"Well, well," Mack said with a smile as he admitted Jack to the foyer of Rasalom's former residence. "If it isn't the hit man."

Like Glaeken, "Mr. Osala" had occupied the top floor - in this case, floors, since the penthouse was a duplex. Jack had come looking for him, not knowing he was Rasalom, only to learn that he had moved out just a day or two before and taken everything with him.

"Hey, Mack. Osala or any of his staff been around?"

Mack shook his graying head. He had deep brown skin, a Sammy Davis Jr. build, and a Redd Foxx beard. McKinley - his first name - was engraved into the brass name tag that graced his gray uniform.

"No sign, not a word from them."

No surprise.

"Too bad," Mack added.

"Yeah? Why?"

"Because I loooove his ride. A black 1980 450SEL 6.9."

"An old Mercedes? I had him figured for a Maybach, or maybe a Bugatti."

Mack shook his head. "Uh-uh. That ain't just an 'old Mercedes.' Don't you dare call it that. It's one of the greatest saloons ever built."

Jack knew Mack was baiting him with the term. He knew what he was talking about but bit anyway.

"Saloon? I thought we were talking about a car."

Mack's eyebrows rose. "We are, my man. That's the British term for sedan. But that SEL is a saloon."

"More like a tank."

"Got that right."

Jack pushed the conversation back on target. "Okay, so when Osala moved out, did you happen to notice who did the actual moving?"

Mack gave him an annoyed look. "You take me for some kinda fool who's gonna let a bunch of yahoos come in here and clean out a tenant's apartment without knowing who they are and making sure it's cleared with the tenant ahead of time? Course I did."

Jack knew from their previous run-in that Mack took his job very seriously.

"Was there a name on the truck?"

"There was."

Compared to Mack, a rock was garrulous.

"What was it?"

"Don't remember."

"Crap."

"But I do have a work order."

Bless you, Jack thought as he followed the bantam of a man to his cubbyhole of an office. Mack pulled open a drawer, fished around, and came up with a yellow sheet of paper.

"Here it is."

Jack reached for it but Mack pulled it away. Jack snagged it on his second try. The name on the header came as a shock, but only for an instant, replaced by an I-should-have-known feeling and accompanied by a Bernard Herrmann cue.

Mack snatched it back. "Don't you go grabbing my papers."

Wm. Blagden & Sons, Inc.

A year and a half ago, in South Florida, a Blagden & Sons dump truck had been stolen - supposedly - and used to run down his father, leaving him in a coma. A couple of months later, Jack had followed Luther Brady to the Blagden & Sons' concrete plant in Jersey ... a bad memory there.

And now the name pops up again. He had known back then the Blagden company was connected to the Order, and that the Order was connected to the Otherness and Rasalom. So not a huge surprise that when Rasalom needed his stuff moved, Blagden & Sons showed up. After all, they had trucks galore. But mostly dump trucks and cement mixers.

"What kind of truck was it?"

"Typical box truck."

"Like a moving van?"

Mack glanced ceilingward. "A moving van is a box truck."

"Okay, okay. Jersey plates?"

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess. You don't happen to remember the plate number."

"Don't have to. Wrote it down. You don't think I'm going to let them drive off without me knowing that, do you?"

He jotted the number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Jack.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask if they happened to have a delivery address on that work order."

Mack nodded. "It would."

"Then I guess I'll have to ask them."

"You really think they'll tell you?"

"I can be very persuasive." He clapped Mack on his upper arm. "Thanks for your help."

As he turned to go, Mack said, "Don't you want the address?"

"Don't need it. Been there a couple of times already."

On his second trip he'd discovered the plant's awful secret.