The waiter reached the booth. "Uh, Mr. Escott, this lady wants to see-oh." He spotted me. "Didn't know you were here, Mr. Fleming."

Escott and I stood as the little lady trotted up the last steps.

Her big-eyed gaze fell on me. "Jack Fleming?"

"Yeah. Something wrong?" I signed for the waiter to retreat.

She waited until he was out of earshot, then nodded vigorously.

"What?"

"They're going to kill Alan Caine," she blurted in her Betty Boop voice. Apparently it wasn't an affectation after all.

"Who?"

"Those men."

"What, they're back?"

"Not yet, but they will be. His life is in danger!"

"As in later tonight, but not just this minute?"

"Please, this isn't a joke! He needs help!"

Escott cleared his throat, giving me a look, the kind with a raised eyebrow in it.

"Just checking the urgency of the situation," I told him, then turned back to her. "You're Evie... ah... ?"

"Montana. I'm Evie Montana, just like the state, it's my name."

"Charles Escott," he volunteered, taking her hand and adding in one of his polite little bows.

"Pleased, I'm sure," she said, cute as a Kewpie doll.

"If the emergency is not immediate, perhaps you will sit and tell us all about it," he suggested, motioning her into the booth.

She cocked her head. "You're English, aren't you, just like in England?"

"Once upon a time. Please... ?"

She took the hint and slipped in. Released from our gentlemanly duty, we sat opposite her. I leaned back in the middle of the half circle; Escott clasped his hands on the table in his best listening posture. "What is the problem, Miss Montana?"

"Well, Alan Caine is just the greatest singer ever, better than Caruso even, and he's just really too artistic and innocent and people take advantage of him and he gets into jams and he's in a jam now and these guys are gonna kill him if he doesn't pay what he owes and they really mean business."

"I see," he said. "And who are they exactly?"

"They're muscle for the Nightcrawler Club. They got gambling there and these cardsharps took advantage of Alan and he ran up a marker and they're gonna kill him if he doesn't pay off."

"The cardsharps?"

"No, the muscle. They want him to pay the club."

"So the money he owes is to the Nightcrawler, not Hoyle?" I asked.

"Who's Hoyle?" She turned her big eyes on me, blinking.

"That guy you jumped on earlier tonight."

"He's the muscle trying to collect the marker." she said, as though I should know already. "They got dozens of guys just like him, and they're all gonna kill Alan tonight if he doesn't pay off."

"I get that. You're sure he doesn't owe personally to Hoyle?"

"He owes the club and that goon is their muscle and-"

"Okay-okay. I get that, too. So why'd you come to me?"

"Because you helped us earlier and because some of the other girls said you were all right because you dated one of the singers there once and they said you were all right because she was all right."

"Not because you think I'm running things?"

"You're running things? What things? They said

this was your club. If you're running things at the

Nightcrawler..." She started to get up, but Escott caught her hand.

"It's all right," he assured. "I'm sure Mr. Fleming can sort this out for you."

I said, "Shouldn't be a problem. If he owes money, he has to pay the marker, but no one's going to kill him for it."

"But that big goon was hitting him!"

"The big goon won't be back. I'll make a call and put in the fix for you. If Caine's dead, he can't pay off his marker, so he's safe enough."

"It's not just them, it's that witch of an ex-wife, too. She keeps calling him and threatening him and it gets him all upset and then he goes into the casino to try to win what he owes her and then they take advantage of him and then-

" Her voice rose shrill, threatening to compete with the band.

I put my hand up like a traffic cop. "Slow down, Evie."

She stopped altogether, looking like I'd just slapped her. She made a peculiar sup-sup noise, then her face suddenly screwed up. She plowed blindly in her handbag and pulled out a handkerchief just in time for the waterworks.

Escott was better at holding hands and saying "there-there" than I was, so I gritted my teeth and sat out the next few minutes until he got her calmed. Sympathy came easier to him; he'd never met Alan Caine.

"Don't you believe me?" she asked. "He's in real danger. I thought you might help. I thought you could make them leave him alone."

"I said I'd fix it."

"But I heard them and they were saying awful things about him and they got no right to do that. They're all just so mean."

Likely they were blowing off steam about Caine and his singular lack of personal charm. "I'll make a call and take care of it. Caine will be fine, just keep him sober and-"

"Oh, but he never drinks! He just gargles with a little brandy and hot water to keep his vocal cords loose."

From what he'd been breathing on me earlier tonight he kept them loose enough to flap on a windless day.

"It prevents colds, too," she brightly added.

"Aren't you supposed to be dancing in the show?"

"This was more important, because he doesn't know just how much danger he's in, and I could lose my job, but I thought you could help him because..."

After repeating everything in full she eventually ran down. No wonder Caine drank.

"I'll take care of it," I said. "You can go back to the club and don't worry about anything."

"You will? You really, really will?"

Escott stood so I could get out. "Baby-sit?" I muttered.

He gave a good-sport smile and nodded.

I made my way down, going to my office in the usual manner, no vanishing. A few regulars noticed and waved, inviting me over to their various tables. I smiled automatically, mimed a mock-helpless shrug to show I was busy, and moved on. Given a choice I would rather go with Strome to face Kroun down again than pretend to be jovial to the customers.

A quick call to the Nightcrawler's office soon put me in touch with Derner.

"Back at the desk again?" I asked him.

"Pretty much. Anything wrong?" Derner was a man who expected phone calls to have trouble on the other end of the line.

