instead of trying to explain things to her. "Uh, we had a disagreement that got out of hand."

"Disagreement?" Bobbi rarely shouted. As a singer, she thought it might damage her vocal cords, but this was an unequivocal shriek.

I winced. "Look, it's just something we got into, and it's over now. We're friends again."

"You put him in the HOSPITAL!"

"I know that, but-"

"You could have KILLED him!"

"Yeah, but-"

Bobbi made more loud and shrill observations about Escott's condition and my responsibility for it. I tried a placating tone when I could get a word in, then noticed Kroun had put his head around the corner. He'd shaved and resumed his damaged clothes and had his palms over his ears, letting me know he could hear her end all too well. I refused to be embarrassed about it.

"Let-her-talk," he whispered, exaggerating each word so I could read his lips.

I didn't have any better ideas, and it was obvious that Bobbi had been boiling for some time, so I shut up. She was staying at the same hotel with Gordy and his girlfriend, being watched over by Shoe Coldfield. He must have let her know a thing or three.

As before, I stood there and took it, and in some ways it hurt more than a physical beating. When she asked for the why of the matter, I fell back on the disagreement excuse.

"Why won't you tell me?" she demanded.

"Because it's not important anymore, and I know that sounds like a load of bull, but it's over now, it really is. I've apologized to him, and we're copacetic again."

She made a low growling noise, thick with dissatisfaction. Her protective soft spot for Escott was the size of the Grand Canyon. Perhaps he could persuade her to calm down. It struck me then that everyone had assumed I was the bad guy in the matter. Granted, I was still on my feet and a lot faster and stronger than Escott, but he did throw the first punch. A lot of them. But I'd thrown the last and most effective, so I was the bully. Those were the hard-cheese rules; I'd just have to live with them.

Kroun moved to the table to check the stuff I'd taken off his friend. He opened the cases, didn't seem surprised by the syringe, looked in the wallet, and tossed it back. He went through the contents of the money clips. Each had five twenties on top, and the rest were fifties and C-notes. I lost track as he counted through them, but at least nine or ten grand was there. He pocketed the fortune without a blink.

"Listen, Bobbi," I said, "we'll talk to Charles, and he'll let you know he's all right. We can visit Roland at the same time-and how is he doing?"

That subject change got me another earful, but not nearly as harsh. She knew I wasn't to blame for Roland's wounding. Not too much, anyway.

Kroun picked up the car keys, tossing them high and catching them one-handed, showing impatience. Nice to know that he was so well recovered, but I still had more peacemaking to conduct with Bobbi and put my back to him. She'd cooled down somewhat, hopefully to the point where she wouldn't take my block off when we did get together. Kroun cleared his throat, coughed, and spat something into the sink. He ran water.

"What's that?" Bobbi asked.

"My guest from the party you threw last night."

"I thought he'd be gone."

"We still have some loose ends to tie up. It's going to take a while."

"The last visiting hour at the hospital starts at eight. I'll be there, then coming back to this hotel again."

"I'll go as fast as I can, but you know how it is."

"Yes, I certainly do." Dry tone from her, very dry. Ouch.

There was no way to end this one on her good side, so I offered a weak bye-I'll-see-you-soon and hung up. I waited to see if the phone rang with a fresh emergency, but it kept quiet.

"You ready?" Kroun asked. He'd wandered into the hall. He watched the prisoner, who still seemed to be out.

"Not yet. I need a new shirt."

"Make it quick, I need one more than you do."

A hot bath and shave would have been great, but the most I had time for was a fast swipe with a wet towel, then jump into a fresh suit. Not my best one, nor the worst, but it went with the thickening chin stubble. Maniac killers lurking in dark alleys might think twice about taking a swing at me; I was less sure about the mugs at the Nightcrawler Club.

When I came downstairs, the man was no longer tied to the banister post, and rope ends lay on the floor. What the...?

Kroun was in the parlor, feet on the low table, reading a paper. "Don't worry," he said, not looking up. "I just put him in the car is all."

