"I was just one minute away from calling up a ride," Bobbi said, sliding across the seat to give me a kiss hello.

"Yeah, but you get much better service from me." I squeezed her in a tender spot, which made her yelp.

She made a pretend swat at my arm. "Stinker. For that you don't get a tip."

"A what?"

She swatted again, this time connecting. "Tip-with a 'p,' you caveman."

"Okay-okay, I'll behave myself."

"Don't you dare." She settled next to me with a sigh. "You're in a good mood. What'd you find out? Did Joe's information help?"

"Yeah, I learned some interesting stuff, but not nearly enough."

"Tell me."

"How about over dinner?" I pulled away from the curb.

"I'm not that hungry, let's just go straight home. I'll make something there."

Fine with me. She wasn't that hungry, but I was. For her. Always.

I filled her in about my evening on the drive to her hotel. She was in a chatty frame of mind with more than a few questions that sidetracked me one way or another, but I eventually got through my story by the time we reached her door.

"You have been busy," she said. She snapped on lights throughout the place, divesting herself of hat and gloves along the way, then kicking off her shoes. "You think Coker will do anything? I mean whether Malone talks to him or not, Coker will find out you're not keeping clear. Guys like him always do."

"I know, but he can't hurt me. You probably won't have anything to worry about from him, either, but promise you'll keep your eyes open and be careful? I don't want you in the line of fire if he decides to get cute."

"I promise."

No need to ask her twice. Being cautious was instinctive with her by now.

"What about you?" she countered. "You sound like you're expecting trouble from Coker."

"Not really."

"You wanna explain that?"

"If he's not involved with Lena's death, nothing happens. If he is involved, and if he's smart, he'll just stay quiet, let me spin my wheels, and still nothing happens. There's no connection between him and Lena Ashley, except for him running around with her onetime best friend, Rita."

"But you're going to stir him up, aren't you?"

"If he's got nothing to hide, whatever I do won't bother him."

"Jack, everyone's got something to hide. You know that better than most."

I just shrugged and grinned.

She flapped her hands once in capitulation. "Never mind. You'll put your foot into it just to see what happens, won't you?"

"It's one of my more interesting faults."

That got me an amused, ladylike snort. "How long has Coker been seeing Rita, anyway? Did he know either of them five years ago?"

I should have found that out. "Next time why don't you come along to ask the questions. Malone might have had a clue on that. As for the rest of them-Jeez, if just once I could catch someone while they were still sober..."

"There, there," she said, gliding into the kitchen. "That was such a sweet thing for you to do for him. Just like Robin Hood."

I dropped into my usual chair at the table. "I didn't rob anyone tonight, just took my percentage off the bets."

"In this town, that's close enough."

She pulled a pitcher of grape juice and some butter from the refrigerator, and bread from its box. She cut two slices and dropped them in a toaster, fiddling with the browning lever. I couldn't help comparing the bright, white-painted newness of this place to Malone's humble kitchen with its aging icebox and cracked linoleum, and wondered how he'd ever get his smart little girl to college.

"That business of you giving Nevis a migraine is spooky," Bobbi said, staring intently down at the toaster slots. "What do you think happened?"

"Beats me. Guess I better not press him so hard when I try again, he'll end up with another one. Wouldn't want him breaking a blood vessel."

"I've got a friend who gets migraines something awful, but she went to a doctor who hypnotized her out of them. Maybe you could to the same for Nevis."

"Yeah, maybe." If I kept my temper, and if he stayed sober.

"On the other hand, it was your hypnosis that set him off in the first place. You sure you want to talk to him again?"

"I have to." And it wouldn't be pleasant for either of us.

The toast popped up too soon to brown. She jumped back, scowled at its underdone state, and mashed the lever down again. "I gotta get another one of these that works," she muttered. "It either comes out too soft or like charcoal unless I watch it."

"You make me glad I don't have to worry about such things."

She threw a glance my way, a curl from her platinum crown drooping artistically over one eyebrow. "Don't you ever miss eating? Having different kinds of things to eat?"

"At first I did, but only because that's what I was used to doing for my whole life."

"And now?"

"I'm used to what I do now instead. It's different, but easier."

"How so?"

"When you only have one thing you can consume, and that only every other night or so, it simplifies life. I don't have to think about what I want to have. That's all solved."