I ascertained that Evie Montana had the basic facts correct and got how much Alan Caine owed the club. It was a lot, but nothing he couldn't afford on what they had to be paying him. I found out how much that was, too.

"Okay, ban him from the casino and let him know what he owes is coming out of his wages."

Derner laughed once. "He ain't gonna like that much."

"Tell him it's pay up this way or get another working-over."

"He won't like that much, either, but I'll make him listen."

"Who booked him in, anyway?"

"His agency. They never mentioned he was walking sandpaper, though. He's outta New York like Kroun."

"They hooked up in some way?"

"You kiddin'? Kroun wouldn't stand for that kinda crap. By the way, congrats on getting out alive."

"Thanks. Where's Kroun now?"

"He left not long back, with Strome driving. Gordy said treat him good, so he gets the fancy car till he goes home."

Having Strome playing chauffeur was also a good way to keep tabs on Kroun. "When will that be?"

There was a shrug in Derner's tone. "Who knows. He's the big boss. Comes and goes, it's his business an' no one else's. He can't stay away from New York for too long, though. Has to be busy like the rest of us."

"Did Strome tell you about our run-in with Hoyle?"

"Yeah. Congrats on that, too. None of those guys has showed here."

"If they do, they're on the outs. Especially Hoyle and Ruzzo."

"No loss with that bunch."

"Did Gordy go home, I hope?"

"Yeah. He left after he got word you were still walking. Lowrey took him home."

"Great. If he calls tomorrow, fill him in on Hoyle, but don't bother him tonight."

"No problem."

If it would only continue to be so, I thought, hanging up. The mob's idea of no problems and mine were usually two different animals.

And it looked like a new one just strolled in my front door. As I came down the stairs a threesome in dark overcoats entered the lobby. One of the men removed his hat and ran a hand through iron gray hair with a distinctive streak of silver-white on the left side.

Ah, shit. Now what?

Whitey Kroun spotted me almost in the same instant and sketched a wave and smile. Mitchell and Strome were with him but in an odd way were almost invisible. Kroun seemed to fill the room as though he was the only one with a right to be there and telegraphed it clear to the corners. Some of the people lingering at the bar for the next show glanced up from conversations as if he'd called them by name.

I wiped off what must have been a "Hell, what are they doing here?" look and assumed my friendly host face, coming the rest of the way down the stairs.

"Good evening again, Mr. Kroun." I managed to sound sincerely welcoming, but there was something about the man that set the skin to rippling on the back of my neck.

Kroun took in the chrome-trimmed, black-and-white marble lobby, impressed. "Fleming," he said as a greeting.

"You look like hell. How's the damage?"

"My doc says I'm still healing."

"And after just a couple hours. That's pretty good."

Had he heard about my fun and games with Hoyle? I couldn't tell from Strome's expression whether or not he'd mentioned the incident. Not that any of it mattered, but Kroun's curiosity reminded me that I was supposed to be walking wounded. I'd better act accordingly.

"Quite a place you got here," Kroun said, very approving.

"Thank you." It could be a mixed blessing when a guy in the mobs liked something of yours. They were in a position to take it from you. "May I offer you a table?"

"Sure."

The hatcheck girl hovered within view, but none of them handed over their coats. Maybe they wouldn't stay long, then. So far the lights held steady, indication that Myrna-if she was around-didn't see trouble ahead. She messed with them when she got upset about something.

Mitchell did a double take on the display easel for Bobbi, fairly gaping.

It hit me smack between the eyes that he'd remember her from when he worked for Morelli. I felt a cold twisting inside again. Bobbi did not need to stroll down memory lane to the bad old days without first getting a fair warning, but I didn't know how to tip her off without broadcasting it to these guys. Play it by ear and hope for the best, then.

I led the way through the short, curving passage to the main room and a second-tier table looked after by the most experienced waiter. He appeared out of nowhere, took orders, vanished, and returned with a trayful almost before my guests were settled in. He'd correctly read the discreet signal I'd given. There would be no check for this party.

Glancing up, I noticed Escott watching us with interest. He knew Strome and would identify Kroun easily enough.

That white streak was hard to miss. But beyond that, Escott had a hell of a memory for names and faces, especially the ones in the mobs. I suspected there was more in his head about the Chicago wiseguys than the FBI files.

"Gentlemen," I said, "Excuse me a sec-club business." I withdrew as the waiter handed out glasses, and went up to the third tier, remembering to move slow and stiff.

"Anything afoot?" Escott asked.

"I don't think so. Kroun probably just wants to check me out some more. We're friends now, after all." I was starting to regret that suggestion.

"Did ya put in the fix for Alan?" asked Evie, anxious. "Did ya?"

"All done. So long as Caine pays his marker, no one gets hurt."

She let out a little squeal and jumped up to hug me, planting a kiss on my jawline, which was as high as she could reach without a footstool and me helping. "Thank you! Thank you!"

Well, this was nice, but attracting attention. I was supposed to be feeling tender around the middle and with difficulty gradually unpeeled her. "Glad to help, but maybe you should get back to the Nightcrawler while you still have a job there."

"I won't make it in time for the second show. The El doesn't run-"

"You certainly will," said Escott. "I'll give you a lift."

I almost raised an eyebrow, but didn't quite have the trick of it the way he did.

He still caught it, though. "Just being polite, old man," he said dryly.

That was good to hear. After Vivian, Evie didn't seem to be his type, though she was cute. He guided her downstairs, and I went back to take a seat at Kroun's table, him on my left, Strome on my right, Mitchell opposite. The band went on break just then, marking the end of the first show. Some of the patrons got up to leave, a few new ones trickled in to replace them, and the rest stayed put, which was good.