"You-?"

"Carried him out the door in front of God and everyone, yes, that's what I did. No one's made a commotion about it. You ready?"

I couldn't wait to get rid of him. Them.

I went to the hall closet, shrugged on one of my old overcoats, then to the kitchen to get my hat, a spare house key from one of the drawers, and the gun from Escott's coat. The roscoe the intruder brought was gone, so it figured that Kroun was armed, too. Double-armed, since he'd had a gun last night. He'd left the other effects on the table. I scooped them into a pocket, noting the bullet holes in the wall above the phone. Those would have to be patched before Escott came home.

It hardly seemed worth the effort to lock the house, but I went through the motions. Kroun handed over the car keys and got in on the passenger side. After the barest hesitation, he slammed the door shut. I slipped behind the wheel, adjusting the mirror.

"Where is he?" I asked. The backseat was empty of mobster.

"Trunk," said Kroun.

"He'll freeze."

"Only if we keep sitting here."

Taking the hint, I started the motor. I'd driven a Studebaker once before when working on a case, and afterward read magazine ads with close interest. The car was supposed to have a setup so that when stopped on a hill you didn't have to dance with the clutch, gas, and brake pedals to keep from rolling backward before it went into gear. As we were in a flat area, there was no opportunity to test things, but it was a sweet ride all the same. I hoped the guy in the trunk had air and not exhaust fumes to eat.

"Which hotel?" I asked Kroun.

"Hotel?"

"Where your stuff is."

"Skip that, take me to a men's store. A good one."

What the hell? "You're going buy stuff? It'll take all night."

"Not if it's a good store."

"Longer than getting the stuff at your hotel."

"Just find a place and give me ten minutes."

Son of a bitch. I wasn't interested in arguing, though, so I drove a few miles and pulled up to a clear stretch of curb. There were plenty to spare for a change since this part of the Loop didn't do much evening business.

Kroun got out, moving easily. During the day his bum leg had healed. He reached the store's door just as some guy inside locked it. Fine, like it or not, we would swing by his hotel instead.

When Kroun rapped the glass, the man shook his head and made an exaggerated shrug of apology. He probably didn't like the looks of this scruffy customer. He suddenly froze in place. For a second I thought Kroun had done an evil-eye whammy. The guy glanced over his shoulder then stared at Kroun or rather at something in his hand. Not a gun. Kroun had pulled out one of the money clips and waved several of the C-notes temptingly back and forth. A second guy joined the first and also froze, but only for a moment. The power of raw cash galvanized them, God bless America.

The door magically unlocked, and Kroun walked in like he owned the place. For all intents and purposes, he did. I marked the time to see if he'd make his ten minutes, then quit the car, going around to the trunk. The other key on the ring opened it.

There weren't a lot of pedestrians, and they were in a hurry to get out of the cold wind whipping around the buildings. Privacy secured, I lifted the trunk lid to check on the guy. He was curled on his side facing away from me, hands tied behind him, not looking any too comfortable. He stirred a little, his movements groggy and uncertain.

I adjusted his gag so nothing covered his nose. He jerked at the touch. "Easy does it, pal. You breathing okay?"

He mumphed something, pissed. Couldn't blame him.

"Glad to hear it. Want to tell me where your partner is?"

The next mumph I interpreted as cussing rather than anything cooperative.

"I'm betting he's at my nightclub. Want to put something on that?"

More cussing, and he started fighting against the ropes.

I slammed the lid quick as a group of office girls scurried past; a few of them giggled as I tipped my hat at them, nonchalant as Fred Astaire pretending to be a bum.

Someone had pulled the store's shades down for the night, but the lights remained on. I strolled slow up and down the walk to stay limber and kept my ears open for noises from the car trunk. If the guy drew attention, I'd have to clock him again. He didn't, so I walked and checked my watch.

This was ridiculous, of course. The other night I'd tried to make myself permanently dead, and when that hadn't worked out, I'd planned for a second, more extreme effort that would have succeeded. Right now I should have been on a slab in a morgue, not standing in freezing wind outside a store waiting while some lunatic bought himself a suit.

