LOVERS, MUGGERS AND THIEVES

A Novel By Edward McInnis

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to

Lynda Connolly for her invaluable assistance in preparing this book.

Website, book conversion & publication by Kendrick

* * *

"Down by the river, down by the banks of the River Charles. That's where you'll find me along with lovers, muggers and thieves. Ah, but they're cool people. 'Cause I love that dirty water. Oh, Boston you're my home."

Dirty Water by The Standells

CHAPTER 1

I KILLED YOUR WIFE. CATCH ME IF YOU CAN. TRY AND KILL ME. HA HA.

The letter had been sent, not to my home, but here. My office in the old Textile Building at the frayed edges of Boston's famous Chinatown and infamous Combat Zone.

White business-size envelope, my name and address typed, no return address. Postmarked Boston. A single sheet of 8 1/2" X 11" white paper folded in thirds. The sentences composed of capital letters apparently cut out of magazines. Diedre had been killed five years before and the murderer never found. Her doom-day was a few months after our one-year wedding anniversary. As I recalled: November 13th. The hair on my forearms and the back of my neck rose when I looked at my desk calendar. Today was Thursday. November 13th.

CHAPTER 2

Should I bring the letter to the cops? What could they do but dust it for fingerprints? And I would bet my crime-detecting iridescent fire opal ring that the killer had worn latex gloves. Why had he waited so long to surface? Why had he surfaced at all? Why was he seemingly asking to be killed? Why had he killed Diedre? Where was he? Who was he? Who? As I thought of Diedre, I felt a bittersweet melancholy, a nostalgia for what might have been but never was, a high and deep yearning for what could never be. And though I knew it could never be, I permitted myself to imagine the impossible. How many times had I indulged this lingering ghost-like grief, this sickly shadow of sorrow, over the last half-decade? How often had I knowingly idealized our brief season together, as if it were a time of magic and wonder? As if it were a classic tale of love and loss, known the world over, to be told and retold for generations? And then, as always, the reaction set in. I beat myself with the bludgeon of guilt and berated myself for her death though I knew, intellectually, that it wasn't my fault. But the intellectual brain is no match for the emotional brain. The grief and guilt had fused to form a highly combustible compound: a passionate desire for revenge. The pent-up yet imperative need to find her killer and mete out justice. Who would be the judge? Me. Who would be the jury? Me. Who would be the executioner? Me.

CHAPTER 3

I looked up, surprised. I hadn't heard her enter. A young black woman with big, bewitching eyes, long straight black hair and a slinky, sequined, silvery, clinging, floor-length, long-sleeved gown. "'Member me?" she asked. "Sister Flukie," I said. "You do 'member," she almost smiled. "I didn't think King Pimp ever let you off the leash." "Never do. But leash invisible." Poor Sister Flukie. Slave to King Pimp, lord and master of the Combat Zone. As usual, Flukie looked doped up, burnt down, strung out, done in. And yet, deep in her eyes, blazed flames of desire, of perseverance, of the will to live. "King Pimp say fly a kite to Castille." "What?" I asked. "King want a sit-down." "When?" "Tomorrow," she said. "Midnight." "Hot Spot?" "Where else?" I sighed. Who would rid me of this turbulent pest? "Why?" I asked. "Find out tomorrow night." "King usually has Crazy F fly me kites." "Why he want a sit-down," she said. "Why?" I asked. "Crazy F try kill King."

CHAPTER 4

I walked over to the Chinatown Service Center. Pinky Tran, the receptionist, sat at her desk, bawling like a drug-addicted baby going through withdrawal symptoms. "Pinky, what's the matter?" "You know," she stuttered out between sobs. "Still?" I asked. "They hurt me so much." Pinky's boyfriend Kelvin was six foot three and studied martial arts with Mei-Wei Chan, international grandmaster of wu shu and mother of my erstwhile partner in crime, Phoenix Chan. And, oh yes, Kelvin was...black. Chinese and Vietnamese thought nothing of dropping in and insulting and haranguing and mocking and berating Pinky for having a black boyfriend. "I'm sorry," I said. "Me, too," she said.

"Want me to beat them up?" "That what Calvin say, too," she looked up at me, eyes glistening with tears. "But no can." "Why not? I'll crack their heads together like Moe with Larry and Curly. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk." She laughed. "My kids love Three Stooges. You too?" "Soitan-ly," I said in my Curly voice. She stopped crying. "I sorry cry." "Don't be." "Want see Margie?" she asked. "She in?" "Yes. I buzz her." She hit the intercom. Margie's voice crackled: "Speak!" "Castille here," said Pinky. "Okay he come in?" "Quickly!" "Hang in there, Pinky," I said. "I hang." I walked through the warren of small flimsy-partitioned cubicles where bilingual, trilingual and even quadrilingual counselors helped East Asian clients find housing, jobs, schools for their children, immigration assistance etc. Languages burbled: Vietnamese, English, several dialects of Chinese. Sometimes even French, Khmer and Laotian. The counseling positions were low-paying jobs often held by Chinese who got themselves into the U.S. as tourists or students but wanted to stay for good. Because once their tourist visas expired or they graduated from college, they were legally obligated to return to their native countries. Unless. Unless they were sponsored to obtain their green cards. That is, become Permanent Residents. The cards weren't actually green; they were blue-ish. But they had once been green and the nickname stuck. Two main types of sponsors: close relative or employer. Virtually all the counselors had no relatives here. So they were being sponsored by their employer. Margie. Their future, their fortune, their fate was held in Margie's delicate but formidable hands. After acquiring a green card, the Permanent Resident could apply to be a naturalized American citizen. "My mentor!" a voice called. "Binh," I said to the ethnic Chinese Vietnamese who clumped up to me, one leg six inches shorter than the other. "Yes, I would like very much to tell you. I am proud to say I am American citizen." "You passed the exam," I said. "Congratulations. Did they ask you the state bird of Massachusetts?" "No, my mentor," he said, "but I look it up as you suggest."

"The short-dinked rantallian, right?" "I am sorry to say not. State bird is chickadee. State flower is mayflower. State tree is American elm." "Illuminating," I said. "What's the state insect?" "I do not know, my mentor," he said, blinking and staring at me like I was an oracle. Or maybe he was just exhausted from working three full-time jobs every twenty-four hours. "Maybe the may bee," I said. "One other thing, my mentor." "Yes, Binh?" "I am no longer Binh," he said. "You changed your identity? Like a superhero?" "Superhero? No," he blinked. "Change, yes. Now I am Benjamin Franklin Do. Please, if you would, call me Ben." "Ben. I like it. It has a certain panache." "Yes, you see, Benjamin Franklin was born in Boston, my new home as a citizen of America." "The Home of the Brave and The Land of the Free Offer That Soon Expires."

CHAPTER 5

All the way to the back, I knocked twice on a closed door, opened it and went in. At her desk, buried under mounds of paperwork, sat Margie. "Hello, ex-fianc`ee," I sang out. "Hello, ex-darling," she responded, without looking up from her desk. It had been six weeks since Margie returned from El Salvador. Where she had run to when she had called off our wedding. After I had been shot, she had returned to nurse me back to health. But we had tread lightly around the subject of our 'relationship.' "Let us go then, you and I," I said, "to engage in diligent and discriminating gastronomical activity." "English." "Let's eat." "When?" she asked. "Now." She looked up at the wall clock. "Only 4:30," she said. "You'll work yourself into an early grave," I said. "Too early," muttered Margie. "Which?" I asked. "Supper or grave?" "Both." "Later then," I said. "Sevenish." "I'm writing two different proposals for refugee services to both the Fortress and the Palace." The Fortress and the Palace were, in Margie-speak, Boston City Hall and the Massachusetts State House. "So? You usually get funded." "Except this time, CCBA is also applying," she said.

"And they have no experience helping refugees get jobs." "Then their proposals will be rejected," I said, as always the Voice of Reason. "Have you learned nothing about Chinatown, you dope?" she asked, exasperated. "CCBA has connections to the City and State. If they get funded, they won't help a single person get a job." "What will they do with the money?" "Buy a Chinese supermarket or restaurant and rake in the profits." "Surely," I said, "against every law of man and God." "No shit, Sherlock Junior. But try getting the authorities to stop them, the fucking Mongolians." Mongolians, in Margie-speak, were the Chinatown Ruling Elite, headed by the Wong siblings: Bobby, Katy and Freddy. "So I can't go out to eat," she concluded. "Too much work." "Achtung! You can go and you vill go," I said in my Hitler youth leader voice. "Too much vork makes Margie a dull fraulein, jah?" She finally sat back, like a submerged swimmer coming up for air. Her long luxuriant midnight-black hair - cut diesel-dyke short when she fled - now perfectly framed her noontime face, round and yellow as the sun. She let out a long breath and twinkled her eyes at me. "Won't your girlfriend be jealous?" My imaginary girlfriend. "I broke up with her," I said. "Why?" "Too old for me." "How old is she?" Margie asked. "My age!" I said. "You fucking asshole," she said but laughed. "Shall we meet at Chun's Garden?" I asked. "Or shall I collect you?" "I'll meet you there," she said. "Nice try," I said. "I'll come here." "I don't know," she said. "These proposals are due..." "I don't care when they're due," I said. "You have to eat, don't you? Unless you've become an airarian." "As you wish, O Ghost Who Walks," Margie said, diving back into the pool of paper. "Seven," I said. "...Ish." I walked back to the front. What the hell? Three sadistically smirking Vietnamese teenagers - looked like gang members - taunted Pinky, who cried uncontrollably. When they saw me, they turned from Pinky and tried to stare me down. I looked at who I guessed was the leader. There's always a leader. He sneered and said something in Vietnamese. The other two laughed.

Pinky cried. I dead-eyed the leader and said: "Out." "Big American," the leader sneered. "Now," I said. He spewed a final insult at Pinky and they sauntered out.

CHAPTER 6

Downtown crowds on foot and in cars escaping the cage labeled 'job.' Twilight. Funny time of day. Transition between light and dark. I sometimes thought a door might open, revealing another dimension, not quite human. "Castille!" a familiar voice called. Speaking of not quite human. Skim the Screwball. Bald, bearded, emerald dangling from his ear. He walked up to me. "What did the inner circle decide to do about Blackie?" I asked. "I still can't believe Blackie ratted us all out." "Believe it. I gave you the evidence. Blackie confirmed it by his reaction. Snitch number one in Southie." "I know," said Skim. "So what was his punishment?" "We were gonna torture him but we couldn't. We were gonna kill him and bury his body with the corpses of the people he killed. But we couldn't." "The suspense is killing me," I said. "We banished him. For life." "From the city? The state? The country?" "From Boston," he said. "Though might as well been the United States." "Why?" "Ja know he held dual citizenship in the United States and Ireland?" "No," I said. "So - what? - you let him go back to the old sod?" "Where his people are from. County Cork." "Wherein is located, if memory serves, the Blarney Stone. Not that he needs to kiss it for the gift of gab. Knowing Blackie, he'll find his way to Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty, and take over the rackets there." "Probably," laughed Skim. "Hear about Pipe Billy?" "In the papers. Plea bargained for ten years on federal weapons charges." "Rest of his gang of Bloodbath Koffin Boppers put away too." "Back at the ranch," I asked, "who's taking Blackie's spot as top dog, big daddy, alpha male of the Irish Mafia and the Wild Wild Wasties in Southie?" "I am," he said proudly.

"God help us," I said. "But remember. The FBI's not going to protect you any more. You understand, right? Blackie was the star of I Was A Zombie For The FBI. Agent Sullivan was Blackie's personal guardian angel. He doesn't care about the rest of you." "Don't I know it," said Skim. "As kids, I used to cuff him around." "So stay in Southie and just destroy your own people. Not the rest of Boston." "I just wanted to tell you. No hard feelings." "As I recall the thrill of it all," I said, "you threatened to kill me." "You know me. I'm a hot head. Let bygones be bygones?" He held out his right hand. Why not? Cross one name off the I'm-Going-To-Kill-Castille Chowder and Marching Society. "Skim, you are the very cobblestone of courtesy." I put out my right hand and we shook. He didn't let go. I couldn't pull loose. "Skim? What the...?" His left hand flashed inside his jacket. In an instant, I understood. He had probably sided with Blackie. Who wanted me dead. And, even if he didn't, Skim still wanted to kill me. And now he was going to do it. Handshake Henry-style. My guardian demon dealt my life-and-death cards - twenty-one, or blackjack: I live. Over twenty-one, or bust: I die. Not such bad odds. Time slowed down. The metal of the handgun glinted as he pulled it out. In another second, he'd fire a gutshot and, once I fell, a killshot. But, in that epic elongated second, my physical brain decided. My right hand pushed his hand toward him. He, untrained - lacking science, lacking philosophy - reacted automatically by resisting my push and pushing back toward me. I didn't push back but rather used his momentum to pull and twist his right hand and arm. His left hand was still taking out the gun. As I pulled and twisted his right hand, I pivoted 180 degrees on my left foot so my back was facing him. At the same time, I dropped to my left knee, pulled and twisted his hand so that his fully extended elbow rested on my right shoulder. Then I pulled his arm down with my right hand and stood up. Crack! As I stood, my right shoulder shattered his hyper- extended elbow. "Owwww!!!" he howled, in, one hoped, hideous pain. As all his attention went to his splintered arm, he dropped the handgun. I heard the metal hit concrete behind me.

I let go of his bent and broken arm and turned. His face was a rictus of torment; his right forearm was extended 45 degrees beyond its fullest normal range. "Hurt?" I asked, innocently. "Killin' me!" he yowled. "Whud you do that for?" "Because, you screwball, you were going to kill me." "No, I wasn't," he managed to say, breathing as hard as a hobbled bull. I bent down and picked up his gun. "No?" I asked, then added in my Shadow voice: "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit!" His tortured face contorted even worse. "ER," I said. "Two blocks over." He turned and trotted toward the hospital, holding his ruined arm. As people hurried by - casting worried glances and speeding their pace - I walked to the sidewalk and dropped Skim's gun down a sewer. Now, no worries. Except one. My wife's murderer was loose in Boston. And I would kill him. Or die trying.

CHAPTER 7

"Boop-boop-a-doop, shiek! Aren't I quite the berries?" asked a counselor at the Chinatown Service Center at 6:55 p.m. Seven. Ish. "You're the cat's cufflinks," I assured her in my Rudolph Valentino voice. Betty Lum. From Hong Kong. A dead ringer for one of the most famous cartoon characters ever created, Betty Boop. The very embodiment of the Roaring Twenties 'flapper girl.' Betty Lum was well aware of her remarkable resemblance to Betty Boop. In fact, she cultivated it. She was 4'11", with a good figure; she always wore short short skirts and high high heels; her eyes, naturally big, were made up to look bigger; her black hair was styled Boopishly short. On the wall of her cubicle was a provocative life-size cartoon poster of Betty Boop. The likeness was uncanny, down to her high thin eyebrows and crimson Cupid's bow lips. "Come to see Margie?" she asked. "Who else?" I asked. "Me, sharpshooter," she said, batting her unnaturally long, black and individualized eyelashes. Then she laughed. "How's the Messiah?" I asked. "Aye-yuh!" she said in the age-old all-purpose Cantonese exclamation, jumping six decades from flapperitis to motherdom/martyrdom. "The Christ Child! Thinks he's the center of the universe!"

The Messiah a.k.a. the Christ Child was Betty's only progeny, seven-year-old Little Ming. She spoiled him rotten and wondered why he was so demanding. "Like you," I said. "He's bad to the bone." "No," she said. "I'm Boop to the bone." Then I plunged into the maelstrom of Margie's office, Margie's work, Margie's life. She always spun a dozen plates on the ends of sticks and, amazingly, never dropped and broke one. Almost never. "'Allo, ducky," I said in my lower-class British voice. "You're lookin' rather plucky." "If they steal my funding, I don't know how but I'll pluck the feathers of the Wongs," she muttered. "They'll never fly high again. Fucking Mongolians." "You're off the clock," I said. Even though I considered it part of my P.I. territory, I could never completely fathom the bizarre and Byzantine world of Chinatown politics. Maybe you had to be Chinese. Or, better, a conspiracy theorist. Crazes of conspiracies always abounded. Though, often enough, the paranoid pseudo-maniacs with the most outlandish, outer limits, out-of-their-minds conspiracy theories turned out to be...correct. Best not to ask. "You'll never believe what they did this time," she fumed. "Just in the couple of hours since I saw you." Best not to listen. I put up my palm. "Day's work is done. Time to toddle off for replenishment, refreshment and rejuvenation. Food, drink and sparkling witty conversation provided by your humble and obedient servant." Leaving; only Betty Lum remained. "Betty," demanded Margie. "What are you doing here so late?" "Paperwork." "Lock up when you leave. You know you have fifteen seconds to set the alarm code and get out the front door, right?" "Done it before," said Betty. "Don't stay too late. Streets aren't safe around here for a woman alone." When Margie turned away, Betty winked, arched a hip toward me and silently mouthed 'Boop-boop-a-doop.' I never knew if she was coming on to me or just playing to the hilt her Betty Boop persona.

CHAPTER 8

In the packed, popular restaurant, I debated whether to show Margie the taunting letter from Diedre's killer. Or

not. With her Master's in Social Work and wide experience with deviants - she had worked for several years in the Psych. Department of Boston Hospital - Margie might have an insight into the killer's words that I missed. Or not. In which case, it would only upset her. Hm. Meanwhile, Margie put it to the Cantonese waitress: "Who's the chef tonight?" "Mister Henry Lee," she said. "Light-Horse Harry Lee?" exclaimed Margie. "In that case, I'll have stir-fried tofu with baby bok choy. Tell Light-Horse to put in only choy sum, not the whole bok choy. And please make sure the soy sauce is black with low sodium. Only a touch, a taste, of sesame oil." "Yes, miss. You, sir?" "The Castille Special," I said. "Excuse, please?" "Shrimp, tofu and all the vegetables in the house on a bed of rice." "Very good, sir." Margie said to me: "My schedule's insane." "Like I always say," I said. "The more things change, the more they remain insane." "Uncle Bobby?" she sighed. "Like trying to move the Great Wall of China. Today, he..." "Please. I beg of you. Let's not cripple the conversation with tawdry talk of politics. Today is, after all, the Feast Of Saint Crispin Crispian." "Bullshit. You forget I was also brought up Catholic. However, as you wish." "Light-Horse Harry Lee?" I asked. "Believe it or not," she giggled, "the Chinese chef is an American Revolutionary War buff. In fact, he takes part in re-enactments of Revolutionary War battles." "And let me guess," I said. "Because his accidental namesake is Revolutionary War general Henry Lee, he's adopted the general's nickname: Light-Horse Harry Lee." "Wow!" said Margie. "A tough-guy private detective with a detailed and intimate knowledge of American history." "And, lest we forget," I said, "also with a heart of gold." "The perfect man." As we ate, I pondered the recent past. Margie had originally planned to stay in El Salvador for eight weeks to help build an orphanage for the dispossessed children of war. But she came back after only two weeks when I was shot. She never returned to El Salvador but stayed in Boston and used the remaining six weeks of her vacation - her first in years - to nurse me back to health. As I gained strength, she drove us everywhere during a magnificent New England autumn. Once outside the loud, proud crowd of the megalopolis that stretched from Washington D.C. to Boston, the years, even the centuries, melted away. Weather-beaten wooden bridges over sparkling streams.

Trees tapped for maple syrup. Bumper crops of richly red cranberries floating serenely in bogs. Turkey farms with hundreds of gobblers unaware of their date with fate on Thanksgiving. Everywhere, the glorious foliage. On both sides of a stretch of the Mass. Turnpike, only tops of trees visible. Their leaves brilliant yellow, orange, red. Fields of huge yummy gumdrops. Gleaming emerald village greens exactly as they were in Colonial and Revolutionary times. Traditional county fairs. Contests for every domestic art from delicious home-baked pies to radiant home-grown flowers. Even a 1,500 pound pumpkin. I had recovered. Completely. Margie had relaxed. Almost. But now we were back in the city. Now we were back to work. Now we were back to reality. "So," I said, holding chopsticks in my left hand as we ate. "Are you going to tell me about El Salvador?" "Not yet," she said. "That bad?" "Yes." "I told you about Vera Chin," I said, "and how she made a fool of me." Irrationally - despite Vera Chin's confusing, using and abusing me - some small part of me actually missed her. Perhaps our perilous paths would cross again. What then? "And I'll tell you about El Salvador," Margie said. "But not just yet. And, by the way, finish all your rice or your future wife's face will look like the bowl. That's what my mother used to tell my brother." "And his wife?" "We call her Rice Bowl Face," she laughed. "Droll. In the sense of whimsical." "Why are you looking at me like that?" she demanded. "Because you're a long cool drink of absinthe for these thirsty eyes." "Leave some of my clothes on," she giggled. "Gawrsh, Miz Margie," I said in my Old West hired hand voice. "You're so durned purty and all. I reckon that's why you make me feel all tingly inside." "Put a lid on your id, Sid." "But, dollink," I said in my Zsa Zsa Gabor voice. "Tonight ve luff." "Not tonight, Sam Spade," said Margie. "Too much work to do at home." "Ah, but the weekend beckons." "Don't remind me," she groaned. "I've got to work at the family restaurant." "Surely you have time to repair to my Fortress of Solitude for a spot of jollification between crisp, highest-quality linen sheets. Followed by..."