"And you never get tired of it?"

"Never." Which was the absolute truth. There was no way I could really express to her how the stuff made me feel, the profound, fulfilling effect it always worked on my body and mind. That would only happen when and if she became like me.

The toast popped up again, this time just a shade on the dark side, but she liked it that way. She gingerly plucked the hot pieces from their slots onto a plate and tried scraping the still cold butter over them. It was not cooperating too well. She grumbled as crumbs scattered across her pristine counter.

"At least with what you do you never have to clean up a mess," she said, brushing them into the sink.

There was no need to mention what shape my shoes were in after a rainy night at the Stockyards. Or all those bloodstained handkerchiefs when I wiped my mouth clean that had my laundry thinking I suffered from chronic nosebleeds.

She gave up on the butter, poured a glass of grape juice, and brought it and the somewhat mangled toast to the table. In the short minutes it had taken to make her little repast I'd have not only drunk my fill of cow's blood, but have walked back to the car and be driving away. By not having to work out how to fill my stomach every few hours, I had a lot of spare time on my hands.

"You sure you don't miss regular food?" she asked, watching me watch her eat.

"What I really miss is sitting around the table and talking."

"You still do that."

"With you and sometimes Charles when he's home, but in public I still have to pretend to drink a cup of coffee or something, just to not draw any attention."

"Who would notice? A waiter maybe."

"It's a good habit to keep. Waiters get upset if they can't bring you something."

"It's that important not to be noticed?"

"With the way I am, yes. That poor crazy guy from New York who was after me..."

She twitched her shoulders, grimacing at the unpleasant memory.

"... there might be more where he came from. I got lucky that time. The next would-be van Helsing might be smarter than Braxton. More dangerous."

"God forbid that there is a next one," she said fervently.

"Amen. Anyway, I just do what's expected, keep away from opera capes and determined little guys with Dutch accents, and I should be safe enough."

She made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a hiccup. I thought she'd choked on the toast, but it was laughter. When she recovered, her expression went mildly serious. "But drinking cow's blood is it for you? Forever and ever?"

"As far as I know. Why you so interested? Not that I mind talking about it."

"Just wondering what it's like for you night after night. What I might have to deal with if... you know."

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh, I'm not afraid. Of being a vampire, anyway. It's-"

"What?"

She shrugged, making a face. "It's just that I'm kinda chicken. If something happens to me, I don't want it to hurt is all."

I put my hand on hers. "Join the club."

"But it hurt for you, didn't it?"

"Not the change. What hurt were the guys beating the hell out of me before they shot me."

"Did it-?"

This was hard, going back to that memory, but important that I do so. For her sake. "I saw what was coming, and couldn't do anything to stop them. That was the really bad part. But when it happened I didn't feel much of anything. Maybe it was too fast for there to be any pain."

"What about afterward? When you were in the water?"

"That I'm not too clear about. I just remember being... unhappy, helpless. Then confused. I didn't know what was happening to me, but I don't remember being afraid."

"Did you feel anything changing inside?"

"How do you mean?"

"Like in that Fredric March movie a few years back. When he turned from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde he was writhing around and-"

I chuckled and gently waved her down. "No, nothing like that. It was disorienting, but was only because I was in the water. Looking back, I think that's when I vanished for the first time, which was how I was able to survive the dunking."

"But other than that?"

"No writhing around or groaning in agony. I promise."

She snickered again and chewed more toast, looking thoughtful, no longer anxious. Good. Maybe we could get on to more pleasant subjects than my untimely and singularly temporary demise.

"What's this?" I asked, gesturing at her throat. She'd changed from her elegant stage gown to a regular dress, but still wore its blue silk scarf wrapped under her chin. "Trying to tease me?"

"Just something to hide the marks," she said, taking it off. "You're not the only one who wants to be careful. It's hot, though."

"Looks like I bruised you last night." I tilted her head to better see. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it was worth it."

The damage wasn't much to look at, just a slight discoloration and the tiny red flares of broken capillaries around two larger marks, but I took pride in my ability to do what I do without hurting her or leaving needless traces. Next time I'd be a lot more careful while in the throes of passion.

"I'll just dab on extra powder or wear a high collar tomorrow," she said. "They fade pretty fast these days."