And yet, here I was... and, strangely, it was all right.

Which had to make me the lunatic.

I'd read stories about suicides, and knew of some who had gone through with it, and at the time the thought was what a waste, felt a little sadness, and that was pretty much it. Not until I saw the blind fury on Escott's face did I consider its harsh effect on other people concerned, the ones close to the victim. There was no understanding or forgiveness for my actions, no shred of sympathy, as I'd expected. He'd accused me of being a selfish bastard for doing that to Bobbi, to him, to everyone who gave a tinker's damn about me. He was right. It wasn't only about my pain. It was the pain my hurting myself would give them. Better to just spit in their eyes and walk away with no explanation. Only I hadn't had the guts to do that-or the guts to ask for help.

So, I had indeed been a selfish, cowardly bastard.

Wincing, I silently added in stupid at the beginning of the list. I should have it printed for a sign and nail it to the wall over my bed. The idea would be to do my best to disagree with it each night when I woke up.

Would Escott remember my hospital visit? Would he believe me when I told him I was better? What I'd done had left scars on us both. It had changed things. For good or for bad, the change would always be there.

We'd just have to deal with it. The deed was done, and I'd have to live with the consequences.

That-or spit in his eye.

I shook my head. No. I wouldn't be traveling that road. He'd once crawled out of his own private abyss. I could do the same.

In nine minutes, Kroun emerged, looking a new man entirely in a sharp dark suit and polished shoes. When I first met him, he had a way of filling a room all by himself. People noticed it; men stood up straighter, and women leaned closer when he walked past. It had faded with the explosion and shooting, but that quality was back in spades. The hired help must have responded, for he was getting royal treatment.

He buttoned up a heavy wool overcoat and pulled on leather gloves. One of the shop guys clipped the tag from a charcoal gray fedora and handed it over with a slight bow and broad smile. They moved out of the way for three guys rushing past with arms full of boxes. I obligingly held the car door as they took turns shoving everything into the backseat. Last to go in were two suitcases wedged on top, blocking the window.

Kroun politely thanked everyone, tipped them each a twenty, which was twice what they earned in a week, and got in the car. They enthusiastically thanked him, adding invitations to come back whenever he liked, day or night.

I got in and turned the motor over. He checked his new silver wristwatch. "Ten minutes, if this thing is right."

It looked too expensive ever to be wrong.

"Now that's how you buy stuff," he said, satisfied.

"Oh yeah?"

"Let them do the work. They know the territory."

"What about mirrors?" Those were the main reason I got clothes only after a store was closed. It was easier than hypnotizing the whole staff-which was no longer an option anyway. I just slipped in, picked what I wanted, and left money in the manager's office along with the tags. Unlawful entry I was good at, but I wasn't a thief.

"I just stripped and had them dress me from the skin out. Ben Franklins make it go fast. How do I look?"

He was in blacks and charcoals, with a faint pinstripe on the suit, his white shirt nearly glowing in contrast to a midnight blue silk tie. "Like a mob undertaker."

Kroun settled the fedora at a rakish angle. "Let's go arrange some services, then."

"The other guy's probably waiting at my club."

He gestured for me to proceed.

There was traffic, as always, so it took some time to get there. If the man in the trunk hadn't tried to knock me off, I'd have felt sorry for him.

Not long for him now, though. I circled Lady Crymsyn's block, alert to lurking toughs. Neither of us spotted the prisoner's buddy.

"Think he's inside?" I asked.

"Count on it," said Kroun.

No point in asking why his bunch was so allergic to an ordinary invited entry after a polite knock; he wouldn't understand the question.

I pulled into my reserved spot in the parking lot next to the club. Damn, this Studie drove smooth, but I wasn't ready to give up my Buick yet. It had gone into the shop for new tires, then some eager beaver decided to put in some extra work. I'd made it clear to Derner-who only thought he was doing me a favor-that I didn't want solid-rubber tires, armor plating, and bulletproof glass added on. It was a Buick, for God's sake.