"I have to work the whole weekend." "Good Lord, woman!" I said. "The whole weekend? Why?" "Because the time I spent nursing you back to health, and I wasn't there, the restaurant almost fell apart. Plus, my father's not feeling too well." "Thanks again for helping me recover," I said. "Don't thank me, darling. Buy me something." "By the way, why do you call the restaurant The Smiling Buddha?" I asked. "I named it after my father." "Except he never smiles," I said. "Not when you're around, he doesn't," she laughed. "Whimsical. In the sense of droll." I concluded my inner debate.

CHAPTER 9

"I know, my dear Margie," I said in my Sherlock Holmes voice, "that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life." "Oh, brother," she rolled her eyes. "Now what?" "Cast your orbs upon this letter I received at my office this morning. And favor me with your considered opinion." As she read, Margie's face paled. She handed it back as if it were radioactive. "Go to the police," she said, leaning forward. "What are they going to do?" I asked. "They'll do...something." "Like what?" Margie leaned back, folded her arms and chewed the inside of her bottom lip. "How should I know?" she asked, a little too loudly. "I'm not a cop. They have ways to deal with...things like this." "Not a single clue in the letter. You forget. I'm a cop. Of sorts. In fact, Boston's premiere private detective. Besides, that's not the point." "What's the point?" she asked. "I want the pleasure and privilege of killing this fuck myself." "That's illegal." "Also unethical," I said. "And immoral. And, oh, how I'm going to enjoy it." "That's not healthy." "How would you know? Have you ever had a spouse killed and the killer gotten away? Oh, that's right, you've never had a husband. Of course, you almost had one." I felt my emotions galloping away from me, like mustangs escaping a carelessly open gate in the corral. "Don't start up," Margie half-warned, half-pleaded. "No, but I'll finish up."

"This must be especially hard on you. Coming right after our wedding..." she hesitated. "...Debacle," I concluded for her. "Yes. Obviously," Margie said. "Especially hard." During our recovery/vacation, we had assiduously avoided talking about the aborted wedding, Margie's flight to El Salvador, the stillborn marriage. Now I was so filled with emotion, I didn't trust myself to speak. "I mean it," she said, referring to the letter. "I want you to go to the police. Let them handle it." "My dear Margie," I said, controlling myself. "I'm afraid you've forfeited your right to issue ultimatums to me." "Oh, Castille," she said, head drooping. "It's not an ultimatum." "What then?" "Good advice. Take it." "No," I said. "For me," she said. "For you? Though it pains one to repeat oneself, you've never had a spouse murdered and the murderer issued a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card." "What I mean is the letter could be a trick," said Margie. "You're too eager. This psycho could lay a trap that you'd normally notice and avoid. But you're too personally involved. You might fall into the trap and be at his mercy." "I won't fall into any traps," I said. "Read the letter again. This creep wants to get caught. And punished." "That's what I mean," said Margie. "It sounds too simple. Too easy. It sounds like a..." "...Trap. I know. I've taken that into account. I didn't just get off the bus from Rubeville." "I'll be worried sick about you," she said. "You don't realize how much I worry about you on your little adventures." "Maybe that's why," I said, "at the last minute, you bailed out of the marriage." "Maybe it is," she said, frowning and looking down at the table. "I don't know." "Excuse, please, Miss Margie," I said in my Charlie Chan voice. "Some sailors on the sea of matrimony wish they had missed the boat." "Meaning what, O great racist oracle?" "Harder to worry about a husband than a boyfriend." "That's not fair!" Margie looked up, eyes blazing. "Not fair," I said. "But true?" "Of course not. I can't believe you'd think such a thing. Let alone say it!" "I said it." "You've said enough," she said. "Let's drop it." "Your wish," I said. "My command." We had both taken the subway in town. Leaving the restaurant, we walked in sullen silence to the Downtown Crossing T. Standing on the semi-crowded concrete platform, we still didn't speak. I was torn between begging her

forgiveness and chewing her out, so I kept my mouth shut. God alone knew what she was thinking. A Quincy-bound train arrived. Would we say goodbye? Would we speak at all? Margie the Merciless threw me a strange look, got on the train and sat with her back to me. Ten minutes later, a Dorchester-bound train arrived. I took it to Savin Hill and walked home. I got my trusty Beretta semi-automatic, inserted a full 15-round clip, put two more clips in my pocket and walked down Savin Hill Avenue to the actual hill itself. In the light of the half-moon, I climbed up to the summit, past the rocky outgrowths and the bare trees. At the top, I was alone. All alone in this world. Across Boston Harbor, the planes took off and landed at Logan International Airport. Life seemed strange, repugnant, monstrous. I took out my trusty handgun, unlatched the safety, pointed the muzzle at the ground and, in a rage, pulled the trigger as hard and fast as I could. Fifteen times. I quickly changed clips and shot into the ground another fifteen times. I did the same with the third clip. Silence. I heard no sounds of alarm, human or mechanical. I just stood there, shaking like a late autumn leaf in a high wind. My mad minute. In a future, as-yet-unknown minute, someone would be killed. But who?

CHAPTER 10

MAYBE I'LL KILL YOU. WHERE AM I? WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW?

Yes, I would like to know, you crawling, crud-sucking, cowardly killer. And know what? I will know. And then? I will come for you. And then? I will find you. And then? I will torture you to within a millimeter of your life. And then? I will kill you.

CHAPTER 11

Friday afternoon at my office. Another frustrating letter from Diedre's murderer. Same irritating m.o. I looked at Diedre's poster on my office wall. Her intense eyes 'spotting,' that is, fixing on a particular spot on a wall to keep from getting dizzy as she spun 360 degrees. Her head had turned before her body, which would follow in a spinning movement characteristic of her dances. Her hair severely pulled back in a pony-tail. Her face a rush of concentration, beads of sweat on her forehead, her mouth relaxed yet resolute. Her red leotard - neckline plunging to showcase her trademark brightly-colored ribbon - in this case, also red, around her throat. I smiled to remember our first meeting. I taught a Tuesday evening basic self-defense course to a group of women on the main wrestling mat on the first floor of the gym beyond the basketball court. Ten guys, black, white, played hoops, five on five, shirts versus skins. When I had started the class at the request of two women, the gym rats had made comments, sniggering and snide. Until I threatened to have them beaten up by the women. Not wanting to take the chance, they stopped bothering us. The class mostly consisted of me explaining a motion, me mock-attacking a woman, and me getting the shit kicked out of me. One night, a woman came in and stood at the edge of the mat and watched. Around my age, she wore blue jeans, a Navy blue peacoat and, around her throat, a blue ribbon. A couple of times, I looked to make eye contact with her. But she refused to meet my gaze. After class, I sent the students to the newly built women's locker room on the third floor. At the edge of the mat, I turned and bowed to indicate respect for the art of jiu-jitsu. When I turned to step into my sandals, she faced me. This time, she made eye contact. Like being hit by lightning. My heart jumped and my adrenaline pumped. Her look was so direct, so penetrating that I didn't know if she was going to kiss me or kill me. I had never believed in love at first sight. But if that wasn't it, nothing was. Kismet? Karma? Coincidence? I didn't know then and I still don't know. But I was immediately aware of how salt-sweaty I was, and how I must smell bad, and my gi was dirty, and my hair was a mess and... "Can you teach me to defend myself?" she asked. I was surprised that words came out of my mouth, because my airtight heart so filled my vise-tight throat. And the right words at that, as the Old Legionnaire had taught me.

"Why do you want to learn self-defense?" I asked. She frowned and retreated inside herself. I studied her. Strikingly erect posture. Coffee brown hair; milk white skin; sky blue eyes: Irish-American. A class ring. Unpainted fingernails harshly bitten to the skin. "Because I want to be able to defend myself," she said. "That's like me asking you what the value of X is in an equation. And you say X equals X. That's true, obviously. But meaningless. So I ask again. Why?" Once more, she hesitated. I already knew the answer, in general terms, if not specifics. Men took up martial arts for a variety of reasons. But women? Usually one reason. She hadn't expected this impromptu interview. I hated to put her through it, especially when the suddenly charged-up blood ran riot through my veins. I already wanted to take her in my arms and say, 'Don't worry. I'll protect you.' But, of course, that's not what she wanted. She wanted to protect herself. But, for me to accept her as a student, she had to tell me. She had to say it. Out loud. The truth. The whole truth. The guys on the court shouted and swore and laughed; they ran and jumped and passed the ball. But I barely noticed them. Only this alluring mysterious be-ribboned woman, struggling with her gut feelings, her heartfelt emotions, her rapid thoughts. And her words. Finally, she said it; bravely, defiantly, thrusting out her chin. "Because I was attacked." She searched my spoilsport eyes. Would I demand to know more? Yes, I would. "Tell me what happened," I said softly. "Do I have to?" "You don't have to do anything. But, for me to teach you properly, I need to know." "Why?" she challenged. "Because, though the self-defense motions are the same for everybody, each student is different. Unique. And I take that into account when I teach each student. Each unique individual student." She pondered. I sensed sky-high intelligence as well as deep-calling-unto-deep determination. She was certainly attractive yet I would have been attracted to her if she had looked like Chewbacca. How to explain? Something invisible, inaudible, intangible, intuitive. I prayed she didn't turn and walk out of my life, never to return.

CHAPTER 12

"What do you do?" I asked, to reactivate her vocal cords. "I work in the Theatre District." "Actress?" "Dancer," she said. "And waitress. If I'm lucky, I get to be in the chorus line of a musical. And..." "And?" "Amateur choreographer." "We're all amateurs," I smiled. She smiled back, a dazzling display that melted my heart. Her whole body seemed to loosen up. She started to trust me. "What happened?" I prompted. "I have a studio in the Theatre District. I teach dance. To make money. Waiting tables doesn't quite cut it. But mainly I create dances. For no money." "You're an artist," I said. "Like me." "You...? Oh, I see. A martial artist." "I consider it an art form." "Really?" she asked, seemingly intrigued. "What happened?" I pulled her back to the question she was so reluctant to answer. "Sometimes I lose track of time. I leave the studio late." "How late?" "If I get carried away? Two, three a.m.," she said. "Too late for the subway. Too expensive for a taxi. So I walk home." "Where's home?" "Fort Point. A little artists' colony there. Painters, writers, musicians. It's fun. Stimulating. And cheap." "What street?" I asked. "Sleeper Street. You know the area?" "Sleeper Street. So-called because it used to house mattress manufacturers." "Not many people know that," she said. "Not many people know if they're right-footed or left-footed." "I'm right-footed." "I'm sure you are," I said. "So you were walking home late." She took a planet-deep breath and plunged straight to the pillaged seabed. "And a thing who looked human but wasn't came out of nowhere, put its filthy paw over my mouth, dragged me into an alley, produced a huge knife and gave me the choice of being raped or having my throat cut. "I didn't want to die so he...he raped me. And then..." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "He still cut my throat. And laughed. And left me to die." She pulled the blue ribbon away from her throat, revealing an awful, ugly, raw, red scar six inches long. "He lied to me!" she said.

Her back was to the basketball players so they couldn't see her face. Her tears. Her expression of sorrow, shame, guilt and, yes, betrayal. "He raped me, then cut my throat anyway and left me to die! In that alley! He lied to me!" The rape, the violation, the bestiality, the cut throat, the being-left-to-die in a Godforsaken alley at three a.m. Bad. Very bad. But to lie that he wouldn't cut her. The betrayal. The most unkindest cut of all. "What did you do?" I asked. "I felt the blood. So warm, so sticky, so icky. After...what he did to me, I wanted to die. But then something inside me rebelled. "No. "I wouldn't give the vicious creep the satisfaction. I wouldn't give the cruel universe the satisfaction. I wouldn't give the God of evil the satisfaction of me lying there, leaking blood, until I was dead. "No. "I would live. I crawled out of the alley. Called for help. I was so weak that I couldn't stand up. Who could hear me? Who would even be there to hear me? "I passed out. Maybe I died. I don't know. But somebody had seen or heard me and called an ambulance. I never found out who. I came to in a bed at Boston Hospital in the ICU. "And I lived. "And what I want from you is to teach me - if I'm ever attacked again - how to kill him." The tears still rolled down her cheeks though she wasn't exactly crying. The tears had a life of their own. Drops of salt water. What remained of our remote ancestors who had courageously crawled from the safety of the sea to the fear-filled dry land. Millions and millions of years ago. And now she carried that primordial sea within her. As she still carried the guts, the heart, the intestinal fortitude of those first creatures who dared to defy the unknown, the unknowing, the unknowable. "So now I know," I said. "Will you teach me?" she asked. I admired her; I liked her; I fell in love with her. "Come back a week from tonight," I said. "Seven p.m."

CHAPTER 13

I had a heart full of ache from brooding over the past, and a head full of rage from paralysis over the present. I couldn't change the past and, as yet, I couldn't change the present, so I sought refuge in the future. I dove into the latest issue of "The Amazing Adventures

of Ai-Mor, the Invincible Futurian." Ai-Mor has traveled to the 30th century to track down and bring to justice the notorious intergalactic villain Drazkil. But, due to a dastardly betrayal, Drazkil's slobbering minions have captured Ai-Mor. Now, Ai-Mor was tied spread-eagled to iron stakes pounded into the ground and was surrounded by a wild pack of Plungaliten, feral ferocious beasts, ready to tear him to pieces. Drazkil was laughing his evil bad-guy laugh - oo, I hate that Drazkil; he makes me so mad - and the snarling growling Plungaliten were advancing on the helpless Ai-Mor, when suddenly... I looked up. In the doorway stood a woman in her early twenties with small face and dark skin, hair and eyes. Her ears were extremely low-set, positioned between mid-nose and mouth. From the lobes dangled on chains gold coins. Loose black ankle-length skirt and a forest-green buttoned vest over a lime-green long-sleeved blouse. She watched me without expression. "Come in," I said, putting the comic book into my desk. "Have a seat." "Thank you, mister sir gentleman," she said shyly, sitting. "My name is Castille." "Thank you, mister sir gentleman Castille," she said. "No. I mean you can just call me Castille." "Thank you, Mr. Castille." "No, I mean you can just call me Castille. And you are?" "I am Rom." "Rom," I said. "First name or last?" "I do not understand." "I mean what is the rest of your name beside Rom?" "Rom is not my name," she said. "I thought you said it was." "I meant I am of the Rom people. What you gajo call Gypsies." "Gypsies," I said. "Well then, what is your name? Your own personal name?" "Tita." "All right, Tita. Who referred you to me?" "Theodore," she said. "Theodore? Last name?" "I think I forget. He is Greek Orthodox Christian." "Theodore Pappadopolous?" I guessed. "Theo?" "Yes." Theo was the main bartender at Rat's stripjoint, The Tunnel. Theo was highly competent and reliable, often working extra hours without complaint. He had lived his whole life in Boston but, beyond normal conversation with customers and fellow workers, he was reticent and self-contained. Though I knew he was gay, I hadn't even known he was Orthodox.

"How do you know Theo?" I asked. "Yes, I do not know him." "But you said..." "My sister knows him," Tita said. "My family many years ago lives in the South End. So does Theodore. That is how my sister knows Theodore." "Fair enough. How can I help you?" "My sister, she is disappeared." "The same sister who knew Theo growing up?" I asked. "Yes." "Her name?" "Sascha," Tita said. "Sascha. Last name?" "Yes. We are the Stanleys." "Sascha Stanley," I said. "What happened?" "I do not know." "When did you realize she was gone?" "Three days ago," she said. "Maybe she went on vacation or is visiting someone," I suggested. "No, she is not." "Did you go to the police?" "No," she said. "Why not?" I asked. "We are Rom. We do not trust the police. The police do not like us. They make trouble for us always. If any Rom goes to the police, ah - I am not sure how to say in English." "Try." "The King of the Gypsies in Boston will get very angry," she said. "Do you personally know the King of the Gypsies?" "He is my father," she said. The plot thickens. "And what does he say happened to Sascha?" "He cannot speak." "Why not?" I asked. "He is in a - what? - coma. In hospital." "What hospital?" "Boston Hospital," she said. "What building?" "Pruitt Building. Room 527. Rom do not go to gaje hospital unless very sick. I think he will die soon." "What about your mother?" I asked. "Died many years ago." "Who will take over as King of Gypsies if your father dies?" She looked at me for a long time. "Theodore says I can trust you," she said somberly. "If Theodore says so, it must be true." She smiled slightly. "When my father dies, Frankie will become King." "Who's Frankie?" I asked. "My brother. The Prince of the Gypsies in Boston."

He's your father's oldest son?" "Only son," she said. "But not oldest child." "Who's that? You?" "Oh no! I could not be. No, oldest child is Sascha." "Tell me about Sascha," I said. "She is very smart. Oh, so smart! But she is different." "How?" "She sometimes goes away from Rom tradition," Tita said. "She even went to gaje university. My father and brother very angry. But she knows how to deal with gajo in their world. She says we Rom must become more modern. Be part of the world now, not like the old days." "And your father and your brother don't like that." "Oh no! Very bad! They even beat her! But that makes her more determined. My father says she is stubborn. That is very bad for Rom woman." "You admire her," I said. "Don't you?" "No," she said, looking down. Then, looking up, she said, "Yes. I do. But I am afraid to say. I do not have her courage." "Maybe someday you will." "I do not think so. But I miss her so much. And I am afraid she may be hurt." "Why?" I asked. "Sascha says she should be voted our leader as Queen of the Gypsies at the kris." "What's a kris?" "It used to be a gathering of leaders," she said. "Elders. To decide about crimes and to settle disputes." "And now?" "Now it is more like a gathering of all the Rom for a certain purpose. At least, those here in Boston." "Is it possible your brother kidnapped Sascha?" I asked. "Keep her out of sight until he's made king?" "I...I don't like to think so. But anything is possible. Oh, I don't know what to do. I cannot talk about this with other Rom, even the women, in case my brother finds out." "What then?" "Frankie will beat me," she said. "I am afraid. But then I remember Theodore. Sascha says he is only non-Rom who can be trusted. So I go to him. He is very nice. He listens. But he does not know what to do. So he sends me to see you." "I'll do what I can." "What is your, um, fee?" "Usually I ask for a thousand dollar retainer," I said. "I'm sure you don't have it on you so..." She whipped out of her voluminous skirt a huge roll of what looked like hundred-dollar bills. She carefully counted out ten on my desk and put the rest of the still sizeable roll back in her pocket. No flies on the Gypsies.

"Is enough?" "Yes. I'll want to talk to Theo. And your brother. And you again." "Frankie has moved back to the South End," she said. She gave me the address. "And you?" I asked. "We are in the basement of the donut shop on Tremont Street across from the Common. You know it?" "Yes. A sandwich-board sign out front says 'Fortunes Told. Tea Leaf Readings.' Something like that?" "Yes," she said. "Then I'll talk to you soon, Tita." "Thank you, mister sir gentleman Castille." She left. A wandering Gypsy daughter job, no less. Why not? Any job to keep from obsessing 24 hours a day over...the other thing. I had no clues. I could only wait till it - he - came to me. And then? Readiness is all.

CHAPTER 14

Ai-mor and the fiendish Drazkil and the vicious Plungaliten would have to wait. Just as I had to wait until Diedre's killer made a mistake or showed himself. I walked the several blocks to The Tunnel, eyeballs on high alert, spraying glances for potential assassins. Once safely in The Tunnel, I realized my stick-it-in-and-break-it-off heart had been hyping. This guy was getting on my nerves. And how did I know I was safe in The Tunnel? I didn't. But at least it was familiar. On this dour Friday in November, the joint was pumping. Rock music flared, blared and fanfared. The elbow-benders ranged from mildly inebriated to blind drunk, pissing drunk, crying drunk and dead drunk. On the catwalk, Vicky Paradise performed a pole routine. The other strippers plied men - and a sprinkle of women - to purchase overpriced, watered-down drinks for the pleasure of their scintillating conversation: Heather, Lady Godiva, Regular Monique and Monique Called Sleek. Theodore Pappadopolous and three other bartenders - two on either side of the catwalk - efficiently rushed to keep glasses filled. I commandeered a stool at the bar in Theo's section. "Theo," I said, as he passed by, hands filled with drinks. "A word." "Kinda busy," he said. "I'll wait," I said. On his way back, he plunked a ginger ale in front of me. Heather - Heather Divine, if you please - sat next to me. Her fashion statement this particular evening consisted entirely of high heels and itsy-witsy eentsy-weentsy bikini. I could almost imagine we were in the Caribbean. Almost.