I looked around for Bobbi, but when performing she tended to stay backstage even when on break, seeing to God-knows-what details and her own costume changes. I wanted her busy with that tonight.

Kroun had finished his small whiskey, Mitchell was still working on his, and Strome sipped a short beer.

"Quite a place," repeated Kroun. "What's she pull for you?"

There is a certain level of business where such inquiries are not considered offensive. "Last night, sixty-three dollars."

That got me a stony look, then comprehension as he realized I was talking net, not gross. "I mean outside of the booze sales."

"That's it."

"He don't have tables, Mr. Kroun," Strome explained.

"No tables? What about slots?"

"Nope."

"That's crazy." He turned on me. "You could pull in a hundred times that a night in a back room. You got the space for it."

"I do," I agreed. "But Gordy's better at keeping track of those kind of earnings than me. I thought it'd be best for everyone just not to compete."

Kroun's eyes narrowed with additional understanding. "Smart operator."

I didn't correct his assumption that I wanted to avoid cutting into Gordy's profits. It sounded better than the real reason, a desire to avoid legal trouble. To guys like Kroun the law was only a minor nuisance, not a major threat. He'd think I was chicken, too, but there is also a certain level and kind of business where such an assessment of character can contribute to one's survival. I'd gotten along pretty well in the past when people underestimated me.

Mitchell nodded toward the entry where Escott and Evie had gone. "Wasn't that the little trick you got in a fight over at the Nightcrawler?"

"I just kept her out of harm's way is all." A change of subject would be good about now. I decided to play the card Strome had given me earlier. "You used to work here in town, didn't you, Mitchell?"

His eyes hardly gave a flicker. "A while ago, yeah."

"Why'd you leave?"

"The weather stinks."

"Stinks just as bad in New York."

"Oh, yeah? I never noticed."

Kroun made a snorting noise. "Mitchell likes to work easy and get paid well for it. He found that in New York."

"Why you interested?" Mitchell asked.

I was chancing a fall on my face, but thought the risk would pay off. "Because you remember me from before you left."

He hooked a small smile. "Guess I do."

Bingo.

"What do you remember?" asked Kroun.

Mitchell's smile edged close to contempt. "That Fleming was some kind of half-assed threadbare reporter sniffing around Slick Morelli's operation, looking into stuff he shouldn't. Next thing you know Fred Sanderson's dead, Georgie Reamer's in jail for it, then Morelli's dead, Lebredo's dead, Frank Paco's in the booby hatch, Gordy's in charge-and this guy who was in the middle of it comes up smelling like a rose."

Kroun held silent for a moment. "That's pretty interesting. What about it, Fleming?"

I shook my head. "I don't know nothing about any of it. I was looking for a newspaper job here and heard there was some war brewing between those guys. Checked into it, thinking I could land a sweet place with the Trib if I wrote a good piece on it. That's how I met Gordy, but he steered me out of the way before it went rough. When things settled down after the ruckus I did a couple of favors to help Gordy, and that's all. We been friends since."

"Must have been some kind of favors to be able to afford this kind of club."

"I earned the club on my own. I got lucky at the track and hauled in a pile of cash. Gordy helped me with finding a good location and getting set up with suppliers, but that's all. He's been a good friend and stand-up. I'm returning the favor by helping him out now."

"And you don't expect anything out of it?"

"I'm getting plenty: a nice quiet town to run my business. We can all use some of that."

Kroun murmured agreement. "Quiet is what we want. Things are always changing, though."

"Oh yeah?"

"You gotta expect change. It's the way things are. Lot of the guys thought it was the end of the world when we had Repeal-Bristow was one of 'em-but it was just temporary. There's still plenty of tax-free booze being delivered.

We're keeping an eye open all the time for new stuff to do. As soon as they make a vice illegal, we find a way to get rich by supplying it."

"Yeah, but those government guys are getting smarter at stopping up the chinks."

"It won't last. There's always a way to get around the rules. Like right now. Couple guys I know practically got the FBI in their pocket, or J. Edgar Hoover, anyway. They think they own the world, but it won't last."

"Why, is he onto 'em?"

"Nothing like that. He can't sneeze without they give him the say-so, and they think it's great, but they're going to have problems soon. The guy's forty-two, has ulcers, and is crazy-obsessed about commies. If the Russians don't bump him, he'll do himself in chasing his own tail and trying to nab headlines about it. I don't give him more than another year at the job before he drops stone dead. Then I'll start to worry. That damn FDR will put in some stand-up guy who knows what he's doing and can keep his nose clean. When that happens we'll have to start running for cover."

"How do they have Hoover in their pocket?"

Kroun shook his head, amused. "You don't wanna know. The key to owning anyone is knowing what a man wants most and knowing what he most wants to keep hidden. A man with small wants who doesn't give a damn what people think of him is usually free. Of course, that guy is not generally in a position where we need to own him, but there's a few out there. They're the ones to look out for."

And what secrets do you want most hidden? I thought. God knows I didn't want people hearing about mine, especially the current ones that were eating holes in my brain like acid.

"That canary out front in the pictures," said Mitchell, whose mind was clearly on other things, "when does she sing?"

"You mean Miss Smythe?" I asked.

"That's the one. Bobbi."

I didn't like the way he said her name. "Later. The second show."

"We're old friends. I'd like to go back and say hello to her."

He got a long look from me, and I didn't blink.

"What?" he asked, coming up with a puzzled front like he wasn't getting my message. "She don't take visitors?"