Just as I set the hand brake another car suddenly bounced into the lot and stopped directly behind us, blocking our escape.

Kroun and I went alert at the same instant. I didn't want to be trapped and piled out on my side, turning to face the threat. Kroun mirrored me, hand dipping to his overcoat pocket. I resisted the urge to go for my own gun, having the luxury of vanishing if need be.

Then I saw the kind of antenna on the other car and recognized the driver. "Nothing to worry," I called across the car roof to Kroun. "It's just the cops. Relax."

He muttered so that only I'd be able to hear. "Relax? You kidding?"

"Nothing to worry," I repeated.

"Body in the trunk," he reminded.

"Relax, dammit."

I shut the door and sauntered toward the Studie's back fender. Watching, Kroun stayed put, but took his hand from his pocket. His shoulders eased down.

The two men got out of their unmarked car, standing in place long enough to give us plenty of time to recall and sweat over our most recent sins. Even an innocent person has that reaction when getting the eye from a cop. They do it to people on purpose. I've seen it. It goes together with the fact that a cop can say "come with me," and you have to go. I usually didn't have a problem with that so long as it wasn't aimed my way.

I remembered the driver from last night; he'd asked a lot of questions about Roland Lambert's shooting. Sergeant something-or-other. He must not have been happy with my distracted answers, and it was a cinch he didn't believe any of Roland's malarkey.

"Hello, Sergeant... uh..." I tried, but just couldn't pull his name from my mental hat. He was a tough-looking son of a bitch; I usually remembered that type out of self-preservation.

"Merrifield," he provided, apparently unoffended. "I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Fleming."

I rated a "mister"? Maybe that was to put me off guard, but the way they'd rolled in so fast was not reassuring. They must have been parked up the block on the lookout for any activity at the club. "No problem, what about?"

"How about we go inside?"

If there was a mug waiting to ambush me in the club, he might get nervous and shoot everyone. "Out here's fine."

Merrifield didn't like that answer but wasn't going to press. His partner eyeballed Kroun, who had somehow toned his personal magnetism down to show only a poker-bland face. "Who's your pal?"

"Old friend from out of town."

"What's his business?"

"Just visiting. What's it to you?"

"You got a lot of junk in the back, what is that stuff?"

"His luggage, see the suitcases? C'mon, Sergeant, what's the deal? You got some real questions, I'll be glad to answer 'em." I hoped he didn't want to look in the trunk. I doubly hoped the guy stashed there kept quiet. Maybe he'd heard me and knew there were cops at hand. In his line of work, they were the common enemy.

Merrifield wanted the story behind Roland Lambert's shooting. Again. I gave him everything I knew except the names of the shooters. "I didn't see them, they went by too fast."

"And why were they shooting at you?"

He got a reprise of last night's song and dance of useless information. "I wish I could help you, but that's all there is. I'm just glad nothing worse happened."

"Actually, it did."

I felt a sharp internal jab of fear, thinking some new catastrophe had surfaced, but Merrifield only wanted more about Alan Caine's murder. That was a relief, just not much of one. He knew I'd been at the Nightcrawler where Caine was last seen alive. I confirmed that and again told him Caine had skipped out on the second show. The backstage talk was he'd claimed sickness and left, which I repeated.

"The guy was a real ass," I said. "Anyone could have gunned him down."

"He was strangled."

"Damn papers never get anything right." One of them had indeed swapped the facts, claiming Caine was shot and his ex-wife Jewel was strangled.

"Then what is the right story?"

"You're asking the wrong guy." I wanted to put him straight about Jewel's not killing herself, but you can't say something like that and not have to explain the why and how of it.

"Where were you when Northside Gordy's car blew up?" he asked.

"In my club minding my own business."

"What are you doing being such good pals with a mug like Gordy?"

"You know, my granny asks me that every Sunday after church. I'm still trying to figure it out."