"How's by you?" I asked, sipping my drink and looking around at the crowd. Tappy - security - sat on the last stool before Rat's office. If Diedre's killer started blasting, would Tappy help me? Would anyone? "Fine and divine," responded Heather, "and it's all mine." "And how's Trix?" "You ain't heard?" she asked, her forehead lifting in surprise. "She got religion." "Old news," I said. "No, no!" she said. "She got religion again." "You mean...again?" "Yeah. Again. I aidn't seen her around a while. Then, I'm coming to work one day, I bump into her on the street. Up on Essex. She goes, know where Kneeland Street is? I goes, yeah and, you know, I tell her. She goes, know where Boston Costume is? And, you know, I goes, on the corner of Tyler." "What'd she want there?" I asked. "That's just it," she said. "She's all dressed up like a dog's dinner so I hardly recognize her. You know how she usually looks, all tits and teeth. She's dragging this canvas suitcase behind her. So I goes, you know, what gives? "And she goes, I'm gone sell all my stripper costumes. I goes, what you saying, girl? She goes, she can't be a stripper no more cause she became a born again Christian." "A born again Christian again?" I asked. "Goes, 'I is accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my savior, he does love me and I is kicked stripping for real this time. Hallelujiah! Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Jesus!' "I goes, why 'ant you unload your costumes on, you know, another stripper. Like yours truly. Goes, 'that wouldn't be godly.' Honest to Christ! Just like that! "I goes, how long ago did you...you know. She goes, three days ago, heard a preacher on Boston Common talking about the Lord Jesus. Suddenly she gets a hit of the all-powerful light of the everlovin' Jesus H. Christ - Hallelujiah! - flooding into her miserable little heart. "Goes, she knew in an instant. Jesus Christ loved her 'n' she accepted him as her Lord and Savior. Again. Thank the Lord! Can you beat that?" "How many times can you become a born again Christian again?" I laughed. "Got me," she shrugged. "So what does she do now?" I asked. "That's the best part. I goes, so what do you do for work? She goes, 'I work in the Mug N Muffin.' Her parents actually got down on their knees and pleaded with her to come back and strip in the Zone. Goes, 'I can't strip no more no matter what cause a Jesus.'" Heather guffawed. "Trixie! The freakin' Mug N Muffin!" "I can't picture Trix pitching jam and Jerusalem," I said.

Sho Sho came up between us. "Time to go on," Sho Sho said. "You're the boss," said Heather. "Apparently." She shrugged her body off the stool and ankled. "Pull up a pew," I said to Sho Sho. "For a minute," she said. "We're short-staffed thanks to Trixie's latest conversion." "What's her story?" I asked. "Mind full of rats, snats and elephants," she shrugged. Sho Sho was the hostess of The Tunnel. And de facto manager since Rat always hid in his bunker. Sho Sho - with short, professional, blonde haircut and a sedate business-like pantsuit - attended morning classes to get her M.B.A. A few years before, streetwalkers working the morning rush hour in the Medical District, Theatre District and Chinatown started dressing like businesswomen. Businessmen driving to their upscale downtown law, finance, insurance, banking and other firms picked them up for a quick one. All the rage, it took the moron cops a few months to figure it out. But then the cops, chagrined at being bamboozled, had descended on the working girls in flying wedges and forced them to wear indecent outfits again. When the number of complaints about women dressed obviously as prostitutes openly soliciting men in cars between 8 and 9 a.m. returned to its usual high number, the cops glowed with another-job-well-done satisfaction. "How's school?" I asked. "All A's," she beamed. "Business suit?" I asked. "Class the place up a little," she said. "Any suspicious characters in here lately?" "Besides you? No. Why?" "Just curious," I said. "Eyes open, okay?" "As always. Oh no. Don't tell me someone's out to kill you. Again." "Okay," I said. "Okay what?" "Okay, I won't tell you. How's Rat?" "Rat is, as usual, indisposed." "I have to see him," I said, standing. "Something's wrong with him," Sho Sho frowned. "No kidding," I said. "But it just keeps getting worse." "Like what?" "He drinks more," she said. "He stays in the back more. Sometimes it's like he's in a trance."

CHAPTER 15

I knocked on the door and opened it. Rat's office

smelled like a brewery working at top speed. He sat rigid as a statue behind his desk, which was decorated with two dozen empty beer bottles. A newly opened, full bottle was welded into his fist like a Rodin sculpture. The Drinker. The drink had gotten the better of him. As it had so many others. Including me. Until Margie rocked my bells. I would do well to remember that. I sat down opposite him. "Rat," I said quietly. He didn't hear me. He looked way off into some far distant place and time. You got 'it' after experiencing too much carnage. One second, the guy next to you is talking; next second, his head is gone and blood spurts out of his neck like a geyser. Gory arms and legs fly by you. Grown men with ghastly Godawful gaping untreatable wounds in their midsections, intestines oozing out like red sausage, cry for their mothers. "Rat," I tried again. "What's the matter?" Still no response. In his mind, he was back serving in the midnight Black Mass of the war. Rat was five foot four but muscular from years of lifting weights. In the Mickey Mouse funny farm Crazyland of war, the Army had its nose opened to the fact that the enemy had hand-carved a fantastic complex of tunnels underground. The commanders had asked for volunteers to go down, reconnoitre and destroy caches of ammo and supplies. The volunteers had to be physically small. But, more than that, it took a special psychological make-up to be a tunnel rat. They couldn't be claustrophobic because they had to crawl through the dark, narrow, poorly ventilated, dirt-crumbly tubes, some of which even slithered right under American Army encampments. In fact, tunnel rats were usually claustrophiliac. They had to really really like it. Crawling into the darkness with commando knives clenched between their teeth. They never knew what they would bump into: snakes, tarantulas, single-file column of enemies with commando knives clenched in their teeth and murderous hatred of Americans burning in their eyes. Rat had served two tours of duty. He re-upped for a third, but the Army psychiatrist said "go home, son." Rat had returned to Boston, purchased this long, darkened, narrow - Dare I say it? Tunnel-like - strip joint in the Combat Zone and called it, yes, The Tunnel. Adjacent to his office was a studio apartment where he slept. He seldom emerged into the daylight. Late afternoons, he sometimes went to the gym around the corner to play ball and lift weights before opening up The Tunnel. "Rat!" I yelled. He shook his head, came out of his trance, slowly focused his eyes on me. "Castille, I'm going nutsoid. I was back in a tunnel, a

pair of eyes coming toward me. I didn't know if they were gonna slit my throat or scalp me. "Look at my hands. I'm shaking and quaking. My heart's going a thousand miles an hour. I'm sweating like a dope fiend in withdrawal. What's the matter with me?" "Flashback to the good old days," I said. "Now? A panic attack." Rat had 'it' bad. 'It' was what had been once called 'soldier's heart.' Not the lion heart of a warrior. But a heart filled with melancholy agitation, horror and terror, grim rage and griefstricken despair. Did I have 'it'? No. Well, maybe a little. "I used to be afraid to leave the bar," he said. "Now I'm afraid to leave this room." "That why Sho Sho's acting as manager?" "Yeah. Soon I'll be afraid to leave this chair, for fuck sake. Then what?" "Get some help," I said. "From who? Headshrinkers? I went to one. He never had bullets whistling past his ears. He never stayed hungry in a filthy, water-filled hole in the ground for three days. He never crawled into a snake-infested tunnel looking for monsters itching to rip his face apart." "What happened?" "Talked bullshit, gave me some pills which didn't help," he said. "Never went back. Next war? Make the leaders of the countries have their own children fight on the front lines. Then the fucking war'd be over rikki-tikki fast." "Amen." "What brings you here?" "Two letters in two days," I said, handing him the pieces of paper and envelopes. He read the letters; his face, whitish as the belly of a dead fish, turned even paler. He chug-a-lugged the bottle and plonked the empty on his desktop. "The last dead soldier," he announced. "Saint Paul on the road to Damascus?" I asked. "Until we find Diedre's killer," he said. "And kill him, I won't drink another drop of alcohol." "We?" "You were the groom. But I was best man." "How are we going to find the killer?" I tested him. "No clues besides these letters." "He sent them after five years. Two days in a row. Postmarked Boston. Means he's nearby. Maybe means he wants to be caught. Don't worry. You'll hear more from him. Sooner or later, he'll give himself away." "What I was thinking," I said. "Then we pounce," he said. "Knew I could count on you." "And when we find the scum-bastard, I want to be the one to kill him. Up close and personal." "No, Rat," I said. "I have to be the one to dispatch his

wretched soul to the next world." "If he even has a soul," Rat said. "Which I doubt." "And why do you have to be the one to kill him?" "For God's sake!" I shouted. "Diedre was my wife!" "Diedre was my friend!" Rat shouted back. "Let's not argue," I said, trying to simmer down. "Are you serious about not drinking?" "Serious as a two a.m. car crash." "Then we plan. Though, with such little evidence, not much to go on." "I know the type," sneered Rat. "He'll send more." "What I think," I said. "In the meantime. Can Match Cut help me? I mean, us?" "Put out the word in the City of the Dead?" "Yes." "And say what?" Rat asked, shocked into sobriety, not a single slur of drunkenness in his voice. "Say we're looking for a murderer of a woman from five years ago. Who has suddenly reappeared." "Could be one of them," Rat said. "Could," I agreed. "Maybe he's been hiding down there all these years. In any case, he's announced his return. First letter, sounds like he wants to be caught." "And punished. But second letter, he wants to kill you. Schitzy. Have to be careful." "High time I got a little guided tour of the underground," I said. "If it's all right with you." "Course," said Rat contritely. "Sorry I got all jealous about it before." "'S okay, most excellent Rat," I said. "The booze talking. Don't forget. I've been there, too." "Tuesday. Around 2 p.m." "I'll pop round," I said, "and show the flag." "Goddamn skullpopping, gutrotting panther piss!" yelled Rat. In one arm movement, he swept the two dozen beer bottles off his desk and onto the floor. They crashed and smashed. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. Still, one jagged shard hit me in the temple which started to bleed. I took out my handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. "Fee, fi, fo, fum," chanted Rat. "I smell the blood of an Irishman." "I smell the blood of a killer killed," I said.

CHAPTER 16

I sat in a booth and waited for Theo to take a breather. Onstage, Heather Divine danced and pranced. Poor Tita. She gave the impression of being the only normal, though dim-witted, member of a crazy family. But what did I know about Gypsies?

The only thing aside from movie stereotypes - the women are prostitutes or have mystic powers; the men are fun-loving rogues - was that for years, young Gypsy women had staked out the large concrete apron around the entrance to the Park Street subway station. There, at the crowded corner of the Boston Common - where Park Street ran up Beacon Hill to the golden-domed State House - groups of them approached people to sell flowers. They shoved the flowers in your hand and then wanted - some asking politely, others demanding - money. Sometimes, they even claimed to be American Indians. Most people considered them an inevitable urban nuisance and avoided them like the plague. Except when they had a problem. Then they looked left, looked right, and descended into the Gypsy fortune-telling parlor below the donut shop across the street, desperate for advice. Theo came over and sat. Theo had played football in high school. He'd stayed in shape, working out in the gym. He looked Mediterranean, with olive skin and black, wavy hair combed straight back. His face was usually bland, non-committal, hard to read. "Met a friend of yours from the old days," I said. "Who?" "Tita Stanley." "I sent her to you," he said. "I didn't know what else to do." "So she said. I didn't know you grew up with Gypsies." "I didn't exactly grow up with them. They lived on the block. About fifty of them in two apartments. I played basketball with Frankie." "The Prince of the Gypsies," I said. "So he called himself. Because his father was the King of the Gypsies in Boston. King Benny Temelo a.k.a. Ananda Temelo a.k.a. Ara Toushanian a.k.a. Aristo Stanley a.k.a.... Let's just say he had twenty-five or thirty aliases and leave it at that." "Yumpin' yiminy!" I said in my Swedish accent. "For sure, it's a hell of a t'ing! Yeah, for sure." "And dozens of credit cards in other names and dozens of different social security numbers," he said. "His attitude was that if you could swindle someone, then they deserved to be swindled. "And he ruled the Stanleys with an iron fist. A violent illiterate power-crazed dictator. Beat the kids for the slightest infraction. Made the women do all the work, from domestic chores to bringing in the money from the various con games, especially the boojo." "What's the boojo?" I asked. "Their best swindles are run out of the Gypsy fortune-telling parlors." "Like the one down the street. In the basement of the donut shop."

"Yes," he said. "Why?" "Because if someone enters a place like that of their own free will, thinking that some mysterious mumbo-jumbo is going to fix their lives, then they've already demonstrated their gullibility. Gypsies say that people practically beg to be duped." "Only two things are infinite," I said. "The universe and human gullibility." "A person comes in. Except for high school girls out on a lark, the person has a serious problem. Some of the Gypsy women develop an amazing intuition in figuring out what people are most worried about. Plus, they speak in generalities and the clients themselves are unconsciously eager to point the way to their problem." "Then what?" "The Gypsy follows the cues, the body language, the facial expression of the person as a guide to zero in on the nature of the problem," he said. "Most problems involve health, relationships or money." "Then?" "Say it's financial. The Gypsy woman says that someone has placed a curse on the person's money," Theo said. "The fortune-teller says she'll have to lift the curse from the money. At this point, most rational people would hear bells going off in their heads." "Like a five-alarm fire," I said. "And if they get up and walk out, that doesn't bother the Gypsy woman at all. The Gypsies I knew were very stoic, even fatalistic. Whatever will be, will be." "They liked Doris Day?" "I'm laughing," he said, frowning. "But the clients who fall for it aren't laughing. The Gypsy asks for a one-dollar bill. She wraps it in a handkerchief, makes some hand motions, mumbles some hocus-pocus. Tells the person she's taking the curse off that dollar bill and, in addition, will make it grow." "Grow?" "Tells the person to take home the handkerchief with the dollar bill, put it under their pillow, sleep on it and in the morning, open it up." "And?" I prompted. "And there would be two dollar bills." "Crikey! Obviously, the Gypsy woman had put it there." "Of course," he said. "But to the gullible or desperate, it's a sign of some magical mystical higher power at work." "So the person comes back to the Gypsy all excited." "The Gypsy professes satisfaction. Then she asks for ten dollars. Any hesitation on the person's part and the Gypsy says forget it, she's not the one who's cursed, she's not the one who could use some extra money. So the person hands over a sawbuck; the Gypsy adds another sawsky to the handkerchief. This time, says sleep on it three nights." "Let me guess," I said. "Three days later - voila!

Twenty bucks in the handkerchief." "Right. And so on and so forth until, with a real sucker, she gets the person to withdraw their entire life savings! Could be ten or fifty thousand bucks. Some people actually do it. "Of course, this time the Gypsy palms the real money, sews up pieces of paper or play money in the handkerchief and tells the person this is the real test." "What do they have to do?" I questioned. "To completely lift the curse and, incidentally, double their investment, they have to sleep on the handkerchief for two or three or even six months. This is another tricky part. They have to play it by ear. "But if a sucker goes for the six months routine, half a year later they rip open the handkerchief to find play money. They go back to the fortune-telling joint but, of course, being Gypsies, they've moved on, ten or fifty thousand dollars richer. "The boojo." "Will blunders never cease?" "And the victim feels too foolish and humiliated to go to the cops. Two Gypsy golden rules," said Theo. "Sucker born every minute and the hand is quicker than the eye. What else you want to know?"

CHAPTER 17

"Apparently," I said. "King Benny's dying." "So Tita said. He's a vicious dog, but he always treated me okay as a kid. Until I got older and came out as gay. Then he despised me, spit on me, cursed me, forbade Frankie from hanging around with that 'gaje faggot,' as he so elegantly put it." "How many did Hitler kill?" I asked. "Gypsies or us homo's?" "Gypsies." "Between a half million and a million," he said. "He classified Gypsies with the Jews as sub-human, to be exterminated for the benefit of mankind." "Sometimes those most harmed by prejudice themselves become extremely prejudiced." "Yup. Non-Rom exist for one purpose. To be taken for all they're worth. Gypsies consider non-Gypsies less than fully human. Gypsies are hunters, non-Gypsies their prey. Simple as that." "Stanley doesn't sound much like a Gypsy name," I said. "It isn't," Theo said. "Gypsies adopt different names wherever they go. The two biggest tribes in Boston are the Stanleys and the Mitchells. "Frankie told me when the tribes originally arrived in the U.S. from Russia, they changed their names from Stanislavsky and Mikhailovich."

"They change their names just like that?" "They don't care. They say they only do it because they live in a gaje world and the gajo want surnames. It's social camouflage, a legal fiction for official documents, drivers' licenses, fake birth certificates etcetera. Their greatest joy in life is to make fools of non-Gypsies." "How did Benny get to be king?" I asked. "Handed down from his father, I guess," Theo shrugged. "One thing I do know is he demands tribute from all the other Gypsy tribes in Greater Boston, even all over New England, if he can get away with it." "Tribute?" "A cut of the flower sales, fortune-telling revenue, the different con games, scams, boojo, fake accident settlements, fraudulent insurance claims and God knows what else they come up with." "And if they don't pay tribute?" I asked. "Gypsies normally aren't violent. Over time, they've had to learn how to survive by their wits. But King Benny's different." "How?" "He's ferocious," Theo said. "If he feels wronged or threatened or defied in any way, he attacks with every weapon at his command. Threats, destruction of fortune-telling joints, personal assaults. One of his favorite tactics is to get the women to accuse the person of everything from armed robbery to attempted rape." "I thought they avoided the police." "This is the one exception," Theo smiled sardonically. "And not just one complaint from one Gypsy woman. But dozens from swarms of them. Between the avalanche of legal charges and midnight attacks, the other Gypsies usually resign themselves to paying the tribute to King Benny or else move to California. Or Europe." "I thought Gypsies were always on the move. Why do the Stanleys stay in Boston?" "They don't. They head South for the winter. The women often get welfare checks in half a dozen states under half a dozen names. Usually they return to Boston in the spring. "But only because King Benny, instead of blowing his money, bought a few townhouses in the South End. It's his base of operation. What else? I gotta get back." "When King Benny dies, who'll take his place?" I asked. "Frankie. He'll get the sceptre of leadership." "An actual sceptre?" "Some kind of rod handed down for generations," he said. "There's the rub. Did you know Sascha?" "Of course. Frankie's sister. If a gaje so much as asked her out, he'd be found beaten half to death. If I wasn't an airy, hairy fairy, I'd have had a crush on her myself. She was stunning and vivacious. So what's the rub?" "According to Tita," I said, "Sascha demands - as the oldest child - to take over leadership of the Stanleys. To be Queen of the Gypsies." "Trouble. Big trouble."

"And now she's disappeared. Tita thinks Frankie's kidnapped her and is holding her incommunicado until King Benny is gathered unto his forefathers and Frankie becomes King." Theo sighed. "Frankie's capable of anything," he said. "He's violent, like his father. Once, he got into an argument on the basketball court. In an instant, he had whipped out a knife and stabbed the other guy. End of argument." "Hm." "Gypsies are wild about big expensive cars. Frankie used to pull up in a Rolls Royce. Old and dilapidated, but still a Rolls. "But when he got older, he became motorcycle crazy. Was always zooming around the neighborhood, pulling wheelies, terrorizing people, riding on the sidewalk, up and over parked cars. Even the other Gypsies called him crazy. "So if you're asking is he capable of kidnapping his own sister, hell, yeah. He's capable, if necessary, of killing her." "Where might he hide her?" I asked. "No idea. Haven't seen Frankie in years. Not since he unleashed a torrent of obscene whacko curses on me and called me a butterfly pansy father fucker and gave out whistles to the neighborhood kids." "Whistles? For what?" "Riding their bikes," he said, "if they saw me or my partner or any other gay they blew these loud, shrill whistles. Next thing, I'm surrounded by homophobic teen boys with baseball bats trying to pound me to a pulp and calling me a fag etcetera." "You never told me that." "No." "What did you do?" I asked. "What could I do? Gypsies are uncanny at getting around the police. No matter how many complaints we filed, nothing was ever done. Eventually, my partner and I moved to Bay Village. More congenial." "I say, it seems this Frankie fellow is a bit of a bounder." "He's certifiable," warned Theo. "But, in general, Gypsies aren't bad people. They just see the world differently than everybody else. Still, some, like Frankie, are capable of anything." "Theo!" Sho Sho called. "Gotta get back to it," said Theo, standing. "Consider this a friendly warning. If you do come in contact with Frankie, be extremely careful." "Why?" "He bites." "In which case," I said, "I shall don my silk top hat and frock-coat, with a flower in my buttonhole, and be the very affliction of affability." "Won't matter," said Theo grimly, standing. "He'll still

bite."

CHAPTER 18

Midnight on LaGrange Street. Not much action for a Friday night. Next to a NO PARKING sign, flaunted a white stretch limo with a diamond in the back. License plates announced with a flourish: KINGPIMP. Into the Hot Spot. Also, not much action. Strange. A burly, surly, unknown bouncer dead-eyed me. "Ah, staunch sentry," I said. "I salute you, guardian of the gates of night." His eyes contracted to black thumbtacks. "What about the night?" he asked. "Dark, isn't it? King in back?" "King who?" "King Pimp," I said. "Your overlord." "Never heard a him." "More's the pity. Because I know you're lying." "Call me a liar?" he challenged. "Don't make me repeat myself." He advanced on me. Rage surged up from the soles of my feet. "You'll be lying on your back," he growled. "Possible," I said. "But doubtful." He started to grab me by my shoulders. What he meant to do, I couldn't imagine. Perhaps, like in saloon brawls in Western movies, turn me around and boot me out the door. But his hands narrowed their attack from my shoulders to my throat. Just before his thumbs clamped on my windpipe, I crushed down on them with my chin, trapping them between jaw bone and collar bones before they reached my throat. At the same time, I slid back on my left foot so that he was off-balance forward, arms straightened. "Hey!" he yelled in surprise. I gripped the outside of his elbows, twisting them around, in and up. The good old hyperextended elbows routine. I twisted harder, causing serious pain to his elbow joints. "Ow!" He involuntarily stood on his tiptoes, trying to escape the pain. Now he was completely off-balance, in pain and under my control. I stepped forward with my left foot and pushed his elbows further up, almost breaking them. Then I released his thumbs from my chin hold, and sent him flying backwards. He hit the wall, cracked the back of his head and slowly slid to the floor. Where he sat with his back to the wall, unconscious.