"That's right."

"C'mon, she won't mind a friend."

I didn't like the way he said that, either. Oily and unpleasant, yet with the smile. I wanted to knock it from his mug along with his front teeth. On this, I knew I could absolutely trust my instincts. "She'll mind."

"You go ask her, give her my name. She'll tell you different." He waited.

I still wasn't blinking. And had gone corpse-quiet.

He chose to ignore it. "What's your problem?"

"Mitch," said Kroun, who watched the exchange. "Lay off. She's just a skirt. There's plenty more back on Broadway you can say hello to instead."

Mitchell seemed to verge on a reply, thought better of it, and subsided. There was a "We'll see about this later" glint in his eye for me, though. I wasn't worried. They'd be on their way back to New York soon, end of problem. Maybe I wouldn't have to burden Bobbi with this ghost from her past.

Strome, who'd been silent all this time, let out a soft sigh that only I heard. I interpreted it as relief. I got the impression he was worried I'd do something stupid. It had been close. My second choice after punching Mitchell's face to pulp would have been hypnosis, but that would have risked another skull-splitter for me. After talking with Escott I'd gotten the firm idea that this suddenly excessive head pain was also connected to Bristow's torture, and it seemed pretty sound. I could hope the symptoms would go away after a while, but for now was stuck without one of my edges.

On the other hand, this was my club with my rules running. I had a right to refuse service to anyone, which included allowing undesirable types to bother my girlfriend.

When I started paying attention again, I noticed Kroun studying me, his own face unreadable. "Another drink, Mr.

Kroun?"

He made no reply, just looked around again at the people, the band, even the lights above. "Quite a place." he echoed his comment yet again. "I like the chairs."

"Chairs?" I hoped he wasn't trying to drive a point home, because I was missing it.

"Yes. These are really nice chairs. Some places never get that right, but when it comes down to it, you have to offer people a place to park themselves. Really nice chairs. Nice. Chairs."

Maybe he was drunk. Mine might not be the first whiskey he'd had tonight. "Thanks. Took a lot of hard work to haul together."

Mitchell flashed an interesting expression. Made me think he thought his boss was being an idiot. It only lasted an instant.

"But all these chairs and no gaming tables," Kroun continued, unaware. "Seems like too much effort for no real payoff."

"It's plenty for me. I keep my vices simple."

"Like not drinking yourself?"

For social cover I had a glass of ice water in front of me, my usual, and all the waiters knew it. I'd not sipped any.

"Well, you know how it is, the boss has gotta stay awake. You guys enjoy yourselves, though."

Mitchell smirked. "He wants to get us drunk like Gordy did with Bristow. Thinks we'll talk." His tone was meant to bait. Kroun would know what he was up to and be watching my reaction.

Strome shifted in place, anticipating trouble.

I pretended amusement and confided to Kroun, "That's a cute kid you got there. Lemme know when he's outta short pants, and I'll find him a job."

Mitchell didn't take it well. If his boss hadn't laughed, he might have tried a swing at me. He'd get just the one shot.

"Relax, Mitch, we're off the clock," said Kroun. "Let the man run his bar. We'll be going now."

"But we ain't seen the show," said Mitchell.

"So?"

Under Kroun's dark stare, he subsided again, dropping into silence like it was a foxhole.

Doing a good impersonation of civilized gentlemen, we rose and strolled to the lobby. Kroun thanked me for my hospitality, and I walked them outside. We stood under the canopy while Strome went to get the Caddy. The sleet had stopped, but the streets were still wet, the wind bitter. For a moment it was eerily similar to the night of Gordy's shooting, and I couldn't help but look around, anticipating another hidden gunman.

"What is it?" Kroun asked, picking up on my nerves. His eyes were sharp. No sign of whiskey in them at all.

"Just feeling the cold."

He nodded, removing his hat to brush a hand through his hair. It seemed to be an unconscious gesture, always on the left side where that streak was. "Yeah, you'd think those bandages would keep you warmer."

He got a look from me. Was he playing games or just showing a weird sense of humor?

"Ease off on yourself, kid," he said sotto voce so Mitchell couldn't hear.

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean I know what kind of hell Bristow put you through."

"Oh, he skinned you alive, too?" I was jumpy enough to give him lip. Not smart. He just stared. Nothing hostile in it, but I wasn't about to ascribe anything like sympathy to the man. Guys like him were born without or had it burned from them early by life in general.

He leaned slightly, talking close to my ear. "I know what he was and what he could do."

"And you sent him."

"Yeah. I did that. It was supposed to be between him and Gordy alone, and somehow you got in the middle. But you survived. That makes you the stronger. Then you put Bristow exactly where he belongs."

"Yeah," I echoed. "I did that."

"So... ease off on yourself." He straightened and settled his hat firmly against the wind. "He was a bastard, but you beat him."

A pep talk from a killer? Some of it skated close to being almost apologetic. And how did he know about what was in my head?

On the other hand, he thought we were friends. Maybe this was how he was with them. He couldn't have had many the way he put my back hairs on high. I didn't get a chance to find out; Strome drove up, Kroun and Mitchell got in, doors slammed, and off they went.

Lady Crymsyn was officially closed for the night. Except for my Buick, the adjoining parking lot was empty, everyone gone home or off to unwind themselves at places that kept even later hours. The neon sign above the red street canopy was dark, but lights showed within. Of course, that didn't mean anything with Myrna in residence.

Sometimes she'd have them blazing, including the neon; other nights she would only leave a small one on behind the lobby bar. She was the most consistent with it, wanting it lit nearly all the time.