Merrifield was the patient sort. Usually my lip would have me in more trouble by now. "We know you've been running the show for him lately. You were at the Nightcrawler for Caine's swan song, and you were sniffing around that little dancer he was cozy with. Then Gordy's car blows up, Lambert's shot, your limey Sherlock pal lands in the hospital, and two mugs associated with the Northside gang have their heads bashed in... shall I go on?"

"What mugs?" I thought I sounded convincing.

"You know them. We've talked to people, and the one connection they've given for all of it is you, Fleming... you're up to your eyebrows and sinking. Either you're doing this for Gordy or covering up for him while he does the dirty work. He'll hang you out to dry when he's done, too. Don't think he won't. Where is he?"

"Taking a vacation. I heard he's got a girlfriend keeping him busy."

"I'll bet he has. Why have you got a bounty out for Hurley Gilbert Dugan?"

He caught me by surprise. Only the guys in the mob were supposed to know about that. The cops had plenty of stoolies, though. "I was just doing my part as a concerned citizen by putting up a reward. Dugan kidnapped that poor girl, murdered those people-don't you think he should be off the street? Anyway, I withdrew it."

"Why? Is he dead?"

"Not that I know, but I wouldn't be sorry if he was."

"If he is, we'll talk to you about it first."

"I can't help you. He's probably dusted out of town for Timbuktu by now. Sweat those mugs who helped him out. They still locked up, or did a fancy lawyer spring them so they could disappear, too?"

Merrifield looked ready to shove my nose to a different part of my face. "Who's this bird again?" He jerked his chin in Kroun's direction.

"An old buddy from the army. We used to loaf in a bar and play footsie under the table, but don't tell his wife."

Kroun shrugged modestly at the other cop. "What can I say, he's crazy about me."

"Oh, yeah, real cute," said Merrifield. "I've had enough. Fleming, you and him get in the car. You can hold hands on the way to the station."

"You charging me with something?"

"No, I'm throwing a tea party so you can give me all the gossip. Come on." He took my arm, and I stifled the urge to pull away, or he'd say it was resisting arrest. I'd spend the night in the tank with the drunks. If I was lucky. "Garza..." he called to his partner.

But Garza was busy talking with Kroun. Listening, rather. Listening hard. Kroun had him fixed in place and was speaking low and intense. The wind carried away his words. Garza's face was blank, his jaw beginning to sag.

It was creepy seeing the process from the outside, and I wondered if I'd looked like that when doing my evil-eye parlor trick.

I had learned fast to rely on it, respect its power over others, and finally to fear it. Use it again, and the internal explosion would punch my ticket fast enough. But I'd gotten on without the talent for thirty-six years prior to my death and return; I could do all right in the future.

So long as I avoided situations like this, dammit.

"Garza!" snapped Merrifield. He still had my arm and drew me around as he turned.

Kroun kept up the patter for a few more words, probably telling Garza to stay put, then swung his gaze on Merrifield.

It was the reverse of a searchlight. Instead of a bright beam blinding you, it was like getting sucked into a hell pit of pure darkness. You were just as blind and falling, to boot.

I felt the dizzying tug like a physical force. That was wrong. I should have been immune to the influence of another vampire. If he'd thrown that directly at me, I'd have gone under the same as any human. I stepped back and to the side, as though to get clear of his range of fire.

Merrifield stopped in his tracks, not moving as Kroun stalked closer.

God, his eyes were unnerving. I'd seen them like that the night before when he'd taken aim at Mitchell, ready to kill. Kroun's soul was gone, well and truly gone.

In the vacated space I glimpsed something looking out from inside that made my flesh crawl. Sit in a pitch-black room, hear a noise, and ask "Who's there?" and of course there's no answer. What was behind Kroun's eyes was the thing that stands quiet and unseen just a few inches in front of you, aware of your growing fear, not answering your question.

Waiting.

It looked at me, blinked, and suddenly Kroun was back. Just that quick.

I'd not imagined it. I wanted to think so, but it had been there, and I was certain he was unaware of what was inside him.