"Have a nice daze," I said. Morose drinkers just stared. Into King Pimp's headquarters in the back room. Usually a phantasmagorical fun-house. Now? Despite the walls covered with gilt-framed mirrors, despite the windows covered with gold lam`e shades, despite the floors covered with the skins of gazelles and other exotic African animals: a seaside amusement park in the dead of winter. Half the hangers-on gone, party atmosphere defunct, Queen Cora's throne dismantled and, instead of Nigerian juju music, only the sound of the closed-circuit TV sets broadcasting static. King wore his usual gem-studded scarlet robe but empty patches showed where some jewels had been removed. To hock? Under the robe, King wore his usual white-on-white dress shirt. But it was noticeably yellowed. Couldn't afford to buy new shirts? Gold medallions hung on gold chains around his neck but only three instead of the usual six or seven. Used for barter in lieu of ready cash? On his medicine-ball head, sat a white snap-brim fedora with black hat-band. Inserted into the band was his jaunty multi-colored peacock feather. Yet not ready to take flight but wounded and wilted. King, slumped and sullen on his throne, still wore his trademark four-fingered gold 'ring.' And - lying be-gowned and barefoot at King's feet - Sister Flukie looked as on-the-nod listless as if she'd just shot up with heroin. Maybe she had. Maybe they all had. Except the two nameless bodyguards who, as always, alertly stood behind and to either side of King, their Uzi machine pistols pointed at me. Good to know, in this ever-changing world, some traditions still remained. When King eye-balled me, he straightened up. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked like a prim physician whose only vice was shooting cocaine between his toes. "Ain't no seem to be!" bellowed King, coming to full attention. "First, Ah lose mah queen. And now mah lieutenant." "Crazy F run away from home?" I asked. "In a manner a speaking," said King. "Onliest thing, he take some a mah mens and he gone try take the Zone from me." "The nerve," I said. "What happened?" "He say Ah too soft," said King. "Ah crazy for marrying Queen Cora. Ah should squeeze more juice outa pimps and hoes and hustlers in the Zone. Ah shouldn't rely on advice from a white mother-raper like you." "Gee," I said. "I thought Crazy F was fond of me." "Say, fond? Sheet. Crazy F say you a bad influence on me." "That cwazy wabbit," I said. "He say you help make me soft. Cause you don't like to

kill people as much as he do. Just when I get the Zone back in order. Get mah collections almost back to 100%, Crazy F up and leave. How you like that?" "Can't say as I do," I said. Especially since, lunatical as King Pimp was, Crazy F was even more unpredictable, more violence-prone, more blow-up-brained. "So," said King. "Here we be again. Now you know me. Ah never even wanna hurt a fly." "But people are different," I said. "Zackly. Flies don't hurt ya. But people? People be mother-rapers. Hurt me? Ah hurt 'em back." "So Crazy just disappeared in a cloud of heel dust?" I asked. "We argue. Then he storm out, all bug-eyed and snarlin' and trippin' and shit. Say, he should be King a the Zone. Not me." "It's a wonderful day in the neighborhood," I said in my Mr. Rogers voice. "But you don't need a dog. You can do your own barking." "Don't know what wrong with that boy," King said, half to me, half to himself. "For openers," I said, "you kept calling him boy when you knew he didn't like it." "You snow-stroking mother-raper!" King exploded. "Drag yo' ears over here and Ah pull yo' coat! Ah take him into the family and Ah bring him up and Ah drop knowledge on him 'bout the street and the game. "Ah raise him like mah own flesh and blood and this - this! - the thanks Ah get? Thass cold, man, thass some Antarctic - ice floe cold. Gnome sane?" King sounded stung, bitter, like so many parents of runaway children who hired me. "Ungrateful wretch," I said. "So Ah want?" said King. "Ah calls him boy. Don't be tellin' me what Ah kin call him or not be callin' him. He a down-bottom heartless fish-blooded rat-snake. "Now he mutiny on me? "Now he cop a mope on me? "Now he be hating on me? "Sheet. "He ask for it? Ah gives it to him." "Give him what?" I asked. "War."

CHAPTER 19

Once again, I was confronted with mental images of the streets of downtown Boston blooming with blood in a life-or-death between two megalomaniac pea brains. "So what do you want from me?" I asked, fearing I already knew the answer. "King Pimp want you be his consigliere. Again."

Sigh. Helping King Pimp. Again. Reason? The usual. Lesser of two evils. As evil as King was, Crazy F was more evil. Which meant what? I'd be protecting the good, kind, decent folks of the enchanted kingdom of the Combat Zone. Except the Zone wasn't enchanted but demented. And if you poured all the Zone denizens' goodness, kindness and decency together, it wouldn't fill a test tube. Or a thimble. Still. I itched for action. To trap Diedre's murderer, I needed to stay in game shape. And God alone in his wonder-washed wisdom knew how many innocents in crowded downtown might be killed in the crossfire between King and Crazy. "Well?" demanded King. "Will you will or will you won't?" "Be your consigliere? Okay." "Then what yo' advice?" "When at table," I said. "Don't masticate audibly." "Say, what?" "Joke. First, try negotiation." "Say, nee-goshe-ee-a-shun?" asked King rhetorically. "First, Ah break his baby-ass brain." "Am I," I asked, "or am I not your consigliere?" "You is," blazed King. "You even talk Queen Cora into leavin' me. Don't never think King Pimp forget." "So I'm a good talker," I said. "Castille a mighty mouth man," said King, nudging Sister Flukie with his shoe. "Ain't he?" When she didn't respond, he kicked her in the lower back. "Ow," said Flukie. "That hurt." "S'posed to hurt, you don't answer King right away. Ain't that right? Castille a mighty mouth man." "Hm mm," Flukie confirmed. Flukie looked at me with ancient Egyptian eyes. Was she trying to tell me something without using words? Or was she just another junkie with eyes like newly opened jars of vaseline? "Then let me talk with Crazy F," I said. "Set up a sit-down for you and him." "Tell him he come back or he dead," said King. "Tell him yourself." "You fly him the kite for a sit-down?" "Where is he?" I asked. "Don't know," said King. "Wanna talk with him so bad? You find him." Flukie snickered. Sigh. "I'll find him," I said.

CHAPTER 20

YOU WILL SURELY DIE. BUT WHO ELSE?

Saturday, at my office, another letter. Who else? How should I know what runs through the mind of a psychotic murderer? But, one thing for sure: he had upped the ante in the second letter by threatening my life. And now he was further upping the ante by threatening the life of another, as yet unknown, person. Did he mean to kill me and then another person and then himself? My thoughts, my nerves, my very pores roared with rage that somewhere nearby slunk Diedre's killer.

CHAPTER 21

I thought of Diedre's perverse but intense identification with Isadora Duncan, the pioneer of American modern dance. Actually, it was a cluster of identifications with Isadora and Isadora's children, especially her first-born. She was also named Diedre, although spelled Deirdre. Deirdre and her brother Patrick died in a horrible drowning accident at ages 7 and 3. Isadora's third child was stillborn. Isadora herself didn't exactly die young - she was in her 40's - but she did die suddenly and tragically. Wearing a long scarf, she got into a sports car. The driver started up, the car moved, the scarf was caught under a wheel. Isadora's neck snapped. On several occasions - waking in the dead of night, crying, with ice-cold skin, her voice a hoarse whisper, shivering and shuddering - my Diedre told me of her premonition of dying suddenly and tragically - like Isadora Duncan - and of dying young - like Deidre Duncan. I took her seriously; but I didn't take it seriously. Until the night she died. Suddenly. Tragically. Young. Isadora Duncan - another classic doomed, suffering artist. Like Van Gogh and the Chinese Van Gogh, Vu Liang. And - apparently - my Diedre. Suddenly, a chilling realization. Why hadn't I thought of it before? Margie had a quasi-belief that she would die young. But this had been instilled by her grandmother, not self-generated like Diedre. And Margie was no tragic, doomed figure, like Isadora Duncan or Van Gogh.

But. I knew nothing of Diedre's killer. Yet maybe he knew about me. And my life. The idea struck that instead of setting me up to be killed or for me to kill him, he might kill Margie. To have the only two women I ever loved killed by the same psycho. That would kill me. Maybe Margie was the 'who else.' I started shaking. What to do? If I told Margie, she would laugh it off. Even if she took it seriously, she wouldn't curtail her many activities. Therefore, she would have to be watched. Protected. I couldn't do it myself. I was going to find Diedre's killer and kill him. Who? Who else? Phoenix. Was she in town or on a job with her outfit, the Ladies of Liqueur? I looked at my watch. 3:00 p.m. Saturday. Her mother would be teaching wu shu to the neighborhood kids at her martial arts studio. When Phoenix was around, she often helped. My office was at one end of Chinatown, in the commercial area. The school was at the other end, in the residential area. I de-elevated to the first floor and passed the hole-in-the-wall coffee-cigarette-candy concession. "Hey, Castille!" yelled Mike from behind the counter. Mike was wall-eyed: his left eye looked at me and his right eye at the wall. "What?" I asked, without breaking stride. "You want gum? Nice chewing gum! Best chewing gum! Numbah one chewing gum!" Then he laughed crazily. His name wasn't really Mike. He was called that because, back in the war, he had supposedly been a member of a semi-secret elite combat unit known as MIKE Force. I often wondered if the war had pushed him to the verge of madness. Or whether he had been born a lunatic under a full moon, with genetically pre-determined bats in his moonstruck belfry. A quandary. I crossed Kneeland Street - boundary between commercial and residential C'town - and ambled up Tyler. Past the Mission's oddly-shaped bright red door, behind which worked blind lawyer Cecilia Coquette SooHoo - and her loyal amanuensis Sister Margaret - for whom I'd carried out my first official case as a P.I. Then past the Chinatown Service Center - protected by the huge bronze statue of Confucius - wherein Margie held majestic sway. Didn't see any lurking assassins. But, being Saturday, the Center was closed. Margie was running the family restaurant. Should I tell her?

And why did I leave my gun at the office? Death wish? "Rein up thar a minute, pilgrim." Ten-year-old Carol Chin. My Chinatown spy, er, confidential informant. Who did the meanest imitation - by a pre-pubescent girl - of John Wayne south of the picket wire. "Carol, where you headed?" I asked. "Figuring to wander down to yonder chuck wagon and get me some grub." "You mean McDonald's for burger, fries and shake." "Right the first time, tenderfoot," she said. "We shouldn't be seen together," I said, both because of C'town baddies realizing Carol's spying for me as well as a sudden spray of bullets taking Carol down with me. "Reckon I'm too much woman for ya," Carol said. "That's it," I said. "Let's get out of the sunlight." I shepherded her into a doorway. "Seem a little jumpy there, hoss," Carol said. "Astute observation," I said. "What's the word in Chinatown?" She squinted and spat. Not tobacco chaw, I hoped. "Been some talk." "Of?" I asked. "Reckon you recall that New York City C'town gang tried to take over Boston C'town back a spell. You an' me an' Phoenix sent them high-tailin', hind legs kickin' in the air like migratin' bullfrogs." "And?" I asked. "Scuttlebutt's they're fixin' to give it another try," she said. "Take over Boston C'town?" "You catch on quick for a tenderfoot." "We'll deal with them," I said. "If and when." "Won't be same varmints as t'other time." "Not the Flying Dragons?" "It's them, all right, but this time they won't be sending raw recruits," she said. "This time? Their elite troopers." "Who?" I asked. "The Seven Golden Vampires." I laughed. "What in blazes you laughing at?" "You serious?" I asked. "Listen up, pilgrim. Hear tell they're the meanest coyotes this side of the Rockies. Regular Cheyenne Dog Soldiers. Sharpenin' their scalp knives. Beatin' their medicine drums. Squaws singing war songs. They're a-goin' on the warpath and headed our way." "When?" "Can't rightly say," she said. "Ah." "Suit yourself, ya ding-busted mulehead. No skin off my moccasins. I'm only a ten-year-old. But you asked for the

latest. I give it to you. Though, Lord knows, you're an almighty trial." "Didn't mean to laugh, Carol," I said. "Keep me informed. Here." I gave her two fifty dollar bills. "Yay!" she yelled, becoming, thankfully, a normal ten-year-old. "Fifty for you," I said. "Fifty to leave around the apartment for your mother to find." She stamped her foot and pouted. "But it's mine!" she insisted. "I earned it!" "Half for your parents," I said. "Your mother works ten hours a day in a sweatshop. Your father works fourteen hours a day in the kitchen of a restaurant." "Why I never see them," she said, sadly. "Both get slave wages. You have to help." "Oh, all right," she dragged out the syllables, then reverted to her John Wayne persona. "You're a lulu, pilgrim. You got a mean Irish way about you, but I love it. Stay tall in the saddle." She moseyed on. So did I. Seven Golden Vampires, indeed. Wei-Mei Chan had a huge space on the bottom floor of a building in Tai Tung Village. Not a rural village, of course, but an urban complex of middle-rise apartment buildings for Chinese. Through big windows I saw blurs of martial movement. Would Phoenix be there? I pressed my face against a window and peered in. Wei-Mei - or, as she was called in her American name, Amy - led a hundred school kids in martial motions. Painted on the floor in the center was a huge circular black-and-white yin-yang symbol. The building's door was on the other side. Cutting through a wide alley between Wei-Mei's and another apartment building, I was confronted by six white guys in their early-to-mid twenties. "Going somewhere?" asked the leader.

CHAPTER 22

"And you lot would be?" I asked. "The FBI." "I knew the Feebs had lowered their standards. But to subhumans?" "FBI, crank-hole," he said. "Forgotten Bastards of Ireland." "How could I have forgotten the forgotten?" I said. "Welcome to America. Want to buy a bridge?" "We're as American as you, boyo. Born and bred in South Boston."

"Then I must have the pleasure of meeting a new contingent of the Wild Wild Wasties." "Enough batting the breeze, Castille," he said. "You snitched on Blackie. In Southie, we don't like snitches. Snitches get stitches. If they're lucky. Which you ain't." "The logical conclusion of which must be you hate Blackie with a passion. Being Southie's number one snitch and all." "Don't talk that way 'bout Blackie," growled a monster. "Don't mind Nutso here," said the leader. "He's what you might call a hybrid. Half trained bear and half murder-machine." "Then put a ring in its nose," I said, "and lead it to the stone hotel." "Lemme kill 'im, Ear-To-Ear," pleaded Nutso. "Easy, Nutso. You'll get your chance." "Ear-To-Ear!" I said. "Indeed, a most colorful monicker." "We don't know no Monica," said Nutso, looking confused. "Shut up!" commanded Ear-To-Ear. "I thought Blackie was back in the old country," I said. "He is," said Ear-To-Ear. "But he wanted you to know he could reach out from thousands of miles to kill you if he wanted. Boston's just the next county over from Ireland." "Blackie should retire," I said. "Getting on in years for this nonsense, isn't he?" "That he is," said Ear-To-Ear. "Fact, he already suffers from Irish Alzheimer's." "Which is?" I asked. "He forgets everything except a grudge." "And he has an unforgotten grudge against me, right?" "Right," said Ear-To-Ear. "One were gonna take care of right now." He took out a revolver. Pointed it at my chest. My heart pumped blood so hard and fast I thought it would explode. Jail-break sweat escaped my hairline. My knees went weak and weary. What an ignoble way to go. Shot to death by Blackie's minions. "Let me shoot him!" yelled Nutso, grabbing for the gun. "Down, Nutso, down!" commanded Ear-To-Ear. "Blackie told me to kill him. Personally." "That's the Blackie known and beloved by all," I said. "Always one to employ the personal touch." "So say your prayers or your last words or whatever. Then I fill your head with lead. Hey, a rhyme. Not bad, huh?" "I'll nominate you for Poet Laureate of the United States," I said. "Hard to do if you're dead." "Good reason not to kill me," I said. "Not good enough." Looked like they had only one gun between them. If I could somehow neutralize or get the gun, I'd have a fighting chance against these jamokes.

If. Somehow. "Give my regards to Monica," I said. I readied myself to spring at him. He'd certainly hit me, but maybe not mortally. If I could get the gun away, wounded or not, and then... He cocked the hammer, sighted down the barrel and put his finger on the time-tearing trigger. Endless eternity was suddenly near. "Margie," I said out loud, without meaning to. Though she would never know it, her face was the last image engraved on my mind.

CHAPTER 23

He started to pull the trigger. My muscles and nerves strained to the breaking point. Jump him! Now! "Owwww!!" he yowled. A dart or missile had come out of nowhere and sunk into the flesh of his hand, causing him to drop the gun. "What the hell?" Ear-To-Ear bellowed, looking all around. The others milled. They didn't know what to do. Then Nutso crouched to grab the gun. A dart sank into his shoulder and he recoiled. "That hurts!" he yelled. "Get Castille!" ordered Ear-To-Ear, holding his bleeding hand. "Beat him to death!" I readied myself as they approached. They stopped. Why? Standing next to me was Phoenix. Holding, unbelievably, a crossbow. A bolt was notched, needing only her finger pulling the trigger to unleash it. "Castille, you tragic dragon," Phoenix said. "I gotta save your life all the time?" "I think we're even," I said. "But, under the circumstances, you beautiful bird of fire and rebirth, I'll give you this one." "I want to hear you say it," she said, holding the crossbow steady, pointed at my assailants. "You're one up," I said. "Okay?" "Okay," she said. "Now what about this bunch of See You Next Thursdays?" "Whud you call us?" Ear-To-Ear demanded. "C. U. N for next. T for Thursday." "Call us cunts?" he asked, as if scalded. "You da cunt with da big mouth." "No," said Phoenix. "I'm the cunt with the big crossbow.

But I do have one piece of advice for you." "What?" he asked, defiantly. Phoenix shot him. Again. A bolt in his leg. "Whud you do that for?" he asked, like a litte kid unfairly punished. "Why not?" Phoenix shrugged, quickly notching another bolt. "By the way, just call me a magnificent bitch and leave it at that." Two of the six were now bleeding in various states of injury and insult. The other four tried - unsuccessfully - to make themselves invisible. "So you weren't kidding about seeing a man about a crossbow," I said. "Ever known me to kid?" she asked. "About everything. Except weapons." "Enough," she said. "These Forgotten Bitches Of Iceland. Shoot them all? Wound? Kill? What's your pleasure?" "Let me see if I can talk some sense into them. Tune in!" I said. "You Freakish Bogtrotters of Idiocy." "Bastards," said the leader. "That too, I'm sure," I said. "In any case, this is your choice. My assistant here..." "Associate," said Phoenix. "My assistant associate here..." I started again. Phoenix aimed the crossbow at me. "My fully-equal-in-every-possible-way associate here..." I said. She turned the crossbow back at the FBI. "...hurts all six of you in a most painful, distressing and - let's face it - humiliating way. I mean, come on. A medieval crossbow? Get real." "Or?" asked the leader, grimacing, limping in circles, bleeding from hand and leg. "Or you send a carrier pigeon to Blackie in whatever scalpeen he's hiding in the old country. Tell him you killed me as per his instructions. Then never bother me..." "Or me," interjected Phoenix. "...or my associate again. And you might - might - live to be thirty before you're dead from the drink, the drugs or the gun. Speak freely amongst yourselves." Phoenix held the crossbow steady, aimed directly at them. "No need to discuss," said Ear-To-Ear, glancing at the others. "We'll never bother you again. You'll never see us again. Okay?" "Okay by me," I said. "You?" I didn't want to say Phoenix's name. "Okay by me," she said, "but if I so much as see any of you again, I'll put a bolt in your brain or your heart. And, if not a bolt, a bullet." "You heard her, fine upstanding lads that you are," I said. "So toddle off to have your wounds tended. ER. Two blocks." "Go on!" shouted Phoenix. "Scat!"

They scatted.

CHAPTER 24

I looked at Phoenix's crossbow. "Twelve-guage one-hundred pull Litley," she explained. "Did you want to see me about something?" "A madman is stalking me," I said. "One?" she laughed. "Poor, deluded fool! At least a dozen." "All right already. A dozen," I allowed. "But this one's different." "Why?" "He killed Diedre." "Your wife," she said. Phoenix's face tightened. Only a few months before, her fiance Anthony Lee had accidentally killed himself. I knew the mention of my dead wife reminded her of Tony. But I also knew she didn't want to talk about him. Yet. "And the killer's resurfaced five years after disappearing without a trace," I said. "Sends me taunting but ambiguous letters. Either he's going to kill me or he has a death wish and wants me to kill him." "So you want me to watch your back with my trusty crossbow." "Not my back," I said. "Whose?" "Margie's," I said. "Margie? What's she got to do with it?" "It occurred to me that this maniac would hurt me worse by killing the only two women who ever meant anything to me." "Except me," said Phoenix. "Except you, of course," I said. "But we're not getting married." "Got that right." "So you'll do it?" "I don't know," she said. "Why not?" "Margie hates my guts." "So?" I asked. "You hate her guts." "That's why it won't work." "Just do your thing." "What thing?" she asked. "Your secret stalker thing. You tail people but they don't know it. Except me, of course." She laughed. "I've tailed you so many times when you didn't have a clue." "I knew you were tailing me," I said. "I just didn't tell you." "Why not?" she asked. "Didn't want to break your spirit." "Break my spirit?"