I stood under the shadow of the canopy, not quite smoking a cigarette. My lungs refused to tolerate inhaling the stuff, so I puffed for something to do and watched the occasional car drive past. Chicago was too big to ever completely sleep. Someone was always up and around.

Humankind was roughly divided into daytime folk, night people, night owls, and the creeps of the deep night. Most of the latter, unless gainfully employed or with some other reasonable excuse for being out during the truly god-forsaken hours, lived down to their name. If not for my job I could be counted as one of them-two jobs, to include the help I gave Escott when he needed it. Three, to include Gordy.

It was coming up on the beginning of the deep night. Lonely time for me since everyone was usually asleep. I was uncomfortable standing out here, not from the cold, but being by myself and out of range of some kind of distraction.

No radio, no band playing loud, happy music, just the wind in my ears and the infrequent passing car. This was me testing the demons in my head; I was trying to get better at not thinking, not remembering.

By the time I finished my third smoke, Escott finally drove up, easing his big Nash right next to the front curb. It was a no-parking zone, but the doorman wasn't here to chase him off.

"You're in one piece," I observed brightly as he got out. "Congrats."

"Why should I not be?"

I shrugged. "This town."

"Where's Bobbi?"

"Upstairs counting receipts. You don't wanna disturb her."

"You're curious as to what transpired concerning Evie Montana."

"Well, yeah."

"A gentleman doesn't talk," he said, mock-lofty.

"Come on, you know what I mean."

"Inside, if you please. How can you not be cold?"

My overcoat was in the office. "Has to do with being dead, I guess. Sometimes I just don't feel it."

"I wonder why that is?"

"So we don't feel the chill of the grave after escaping it?"

"Possibly, but there may be some other reason for the peculiarity. After all, not every society buried their dead. The Romans were fond of cremation, and the ancients of my countrymen practiced open-air-well, I supposed you couldn't call it interment. Exterment? If there is such a word; I'll have to look it up. They left corpses in the open air until only bones were left, which would certainly have prevented any of your sort from returning from the dead." He drew breath to go on, but caught me looking at him. Just looking. "Ah. Well. Be that as it may..."

I opened the door for us, locked it behind, and felt better for it.

The deep-night world was shut outside and would require no more of my attention for a while. Escott unbuttoned his coat, dropping it and his Homburg hat on the marble-topped lobby bar, the whole time giving me one of his once-overs.

"What?" I asked.

"No holes in your clothing, no damage to the premises, and the lights are functioning. I take it your visit from Kroun ended amicably?"

"Yeah, but he gives me the creeps."

"Must be a novel experience for you."

I ignored that one. "Drink?"

"A very small brandy would be nice, thank you."

The liquor was locked up, but not for long. I couldn't find his favorite kind right away, though there was always a bottle on hand; it was a standing order. It finally turned up behind several similar-shaped bottles, the label facing the wall. Myrna must have been playing again, with him as the target.

The barstools were stacked to one side to be out of the way of the morning cleaners, so we went through to the main room. I forgot how dark it was to Escott until he bumped into a table that was slightly out of place. The insignificant amount of light coming from the small red windows above the third-tier booths was plenty for me. I turned on the little table lamp for him, reaching between a thicket of chair legs. The seats there had also been upended for the convenience of the morning's cleaning crew. I didn't care for the closed-up, dead look it gave to the club. Chairs were supposed to be sanely on the floor waiting for people to use them, not like this. I decisively moved two of them down for us, then the other two so I wouldn't get annoyed if I knocked elbows.

The place was very silent, very empty. A dust cloth was thrown over the piano, turning it into a large blocky ghost shape in the dimness. The stage gaped like an open mouth, needing to be filled with bright lights and people and music.

Listening hard for a moment I did hear music. Thin and distant.

"Something wrong?" asked Escott.

"The radio in my office is on."

"You can hear it?"

"Yeah."

"Your extranormal senses are quite amazing."

"Or I could just be crazy and hearing things."

"What song is playing?"

"Wayne King doing 'Mickey Mouse's Birthday Party.' "

"Ah. Then you are hearing things, and you are crazy. No one listens to that one anymore. It's all your imagination."

"Good, I'd rather be crazy than have it real. So? Evie Montana?"

He swirled brandy, letting it get used to the air. "I took her to the Nightcrawler. Since she chose to fill the drive with detailed and enthusiastic praise of Alan Caine's boundless talent, I was curious to see him and went in to catch the second show."

"And what'd you think?"

"That you met a completely different fellow."

"Huh?" I expected Escott to hate the guy on sight.

"He has an excellent voice, a commanding stage presence, and put across every song with an enlightened earnestness that was on a level with true genius."

"Huh?" I didn't want to hear this. "The guy's a jackass!"

"If so, then it's not when he's performing. He really should be singing opera, not wasting himself with popular songs in a club."

"What's with you? You gonna send him flowers next?"

He sipped the brandy, amused by my annoyance. "One can have an admiration for a performer's talent, if not for the performer himself. He's truly gifted."

"And a jackass."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

"Fine with me. Go by tomorrow before the show and watch him rehearsing."

"One only has to know how to deal with artistic temperament."

"Just don't go recommending him to Bobbi for this place. I'd end up strangling him."

"Or you could simply rearrange his mood for the duration."

I'd been known to do that with troublesome talents. Escott was unaware of my going temporarily on the wagon from whammy-work. No need for him to know, either. He'd just give me one of those worried looks I was sick of seeing.

"Mr. Derner came by my table. He had a message for you," he added.