Was it just him, or were we all like that?

Merrifield got back in his car, not saying anything or even seeming to notice me. Garza followed. The motor caught and rumbled, coughing when Merrifield shifted gears and backed out of the lot. Another metallic cough, and they drove off, blending with the rest of the traffic.

"Nice friends you've got," said Kroun.

"What'd you tell him?" I asked, voice faint.

"Didn't you hear?"

"Wind in my ears." Which was partly true. It had kicked up a lot and was colder than before. I'd been too spooked to hear. Was still spooked.

"I told him you couldn't help with his case, and he should go looking for a guy named Hoyle since he did all the killings. That was the one who helped Mitch, right?"

"Yeah." I didn't like thinking of Hoyle. I get that way about people who are shot right in front of me. The aftermath of his death had been even worse, and I wasn't going to think about that either.

Kroun lifted his hat and brushed a hand along the left side of his head, grimacing.

"You okay?" I said.

"Huh?"

"Does it give you a headache? What you did to them?"

"The eye-to-eye gag? As much as anything else. I can't take aspirin for it, either."

"Crush the pills up and mix them with blood."

"Really?" He seemed perfectly normal, wholly unaware of his quiet passenger. Not much I could do about it. He wouldn't believe me if I mentioned what I'd seen.

"Couldn't hurt to try."

He settled his hat into place. "C'mon, let's get this over with."

The front of the club was dark, but lights showed through the windows. My sign about being temporarily closed was still in place, barely. The wind and damp were having their way with the cardboard, and it would tear free before the night was out. Standing so I wouldn't be framed in the opening, I cautiously opened the door, letting it swing inward.

"Not too smart of him," Kroun observed. "He should have relocked it after breaking in."

"That's my doing. We left so fast the other night I forgot."

"Huh. Hope you said good-bye to all your booze, it'll be gone by now."

Maybe.

"Why would he put the lights on?" Kroun asked. "He might as well have a brass band announce he's here."

"That's Myrna."

"Who's she? Cleaning lady? You got someone in there?"

"No nothing like that." I doubted Kroun was ready to meet the club's resident ghost. Myrna had been a bartender killed during a gang war some years back. She liked to play with the lights. The fact that the place was blazing like New Year's Eve was meant as a warning to me.

"You first," said Kroun, gesturing, very polite.

"Why me?"

"You got the vanishing trick. Check the place out. Find him."

"You know who he is?"

"I think so. The guy in the trunk usually travels with a mug named Broder. Muscle. He's big and a lot faster than you'd think-"

"I'm glad to hear it, but I'm not going rounds with him."

"You might if you surprise him the wrong way."

"I'm not surprising him at all. The only reason they want to kill me is because they think you're dead. He knows you, just go in and tell him to lay off."

"Oh." He seemed nonplussed about the reminder. "Yeah. I'll do that then."

I held back, and he went first, calling Broder's name and identifying himself. After a few long minutes he returned.

"Copacetic."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

I wasn't so confident, but followed him in.

Broder was damn near as big as Gordy and didn't look nearly as friendly and gregarious. I'd have tagged him for a wrestler, but he lacked the thick paunch around the middle most of them had. Football, then, and his teammates would nickname him "Bulldozer." He looked more maneuverable and a lot harder to knock over. He regarded me with hooded, unfriendly brown eyes.

"Broder," said Kroun, "this is Jack Fleming, the guy you're not going to kill after all."

Broder grunted; his voice box must have originally been dug out of the ground somewhere and replanted in him, the tone was that deep. He didn't offer to shake hands, and I was glad of it.

"Okay, that was nice," said Kroun, who could see this was as chummy as we'd ever get. "Fleming, if you'd bring in the last member of the party, we can finish this up."

At the mention of the other guy, I was sure Broder growled. It was so low it might have been the rumble of a diesel engine from two streets over.

The light behind the bar flickered. Myrna was letting me know she was on watch. Kroun and Broder both looked at it.

"You should change that bulb," Kroun said.