"Not the point," I said. "I don't even want Margie to know she might - might - be a target. So you two won't have to interact at all. Just keep an eye on her." "My usual fee?" she asked. "With friends' discount?" "I don't have any friends," she said. "Except me."

CHAPTER 25

Where, oh where, could cousin Crazy be? Saturday night. 9:30 p.m. Sunset five hours ago. Nights longer, colder, weirder. Zone getting ready to work itself up into a frenzy. Patrolling the sidewalks of LaGrange, working girls either half-undressed or all decked out like Faberg'e Imperial Eggs. Stooping over to display their wanton wares and to chat up male drivers through open windows of cars crawling down the street. Lure the men into anything from a 10-minute lube job to an all-nighter. Not to mention the pimps, thieves, pickpockets, scam artists, random psychoes. The city was a huge centripetal force machine that whirled human flotsam and jetsam directly downtown. A touch of trepidation. Under my waist-length black leather jacket, I felt against my chest the reassuring weight of the Beretta in its shoulder holster. Still, any one of these guys - or women - could be my assassin. Anyone could have a gun chambering a bullet with my name on it. Anyone could have a knife thirsty for my noble blood. Don't get paranoid, Floyd, I told myself. Just keep eyes and ears open; listen to the still, small voice of survival; be ready. I saw Keiko, in front of Hand the Hatter, baiting her hook. Keiko was the only Asian prostitute in the Zone. The Chinatown ruling elite - the Mongolians - backed up by the street gangs, wouldn't allow any. They themselves ran brothels behind closed doors in C'town for Chinese men - only Chinese and white prostitutes, never black. Keiko was half-Japanese, half-Caucasian. The Mongolians didn't even condescend to consider her Asian. Now, she had a suit-and-tie white guy just about to bite the warm wriggling worm concealing the cold sharp hook. "Step off, John," I said to the john. "I have to talk to Yoko." He assumed a command posture, narrowed his eyes and started: "Now wait just a minute! I..." "You're breaking the law," I cut him off. "Want me to make a citizen's arrest?" "Law?" he frowned. "What law?" "I believe soliciting a prostitute is still against the

law." "You jerk," he laughed. "I'm the governor's personal chauffeur. The law can't touch me at all." "I think Bob Dylan said that first." "I said it," he blustered. "I'm subject to no laws." "Just one." "Which?" he challenged. I knocked him down. "The law of gravity," I said. "I think Isaac Newton said that first." I helped the guy stand and I brushed some of the dirt off his suit. "Go eat a pup at Dirty Gertie's hot dog stand across the street." He reeled across LaGrange. Gertie smiled and waved to me. I waved back, as one does. Keiko, fists on hips, stared at me. "Chikusho!" she yelled. "Baka-janai? Nande sonda-koto iun-dayo?" "English, please," I said. "For this humble hairy barbarian." "Thank you so much, Castille," she said. "Do I interfere with your business? No, of course not. But, apparently, it's all right for you to..." "A thousand pardons," I said. "One minute of your semi-precious time. And then you can get back to business." "What?" she glowered. "Where's Crazy F?" "Li kagen-ni shite yo!" she said. "Kono kuso-ttare!" "English, please." "Where's Crazy F? Don't know! Don't care!" "Best guess," I said. "Ask Jimmy the Hat. Hears all. Sees all." I slapped my forehead. "Why didn't I think of him?" "Because you're a potato chip," she said. "Ka-ching!" "Another Japanese phrase?" "American. Sound of a cash register. Fifty bucks. For both screwing up my date and giving you good advice." Sigh. "I don't suppose you know the meaning of the word chutzpah?" I asked, opening my wallet and forking over a Ulysses Grant. "Know the meaning?" she laughed, disappearing my fifty. "I happen to be the Eastern Seaboard distributor."

CHAPTER 26

I crossed Washington to walk up Essex to where it intersected with Harrison. Chinatown Crossing. I had to pass a decidedly pregnant white woman wearing a faded multicolored bandana on her head and a silver ring through her left nostril. She puked green into the gutter.

Without even wiping her mouth, she smiled drippily at me and asked: "Wanna date?" "Not at this present juncture in time and space," I said. "I hear these voices in my head," she said, her face scrunching up. "Men, women, even children. That's what I don't understand. The children. They give me Stelazine or something at City Hospital. But it don't do no good. Do you understand what I'm saying?" "Sure," I said, not understanding at all. Nothing I could do to help her. She was one of the damned souls in hell who hallucinate that they're still alive. The city. Despite the colder weather, Jimmy the Hat still wore his summer uniform. A black oversized sports jacket over a canary yellow t-shirt. He stood on a sidewalk corner, scoping all four streets of the intersection. "Jimmy the Hat," I said. He shrank into a bent, submissive posture. "James T. Randolph, suh, at yo' service." "Jimmy, I'm no cop," I said. "I talked with you about three months ago. Remember?" "Naw, suh." "Lola sent me. Remember her?" "Naw, suh," he said. "Lola. She was fresh from the Carolinas. Had a gracious air of gentility. Remember?" "Oh, Lola," he said, straightening up and launching into the machine gun patter I recalled. "Fo' sho, bro," he continued. "Need condoms to cover the old jimbrowsky?" "No." "Then y' know whatta ya need? Whatta ya want? Whatta ya gotta have?" He pulled open his coat. Both sides were lined with sewn-on pockets, bulging with the nitty-gritty stuff of night-need. "What'll it be? Cigarettes? Filtered or unfiltered, packs or looseys? Weed? Joints or canisters? Got y'know everything. Playing cards, dice, needles and thread, tampons, mercurochrome, knuckle knives..." "Nothing like that," I interrupted. "So whatta ya y'know want?" "Info." "Info," he repeated, closing his jacket and face. "That y'know sometimes a tough one." "Crazy F. Split from King Pimp." "Heard." "Could be a war coming in the Zone," I said. "Bad for Jimmy the Hat's bidness. Whatta ya y'know wanna know?" "Where's Crazy F?" "Why?" he asked. "Need to talk."

"Sure? He a banger. His crew be cold. Bust slugs before jawing. They y'know raw to the bone." "I'm trying to stop this war before it starts," I said. "Cool. But I gotta tell ya point blank, dawg, Crazy F one y'know janky mofo." "None know better than I that he's a scoundrel of the first water," I said in my Rafael Sabatini voice. "A scalawag and a rotter. Yet, it is my accursed fate to converse with him. Where is he?" "Don't y'know know, man," said Jimmy, constantly head-swiveling. "True blue twenty-four karat truth." "What does the street say?" "Street? Street don't say nothing. Only peoples says things." "What do people say?" I asked. "Gots to axe the right questions." I sighed. "Does it fit in a bread box? Is it animal, vegetable or mineral? Where's the hide-out for Crazy F?" "Now you talkin' like peoples," said Jimmy. "But still don't know." "Where might he be?" "That different. Y'know? Where he might be. When he not at the Hot Spot, he might run a stable outa the Jam-A-Pete. That good enough?" "Not exactly the Vulcan mind meld," I said. "But it'll do." "Ahem," he said. "A gratuity would not be out of order, I presume." "You y'know presume keerect." From my increasingly anorexic wallet, I gave him a Ulysses. "My skin may be black," he exulted. "But my pocket be green." "Whatever happened to Lola?" I asked. "She seemed nice." "Lola too nice." "What happened?" I asked. "Trick rape and rob and beat her half-dead. She say y'know Zone too much. Go back to Carolinas. God may have mercy. But Zone don't."

CHAPTER 27

I went into the Jam-A-Pete; a black woman sashayed over. "How you, baby?" she cooed. "Aside from famine, pestilence, destruction and death? Peachy." "Want some hot bubbling brown sugar to go with them peaches?" she tra-la-la trilled, fingering my forearm, smiling smooth and sassy as an X-rated Cheshire cat. "I want to talk with Crazy F." Her smiled withered, her face shrank and her fingers

pulled away as if she had just been informed I had Hansen's Disease. Leprosy. God help a fellow. A pariah, an untouchable, an outcaste. In the Combat Zone. The Black Hole of Boston. "Who dat?" she asked, voice suddenly squawking hoarse. "You know who he is. Tell me where." "Who you?" "Friend of his," I said. "Ain't heard a no Crazy F, I tole you." "It's imperative I speak with him," I said solemnly. "Between us, we just may be able to save the lives of thousands of innocent people." "Dudley Do-right," she laughed, looking me up and down. Then sighed. "Okay, studly Dudley. See that red-haired white bitch over there talking to the sister? Pull her coat. And don't say I sent you." "Thank you muchly." "Advice," she said. "Free of charge. She got Hep-C." "I don't plan to get to know her that well." "Still. Just saying." "You're the very avocado of amiability," I said. I walked through the polluted patrons to the carrot-top. She wore red high heels, a silver chain around her left ankle, tight cut-off jeans, red blouse. Her smeared make-up made her look like she'd just staggered out of the ring after a twelve-rounder. Eyeshadow like bruises, blush like welts and lipstick like fresh blood. Limp hair hanging in her face. A regular Blowsabella. "Shaved my mustache today," she said to the black woman. "How's it look?" "Great, girlfriend. Good thing your nose so big or you prolly shave that off too." "Knock knock," I said to the white woman. "Lookin' for a good time?" she asked, flashing fake sparkles in her eyes. "Looking for Crazy F." The sparkles faded. "Why?" she asked. "You must know he split from King Pimp. I'm flying a kite to Crazy for a sit-down." "Tell ya, mister whoever-the-fuck-you-are," she spat. "King Pimp may be crazy. But Crazy F is crazy crazy. Sadistic crazy." "Don't say nothin', Janna," the black woman cautioned. Janna's eyes flared into a conflagration but quickly subsided into burnt weeds. Her face a mingle-mangle patchwork of hissing-hot anger and stone-cold sorrow. "You right, Velvet," she said. "Get lost, mister." The heaving sea of bodies pitched up a middle-aged white guy in a wrinkled gray pinstriped suit and pulled-loose red and black diagonally striped tie. His bald dome and thick reddish-brown hair frizzing straight out over his ears made

him look like Bozo the Clown. "Hey, female!" he breathed alcoholic fumes into Janna's face which made her grimace. "'Member me?" "'Fraid so," she said. "Why?" "Last night," the guy said, "you promised me a bit of snug for a bit of stiff. 'Member?" "Already said yeah," said Janna. "Whatta ya want?" "Gave you fifty bucks but didn't get much snug." "No stiff. No snug. So screw." The black woman laughed. I studied the guy to see if he had any philosophy. "Exactly what I had in mind," the guy leered, putting his face right up against Janna's. "Screw meaning fuck off, a-hole," said Janna, stepping back. "Last night, drunk," the guy said, lurching forward. "Tonight, sober. Want what's coming to me." "You twice as drunk tonight," said Janna. "Go out in the back alley and screw yourself in the cool night air. Maybe that sober you up." She turned to move away. "You owe me, female," the guy said, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her backward. I readied to apply the pain element. But Janna turned around with a big smile. "Okay, honey bunch," she said and reached her right hand to the left side of his head to stroke his frizzy hair. "You right." "More like it," the guy grinned like a stack of poker chips. Janna gripped his hair and violently twisted to the side and down. I was surprised his clown head didn't come clean off his circus body. Why I wore my hair short. Hair was a weapon. Your own hair used against you. Janna slapped him hard across his face with her left palm. A hard flat sound like a door slamming. The guy yelped. A blow-the-gaskets buzz of excitement rippled through the crowd like a swizzle stick stirring a highball. The front door bouncer vaulted up onto the bar and shouted: "Bitch down?" The black woman, Velvet, shouted back: "No! John down!" A mostly female cheer rose to the high ceiling. Thus fortified, Janna's face transformed from been-hit-before to settle-the-score. She slapped him again. The guy tried to worm-wriggle free, but she death-gripped his hair. Cracked him across the chops a dozen times with her left hand, fore and back. With each slap, she yelled furiously: "Goddamn!" B-girls and working girls clambered on top of the bar, craned their necks and, through the rising cigarette smoke, shouted zip-zap encouragement. "Bash that piece a trash, girl!"

"Smack the shine off him!" I sat back on a bar stool - best seat in the house - and watched.

CHAPTER 28

The guy sank, pleading, to his knees. His hands fluttered in front of his face like overweight pigeons trying to take flight. Gripping his hair with two hands, Janna pulled his head forward and down, then brought her left knee up through his hands into his face. His nose exploded red. He moaned and his arms plummeted like those of a puppet whose strings had been cut. Janna let go of his hair; the guy keeled over onto his back. She dropped onto his chest, pounding his bloody mess of a face with piston-fists. The guy whimpered. Enough was enough. I was about to pull her off him when two bouncers burst through the packed, cheering crowd. One put his hands in Janna's armpits and gently lofted her to her feet. The other plucked the guy off the floor and gripped his collar and belt from behind. He propelled him through the crowd and flung him out the front door. The cheers subsided. Janna sat down next to me. Her chest heaved; her whole body shook. The bartender poured a shot glass of whiskey which she threw down her gullet. She rapped the glass on the counter, the barman quickly refilled it and she threw it back. "Feel better now?" I asked. "Goddamn him," she said, eyes shooting sparks. "That guy? He won't bother you again." "Not him," said Janna. "Crazy F." "Why?" "Just goddamn him. You a somebody? I should give him up to you. After what he done to me." "What did he do?" I asked quietly. She spoke in a low voice, staring into the shot glass as if it were a telescope into her pathetic past. "I look like shit now. I know that. In the Zone till I die or get lockjaw. Whichever come first. I accept that. "But I used to be one fine foxy bitch. Had a good man, knew how to take care of me. We were hustling and partying, looking good, feeling good. On top of the world. Then Crazy F fall out of the sky." "What happened?" I asked. "Crazy F about fifteen but he look like twenty-five. Always lifting weights. Plus he schooled by King Pimp practically since birth in pimpology. King encourage him to have his own stable." "What did Crazy F do?" I prompted.

"Sound like corny shit, but he said he loved me. I needed to hear that. From someone. From anyone. Nobody ever told me that. My whole life." "Parents?" "What parents?" she sneered. "Crazy F say work for him, I be his bottom woman. Say I don't even have to make a quota. Don't have to work if I don't feel up to it. All that good shit." "So you went with him," I said. "My man try to get me back. I called him a simp, laughed in his face. First trick I get for Crazy? High-roller take me to the Lenox Hotel, fancy suite, top floor. "Wants me to tie him up! Hey, I was in the Navy for two years before I was in the life. I tied him up all right. Using all those sailor knots so he couldn't get untied. "Rifled him for a thousand bucks and left. Maid must have found him in the morning stark naked all tied up!" She laughed. "Man, Crazy and me, we partied that night." "And after that?" I asked. "All down hill. He used me up fast. Only saw the lovelight in his eyes that first night. Soon as I Hancocked on the dotted line with my heart's blood for ink? Only thing in his eyes was the glow of grabby gimme." "Bet you're not the only one," I said. "Nope. Just another sucker. I'm a hoe playing the trick for a chump. But Crazy F a pimp playing me, his hoe, for a chump. Guess I ain't nothing but a trick. So I guess what I'm saying is, I'm ready to give him up, the double- triple shit." "Where is he?" I asked. "Then again. I better not. Find out? He'll mutilate me." "Zone's carving you up, night by night, hour by hour. Give." "Want to but..." she faltered. "I don't know what to do." "Clam up or cough it up. Clock's ticking. Meter's running." "Just one thing, mister," she looked at me with eyes flat and hard as stones at the bottom of a river. "What?" I asked. "I'm all pumped up from giving that business dude a beat-down. But in ten minutes, I'll come down from this high and I'll be all rock-jawed as usual. Please. I don't know what business you got with Crazy F. But don't let him know I fingered him." "I won't," I said. She looked at me; I looked at her. "You seem like good people." "Where is he?" I asked. "The Hotel de Gink. Know it?" "I know it." I pushed off the stool. She slitted her eyes, contorted

her fingers into claws and hissed like an alley cat cornered by the biggest meanest dog in town. Then her head sagged, her shoulders slumped and her hands gently fingered the empty shot glass. A low monotone crept out between her barely moving lips: "I know I'm gonna die in the Zone. I swear if I owned the Zone and hell, I'd live in hell and rent out the Zone." Her face turned toward me in naked entreaty like a wilted plant on its wintry stem. A small but heavy weight of guilt fell on my heart like a leaden teardrop. But nothing I could do to help her. Next stop: the Hotel de Gink.

CHAPTER 29

Behind me, a woman's voice said: "Right there, boy, or I blow your nuts off." I mimicked a statue and said over my shoulder: "Need to talk to Crazy F." I stood in the empty, dimly lit hotel lobby. Babies wailing, adults coughing, miscellaneous night noises. Across the room, behind a counter, the night clerk had his head down. The shabby old Hotel DeGuine stood on the brief section of Charles Street that most people didn't know about. At the edge of the Theatre District. After Charles stopped being the buffer between the Boston Common and the Boston Public Gardens. On the sidewalks, stray working girls stood like sentries. Once upon a footlight, when Boston was the last stop for shows before Broadway, the DeGuine and Avery Hotels housed the chorus girls, technicians and understudies. Now the Welfare Department - the Wellie - used it to dump single mothers with young children for a night or a week when they were kicked out of their apartments. Also, a hot-sheets joint for hookers. Nobody called it the Hotel DeGuine. Instead, the Hotel DeGink. "Hands on your head," the voice commanded. "Lace your fingers. That's it, boy. Now turn around." I turned. A young black woman pointed a Ladysmith five-shot .38 special revolver at my groinal arena. "Gimme your gun," she said. "What gun?" "The gun you have on you somewhere." "Oh, that gun," I said. "I'd prefer not to." "Gimme." "I'm rather attached to it. For sentimental reasons." "No one sees Crazy F who's carrying," she said. "Gimme." Sigh. I took out the Beretta from the shoulder-holster under my jacket.

"Easy," she said. "Two fingers." I held it out with my thumb and forefinger, and she snatched it. "What's your name?" I asked. "Why?" she asked. "Gone ask me on a date? Dinner and movie? Dance at the Cotillion Club? Miniature golf?" "Just like to know who has my favorite gun," I said. "Don't worry. Be right here. Get it back when you leave. If you leave." "Just need to talk to Crazy F for a minute." "Lotta people wanna talk to Crazy F," she said. "Like to know who we dealing with. Show me I.D." I unlaced my fingers, got out my wallet, took out my P.I. license and driver's license. Gun still pointing, she scrutinized my I.D.'s. I scrutinized her. Main point of interest: walkie-talkie attached to her belt. "P.I. Crazy don't like Dick Tracy's," she said. "Neither do I. So you be a good boy. Else they be calling you Dickless Tracy." "Now do I get to see Crazy F?" "Purpose?" "I'm a close personal friend," I said. "Hah! I bet!" "Of Crazy and King Pimp. Fact, I'm flying a kite from King." "King Pimp, huh?" she asked, breaking into a smile. She unhitched the walkie-talkie and spoke into it. "Sending in a Dick Tracy name of Castille." She looked at me. "Go for it, boy." She nodded at a dark hallway. "You didn't tell me your name," I said. "No, I didn't, Castille." "What's your name?" I persisted. "Bee," she said. "Short for Beatrice?" "Short for Atomic Honeybee." "Of course," I sighed. "You'll give me my gun when I come back this way?" "If," she said. I started walking.

CHAPTER 30

Down the haunty hallway to a vertical crack of light on the floor. The door opened and a grim black guy waved me in with his pistol. The room was oversized, dimly lit and filled with young blacks, especially muscled-up guys. On a big chair - a makeshift throne, one presumed - sat Crazy F all duded up with a chain around his neck holding a pendant at chest-level, made of gold, that read KING. He took a huge cigar out of his mouth to say: "Castille, you bird-dog! You even track down Crazy F in

his special hiding place. How you do that?" "Glorious things are spoken of thee throughout the land." "No shit? Like what?" "Like what a fine and fair-minded gentleman you are." "That true," he said. "Ah is a fair-minded gunnulman." "So you are, sire." "Sire!" Crazy F said. "Hear that, Back?" A figure grunted and stepped out of a shadow. White, male, monstriferous, gigantical, imbecilical. All muscle and meanness. Looked at me like he'd love to pull every bone in my skeleton out through my mouth. And, to top off his appearance - literally - he had a deep gash in the middle of his forehead. Like an even bigger monster had tried to split him down the middle with an axe. "Castille, meet mah personal bodyguard, Backsnapper." This rare specimen towered over me. I felt like a sapling in the shadow of a sequoia. Or maybe I just felt like a sap. Crazy F appeared to immensely enjoy my discomfort. "An interesting anomaly in the quadrant," I said in my Star Trek Mr. Spock voice. The creature grunted. A grunt of greeting. "I take it," I said to Crazy F, "that Backsnapper is his street name." "Cuz he like to snap people's backs like twigs," Crazy F explained patiently. "What's his real name?" I asked, unable to resist. Backsnapper grunted. An unhappy grunt. "Oo," said Crazy F. "Back? He don't use his real name. He an enforcer and torturer for one a those wild East Europe dictators. War crimes and whatnot." Backsnapper grunted. A disgruntled grunt. If there was such a thing. "Besides," said Crazy. "What's a matter which you? Know better 'n to ask a person's square handle." "Where are my manners?" "Evvabody got a street name. 'Cept a fool like you." Backsnapper grunted. A grunt of approval. "Of course, you're right," I said. "But tell me. Is that the language of his people? Grunts?" "You a choice mother-raper, Castille," said Crazy F, shaking his head. "Back, show him your ring." Backsnapper held up his right fist, big as a football. On the index finger was a gold band with something unintelligible written on it. "I can't read it," I said. "What language?" "English, Mr. Know-It-All!" laughed Crazy F. "Looks like Serbo-Croatian," I said. "With a dash of Finno-Ugric." "Show him," said Crazy F. Backsnapper grabbed one of the hangers-on and - boom! - punched him in the forehead.