"They do?" That was interesting. "You always been a fast healer?"

"I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering. I mean you've got my blood in you now. Maybe it's changing things inside. Maybe that's the sign you're searching for."

She gave me a melting look, half longing, half sorrow. "Oh, Jack, I can hope so, but don't hope too much about me for yourself."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because it's dangerous to want something too much. You might get it, but not the way you pictured."

"What do you mean?"

"You know once in a while I get these weird feelings. Not in a bad sense, but just-like there are some things that I know will be in my life if I want them hard enough, like my going to Hollywood when the time is right."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Oh, yeah? Not so long ago I was wishing for a rich, handsome man who would help my career. I wished so hard for him and all the time that I was positively demanding for him to happen. And when he did happen, what I got was Slick Morelli-and you know what he was like."

I knew.

"So if I'm changing to be like you, it'll happen because it's supposed to and when it's supposed to. I just don't want you to wish for it so hard. I'm not ready to die yet."

My gut took a sickening swoop. "Jeez, Bobbi, I never meant anything like that for you!"

"I know, but I thought you should know how I feel."

I couldn't just sit there with her looking at me like that. Neither could she. We both hastily got around the table and held each other tight, and I tried not to think of death. Of real death. Of her death.

For the change to vampire to take place in me I'd had to die, and Maureen had warned me many times that it still might not work. She'd heard stories about others who'd exchanged blood, but when their human lovers died, they stayed dead. She didn't know why it was like that, why some returned and others did not. There was absolutely no way you could tell, she'd said.

Now I understood that hollow look she'd get in her eyes when she spoke of such things.

There were no guarantees for me and Bobbi, supernatural or otherwise. She could live to be a hundred-and I prayed she would-or she could get hit by a car tomorrow. She could return or-as was more likely from what little I knew-she would not. And that thought always stabbed me right down to the soul and beyond, so I tried never to think it.

As with everyone else, better to live our lives one full hour at a time and try not worry about dark futures without each other. Easier said than done. Ever at the edge of my mind, hovered the wondering, the bleak, futile wondering of what lay in store for her.

"If it helps," she said, her lips close to my ear, "when I was with Slick I began wishing for another man to come along."

"And what? Save you?"

"No, I'd learned my lesson with Slick. Only I could save me, but I did wish for a man who would be the best for me."

"Did I make the grade?"

She pulled back far enough to give me a long, thorough look. Thinking before giving an answer, as she always did when it was something really important. "So far... so far, so very, very good." Then she drew me toward her, gently insisting on a kiss.

We didn't have a lot to say to each other for the next few hours. You get to a point where words spoil things.

Waking fast and fully alert in my hidden room exactly at sunset, I heard someone descending the basement steps. It was probably Escott, but I dragged on my bathrobe and sieved through the wall to make sure. His house had been invaded too many times for me to take anything for granted.

False alarm, the best kind. Escott was crouched by the wall he'd built up to enclose the dead space under the stairs. It had a hidden door in the bricks concealing a safe. Since the big crash neither of us trusted banks much, and it was a good place to park certain items we weren't yet ready to declare to the world at large. Among other things, it held the bulk of my hard-won mob money and a share of his own honest earnings. He'd drawn one of his envelopes of cash out and was transferring funds into it from his wallet. He must have had a profitable day, then.

"Going somewhere?" I asked, pausing a few feet behind him.

He almost didn't jump. "Damn! Rap on something or call a warning, why don't you?"

"That's against union rules for vampires. You should be used to it by now."

"I forgot the time, or else I'd have been prepared for your evening's emergence."

"What gives?" I motioned to take in his traveling clothes, which was a nondescript dark coat and sober gray suit, not expensive, not cheap. He'd carefully chosen them to be able to blend into nearly any city background. Except for his height and distinctive face-both of which I'd known him to adjust when he wanted-he could make himself into the human equivalent of wallpaper. "Going on a trip?"

"Yes, an overnight train to New York to recover a kidnapped canine."

"You're kidding."

"My client is paying extremely well," he stated with huffy dignity. Sure, he turned down divorce work, but there was damn little else beneath his notice if the money was good.

"What's the story?"