"Oh, yeah?"

"A negative one. Some of the boys thought they'd found Dugan, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Not all of them were convinced, though, and might be coming 'round to claim the remainder of the bounty. Mr. Derner assured me he would take measures to prevent your being bothered by them."

I grunted and wished I could drink real booze again, even the cheap stuff, which was all I could afford back in my reporter days. "The guy they thought was Dugan-he okay?"

"So far as I know. He was dragged to the Nightcrawler, produced sufficient evidence to prove mistaken identity, was given a drink and an apology, and returned to wherever they found him."

"God, I'm gonna have to call it off. Those mugs are too stupid to be let loose."

"You don't think they'll find him, do you?"

"Dugan could be halfway to Hong Kong by now. I know I would be there if I had me after me."

Escott blinked a few times. "It's far too late for that to have made sense, and it did."

I glanced at my watch. The evening was getting into the deep-night hours. "Bobbi should be done with the receipts by now. I oughta get her home."

"Sounds to be an excellent idea for myself. That is, if you don't require me further?"

Escott really did like to help out at the club. "You've done above and beyond. Thanks."

He got up. "No problem."

His time in the States had corrupted him. He sounded just like Gordy.

In the lobby he boomed a loud good night toward the upstairs. Bobbi answered back, asking if I was around.

"Yes, he'll be up directly."

"Okay. Drive careful."

"Thank you, I will."

Theirs was a call and response thing like you hear in some church services. They'd done it several times now at closing, a comfortable form of reassurance. I hadn't been the only one left shaken by Bristow's work on me.

Escott let himself out using his own key. It would be a dark and chill ride home until his Nash warmed up again.

"Drive careful," I muttered, suddenly aware of the emptiness of the building. Were I here on my own, I'd have made like Myrna and turned on all the lights. Certainly I'd have gotten some music going to push back the silence. The stuff seeping thin through the walls from my office radio wasn't enough.

Thank you, Hog Bristow. Thank you so very much, you goddamned son of a bitch, and please, please do be screaming in a really deep, sulphur-stenched pit burning merrily away for the rest of eternity.

"Jack... ?" Bobbi's light voice jarred me.

"I'm here."

"Okay." She sounded like she was a few yards from the office door, ready to come down if invited.

"I'll be right up, honey, gotta make a phone call. Private." That was the word we used that meant I was busy with mob business. She knew it was a necessary task and to help Gordy, but preferred to ignore my moonlighting for the time being.

"Okay." Her tone was serene, almost singing, which meant I really should hurry. Her heels clacked down the hall, followed by the office door shutting.

I levered into the lobby phone booth, paid a nickel, and dialed very carefully so as not to wake up an honest citizen cursed with a number similar to Shoe Coldfield's nightclub.

To my growing concern it rang nine times before someone came on halfway through the tenth.

"Coldfield, what is it?" he growled. Since it was his office, not his home, I knew I'd not wakened him, but phones going off at such hours never portend happy news.

"It's Jack. Charles said to say hello." I hoped in this way to tip him that all was well.

Didn't work.

"Damn, kid, no one calls this late unless it's an emergency. You okay?" He traded the rough annoyance for rough concern.

A few days ago Escott had informed him about my recent experience; apparently the basic facts had been augmented with a mention of my problems recovering. "I'm fine." I tried to sound normal, whatever that was.

"Charles told me you were, and I quote-'a touch wobbly'-and you know how he understates things."

"Ah, he was just being optimistic."

"Well, you didn't call just to pass on a hello. What's up?"

"One of the New York bosses came to town. The one who arranged Hog Bristow's visit. A guy named Whitey Kroun. Know him?"

"With a name like that? You kidding?"

Coldfield, in addition to running his nightclub, some garages, and a few other businesses, also controlled one of the biggest gangs in the Bronze Belt. Unless it was assigned to him as a joke, any man nicknamed Whitey would not readily blend into the crowd.

"I'll take that to mean no. What about a soldier called Mitchell? He was in Morelli's gang about the time I first came to town."

"Nope, sorry. You know the colored and white mobs don't mix except when they can't help it."

"Yeah, but you generally know who's who."

"Only the local big boys, not the soldiers."

"Okay, one more item. A collector here named Hoyle is on the outs with me along with Ruzzo."

"Those bedbug-crazy brothers?"

"The same. You know Hoyle?"

"By sight. Tough guy, used to box. What happened?"

"He tried to play baseball, with me as the ball. I took his bat away and nearly made him eat it."

He wanted more details, so I gave them. Coldfield liked a good story. As before with Escott, I left out the ugly epilogue in the Stockyards. Even thinking about it threatened to make me queasy.

"You've had a busy night, kid," he said. He knew my real age, but couldn't be blamed for forgetting most of the time. Now and then I would shoot him a reminder, like mentioning something from twenty years back when I was in the War, and he'd throw an odd look my way for a few seconds.

"You don't know the half of it," I said.

"About this Kroun, I can ask around if you want."

"Nah, not that important. Charles can dig. He thinks it's fun."

"Kroun's not giving you any trouble is he?"

"Nothing like that, just me being curious. I figure he'll be going back to New York soon."

"Better hope so. No one likes when the boss drops in to nose around. Just ask my people."

Coldfield did run a tight ship, but I'd not heard of anyone trying to kill him lately. I thanked him; he told me to get some rest and hung up.

I remained in the booth, wanting a moment of quiet. The vast emptiness of the club was easier to handle in here. I liked having a place where I could put my back to a wall.