"Ow!" The poor schnook yelled, dropping to one knee and covering his face. "Stand up!" ordered Crazy. The guy stood up. "Take yo' hands way from yo' face." He took his hands away. "Now you can probably read it." I looked closer at the victim's forehead. Imprinted in block letters: SUCKER. Apparently, it was spelled backward on the ring so it would read forward correctly when pressed with sufficient force on a suitable surface. Like human skin. "Back go from silence to violence in nothing flat," said Crazy proudly. "Snap your legs apart like a wishbone." "You hurt Crazy," the monster muttered like distant thunder. "I hurt you. Bad." "It talks!" I said. "It talks. It walks," said Crazy F. "But it don't crawl on its belly like a reptile. Make you do that." "Touching," I said. "But pleasant as your company is, this isn't merely a social visit." "Ah speck not." "I'm flying a kite from King Pimp." "You still his man, huh?" Crazy F asked. "I'm my own man," I said. "I'm doing him a favor." "Ah see," said Crazy. "What flavor favor?" His retinue cracked up, laughing hysterically. Crazy basked in the jollity of it all. "What flavor?" I said. "Set up a sit-down to end this war." "What war?" asked Crazy. "Between you and King Pimp." "Say, me and who?" "King Pimp," I said. "Castille, let me pull your coat, once and for all," said Crazy F. "Ain't but room for one king in this Combat Zone. Me." "How shall I address your highness?" I asked. "King Crazy or Crazy King?" "Gots to think about it," he said, frowning. "For now? King Crazy." "Okay, King Crazy. May it please your lordship to permit me to suggest negotiations?"

CHAPTER 31

"Say, nee-goshe-ee-a-shuns? What there be to nee-goshe-ee-ate? Pimp done outlived his time. His expiration date way overdue." His flunkies laughed. Except Backsnapper who stared like an ogre in a Brothers Grimm fairy tale. "He be pushing forty!" Crazy F resumed. "Should be

deaded or prisoned by now." "Why isn't he?" I asked. "Tell you why, mother-raper," said Crazy, leaning forward. "Cause Ah pump him up for years. Time for him to retire. Graceful-like. Let young blood take over." "Apparently, he's not ready to retire," I said. "But he doesn't want a war either." "What he want then?" Crazy F asked. "He realizes you're up-and-coming," I said, putting words into King Pimp's mouth. Ever the tapdancing diplomat. "Your day is coming. He knows that. But work out an arrangement. Till he can retire. Graceful-like." "Time done come!" said Crazy F. "He slow. Lost steps. This be a young man's game. My time now." "Give him a chance to save face," I said. "After all, he did take you in and bring you up and teach you." "Mother-raper take me in?" ranted Crazy. "Bring me up? Teach me? Think that a big deal? Ah a crumb-crusher? Have me run errands. Ah older? Do his dirty work. Sheet! Tell ya again. Ah been carryin' him for years. "Sure, once upon a dime bag, he a certified for-real pimp. And a king, too. Give him that. Playing the game with the right tools - flash threads, gators, whip, gold on his hands, limo with a diamond in the back, talkin' the righteous talk - but he old now. Too old for the game. Now he fake as a frosted flake." His crew laughed it up. "And you're for real?" I asked. "Real as steel, made like a blade, cold as gold, bold and controlled." Applause and cheers. Crazy F grinned wide. "Like mah flow?" he asked. "A little touch of Crazy in the night." "Ah'm the freak sheik of chic, so listen up, daisy cup. Ah'm in charge a the game, not the same old same. Got a brain like a hurricane, a storm so warm it burn your form. Ah'm so incredible, it ain't even edible. My brain like champagne, mah thoughts so fine, they like vintage wine. "Got my hustle on, got my muscle on. Spit rhymes so fast it's time soon to follow me with a spittoon." More applause and cheers. "So whatchoo think?" he asked me. "Some bragadocious brilliant rapping rocking rhymes, right?" "One does not permit oneself the presumption of contradicting King Crazy." "Damn right," he exulted. "Got a album dropping soon. Living Ill Be The Best Revenge. Zone? Zone nothing. Ah'ma have me a real kingdom. An empire! Music, line a clothes, video games. Ah'ma have it all. "Tell you what, Castille. You and Pimp split, that's a hit. You join King Crazy's posse, Ah make you a rich son of a bitch. You and me? We make millions. Billions!" "Brazilians?" "Maybe even brazilians! Sky the limit! What say?"

"A tempting offer, sire," I said. "But with regrets, I must decline." Crazy F shook his head sadly. "Then you a fool out in the cold," he said. "More's the pity." "My world a cool world. Cool world beat a fool world evvatime. Tell ya, Castille, you ain't soft. But sometimes you ain't hard enough. Someday? Gone get you killed." "So what do you have to say to King Pimp?" "Say, who, peckerwood?" blazed Crazy. "King Pimp." "Tole ya, mother-raper. Only one king in this man's town." Backsnapper took a step toward me. "Pimp, then, okay?" I asked wearily. "What's your reply to Pimp's offer of a sit-down?" "Tell that old simp King Crazy take over the Zone. Hoe by hoe. Hustler by hustler. Joint by joint. Street by street. Till every last one pay they tribute to me. "Wanna call it a war? Okay. All's fair in love and war. And this be revolution!" "Fred Astaire in...in...don't tell me. Top Hat! Right?" "Say, Top Hat?" Crazy frowned. "Say, Fred? Best you take off like a skinny-ass bird." "'Nuff said," I turned to leave. "One more thing, Castille." "What?" "Tell Pimp where Ah at? Ah have Backsnapper nail your silver tongue to the floor with a steak knife. Then he break yo' back."

CHAPTER 32

Was my assassin lurking just outside? Did he want to shoot me from a distance? Or kill me up close, maybe choke me to death, like he did to Diedre? No way to know. I stayed clear of the windows in my apartment. A dark, wet, November Sunday afternoon. A howling Nor'easter blasting all-but-dead leaves off trees. A driving sideways rain. On such rainy Sundays, Diedre and I curled up on the sofa, read the papers and then talked, often about movement. Especially the differences and similarities between dance and martial art. Memories surfaced. Like the other women in my self-defense class, Diedre did not formally enroll in the jiu-jitsu school, didn't intend to advance through the ranks, didn't want to learn the entire curriculum, didn't care about some day earning a black belt.

No. She, like they, wanted to learn only the basic down-and-dirty to survive on the mean streets of Boston. She, like they, was determined to learn. Because they, like she, had also been assaulted. Yet, because of her dance background, she was far more advanced than the others in the fundamentals of physical art: posture, balance, efficient movement. I often isolated her on the mat and taught her more advanced self-defense motions. And we both had grown up in Dorchester. Diedre Malone. Both DIC's. Dorchester Irish Catholics. I was a public DIC before I was a private dick. We had a lot in common besides Boston Common. We started going out, mostly to dances. Ballroom, square, contra, folk. Dancing, we fit like a hand in a glove. We also attended dance recitals and I saw her dance in the chorus line in a lavish musical production in the Theatre District. I went to her studio in the District and she demonstrated her own solo pieces plus others with students. I taught her self-defense, from armlocks to waza. She taught me dancing including, for fun, dozens of American popular dances from the 1910's Turkey Trot and 1920's Lindy Hop through the 1960's dance-a-month crazes and 1970's disco fever. We worked together; we played together; we ate together; we slept together; we lived together. We got married.

CHAPTER 33

After we married, we had three choices of where to live. She could move into my tiny apartment in Fields Corner, Dorchester; I could move into her spacious loft in Fort Point, South Boston; or we could move into a new place. Because Diedre wanted to maintain contact with her artist neighbors whereas I was a loner; because she needed private space for dancing and choreography whereas I used the public space of the gym for lifting weights, basketball and jiu-jitsu; because the rent for her vast living space was cheap, well below market rate, whereas my rent for a small space was market rate; I moved into her loft. I wanted her to move her teaching and choreography from her studio in the Theatre District to her - our - vast loft. Walking home at 3 a.m. Already proven unsafe. Despite my entreaties, she refused. She wanted to maintain a presence in the Theatre District, no matter how small. We compromised. She stayed late, usually very late, one night a week to work on her own solo dance-making. Thursday. So on Thursdays, I didn't work as a bouncer in The Tunnel. I stayed at our loft on Sleeper Street, waiting for her call to pick her up. One Thursday night - One a.m. Two a.m. Three a.m. -

she didn't call. So I called her studio. No answer. I got a bad feeling. So I drove there. Odd coincidence. November 13th was a Thursday both this year and five years before. On Tremont, I parked half up on the sidewalk. The shows long since over, the lights of the big theatre marquees were turned off. In fact, the only light was in Diedre's fourth floor studio. Maybe she was so preoccupied, she forgot the time. Maybe. And maybe she was so preoccupied, she didn't hear the phone ring. Doubtful. The front door lock was jimmied open. Gulp. I bounded up four flights. Diedre's door was unlocked. Double gulp. I went in. "Diedre," I called. "Diedre!" Silence. Then I saw her. Crumpled on the floor. I rushed over, felt for a pulse. None. I called for an ambulance, though I knew it was too late. The paramedics confirmed my worst fear and called the cops. By a party or parties unknown, Diedre had been murdered. Also, her trademark throat ribbon was missing. Being alone, she might have taken it off. But I found no ribbon in the studio. Where the ribbon would have been, purple bruises insulted her already scarred throat. Where someone's thumbs had crushed her windpipe. Sorrow, grief, rage - savage, voracious vultures - ate away at my soul.

CHAPTER 34

I whistled my mind, like a far-ranging dog, back to the present. Outside my apartment, the rain still poured down in leaden sheets. The wind howled and wailed like a banshee lamenting Diedre's death. Except, in Celtic folklore, the ghostly banshee's shrieking cry promised the hearer a ghastly death soon to come. Mine? I shrugged off the cloak of dread. My mind, like a dog eager to revisit an old haunt, discovered another memory. One night, getting dressed to go dancing, Diedre smiled mischievously. "What?" I asked. "You'll see," she said, walking softly toward me, cat-like, on the balls of her feet. She knelt and unbuckled my belt. "Kinky," I said. "Sh," she said. She pulled the belt loose from my pants. She produced a yellow silk tie, threaded it through the pant loops and knotted it in front. The tie was more like a sash than a belt.

"Like Fred Astaire in...in..." she said, standing. "In Holiday Inn," I said. "Right! Holiday Inn!" she said. "Suits you." Summer. We walked to the Red Line Broadway Station. Four drunken white jamokes also got on and sat across from us. They laughed at my yellow belt. I didn't care. But they wouldn't let up. "Look at the faggot in the sissy yellow belt!" the leader drunkenly bellowed. Diedre and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. The drunken slobs didn't like this. Your typical urban white trash types. I had grown up with this subspecies of humanity and knew it well. "Look at the two Lesbians!" the leader shouted. They laughed drunkenly. The alarm in the back of my head jingled. Nearby passengers - subway veterans - quietly stood and moved to more distant seats. Good idea. The red-eyed leader - his pasty Irish mug scarlet and sodden with drink - dead-eyed me. "You're really queer, right?" he asked in a stage whisper, leaning forward, as if inviting my confidence. "That's right," I replied in the same stage whisper. "That's why I have such a beautiful wife." "Fag hag," he dismissed her. Insult me and have a laugh. But insult Diedre? That made me devil-raising mad. I started to stand. Diedre instantly laid a restraining hand on my forearm. I sat back and said: "You are a churlish, impious rapscallion." "Dunno what you just said!" the leader bellowed, jumping up. "But I know it ain't good!" He came at me. I stood. He threw a drunken right punch to my face. I moved my head, avoiding it; he was pulled forward off-balance by his own momentum. As his right arm went by, my left hand gripped his wrist. When he instinctively pulled his arm back, I went with it, angling his arm. I stepped behind him, controlling his right hand and wrist with my left hand. I locked his wrist and shoulder - awkward and painful - behind his back. My right hand gripped his hair and pulled his head back and down. I controlled him in the classic 'bum's rush' position. The more I pushed his arm up and pulled his head back and down, the closer his shoulder and wrist came to breaking. I pushed and pulled hand and head closer to each other, increasing the joint pains. "Ow!!!" he screamed. "Get him off me!" His three buddies jumped up to attack me. "Back, squalid wastrels!" I said. "Or your fearless leader gets older with a broken shoulder. Neat rhyme, huh?" "Get back!" the leader yelled at his minions. "Jeez. What do you have in your hair?" I asked.

"Brylcreem." "It stinks. Don't you know 'a little dab'll do you'?" One of the jamokes glanced at Diedre. Would he attack her? After all our hours on the mat, could she handle him? The train pulled into South Station. "Where you getting off?" I asked the leader. "Downtown," he almost whimpered. "Change of itinerary," I said. "You're getting off here." "But I...Ow!!!" I applied additional pressure and gave him the bum's rush, forcing him out the door and onto the filthy subway platform. His buddies scurried after him. Other passengers, shooting glances, exited through the other doors. The leader, finally released from the armlock, turned and glared. "I'll get you!" he promised. "Just tell me your name! Less you're 'fraid to!" "Not at all, monsieur," I said in my French accent. "My name, it is well-known in certain, shall we say, rambunctious quarters of the city." "Then what is it?" Just as the doors closed, I said: "Rafael Sabatini." The jamoke shook his fist at me. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll get you, Sabatini!" The train pulled away and I sat down. Other passengers gawked, as was the custom of the people of this land. "My hero, Rafael Sabatini," laughed Diedre. Then she turned serious. "Wonder if I could do that, if he had attacked me." "You'll do all right," I assured her. "Just stick to basic principles." Had Diedre stuck to basic principles when she was assaulted in her studio? If she did, they didn't work very well. Which meant I hadn't taught her very well. And if she didn't stick to basic principles? That also meant I hadn't taught her very well. Either way, I had failed her. Like ravenous hand-to-mouth relatives at a family banquet, guilt feasted on my heart. The police believed Diedre knew her murderer. Which made sense. She had apparently let someone enter at night. Or they had a key. No signs of a struggle. So the police interrogated her friends and associates in the Theatre District and Fort Point. They even questioned my few friends and associates. But most suspicion fell on me as the husband. Many women are killed by their husbands and boyfriends. In fact, most people are killed by people known to them. But the husband is usually the prime suspect. Why? The wild thin wire-line between love and hate.

One cop was sure it was me. He grilled me, leaned on me, tailed me, not-so-subtly threatened me. But I had a rock-solid alibi. At the hour of Diedre's death - waiting for her call - I was jamming with two other guitarists on Sleeper Street. The cop leaned on them, but they didn't waver. Finally, he gave up. How I, sorrow-shaped, became a private detective. My first unofficial case: looking for Diedre's killer. Her murder went - with how many others? - into the cold-case file. Except now the case had become warm. Re-opened. Not by the cops. By me. Or should I say the murderer? He may have re-opened the case, but I was going to close it. Like a coffin lid. Over his dead body.

CHAPTER 35

WATCH OUT! I'M CLOSER THAN YOU THINK! and ONE OF US WILL DIE! WHICH?

Sunny Monday. Two letters at my office. One, non-postmarked, slipped under my door; the other, postmarked, in today's mail. No mail delivery on Sunday. The killer must have hand-delivered it. The building was often open on Sunday. Although the post office on the ground floor was closed, various companies on the other seven floors did business. These letters had the same format as the others. Business envelope. Typed name and address. No return address. 8 1/2" X 11" white paper. Words spelled out in letters cut out of magazines. That was all. I hated to admit it, but this psychological warfare was getting to me. I wanted to fight back. But how? Not a clue. My mind frothed with frustration. And fear. The Sunday letter was hand-delivered, which meant the killer was close by. Maybe, as he had written, closer than I thought. Or else he had confederates. More than one psycho out to kill me? That spooked me. My shoulders convulsed. I took out my gun, which I now wore constantly. I carefully opened the closet door. No crouching manslayer thugged out with a thick bludgeon ready to spring at me.

I looked down to Chauncey Street. The usual urban hurry and scurry. No slouching goon in a battered fedora, cigarette dangling from his mouth, squinting up at me with a Tommy gun. I stepped out into the hallway - my office was at the end - and listened. The ordinary hustle and bustle of the other offices. No sneering, hatchet-faced bad guy in a black hat ready to send me into the big sleep. I sat at my desk, strategically placed so I could see the door and the windows. My office was on the fourth floor, but still... I didn't even dare pick up my guitar. I needed to keep my hands free. Especially my left, in case I had to pull my gun. This fiend had better show his hand soon. I didn't how much more uncertainty I could take. In fact, I couldn't sit still at all. I had to do something. But what? Start at the beginning. Gene Autrey's Cowboy Code, Rule Number 7: 'A cowboy is a good worker.' After a word with one of my sponsors.

CHAPTER 36

The fifth floor of Boston Hospital Pruitt Building was a rag-tag refugee camp. Corridor filled with men, women and children. Squatting, sitting and lying on the floor, blocking the way. Complete with blankets, sleeping bags, little tents and changes of clothes. Burbling and babbling in a language I'd never heard. Which I assumed to be the Gypsy tongue of Romany. I retreated to the nurse's station. "What gives?" She rolled her eyes. "Gypsies," she said, "for their so-called king. A real V.I.P." "Very Important Person, huh?" "No. Very Irritating Patient. And his even more annoying entourage." "Can't you clear them out?" I asked. "We tried. Police and everything. They just come back. It's easier to let them stay." "What about the other patients?" "What other patients?" she asked. "We had to move them all to different floors." "What's he dying of?" "Everything." "That narrows it down," I said. "Thank God the old man's only got a few days, maybe only a few hours, left. Then we can get back to normal." Whatever 'normal' is in a big-city hospital. I picked

my way through the Gypsies. Greeted with cold stares and hot scowls. They thought I was another 'authority' come to make life more difficult for them. They even had pots and pans and food, though I saw no fires. Surely, the Fire Department would throw them bodily out of windows if they started cooking over open fires in a hospital. Some wore colorful clothes, others drab. Babies wailed, women jabbered in Romany, men played cards or dice, bouncing the devil's little cubes off the wall, arguments breaking out here and there. I made my way to room 527. A big goon stood guard. "What you want?" "I want to pay my respects to the King of the Gypsies," I said. "Newspaper? Cop? Official?" "No. No. No." "Then why?" he asked. "You gaje." "I'm a friend of his daughter Tita." "Oh. Tita," he said grudgingly, stepping aside. "Be quiet. And not stay long." The room was filled with Get Well cards, plants, flowers, candy, herbal remedies, open vials of oil, candles, empty vodka bottles. An old woman sat at his bedside, holding his hand, wailing and sobbing. The old man lay on his back, under the covers, unconscious, with tubes running in and out of him. Even unconscious, he was imposing. A massive head with thick gray curly hair, swarthy skin, a predatory hawk nose, lips fixed in a cold sneer, forehead set in a commanding frown. "So this is the King of the Gypsies," I said to the woman. She looked up at me. His mistress? Sister? Other relative? In her face was a world of sorrow; she spoke to me in Romany. Could she not speak English or was she just pretending? I said nothing more. The whole atmosphere was feverish yet fatalistic, morbid yet frenetic. I got out of the hospital as fast as I could.

CHAPTER 37

I ankled through C'town to the Theatre District. On Tremont Street - nestled amid the big theatres with their marquees blazoning their current productions - was a nondescript rust-red brick four-story building. Diedre's dance studio had been on the top floor. I couldn't bring myself to go directly to the sorrow-seared site of her studio. So I started at the bottom. Story of my life. I opened the door of Jane Alexander Casting Associates and went in. Small outer room with a young harried woman behind a paper-piled desk.