"Nothing terribly exciting. My client's divorce was finalized some time ago, but her ex-husband was not satisfied with the arrangement concerning the family dog. He, or some agent of his, absconded with the creature, so I'm off to fetch it."

"What kind of dog?"

"No specific breed. I was given a photograph. It's small and fluffy and I expect excitable and prone to yapping, but when a client puts a hundred dollars in my hand I will cheerfully assume the guise of Frank Buck and bring the beast back alive."

He finished putting half his hundred in the safe, keeping the other half for what would be more than generous travel expenses. Maybe he planned to take in some shows while he was in New York. After closing the safe and securing the brick opening, he went upstairs. I followed in the normal way rather than vanishing to waft through the ceiling; impressive as it was, there might be a big night ahead, and I wanted to save my strength.

Escott went into the kitchen. He wasn't one to cook, only using the room to make and drink his coffee in the morning or eat directly from the Chinese food cartons he usually brought home at night. Still, out of habit he'd cleaned things enough in anticipation of his trip to make it look like no one lived here. The garbage pail was empty and swabbed out, the counters wiped clear of crumbs and corner dust. His stringent neatness might have annoyed others, but I didn't mind since he was sensible enough to leave my stuff alone. Of course, I was sensible enough to keep my stuff in my own rooms.

He pulled the Chicago book from the shelf under the wall phone and flipped through its flimsy pages.

"When you due back?" I asked, lounging against the fridge.

"A day or so. You can check with the answering service if there's any change in my plans. I'll notify them."

"If you do the same for me."

"Yes, I read about your case." He indicated some pages on the kitchen table where I'd left them just before dawn. What began as a note turned into a near novel. He told me he wanted to be kept up-to-date on things, so I'd not been sparing in the details. Good thing I could type fast or I wouldn't have finished in time to make it to cover before dawn.

"It's not a case," I protested.

"You've a better description for it?"

He had me there. It's just the way he canted his head and arched the one eyebrow was annoying. Having found a number, he put the phone book away and dialed, calling for a cab to take him to the train station. Rather than risking the perils of public parking, Escott preferred leaving his precious Nash safe in his garage when he traveled.

"I could have given you a ride," I said.

"Most kind, but you've some preparations of your own for the evening to see to, unless I'm mistaken."

"Royce Muldan's party, yeah."

"You will be careful, won't you?"

"You know me."

"Indeed. And I share Shoe's opinion: I've no liking for scraping you off sidewalks."

"That was just the one time. It was months ago."

"It was more than sufficient."

For us both. He and his friend Shoe Coldfield had saved my butt more than once, and sometimes took a perverse delight reminding me about it. None of it bothered me much since I could rib them right back. With interest.

"I'll watch myself," I said. "What about today? Anything new?"

"Miss Smythe called and asked you to telephone her at her place of work at five minutes after nine. She'll be on a break then."

"She say what it was about?"

"Something to do with Lena Ashley's funeral service."

Cheering subject.

"As for the rest of the city, the papers are trying to keep things animated, but there's damned little for them to go on about. Whatever you did last night to that swarm of reporters you encountered seems to have worked. The stories are now below the fold and quite a bit shorter except in certain of the more lurid tabloids. Since you persuaded them to lose interest in you, they're now badgering the police for a swift solution to the 'Sensational Jane Poe Mystery.' By it's very nature I suppose it can hardly be anything else. Oh, that was one of the more restrained headlines."

"I guessed."

"Overly dramatic," he sniffed. "As for the others..."

"They gotta tempt people to spend their two cents in the right place. What about the cops? Anything from them?"

He crossed his arms and parked his backside against a counter. "Lieutenant Blair was once more most obliging when I called. He has no exact date on the woman's death, but like you, is privately estimating that it took place about a month after the club closed, around May of 1932. That coincides with Miss Ashley's disappearance and the receipt for the sale of the dress. He spoke with the officers who investigated the grenade-tossing murders and none noticed a freshly bricked-up wall in the cellar at that time."

"They might not have bothered to look, but I'll go along with that."

"Do you think the two incidents are linked?"

Hands shoved into my bathrobe pockets, I shrugged. "I'm figuring that whoever killed Lena knew the club was empty and just used it as a quiet spot for his dirty work."

"Nearly everyone in the city at that time knew it was deserted," he pointed out.