It couldn't last. I had to boost out and go upstairs, or Bobbi would come looking, and I'd have to assure her that my sitting shut into a phone booth without phoning was a perfectly reasonable occupation. Before my buckwheats session with Bristow she might have accepted it as absent-minded eccentricity. No more.

But I did seem to be better. The meeting with Kroun had gone very well. After that inner revelation, seeing those who would kill me as being no more than food, I'd been in control with not one wild, trembling muscle to mar the event. Maybe that's all I'd really needed to restore my confidence. Sure, I was still nervous about some stuff-like now-but there were lots of people didn't like big empty, quiet, dark places.

So perhaps I should get off my duff and see my patient girlfriend. I'd been procrastinating with no good reason other than a vague and ridiculous trepidation that she would see all the stuff I wanted to keep hidden. Bobbi was closer to me and much more perceptive than anyone else I knew. She was the one person I couldn't lie to even when I successfully lied to myself.

Well, maybe she'd take a good look, and if she pronounced me miraculously cured of my waking nightmares, I could believe it.

I pushed the booth's folding doors open in time to hear a click, followed by several more, coming from the main room. A familiar sound, but out of place at this hour. Curious and cautious, I went through the curved passage.

All the little table lights were on. Spaced at regular intervals along the three wide horseshoe tiers, they made a grand sight even with the upside-down chairs, and I said as much out loud to Myrna.

"You're really getting good at that, babe," I added.

I half expected one or any of them to blink in reply, but they remained steady. There was no point asking her to shut them off. She would or wouldn't at her own whim. Besides, I could likely afford the electric bill; business had been pretty decent this month.

"See you upstairs. Maybe." Actually, I hoped not. Some instinct within told me I was not ready to actually see Myrna. She was disturbing enough just playing with lights.

Billie Holiday's version of "No Regrets" met me coming up the stairs. Bobbi hummed along to the radio, but stopped as I opened the door. She was busy at my desk, surrounded by empty tills, piles of wrapped cash, rolls of coins, a small stack of checks, the entry books, pencils, and the calculating machine. She'd traded her fancy spangly dancing gown for a dark dress and had a blue sweater around her shoulders. Her blond hair was pinned up out of the way. She punched keys on the machine, pulling the lever like it was a squatty one-armed bandit. When its brief, important, chattering died, she peered at the printed result.

"Hi, stranger," she said, raising her face my way for a hello. She'd gotten a ride in with Escott while the sun was still up, so this was the first chance for us to really be with each other tonight.

I kissed her on the lips, and instantly knew it was right, the way it was supposed to be, the way it had always been for us; everything was going to be fine now.

Which lasted for a few perfect, wonderful seconds.

Then I overthought it, and what began as a warm greeting went subtly and utterly wrong. The demons in my head tore gleefully at me, whispering doubts, magnifying fears, and pointing out the obvious fact that this recovery business was an impossibility, so I pulled back and smiled and tried to pretend everything was great, and the smile was so forced that my jaw hurt, and I turned away so she couldn't see how much it hurt.

Damnation.

Whatever had been repaired and rebuilt in me came apart so fast I wondered if it had been a sham to start with or if the sickness inside was simply overwhelming in its strength.

I didn't want that.

Thankfully, Bobbi did not ask me if I was okay. We'd had that conversation several times already and kept butting into the walls of assurances, protests, and denials I put up, which she would knock down with a word or three, then neither of us felt happy. We'd accepted the fact that this would take a while, and it would not be pleasant. It wasn't her fault that she terrified me. I was ashamed of it. On the other hand, if I avoided her or went on that vacation Escott had suggested, I'd go right off the deep end of the dock. She was my lifeline. I had to keep close to her.

"Ready to go home?" I asked. Her hat, gloves, and fur coat were ready on the couch. I sat next to them.

"Almost." She gave me a long, unreadable look, then peered at the latest printing from the machine, writing a number neatly in the account book with my mechanical pencil. "We had a pretty good night, all things considered."

"Oh, yeah?"

"You made fifty-two bucks and some change."

I looked at the stack of cash before her. "You've got more than that there."

"Subtract your overhead, salaries, and all the rest, and you have fifty-two bucks left over."

"Less than last night's take."

"Cheer up, there's not many guys who make that much in a month, let alone on a single less-than-perfect evening.

It'll be better this weekend if the weather doesn't turn sleety again. What took you away? You were gone for so long."

"I had to talk with a gentleman from New York."

Bobbi understood the implications. "How did it go?"

"Good and bad. I'm still running things for Gordy."

"And what's the bad?"

"I called it right about why they sent Bristow. Kroun's on my side, now, so-"

"Whitey Kroun?"

"Yeah, the guy from the phone. You ever meet him?"

"No. Once in a while I'd hear Gordy mention him, but that's all. Just a name. I'll be glad when you're out of this, Jack."

"Same here." I took a deep breath and exhaled. I thought about asking if she remembered Mitchell, but held back.

She didn't care to be reminded of the days when she'd been Slick Morelli's mistress. Gordy would be the best source for my idle curiosity when he was up to it.

Time for a subject change. "That was some nice act you had going with Teddy and the anniversary thing. It went over great."

"I thought it might. We'll make it a regular item if you clear it."

"It's cleared."

"I'll have to look up more wedding-type music or we're going to get really tired of 'The Anniversary Song.' "

"How about something from The Merry Widow? For the marriages that aren't going so well."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be gruesome."

Some of our old comfortable banter had resurrected itself. All I had to do from now on was sit ten feet away from her. "I want to have something special ready for this Saturday, if it's not too short notice."