"I'll make a note," I said, and went outside.

The wind had a nasty bite. I rarely noticed the cold, which meant it must be a really bad night for regular folks. Because of it, I expected the man in the trunk to be half-frozen and in need of a blanket and something hot to drink.

I expected, but didn't count on it, and drew my gun as I lifted the lid.

Good thing, too. He came out swinging. He'd gotten free of the ropes and had a tire iron in one hand and a long screwdriver in the other. I jumped back as he lashed hard with the iron in a lethal backhand. He missed breaking my knee by a gnat's whisker.

"Hey!" I yelled, which didn't do a damn bit of good. He boiled out, staggered for balance, then went for me, mad as spit. I moved a lot faster to get clear. He was too far gone to notice the gun. When he did see it, he made a determined swipe with the screwdriver.

Damn. I couldn't tell if he was nuts for real or gambling I wouldn't shoot. A gun's only good if you intend to use it.

He had me there. Time to cheat. I pocketed the revolver, ducked around the bulk of the car, and vanished. Almost immediately I reversed, knowing he'd been right after me.

Yeah. He was just there, probably realizing I wasn't where I should have been. He hesitated a second, which was all I needed to get behind him. Reappearing, I put him in a full nelson. He was no shrimp, but I had a supernatural edge in strength. I aimed sideways toward the building and launched us against it-only I vanished an instant before impact. Momentum did the rest.

He hit it pretty hard, to judge by the thump and grunt. I went solid. He'd lost the screwdriver and was wheezing, having had his breath knocked out. I dipped in before he could recover and plucked the tire iron away. He started for me again, but his energy was gone. I sidestepped like a matador and grabbed the back of his coat collar as he passed, hauling him around so he fell forward across the hood of the car.

"Settle down, pal, we're just going to talk," I said, catching and twisting one arm behind him.

"Go to hell," he puffed, struggling.

I pushed until his face was mashed against the metal and lifted his arm a few notches. Any more would break or dislocate it depending on where I put the pressure. He still struggled. "I've already been there, thanks to you and Hog Bristow."

At that name, and the emphasis I placed on it, he paused.

"We talk," I said quietly. "And maybe have a drink. You wanna get out of the cold?"

He thought it over, then nodded. I let him up easy, ready for another round. He rubbed his arm instead, his gaze sharp. "This is your club."

That was a quick recovery. He knew how to land on his feet. "Broder's waiting for you."

His eyes flickered. How did I know the name? Then he figured it out. "Where is he?"

"In the bar. Great guy. I want him to meet my sister."

That got me the kind of glare I was used to; nobody likes a wiseacre. "Is he all right?"

"Just peachy," I said, mimicking Kroun. "C'mon and see for yourself."

I tossed the iron and screwdriver in the trunk, slammed the lid, and walked toward the front of the club. The man followed, alert to trouble. His hand went to the inside of his coat, a familiar gesture for those used to a shoulder rig. He'd certainly know his gun was gone; it was an unconscious habit, like looking at your wrist whether the watch is there or not.

I opened the door to Lady Crymsyn and motioned him in. He gave me a fierce once-over. In the brighter light, his eyes were a very startling blue, like honest-to-God sapphires. I'd have to keep him away from Bobbi. She had a weakness for blue-eyed guys. Those peepers and the film-star looks could keel her over.

He stepped in and halted. The club's d��cor was impressive: black and white marble, chrome trim, a high ceiling, and enough red to justify the name. Over the entry to the main room hung the larger-than-life portrait of Lady Crymsyn herself. She didn't really exist, but a lot of men wanted her phone number all the same.

My new guest was focused elsewhere, gaping and suddenly white-faced at the sight of a nonchalant Kroun standing next to the bar. "Gabriel," he whispered. "Son of a bitch."

"You keep my mother out of this, Michael," said Kroun, without humor.

I glanced speculatively at Broder. If his first name was Raphael, we could move this to a church soup kitchen and have a quick prayer service.

He glared back, and I thought better about asking.