"Yeah. Especially Booth Nevis and Shivvey Coker, but why should they shit in their own yard when there's plenty of other places that wouldn't lead right to them?"

Escott shrugged in turn.

"Did Blair trace the dress label?"

"He did, and Miss Smythe also wanted to let you know Mr. Joe James, though somewhat upset by their intrusion, followed your instructions in regard to being spare in the sharing of information with them."

"That's good. He was worried it might come back on him if he talked too much. He didn't want to end up like Lena."

"Quite understandable."

"Has Blair turned up any next of kin for her?"

"Apparently she had none. At least under that name. If it was false, there will be some difficulty tracing her."

"I'll have to see if she left any papers behind that Rita might have kept. Or have the cops gotten as far as her yet?"

"Not that I was told. You know, despite your influence on him, Blair might take exception to your making the rounds before he's had his chance to ply questions. You could put the wind up his suspects, making them less cooperative than they might otherwise have been."

"I doubt that. Unless I can catch someone before they've tied one on for the night, he's got a better shot at it than me to squeeze 'em. In the end, I'm doing him a favor. If I get a solid lead, I'll turn it over to him to play with. I want this can of worms sealed and delivered so I can get back to business as usual."

"It's more than that to you, though." He had his serious face on. "Granted the affair is bad enough, but trying to sort it out is hardly your concern. The police are more than capable. Why is it so essential for you to be involved?"

That question had been banging around my brain from the start. Sure, the body had been found at my club, but, looking at things cold, that was my only connection to it. None of this should have been more important to me than any other mess left behind by the previous occupants. Appalling as it was, this murder was really something for others to clean up, not me.

"Jack?"

"I think it's..." I hunched my shoulders. "I know it's because I was murdered, too." My talk with Bobbi last night had dredged up some dark memories. They'd not settled back as usual. In the quiet of my sanctuary, while waiting for unconsciousness to take me for the day, they'd pressed close enough to smother.

Escott gave a small grunt. "I see."

"Back then, when I was... when they were killing me..."

"Jack-"

"It's just that if I'd been a normal man, no one would have ever found my body. No one would have been punished for what they'd done to me. No one would have known. So this business eats at my gut. I think about that poor woman dying the way she did, and I wonder if those same kinds of thoughts went through her mind while she was buried there in the dark, scared out of her wits, waiting and waiting and waiting. Would anyone find her in time? Would anyone get the bastard who put her there? She had to have gone through days of it, same as me. Only she didn't come back."

"And it makes you angry."

"Damn right." There was something more, but what it might be wasn't going to show itself just yet. Best not to force things. I'd figure it out in time.

He nodded once, understanding, then stepped into the dining room. He used the table there for household paperwork like bills and mail. Retrieving a manila envelope from that day's stack, he handed it over.

"What's this?"

"Blair had it sent over at my request. I understand he got the original from Miss Robillard."

I knew what it might be. Folding back the flap, I drew out a photograph. The paper was slick and new, indicating a copy the police had made. It was a studio portrait of a woman, the kind where they pay attention to the lighting and paint out flaws in the skin, creating a flat artificiality in the image. Dark eyes, dark hair, couldn't tell anything about her figure, since it was just a head shot.

"This is Lena Ashley?" I asked.

"Yes."

She was young and pretty, not remarkably so, a pleasant smile with a certain blankness in the eyes, but that could have been the photography. Or me putting it in on my own. Whatever there was about her that had gotten Booth Nevis wound like a clock wasn't evident to me. Nothing of her personality came out of the picture. I saw what she'd looked like, but had no clue as to what she'd been like. Still, she'd lived and loved and had friends, a life to call her own, until someone sadistically took it from her.

Outside, a car horn sharply sounded.

"My cab," said Escott. He cut through the parlor to the hall and got his hat and overnight bag, then paused as he opened the front door. "Look after yourself, won't you?"

I growled. "Get out or you'll miss your damn train." Reassured, he snorted once in contempt and left.

Not knowing exactly what sort of evening lay ahead, I put on one of my second-best suits. If the situation got complicated, I'd just as soon not ruin anything new. An overly flashy tie, fresh-polished shoes, and pale gray fedora put me in the right social neighborhood for a mob party, and not for the first time did I wish I could see the effect in a mirror.