"Just no street parades, too cold. What is it?"

I told her about helping out Escott's suit with Vivian Gladwell by throwing a "birthday" party for Sarah. Bobbi was all for it.

"But don't go overboard," I cautioned. "You'll scare Charles."

"Don't worry. I've done enough singing at debutant balls to know what's right for that crowd. It'll be fun, but tasteful."

"You can tackle Charles tomorrow for details..."

The radio music died away, replaced by static as the station signed off. I reached for the dial.

"Wait a sec," she said, staring at it.

I withdrew my hand and waited, the static buzz making my eyeballs itch. "What?" I asked after a minute.

"Aw, I was hoping... I guess she won't do anything when people are watching."

"Myrna?"

"Yeah."

"What'd she do now?"

"I was working and some newsreader came on. I wasn't paying it much mind, and it switched to music right in the middle of a story. Gave me a turn until I realized she'd done it. I looked, and the pointer was on a different station than before. Isn't that something?"

"She didn't scare you?"

"Not really. She just surprised me. It must be boring for her to only play with the lights. Can't blame her for branching out. Maybe she's getting stronger the more we pay attention to her."

That disturbed me, but I kept it to myself, suspecting Myrna might cut the lights entirely in response. I didn't want dark.

Bobbi continued. "I like her company. The place doesn't feel so empty. Kind of friendly, you know? Like she's looking after us. So I talk to her. I think she likes it, must be lonesome, being a ghost."

"What do you talk about?"

She smirked. "You, of course. Women always end up talking to each other about their men sooner or later. Of course with Myrna I have to carry the conversation. Maybe we could get that record-cutting equipment up here and see if we can hear her talk back again."

"Maybe." I'd recently found it necessary to record a conversation and filled the office with hidden microphones.

Much to my consternation a third voice, faint and strange, but definitely female, had also been on the wax disk, reacting to what was going on. Even thinking about attempting that once more made my neck hair rise. But... perhaps it could get a question or two answered, help us find out more about Myrna. "Wanna go home?"

Bobbi didn't think twice. "Yes. Please."

I put the cleaned-out tills on a table, ready for the next day while she scooped the counted cash into a bank envelope for the night deposit box. I put the change bags in the safe on top of the revolver I kept there, shut and locked, then helped Bobbi on with her coat.

As we started to leave, she swooped to one side and fiddled with the radio tuning until she found music.

"There," she said, as Tommy Dorsey's band came through. "I think this station plays all night. Myrna might end up with farm and weather reports in a couple hours, but it'll be company until then. You don't mind?"

"Nope. Leave the light on, too." I could sympathize all too well.

On the way out I checked the main room. The little table lamps were dark now. We left the one burning behind the lobby bar alone.

Bobbi shivered and went brrrrrr during the first ten minutes of our ride until the Buick's heater was warm enough to blow something other than arctic wind. I stopped briefly to drop the money into the bank's night deposit slot, then drove quickly through the near-empty streets to her hotel apartment. Drowsy, she leaned against me for the ride, and things felt normal again. I wanted to put my arm around her but had to have it free to change gears.

She woke up as I braked in the no-parking section in front of her building, got out, and came around to hold her door, leaving the motor running.

"Not coming up?" she asked.

"You're done in, honey, and I had a lot crashing into me tonight."

There must have been a dozen variations of protest hesitating on her lips, everything from "I could get untired in a hurry" to "That's all right, just let me know when you're ready, sweetheart," and she didn't say any of them, including the heartbreaking "Jack, I'm so sorry." It would have been too painful for both of us, so we accepted this nice, safe, not-quite-as-painful illusion.

I walked her through the hotel lobby to the elevator, and like well-rehearsed actors we said the familiar good-bye-until-tomorrow lines. They sounded hollow and sad compared to the cheerful call and response she'd traded with Escott earlier.

She broke, though, and stopped the automatic elevator doors from closing. "You're sure? Just for company?"

"The company is a rare and breathtaking creature of light and music and beauty who would make angels jealous, and I don't know what I did to deserve to be on the same planet with you."

She fairly gaped. I hardly ever talked like that to her.

"But-" I kissed her chastely on the forehead and left it at that.

Her hazel eyes were wide a moment, then she made a little dive at me, wrapping her arms tight around. We held close for a solid minute, and I felt my body responding to hers, felt the rush of warmth, the first build of pressure above my corner teeth, the desire to slowly remove all her clothes and settle in and come up with old and new ways of exhausting her and myself thoroughly before dawn swept my consciousness into its shallow grave.

Resisting while I still could, I gently pulled clear. "Get some sleep," I said softly, backing off. I turned away before seeing whatever look might have been on her face.

The doors knitted shut and took her up and away from me. I hurried to the car, hit the gears rough, and shot clear, taking corners too fast and abusing the gas pedal on the straights. Before I alarmed any cops, I found a space in front of a block of closed shops and pulled in, decisively cutting the motor.

Then I waited.

I'd wanted to go up with her, and not just for company. Still wanted. Ached for it. Was sick for it. Wanted to go back even now and surprise her, make love to her. I would hold her close and warm and bring her to the edge of that wonderful, feverish peak and oh-so-gently bite into her throat, and it would just happen and she wouldn't fight me, wouldn't even think to, and then it would be too late, and like a mindless, greedy animal I would gorge on her blood as I'd done on that cow, unable to stop...

The tremors began their fast rise from within, an icy tide come to drown me. I hugged my ribs and groaned like a dying thing and keeled over across the seat.