"Help you?" she asked, barely looking up. "To see Jane Alexander." "Appointment?" "No." "Ms. Alexander's very busy. Maybe I can help you. I'm Ms. Alexander's boss." When she realized what she had said, she stood straight up, knocking over her chair and sending papers flying. "Good God," she said, terrified. "My mistake. Of course, I'm not Ms. Alexander's boss. I'm Ms. Alexander's secretary." "Ah," I said. "Please," she implored, hands together, eyes wide. "Please don't tell Ms. Alexander what I said. She'll kill me." "Tough cookie?" "You have no idea." "Your secret's safe with me," I assured her. "Thank you." "Sure. Now stop sweating, sit down and buzz her on the intercom. Tell her Mr. Castille is here. On urgent business." "Certainly," she said, picking up her chair and sitting down. "You won't say...?" "Not a word." "Thank you." She pressed the button. A steely female voice answered. "What?" "A Mr. Castille to see you." "Why?" cracked the voice like a bullwhip. "Won't say. Except that it's urgent." "Never heard of him. Tell him to go away." The receptionist winked at me. Apparently, we were in this together. "I think you'll want to meet him." "Oh, all right. Send him in." The receptionist started to speak but I cut her off. "Don't worry," I said. "Your fantasy is safe with me." She laughed. "You're right. That is my fantasy. To be the boss of, not the secretary to, this barracuda." I went into the inner office. Much nicer than the outer office. Oriental rug instead of astroturf, mahogany desk instead of plastic, framed photos on the walls instead of prints of French Impressionist paintings. A tray with bottles of liquor. Against one wall stood a set of shelves - stained wooden planks, each supported by white polished-aluminum cubes. The shelves held high-status items like pricey books on modern art and photography, piled on each other so you could read the titles on the bindings. Other shelves held high-fashion magazines, exotic plants and objets d'art. On another wall hung framed photographs of Jane - a much younger Jane - with various smilers. Actors and directors of

local renown, one presumed, none known to me. On the floor was some kind of performing arts center rug with swirly black and white patterns. And, along with soft chairs, an over-sized black leather couch. Heaven help us. A casting couch? Ms. Alexander was, shall we say, of a certain age but, with professional coiffure and expensive clothes and jewelry, she tried to give the impression of being younger. Except she had on more make-up than a Kabuki dancer. Two crimson slashes across her cheeks like racing stripes on a Formula One racing car. And, apparently, she had just come from a session with the face-streching machine. "Well," she said appreciatively, leaning back against her desk. "A gentleman caller with the right proportions. Will wonders never cease?" "No, wonders will never cease, Ms. Alexander." "Oh, pooh! Call me Jane." "Okay, Jane. I..." "First things first," she cut me off. "Glass of wine? Pinot Noir? Zinfandel?" "No thanks," I said. She looked at me strangely. Probably, in her world, the denizens drank alcohol like water. "Do you have a drinking problem?" she asked. "Not any more," I said. "Then how about doing up a line of 'caine?" she asked. "No." "Spark up a joint?" "No." "For God's sake," she muttered. "Glass of Kool-Aid?" "Only if it's Persian melon flavored." She looked at me blankly and then laughed. "Sense of humor. Like that in a man. So, Mr. Straight Arrow, I suppose you're the next Laurence Olivier and you want me to cast you in a Grade-A stage production. "First, let me tell you how this business really works." "I'm not interested in the business, Jane." "Not interested?" She put her hand over her heart as if I'd just informed her the rest of the United States had been wiped out by a nuclear bomb. "I'm interested in a dance studio in this building from five years ago." "Five years?" she asked skeptically. "That's a whole generation in showbiz. Why? Are you a dancer?" "No, I..." "Thank God for that," she said. "They're mostly, you know..." "No, I don't know." "Of the homosexual persuasion. Not that I have anything against faggots, but they don't exactly tweak my dots. We're very interested in you, though." She came close and pretended to brush some dirt off my

jacket and then felt my left bicep. "Your shit rocks, as the kids say. Why don't you and I...?" "Jane, I'm kind of in a hurry." "So am I." "O dark Satanic city of speed," I said. "Good enunciation," she said. "You definitely have a certain quality. We like that." "Would that be the editorial 'we' or the royal 'we'?" I asked, out of curiosity. "Most definitely the royal 'we'," she said. "They don't call me the Queen of Casting in Boston for nothing. You do something for the queen. And the queen will get you a good part in a good play." "Queen Jane approximately," I said. "You've got me all wrong." "You've got me all wet. Let's repair to the casting couch and you can show me what you've got." She undid the top buttons of her blouse. I felt like I was in a play. A bad play. "One can hardly contain one's unbridled enthusiasm," I said. "But I don't want a part in a play." "O ho!" she enthused, undoing the bottom buttons. "You heard about me and you thought you'd find out if my rep is for real. People will talk. And you better believe it, honey, my rep is really for real." Good God, her verbal fortifications were impregnable. I put my hands on her shoulders. "Ooh, why don't we...?" "Shut up!" I said. "Oh, the rough type, eh? Don't worry. I can handle it." "Shut. The. Fuck. Up." "No need to be vulgar," she said. "Yet." "Stop talking for sixty seconds. I'm a private investigator. Look." I whipped out my licenses for her to see. "Why on earth...?" she started. "Sixty seconds," I said. "All I ask. I'm investigating the unsolved murder of a woman five years ago. Her name was Diedre Malone. Did you have an office here then?" "No," she sniffed, buttoning up her blouse. "How long?" "Three years." "The name doesn't ring a bell?" I asked. "Diedre Malone?" "How could it? I came two years after her death." "Perhaps people still talked about it. Or the dance studio was still open. Or you heard talk of the students opening another school nearby." "No. No. No," she said. "So you think you're too good for me. Nobody's too good for me!" "Don't tell me! Don't tell me! Marlon Brando as Johnny to the square girl in The Wild One."

"You're sharp. And you do have a certain Brando-esque quality. I tell you. I'm seldom wrong about these things. Let me be your agent. You and me can go places, kid." "Where?" I asked. "To the casting couch? No thanks." "What are you? A man or a mouse?" "Is that a trick question?" She got angry. "Listen to me, chump," she said. "It's a world of big eats small unless small is quick and tricky. I'm small but I'm quick and tricky. I'll take you places you never dreamed of." "Except in my nightmares." "Get out!" she pointed dramatically at the door like Bette Davis in...in... "Sure you never heard of Diedre Malone?" "No!" she screeched. "Now get out! And stay out! I'll call everybody and blackball you, Castille! You'll never act in this town again!" "A tragic loss to the theatre." "Out!"

CHAPTER 38

Second floor. Door of pebbled glass. Stenciled in black: Law Office of Jack Dunster, Esquire. I was sure I recalled a lawyer in the building from five years before. He should remember something. Inside: Rat Trap Modern decor. With a secretary behind a desk and, on a sofa, a middle-aged man with stained polo shirt, ancient khakis and mismatched socks. "Name?" asked the secretary, without looking up. "Castille." "Appointment?" "Nope." "Business with Attorney Dunster?" "Personal." "Have a seat," she said. "You're next after this gentleman." I looked at the only other person in the room. "Believe it or not," he said, "she means me." I sat at the end of the couch. The guy scooched over till he was right next to me. "Whatta they got ya for?" he asked. "Spitting in the subway," I said. "Christ, that's tough." "You?" "Got a dozen warrants outstanding. But the Jackal's kept me outa jail so far. Mostly, anyway." "The Jackal?" "Jack. Dunster," he said. "What they call him." "How nicely predatory." "But that's not why I'm here today."

"Oh?" I asked, settling in for the usual 'I Wuz Framed' tale. "No. See, I live in this apartment building in the South End. Okay, so it ain't the Ritz. But it's our home, ya know? I mean the tenants." "Sure." "Most of 'em are older, protected by rent control," he said. "Or degenerates assigned to live there by the court. Anyway, one of the old-timers is a raving lunatic named Belcher. We call him Burpee. Anyway, he's a public nuisance, disturbs everyone's peace of mind. "Landlord tries to evict him. Refuses to leave. Case finally goes to housing court. And I'm a witness!" he said proudly. "Congratulations." "I saw him urinate from his window onto the street on numerous occasions," he said. "And several other - what?" "Untenantly atrocities?" I asked. "Exactly. Anyway, we have a meeting - the tenants who are going to testify, including our star witness, Old Agnes - with the Jackal." "And?" I prompted. "And Old Agnes is shrieking through the whole meeting, 'I saw him whip out his fucking schlong!' "The Jackal goes, 'Agnes, you can't say that in a court of law.' "Agnes says, 'Well, what the fuck can I say?" "Jackal says, 'Tell the judge you saw the defendant expose himself.' "'Okay,' says Old Agnes. 'Exposed himself.' "She turns to me and says, 'Joe, does that mean he whipped out his fucking schlong?' "'Yes, Agnes,' I say, 'that's what it means.' "'Okay, then,' says Old Agnes." "So what happened in court?" I asked, now curious. "We get there and of course everyone's Jewish. I mean, the landlord, all the lawyers, even the judge. Not that I'm prejudiced." "No, of course not," I said. "I think the Jackal's Jewish too," he said, lowering his voice. "Real name is probably Dunsterstein or something. Anyway, it's obvious the judge - Schlossberg or some other Jewy name - it's obvious he's got a backlog of cases he's tryna get rid of. He's got a bench, I ain't kiddin' ya, the length of half a house. Behind the bench, he's sitting on a chair with wheels." "A judge on wheels?" I asked, laughing. "Honest to God. He's got everyone talking at the same time. The witnesses, the lawyers, the bailiff, and he's sliding back and forth across the bench on his wheeled chair. "If someone stops talking, he immediately slides over and tells 'em 'I'm listenin', keep talkin', keep talkin'.' "Meanwhile, old Agnes keeps saying to me, 'I was up all night, Joe, saying it over and over.'

"'What's that, Agnes?' I ask. "'He exposed himself. He exposed himself.' "'That's it, Agnes,' I say. 'Just keep saying it to yourself.'" "What was the Jackal doing?" I asked. "I hear him tell the landlord he shoulda given Burpee $1,000 in one-dollar bills and he would have gladly vacated. Landlord probably spent double to bring the case to court. "So everybody's talking at once, the judge is sliding back and forth, dismissing cases left and right, place is in an uproar. And Old Agnes keeps pulling my sleeve, whispering, 'Joe, what is it again?' "'Exposed himself, Agnes. Exposed himself.' "'Oh yeah,' she says. 'Exposed himself. I won't forget.' "So finally they call Old Agnes to testify. Judge is rattling around on his creaking wheels. Everybody's talking at once. Even the peanut gallery. It's like a friggin' amusement park. They shoulda sold cotton candy on a stick." "So what happened?" I asked. "So the Jackal asks Old Agnes what Burpee did. And Agnes forgets! Immediately, the whole joint quiets down. I mean, the peanut gallery, the witnesses, the lawyers, the whole circus. "The judge wheels over to her and says, 'Yes? What is it? What did the defendant do?' "Poor Old Agnes. Her mind's a blank. Then she looks at me and stage whispers, 'What was it again, Joe?'" "What did you say?" I asked. "What could I say? I said, as softly as I could, with every ear in the courtroom straining to hear, 'Exposed himself.' "'Oh yeah,' Old Agnes says. 'Your honor, the defendant...' And then she belts it out like Ethel Merman to the back rows. '...whipped it out and exposed his fucking schlong!'" I laughed. "Good one," I said. "So what happened?" "The judge does a double take, then rolls back to his desk, gavels the courtroom to silence. Naturally, everyone's laughing their nuts off. "When the joint quiets down, the judge says 'The defendant will remove himself and his belongings within one week's time. Does the defendant have anything to say?' "Naturally, Burpee, being a lunatic, was acting as his own lawyer." "Fool for a client," I said. "What the Jackal said." "What did Burpee say?" "He rants and raves about corruption in the courts. But the judge gavels him down and says he should have had an attorney. Burpee yells that all attorneys are crooks, apparently forgetting that most judges had been attorneys. "Then the judge says 'I find for the plaintiff.

Defendant will pay all court costs. Defendant will spend ten days in jail for contempt of court. Case dismissed.' The Jackal wins again." "He's good, huh?" "He's a sleazeball. But he's good." "Joe," said the secretary, "Attorney Dunster will see you now." He got up. "Good luck with all that spitting in the subway," he said. "But the Jackal will get you off." Twenty minutes later, Joe came out. "All yours," said Joe, leaving. "You can go in now," said the secretary. Huge photo on the wall of a snarling lion, under which were the words: IT'S A JUNGLE OUT THERE. Another sign said: TRUST NOBODY. A third framed homily proclaimed: RULES ARE MADE TO BE BROKEN. "You know what they get for a Bruins ticket now?" he demanded of me. Without waiting for an answer, he snarled: "Ya can buy a pair of shoes with the money. Sure! Brand new pair of shoes!" Jack Dunster Esquire was a little clothespin of a guy with a loud rasping voice and thick black glasses. Along with an unlit, chewed-up stogie planted in his fleshy lips, he had a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer proboscis. When he turned his head, his whole body turned with it. But it was as if his head was turning his body and not vice versa. He had a look stamped into his face as if he were just a few lengths ahead of the posse. And the posse was gaining fast. A cheap suit and cheap shoes completed his ensemble, as he paced up and down in front of his cheap desk. "Now what's all this shit Joe tells me about spitting in the subway? Who are you? Whatta ya really want?" I gave him my business card. "Castille, eh? A Mr. Richard, eh? So what's the deal?" "I'm looking into a cold case for a client," I said. "What cold case? What client?" "Client remains, as you know, confidential. Cold case is a five-year-old murder of a woman who operated a dance studio on the top floor of this building. Were you here then?" "Was I here then? Where would I be? Whistlin' Dixie on the Trans-Siberian Express? Sure. I remember the case. Nice girl. Treated me nice. Not everyone treats me nice, you know?" "I'm surprised to hear that," I said. "You must get the same shit in your line. Yeah, I remember. Never found the killer." "What happened to the dance school?" I asked. "No teacher? Shut down." "Know what happened to any of the students?" "Took off, I guess," he said. "Didn't know any of 'em. Damn shame." "Do you remember anything unusual around that time?" I

asked. "Unusual? Like what?" "Someone hanging around who looked out of place?" "No, nothing like that," he said. "Listen, I could use a Mr. Richard right now. I'm like a grave digger. Up to my ass in business and don't know which way to turn." "Not interested," I said. "Hear me out. I'm defending Kitchen Sink Conley. Read about him in the papers?" "Sure. He's guilty as hell." "This is America, Mr. Richard," he said. "Innocent until proven - proven - guilty. Anyway, he went after his daughter's boyfriend with an axe! Boyfriend ran to his car, locked himself in." "The wisdom of youth." "Not quite," he said, getting more and more worked up. "Trash pick-up next day, neighbor had put out his kitchen sink on the sidewalk. Conley picks it up, throws it through the boyfriend's windshield." "Attempted murder?" "Yup," he said, working his cigar furiously around his mouth. "I need to dig up some dirt on the boyfriend. On the neighbors. On somebody." "Everything including the kitchen sink," I laughed. "Not so funny for Conley," he snarled. "Facing life. Whatta ya say? Look like you know your way around." "Can't," I said. "Hands full with this case." "This case?" he said, yanking the cigar out of his mouth for emphasis. "This case is cold. Cold enough to freeze the brass off a bald monkey. Colder than a stepmother's kiss. Cold as a coffin nail in January. C-O-L-D. Cold!" "I have evidence it's suddenly heating up," I said. "Hence I must decline your kind offer. Though I would have immeasurably enjoyed the collegial atmosphere of your law firm, I'm sure." "Aw, go on, get outa here. I'll get Kitchen Sink Conley off by myself. Watch the papers." "Always do," I said and exited, feeling more despair. What if I couldn't find a single clue? What if Diedre's murderer shot me in the back? What if he hurt Margie?

CHAPTER 39

Third floor. The Divine Monosyllable Escort Service. "Do come in!" a woman said. "I'm Barbaralee Satchelstein! And you are?" "Castille. Private investigator." "Wow! Look at you! Private detective. Let me guess. You want a stunning woman on your arm at this year's Detectives' Ball." "No, actually, I..." I started but she cut me off.

"Your first time! Don't be nervous. Men of the very highest social strata avail themselves of my services with complete confidentiality." "That's not..." "Tut! Have a seat!" she said. "Allow me to show you what I like to call the Celestial Scrapbook. Photos of our escorts. Head and shoulder shots as well as full length." "Really, I..." "Relax, Mr. Castille. You're in the hands of a professional." It wasn't her hands but her mouth: a force of nature. Sometimes better to let motor mouths speed on until they run out of gas. I sat down on a white vinyl couch with a sleek glass coffee table on which rested a big thick book. The room was furnished in post-postmodern. Or was it retro-chic? I could never keep up with these damnably fast changes in fashion trends. On a wall hung a big, abstract, color-slashed painting that Kandinsky couldn't have conjured in his wildest dreams. In a far corner, stood a shapely, naked young woman. I waited for her to move. Walk, talk, scratch her bush. Anything. Then I realized it was a realer-than-real sculpture. Barbaralee sat next to me and opened the oversized photo album. Cheap perfume and expensive dope melded to make almost-but-not-quite visible clouds around her glassy, gaming head. Like the rings around Saturn. Speaking of rings, she had one on every manual digit, including her thumbs. Her clothes: simple tight-fitting low-cut red dress with metal studs for buttons down the middle. When she sat, the hem went up to mid-thigh. Red patent leather high-heeled shoes. Thin red hoop earrings 3" in diameter. A necklace of rubies. A symphony in red. To disguise, one supposed, the rare blush. Like Bedouins, my eyes scanned the topography of her dry, desert face. Tight, cracking skin; under an explosion of eyelashes, dusty eyes; under red lipstick, dehydrated lips. She thirsted for an oasis of the water of life. Her life. Dope. What kind, I didn't know or want to know. "Having second thoughts?" she eyed me sympathetically and patted my knee. "Common. Especially in Boston. One might say, Boston Common. Ha ha ha!" Her laugh was as harsh and raspy as a reptile on vacation. "No, I..." I started only to be cut off again. "Have something against escort services?" she asked. "Free love and expensive sex?" I asked. "Why, without escort services, we'd be little better than animals." "Exactly. So relax and enjoy." "Where are the women?"

"The girls?" she asked. "Do you think I run a brothel?" "Yes." "I don't," she sniffed. "This is a high-class escort service. Period. I call the girls at their homes. After I set time and place with the clients." "My apologies." "Of course, what the girls and their dates may decide to do afterwards is none of my concern." "An excellent business plan, I'm sure," I said. "Let me offer you a drink. Vodka? Whiskey?" "No." "Beer?" she asked. "No." "Imported." "No," I said. "Drop of sherry?" "No." "Demi-tasse?" "No." "Crazy Acid Cola?" she asked. "What?" "New on the market. Kicky. Promise. Cross my heart and kiss my elbow." "Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's," I said. She clapped her hands. "My favorite movie!" she said. "Mine too," I said. "On Tuesdays and Thursdays." "Can't offer you anything to drink?" "One drink is too many," I said. "One thousand isn't enough." "A friend of Bill's," she said. "And Tom, Dick and Harry in every bar room east of the Pecos." "Then do have some tea and scones. Do you take your scones with marmalade?" "Nothing," I said. "Please. Thank you. I..." "Nuff said. Let's get down to business." She flounced around on the couch, arranging herself. Then opened the photo album, the sacred artifact of her religion. "This is top of the line, best of the best, creme de la creme," she said. "Lady D. Lish. Stunning, as you can see. But, unlike most stunners, she has a disposition to match. Always happy as a clam at high tide in Cape Cod Bay." "I think not. Listen..." "Hold on," she said, flipping through the pages. "I know just the right woman for you. Her!" "Very attractive," I said, "but, Ms. Satchelstein..." "Please. Lee." "Lee. I'm afraid this isn't what I want." "No," she said, turning the pages. "Let's see." "I mean..." "Aha!" she exclaimed. "Here we are! You two would look smashing together. Does she interest you?"

"I tingle, to be sure, but..." "But no go? Not to worry." "Listen..." I started. "You listen. I won't take no for an answer. My word is my bond. That's my Barbaralee Guarantee." She skipped through the pages, then suddenly stopped. "Bingo!" she said. "Perfect match for you. A Nordic beauty. Hair as blonde as butter. Skin as white and fresh as milk in the bottle on your doorstep at dawn. "Swanhilda Olaffson. "Don't let the cumbersome name drag you down. She's icy-nicey. In fact, she's the great-granddaughter of the opera singer for whom the brassiere was invented. To free her - and all women - from the constraint of the inhumanly tight corset." "A fascinating historical tid-bit," I said, "however..." "Never say die, I always say," she said, furiously turning pages. Her marathon-mouth would cross the finish line. Sooner or later. "Perhaps your tastes are a little more exotic," she said, fiercely scrutinizing the flipping pages. "Aha!" she stabbed a photo with her index finger. A woman clad in black leather brandishing a whip. "Spanky!" she identified her. "Dominatrix supreme. She runs the show, calls the shots, rules the roost, wears the pants, lays down the law, cracks the whip. "Her motto is 'Sticks and stones may break your bones, but chains and whips are pleasure trips.' That's the one, right?"