My first stop was at Lady Crymsyn to see to the day's business. The private opening was coming up fast. Leon and his men would have to work through the weekend, but they probably wouldn't mind the extra money the overtime would bring.

I was going to park out front as usual, but two cars were already blocking the curb, neither of which I recognized. Two equally unfamiliar men hung around the door, talking and smoking and keeping an eye on the street. Reporters. I knew that bored but still hungry look, having been there myself. Careful not to glance their way, I drove past, taking a turn at the next block over to come up to the alley running behind the club.

My headlights picked out another man sitting in the shallow alcove of the backstage service door.

They had me covered.

He shaded his eyes from the glare. Too late to shift to reverse, I resigned myself to inflicting another hypnosis session on some hapless schmuck. It was with no small amount of surprise I abruptly recognized the man to be Malone. What the hell?

Obviously favoring any number of sore spots, he stood up slowly, waiting for me. I set the parking brake and got out.

"Hello, Mr. Fleming." His face looked worse than before. Some of the swelling had gone down, but the bruising had turned black in spots.

"Hello, yourself." I put my hand out, and we shook. His grip was somewhat less than firm, but I put that down to his weakened condition. "What are you doing here?"

He made that nervous tic smile, or something close to it around the bruises. "I-ah-I'm looking for a job."

That explained his plain blue suit and quiet tie. Both looked like they didn't get a lot of use except to decorate hangers. A faint scent of mothballs drifted from him. "I thought you were going to rest up first."

"By the time your club opens I'll be all better."

I checked him up and down and agreed with his estimate. It must have been quite an act of courage for him to come by. "Inside. We'll talk."

He released a soft sigh of relief, and I knew I'd been right on the courage part.

I unlocked the service door, ushered him in, and locked it again. Once shut, we were in total darkness for him, and something close to it for me. Enough outside glow seeped through the red-tinted panes in the opposite windows so I could navigate without walking into things. For Malone's convenience, I found the lighting box and threw a few switches. He gazed around the stage where we stood, then took in the vast audience area and looked suitably impressed.

"Heavens," he said. "I had no idea it would be this elaborate."

"I'm hoping others will think the same. This way."

I led off to the left, not too fast so he could keep up. He openly gaped at the portrait of Lady Crymsyn and, as before when giving Escott the tour, I tasted the sweet flavor of proprietorship mixed with pride. If it was this satisfying now, come opening night I'd be permanently addicted.

For once, the lobby bar light was off, and no one had bothered to leave another solitary shot glass of whiskey out to annoy and mystify. Good.

We went up to the second-floor office. Malone made no comment about its contrasting lack of decor compared to the luxury below. I found a folding chair for him and put it before the old table I used as a desk. As ever, a pile of paperwork waited for me there, including Leon's clipboard with its ever-growing number of notes. A shipment of glassware and other equipment had arrived today. They'd stored the crates in the main room. Leon wanted to know who to contact to install some of the more specialized items like beer dispensers. That was union labor, and I had someone lined up for it, but it would require a daytime call and supervision. Leon could probably take care of it, but he knew construction, not bars and office work.

I looked at Malone and wondered how many miracles I was entitled to in one lifetime.

"What kind of job did you have in mind?" I asked.

"Bartending." His voice was muted and speech blurred because of his split lip. "I'm very good at it."

"I know. Nevis wouldn't have kept you around for long if you weren't. How'd you learn I was hiring? From him?"

"Not directly. The manager at the Flying Ace called to find out why I'd not come in tonight."

"He hadn't heard about your fight?"

"He'd heard, but was told I'd only been pushed around a little. Just some harmless fun." There was a touch of bitterness in his voice, but he was entitled.

"And he got told by the guys who did the pushing?"

"Yes, exactly that. I gave him my side of things and why I had no desire to return for more, then he said it was tough luck."

"But not tough enough for him to fix things for you?"

Malone puffed one gentle laugh. "Hardly. He isn't a bad sort, just not one to stick his neck out. Not for me, anyway."

"Some guys think it's catching."

That got another, longer laugh. It might have been more audible if he'd been feeling better. Instead, he pressed one hand to his side. Probably had a stitch in the damaged muscle there or maybe a bruised rib. "I think he did want to help me in some way, though, and suggested I try my luck here. The boss had told him to pass the word around that you were looking to hire people."

So Nevis had had some memory of our conversation. I wondered if he'd fully recovered from his migraine. And what else he might have remembered-or learned-about me today. I fixed a long, concentrated stare on Malone until I was sure he was under. "Did Booth Nevis or anyone else send you to spy on me?"

Malone's battered face was relaxed enough to look dead. Especially around his unblinking, unfocused eyes. "No."

"Why are you here?"

"I... I need a job."

"Did Nevis or Coker ever talk about me? Or ask you questions?"

"No."

"Did you ever hear them say anything about Lena Ashley?"

"No."

"What about Welsh Lennet?"

"No."

I let go my brief hold on him and watched normal animation creep back into his expression. He wouldn't recall anything. "You know Nevis has a black reputation in some quarters. Why'd you work for him for so long?"

"I needed a job; he gave me one."

"There's always places for a good bartender in a city this big."

"Times are hard, Mr. Fleming, and the tips at the Flying Ace were better than I might find elsewhere."

"You'd make even more at one of the fancier watering holes on the north side."

"I liked where I was." He made that tic again. It was almost a grimace.

I decided against giving him a hypnotic nudge, keeping quiet and letting the silence stretch.

He seemed to know what I was trying to do and dropped his gaze to the floor. "There was more to it," he finally muttered.

"Like Nevis asking you to do extra work on the side?"

"What?"

"Did he have you running errands like Tony Upshaw?"

There was genuine startlement in his tone. "N-no, Certainly not. I just ran the bar, nothing more."

"Then what else was there?"

Malone went red to his roots, which did not combine well with the black of the bruises. "Mr. Nevis... he-he knew I'd been in prison."

I snorted, unimpressed. "Oh, is that all?" He started to add more, then choked it off, surprised at my reaction. Leaning back, I put my hands behind my head. "Listen, half the mugs in this town have been on the inside at one time or another. Anyplace else in the world and it'd be considered a rite of passage. Anthropologists could write reports for National Geographic, complete with pictures."

"I've not met many people with that sort of opinion on the subject," he said after a moment.

"What'd they put you away for?" I was careful to phrase it just that way rather than ask "what did you do?" Hanging around in Gordy's crowd had given my manners in regard to the mobs a certain diplomatic polish.

"I wrote some bad checks. Did eight months out of a year. They paroled me early for good behavior."

"Bad checks? Sounds pretty tame to me."

"Not to hear others talk. If they think you've been crooked with money once, they assume you will be again."

"What's the whole story, then? If you don't mind my asking."

"I don't, not really. Things are so different for me now it's as though it all happened a long time ago to some other fellow."

"I know what that's like. Go on."

He shrugged. "It's nothing much. I had a store once, dry goods and that sort of thing, and was partners with my brother. David liked to gamble, though, and he'd drain the profits to pay his debts when he lost. It usually wasn't a lot, and sometimes he'd make a big win and pay it all back, so things tended to balance themselves out. Then he hit a long stretch of bad luck and he kept on betting, hoping it would change."

"But it didn't."

"Bad to worse, and more so because he didn't tell me what was going on. He had to make a big payoff and took nearly everything out of the bank. There were some rough types coming around to collect from him. They would have hurt him, maybe killed him."

"Then the boom fell."

Malone nodded. "The store bills had to be paid... and I paid them."

"But if you didn't know the checks would be bad-"

"Actually, I did. It was perfectly stupid of me, but my brother persuaded me to believe that his luck would change for the better. He had a sure thing at the track that he knew would come in. Only it didn't, and so I was left with the consequences. It was my signature on the checks, not his, after all, and too late to call them back."

"So he left you swinging in the wind? He couldn't have said something to a judge to help you out?"

"He would have, but he was killed in a car accident a week before the trial. It was an unholy mess."

"Didn't any of this come out in court?"

"Yes, but I couldn't afford a decent attorney, and it was an election year for the prosecutor's office. He managed to get an easy and quick conviction to add to his record."

"Your kid know this about you?"

"Not one word-and she never will if I can help it. She was only three and doesn't remember anything about me being away for so long. I'm an honest man, Mr. Fleming. I made a mistake blinding myself to my brother's weakness. It is not something I'll ever repeat."

That was for damn sure. "What about the rest of your family? You get along with them all right?"

"I haven't any real family left except for Norrie. Her mother... had a bad heart. She died giving birth."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"Your little girl-if I'm stepping over the line, lemme know-but I was wondering about that scar on her neck."

He made a deprecating gesture. "People ask about it, most of them aren't as polite as you. I don't want her growing up self-conscious about it, you see, or being teased by others."

"Uh-huh."

"She was in the car with my brother. There was broken glass. Missed killing her by a fraction. I still have nightmares about what might have happened. Silly of me. She's safe now, thank God. And thank God she doesn't remember any of it, either. Not really. Sometimes she has nightmares, too, but I'm hoping she'll grow out of them."

"Is that what you meant last night about things being complicated?"

"I said that? I suppose so, yes." He made a rueful face.

Awkward silence, with me thinking along there-but-for-the-grace-of-God lines. I shook out of it and cleared my throat. "About last night..."

Malone straightened, probably sensing and welcoming a change of subject. "Yes?"

"I saw you had some college books on accounting. Those didn't just come with your flat, did they?"

He looked puzzled. Couldn't blame him, it was quite a shift. "They're mine. That's what I studied for a few years."

"Ever get to use any of it?"

"When I ran the store, but not lately."

"You know how things work in a club bar, is it much different from your store?"

"Not very."

"How'd you get from dry goods to mixing drinks?"

"It was the only place that would hire me once I was released. Mr. Nevis asked if I knew how to draw beer from a tap-which I did-and I picked up the rest watching the other bartenders."

I nodded. "Okay, Malone, it's like this: I need a general manager for this place, and right now you're the only one I've talked to who looks good for the spot."

Tic. Quite a big one, nearly a full twitch that used up his whole battered face. "G-general manager?"

"It'd mean keeping the books, hiring and firing, and making sure the help doesn't guzzle the inventory or sneak from the till. You'd meet and greet special customers when necessary. For some nights you'll need a tuxedo, but the club can pay for that if you don't have one."

He couldn't seem to shut his mouth.

"It's going to use up time and require a man who's reliable and responsible enough to stay at it. I'm only available in the evenings. I need someone to see to the day work, so you'd have to make plenty of decisions on your own. Think you're up to it?" I sat back and let him mull it over. It didn't take him too long.

"What-what sort of hours would be required?" he asked, his face pinched from furious internal calculation.

"As many as it takes to get the job done. A lot at first until the place is opened and a routine is set, then maybe not so much. Is that going to be a problem?"

"I was just thinking about Norrie. I shouldn't like her to be alone too much. Well, not alone, Mrs. Tanenbaum looks after her, but that's not the same as having her daddy around."

"The first month will be the busiest, but after that-" I lifted my hand, palm up. "Look, soon she'll be in school most of the day, right? You can come in while she's there, do what needs doing, take a couple hours off home with her, then come back until I get here in the evenings. You don't live that far away."

"It might work," he admitted.

"You'd open the place for the waiters and set up the cash registers for them, nothing you haven't done before. And you wouldn't have to stay late since I'll be here to close. What d'ya say?"

He made no reply, still looking overwhelmed by the possibilities.

"Malone?"

He blinked, swallowed a few times. "I don't know. You're giving me quite a lot of trust, and you hardly know me."

"If you were dishonest or dumb, Nevis wouldn't have bothered with you. Guys who sneak from his till only do it once-or so I've heard. The same rule applies here, if that's any comfort."

That raised half a smile on him. "I've no argument with it."

"So. You want this job?"

"Y-yes. But what if things don't work out?"

"Then I find someone else, you go ahead and do regular bartending here, and no hard feelings for either of us."

His smile might have been full on except for the lip damage, but most of it still shone out his one good eye. "Yes, yes, absolutely."

He reached across to shake my outstretched hand on the deal. I froze him in place with one of my looks. My conscience tried to give me a twinge about doing this sort of thing to the guy, but I successfully ignored it. I liked him, and my instincts said he'd work out, but business was business, after all.

"You're not going to steal from me, are you, Malone?"

"N-no, sir."

"Or spy on me for anyone?"

"No."

"And you'll let me know if anyone asks you to?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll get along great." By the time I released his grip, he was back to normal and asking where to start.