CHAPTER 40

I almost hated to deflate her perceived triumph. "Gee, she sure looks like a swell gal," I said. "But not really my type." "Hey, kicks is kicks," she said impatiently. She was almost to the finish line. "I think I see the problem." "What?" I asked. "Money," she said. "Shucks, Miz Barbaralee, I'm so embarrassed." "Nothing to worry about. I've been showing you our top of the line escorts. Perhaps you'd feel a little more comfortable in a lower price range." "Perhaps," I said. "As the Good Book says, 'Money will make the pot boil though the devil himself pisseth on the fire.'" "Amen." She riffled through the pages. "Let's get down to brass tacks," she said. "Her. Annie Baby Snooshy." "You jest," I said. "Not at all. Cunning little vixen. A little

eerie-queerie so watch your wallet. She may tease but she'll please. Get her squeaked up, she might not embarrass you. Otherwise, rent a room. How do you like her looks?" "Vo-dee-o-do." "Meaning?" she asked. "No." "Christ almighty," she said, sweating, poring through pages. "Here. Last gas before the highway. Felicia Fornicatio. Not a low-mileage green-ass Caddy but she's still got champagne in her veins, rhythm and rhyme in righteous time and bookoo funk in her popped-open trunk. Okay?" "No." She threw her hands up. "Jesus, I need a fix. I've had it. What do you want? Tranny grannies?" "Nope," I said. "Chicks with dicks?" "Nope." "Dwarves?" she asked. "Nope." "Sheep?" "Nope," I said. "I'm a people person." "People person?" she repeated. "As you know," I said, "people who need people are the luckiest people in the world." She fell back, breathing hard. Her motor-mouth had finally run out of gas. Too bad. It was kind of fun. "Lee," I said. "You do fine work. Fine work. The Divine Monosyllable makes America a better place, one flute-toot at a time. And though it's fine work, I'm sure it's hard work too." "You don't know the half of it, dearie," she said wearily. "You don't know the half of it." "I am but a humble private eye," I continued. "Fighting for truth and justice in the American way." "You and Superman." "And since he retired, it hasn't been easy to go it alone. Still, it's all part of life's rich tapestry." "Whatever," she said, almost asleep. "As is death." "Death?" she sat straight up, eyes wide. "What has death got to do with me?" "To be more precise," I said. "Murder." "Murder! Whatta ya talking about? I run an escort service!" "A woman who ran the dance school one flight up from you was murdered five years ago," I said. "You were here then, weren't you?" "Yes, but..." she said. "Remember?" "Yes but..." she sputtered. "Did you know the woman? Diedre Malone?" "Yes, vaguely, but..."

"But?" I interrogated. "But what?" "But I had nothing to do with it. I mean, her." I hard-eyed her. "Surely you can't think I... At the time, the police interviewed me extensively. I barely knew the poor woman. Wait a minute!" "What?" I asked. "Once she told me there was some guy hanging around, giving her trouble. Creepy. Infatuated with her. Wouldn't leave her alone." "Ever see him?" I asked eagerly. "I sure did," she said. "You!" "No, I was..." "It was you! You killed her! Didn't you? Oh my God! Did you come back after all this time to kill me? Eliminate the last witness? God, do I need a fix! What are you going to do to me?" "Give you a good leaving alone," I said. "I was her husband!" "I don't believe it! How come I don't remember you?" "You do remember me. But try and recall the creepy guy hanging around." "I do! You!" she said. "Please don't kill me!" "You're an artist at drawing the wrong conclusions. Look at me. Do I look like a murderer?" "Yes!" she said, jumping up and running to the far end of the room. I stood up. She picked up an exquisite minimalist lamp with pear-shaped clear glass base and pulled the cord from the wall. "Come near me and I'll brain you!" she said. "I mean it! I will!" "I can see you're as brave as the barber's cat. So I'm leaving. I was Diedre's husband. I didn't kill her. In fact, just recently, I started getting taunting, threatening letters from the real killer." "Then what are you doing here?" "Starting the investigation over again," I said. "You sure you didn't kill her?" she asked, lowering the lamp. "I'm sure. I'll leave now." "Wait! You probably need a little R & R, or at least I & I." "Which?" I asked. "Intoxication and intercourse." "I told you. I don't drink." "Oh, but the other I," she said. "Love is a many- splendored thing." "Unless you're doing it on top of a picnic table," I said. "In which case, love is a many-splintered thing. Onward and upward." Despair felt green. Not forest green or emerald green or leafy vegetable green. But moldy, diseased green. Horn-mad vinegar-sour green.

Gangrene.

CHAPTER 41

Attacker to the left of me. Attacker to the right. Attacker in front. Attacker behind. How do I get into these situations? More to the point, how do I get out? And how did a simple inquiry turn into a battle royal? After I had left the Divine Monosyllable Escort Service, I climbed one last flight slowly to the fourth floor. The approach to Diedre's studio flooded me with emotions, good and...not so good. With each step, I heard from above louder grunts and shouts of 'Ki-aiii!' Golden Fist Karate Academy. Golden Fist, no less. I opened the door. Walls decorated with weapons, trophies and a huge silk-screen of a golden fist. Same hardwood floors as Diedre's dance school, except less gleaming. No need for mats because, unlike jiu-jitsu, karate had few or no throws. Twenty men and women wearing the karate gi - thinner cotton than the jiu-jitsu gi, also because of few or no throws - punched and kicked air in unison. Diedre had died in this place. How awe-full was this place. The students - white, black, no Asians - were led by a youngish white guy with long black hair in a pony tail and tattoos on his forearm and neck. Some were traditional Chinese or Japanese characters. He snapped his punches and kicks with tremendous force. He'd easily win if ever attacked by air. A middle-aged Japanese guy with big belly hanging out of his open gi strolled over. "Help you?" he asked. "Five years ago," I said, "this was a dance studio." "Dojo now." "So I see. How long?" "Almost five year," he said. "Many do not want to rent it because the previous tenant, a woman, had been murdered. Americans very superstitious people. I am master of this school." "How nice for you. Any idea where the dance students went? Another school? Another building? Nearby?" "No idea." "Pity," I said. "Perhaps you are a practitioner of the arts yourself." "But a humble student," I said. "Thanks for your time." I turned to go but he lightly gripped my sleeve. "Which art?" he asked. "Majeur Hakko-Ryu Jiu-jitsu," I said. "Small circle." "I have heard of small circle jiu-jitsu. But what is

rest of it?" "Hakko-Ryu Jiu-jitsu means Jiu-jitsu of the Eighth Light. An invisible color beyond the seven visible colors of the spectrum." "Because you are so fast that you can't be seen?" he asked sarcastically. "No. It means a way of non-violence unless provoked. Then you become visible." "And Majeur?" "The creator of this style incorporated Western fighting arts - boxing, fencing, wrestling, French Foreign Legion commando techniques, the French martial art savate and other arts - into the principles of jiu-jitsu. He named the style after his first teacher, Professor Majeur, Legion commando trainer in North Africa." "Impressive," he said. "It'll do," I said, turning to go. "So different from karate," he persisted. "Karate is linear," I said. "Jiu-jitsu is angles and circles." "Do not rush off," he said. "Perhaps you would favor my class with a demonstration of your What-Is-It Jiu-jitsu?" He was obviously goading me. I heard the voice of the Old Legionnaire. You have nothing to prove to others. Walk away. I looked at the class. The students were sluggish. The master needed to stimulate them and - lucky me - I had wandered in. Before I could answer, the master clapped his hands. Everyone stopped and looked at him. He clapped again. They all sat Japanese-style around the periphery of the room. "Class," he addressed them. "We are indeed most fortunate to have with us a master of small circle jiu-jitsu." A murmur went around the room. "I'm not a master," I said. "Don't be so modest," he said, clearly enjoying my squirming. "You Americans! Known the world over for your humility." Yeah, sure. "This master wishes to" - I wish to? - "demonstrate the superiority" - Did I say I was superior? - "of his art to ours." A more audible grumble swept the room. "With all due respect," I said. "I was only looking for someone else. I should go." "Nonsense," said the master. "Observe his humbleness. The sign of a truly advanced practitioner. Surely, we can all learn a great deal from him." "I really have to go," I said. "Please," said the master, amused. "Stand in the center of the dojo." "Honestly, I..." I said. "You're not...afraid, are you?" The master asked

disingenuously.

CHAPTER 42

He had put me on the spot as well as the local reputation of jiu-jitsu. He may have been Japanese, but he'd been in the States long enough to know the American Ancient Challenge of Male Combat. From kindergarten recess to nursing home bingo, it had been encoded in American male DNA to take up the Ancient Challenge. No matter how likely you were to get your brains booted in. "No, I'm not afraid," I said coldly. Mind's eye, I saw the Old Legionnaire shake his head and say: Nothing to prove. Except false pride. True. But dammit. On the line was my false pride. The master lifted his hand and the students applauded. "Safety first," I reminded the master of the most important principle in any good martial arts school. "Of course," he said a little too quickly and not meeting my eye. "Safety always first." I took off my leather jacket and hung it up. Then I went and stood in the middle of the room. I felt the students' eyes sizing me up. I wore a short-sleeve cotton shirt, blue jeans and my custom-made shoes. The students wore their lightweight gi's and no shoes. How hard could their kicks be? Be more likely to break the bones of their feet than hurt me. The master beckoned to the tattooed, pony-tailed guy who'd been leading the class. He stood and advanced toward me. A black belt around his uniform with three white stripes. Third-degree black belt. Great. A for-real challenge match. Who was I supposed to be? Bruce Lee on the streets of Hong Kong? Mr. Pony-Tail was taller than me, rangy, loose-limbed. Smug expression. Five feet away, he stopped and bowed. I also bowed. "Hajime!" shouted the master. My opponent dropped into a low, rigid karate stance. Big calloused knuckles on clenched fists. Tense legs. I stood relaxed, my hands loosely in front of me at waist level. Day at the beach. He moved quickly to take advantage of my seeming nonchalance. He launched a rocket of a fist at my face. I figured a feint. I put my hands up, at which point, he kicked at my knee. High-low. Fake high, strike low. Or fake low, strike high. Staple principle of every fighting system in the world. I parried his kick with my shod foot, sweeping it aside.

Ooh's and aah's from the students. I glanced at the master who frowned. We faced off again, a new look of respect on my opponent's face. I almost felt like saying 'Let me guess. This time, you'll fake low but strike high.' I heard the Old Legionnaire's voice. Never underestimate an opponent. But, as I suspected, my opponent kicked at my ankle. I should have lifted my foot a couple of inches and let him break his bare foot on my steel-reinforced shoe. But, of course, it was a fake. He rocketed a right-handed punch straight at my face. I ducked and lifted my arms in an X-block. Arms crossed at the wrist. His punch hit air, pulling him off-balance forward. I trapped his right wrist in the X of my block. My right hand gripped his wrist and twisted it to the outside. My left hand slid up his arm and pressured and twisted his elbow to the inside, hyperextending it. I twisted his arm, like wringing out wet clothes. I now had control of his arm. I slid back a long step, causing him to be pulled forward and fall on his belly. I pivoted, keeping control of his arm now behind him and sank my left knee into his spine. He groaned. A few students stood. The master motioned them to sit back. I pressured the guy's locked, straightened arm so that it was like a crowbar prying his shoulder out of joint. Two more degrees of pressure and his shoulder would be dislocated. I added one more degree. Realizing his unwinnable situation, he hit the floor twice - hard - with the flat of his left hand. Tapping out. Meaning, 'I give up.' I released the armlock and took my knee off his spine. He jumped to his feet. Would he attack again? Instead, he bowed. "Arrigato, sensei," he said to me. 'Thank you, teacher.' A sign of respect. The master roared: "Only one sensei in this dojo!" My opponent bowed low to the master, backed to the periphery and sat. "All right, already?" I asked the master. "No!" he shouted, red-faced. He yelled four names. I was surrounded by four opponents, two brown belts and two black belts. I was sure one would attack first - say, the one I faced - which would be the fake. Then the real attack would come. Probably from the guy behind me, who I wouldn't even see. I was wrong. All four attacked at the same time. It might seem worse, but sometimes simultaneous multiple attackers were easier to fend off. Like three infielders trying to catch a pop fly who ran into each other and the pop-up dropped in for a base hit.

The key was to use them against each other. The frontal attacker rushed me. I gripped his gi with both hands, pulling him down as I fell onto my back. I thrust my left foot up into his lower abdomen. Any lower and he could forget about having children. I continued to thrust up my foot and pull down his gi. He went flying, upside down, over my head. Crashed into the opponent behind me; they both fell. As I rolled to my feet, the left and right attackers grabbed my wrists. I rolled my hands over their wrists, gaining control. Twisting their wrists, I sent pain down their arms, causing them to rise up on their toes as their bodies automatically tried to escape the pain. Using the pain element, I forced them to move around, in as small a circle as possible, in front of me. I ducked under the entanglement of wristholds. Coming up on the other side, I increased the pain element, forcing them to crash into each other and fall. Even with them on the floor, I still held and controlled their wrists, thus their bodies, and they were immobilized. The students burst into applause but the master shouted: "Silence!" The students instantly went silent. "Your jiu-jitsu movements are cheap tricks," the master said. "Please leave." "Gladly," I said, getting my jacket and exiting. Now where to look? On the way down the stairs, a voice behind me yelled: "Hey!" I turned. The third-degree black belt I had first defeated. His 'master' probably sent him to revenge the 'honor' of the school. "What brought you here?" he asked, walking down the stairs to me. "Certainly not to learn more about martial arts." He seemed sincere. "Before your dojo, this place was a dance studio." "I vaguely remember," he said. A shoot of hope broke through the soil. "The owner of the school died, as I recall," he continued. "Murdered," I amended. "Oh!" he said, surprised. "I'm looking for any of the students of the deceased teacher." "I think they scattered," he said. "Not even one that might still be in the area?" I asked. "Or a new school led by one of the students?" He frowned in concentration. The master yelled down at him not to talk to me. "Your master calls," I said. "He's my teacher," the guy said, "not my master. And it's America, not Japan. I'll talk to whoever I want." "Doomo," I said.

"Let me think," he mulled. "Take your time," I said. The master yelled again. The guy said: "One of these days, I'll challenge him. Then we'll see who the true master is here." He said it without arrogance. Just a simple statement of fact. He continued to mull. "I remember!" he brightened. "After we were here for six months, a woman appeared in leotards. She seemed confused. But she had been a member of the dance school who had dropped out for a year. She didn't know about the teacher's death or the closing of the school. "She stuck around and became a karate student with us." "Is she still here?" I asked eagerly. "She quit after a few months," he said. "Too strenuous, she said." "I suppose you have no idea what happened to her." "I know where she is every day." "Where?" I asked. "She's a disc jockey on WZZZ Radio." "The oldies station? What's her name?" "Carol Lina," he said. "Showbiz name?" He shrugged. "Name she used here," he said. "What shift?" I asked. "Afternoon. One to five." I looked at my watch." 4:30 p.m. "I can catch her when she comes off the air," I said. "Go for it." "Doomo arrigato," I bowed. He bowed back. The very pretzel of politeness.

CHAPTER 43

I hopped in my jalopy - new and juiced-up since my last wheels expired in a fireball at the end of No-Name Pier - and turned the dial to WZZZ and drove to the radio station in Back Bay. A song was just ending, followed by a frantic female voice: "That was 'Escape (The Pina Colada Song)' by Rupert Holmes 1979 and Rupey, old buddy, I gotta tell you I know just what you mean. Cause it's almost time to make my escape." I sped through a yellow light as it turned red. I didn't want to miss her. "This is Carol Lina, Mistress of Musicology, Classy Countess of Classics, spinning the golden oldies that never grow moldy, the silver slivers that send shivers up and down

your spine, so fine, so fine. "Next up is 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters' by Simon and Garfunkel. 1970." Eclectic, I thought, as I fought my way through the bitter Boston traffic. By the time I got to Back Bay, the song had ended. "Nothing could be finer than to be with Carol Lina in the afternoon! Playing your faves from the Nifty Fifties, the Swinging Sixties, the Soaring Seventies live every day from one to five here on Triple Z! "Everything from Buddy Holly and the Crickets to John Lennon and the Beatles to Adam and the Ants! From the Penguins to the Monkees to the Partridge Family! From Heart of Stone to Heart of Gold to Heart of Glass! "I see that my time is up for today. So I'll play you out with my signature song, James Taylor's 'Carolina In My Mind!'" I was just pulling into the station parking lot. I parked and hopped out. A young woman rushed out the door. "Carol Lina?" I asked. "No autographs." "I don't want an autograph." "No free records, no free tickets, no free nothing," she said, rushing toward her car. "I don't want..." "No shaking my hand, no patting my arm, no touching me in any way." "I don't want to touch you," I said, "in any way." She stopped short, swiveled her head and dead-eyed me. "What the hell's wrong with you? Don't wanna touch me? Why not? Never mind. Gotta run. I can't wait forever." "The Outsiders," I said. "1966." She stopped again. "I can't get away from them!" "What?" "The oldies! I play them! I sleep them! I eat them! You Sexy Thing Hot Chocolate 1976. Sorry! That just slipped out! But see what I mean?" "Just a couple minutes of your high price-tag time," I said. "Time Is Tight Booker T. & The M.G.'s 1969. God! See? See?" "Can we get a cup of coffee?" "Coffee? Are you outa your mind?" she demanded. "Can't you see I'm All Shook Up Elvis Presley 1957 on caffeine? One more cup and I'll have my 19th Nervous Breakdown Rolling Stones 1966." "Please. It's important." "I need a break! You can see that, can't you?" "Have to be blind not to," I said. "Tell my boss. It's Not Unusual Tom Jones 1965 for a person like me working Eight Days A Week Beatles 1965 to get Tired Of Waiting Kinks 1965 for a vacation. Maybe a Sea

Cruise Frankie Ford 1959. Is that so hard to comprehend?" "Certainly not. You were in Diedre Malone's dance class six years ago, weren't you?" "Yes, but winter's coming and I'm California Dreamin' Mamas and Papas 1966," she said. "Remember a guy hanging around? Maybe infatuated with Diedre?" "I remember him. But I had no Hot Fun In The Summertime Sly and the Family Stone 1969. Worked double shifts all this summer! Working In The Coal Mine Lee Dorsey 1966." "Know his name?" I asked. "Everbody thought he was kinda creepy. I thought he was kinda cute. But I'll Never Fall In Love Again Tom Jones 1969 cause I'm always Working on the Chain Gang Sam Cooke 1960. "What am I gonna do? "What's the answer?" "The answer, my friend," I said, "is blowing in the wind." "Blowin' In the Wind Peter Paul and Mary 1963. Wait! Beatles 1965! It's coming back to me." "What's coming back to you?" I asked. "Diedre. And that guy. He used to take dance with us. Say to Diedre Save The Last Dance For Me Drifters 1960. Do You Love Me (Now That I Can Dance?) The Contours 1962." Why hadn't Diedre told me about this guy? "What happened?" "Diedre got fed up," she said. "Told him to get out and never come back." "What did the guy do?" "He looked all vicious and said I'll Get You Beatles 1964, I'll Be Back Beatles 1964 and Run For Your Life Beatles 1965." Diedre didn't tell me because she knew I'd liquidate the germ. She was protecting me from a long sentence - probably a whole paragraph - in the graybar hotel. "Don't Bother Me Beatles 1964, she told the guy and he left. I dropped out. When I came back, Everybody Was King-Fu Fighting Carl Douglas 1974," she said. "Was Diedre upset or worried?" "Didn't seem to be. But I didn't know her that well." "I don't suppose you know who this guy was," I said, resigned to walking into another brick wall. For the first time, she took a good look at me. "Why?" she asked. "Diedre was murdered." "Murdered! I didn't know." "Her murderer was never found," I said. "Oh God." "I'm starting the investigation over from the beginning." "Cop?" she asked. "Husband." "I'm sorry." "Brenda Lee," I said. "1960."

"You know your pop music. Maybe fill in for me once in a while. Gimme a break." "Who?" "The guy you think mighta killed Diedre?" she asked. "Yeah." "My husband," she said.

CHAPTER 44

"Your husband?" I asked. "Ex-husband," she said. "How, pray tell, did that happen?" "I bumped into him one day downtown. After we'd both stopped going to Diedre's class. One thing led to another. Yap yap yap. Slib de wib." "He ever say anything about hurting or killing Diedre?" "No," she said. "Capable of it?" "I doubt it," she said, looking away. "Look In My Eyes," I said. "Chantells 1961." I remained silent until she looked at me. "Was he capable of killing Diedre?" "I don't like to think so," she said. "But probably. Why I got a D.I.V.O.R.C.E. Tammy Wynette 1975." "Why?" I asked. "I finally saw the creepiness in him that everyone else saw right away." "In what way?" I asked. "After he gave me that Band Of Gold Freda Payne 1970, he changed." "How?" "I was only twenty-one when we got married," she said. I thought All You Need Is Love the Beatles 1967." "What happened?" "He was no longer a Sweet Talkin' Guy Chiffons 1966. He became Mr. Blue The Fleetwoods 1959. He wouldn't Talk To Me Sunny and the Sunglows 1963. Except for angry tirades. "And I found out you can't live on love. You need Money Pink Floyd 1973. Told him to Get A Job The Silhouettes 1958. Said he wouldn't be caught dead Working For The Man Roy Orbison I forget which year." "So he turned to a sordid life of crime," I said. "I got sick of calling him Liar, Liar The Castaways 1965. He got tired of my Yakety-Yak The Coasters 1958. "Plus every once in a while, I saw something like a window shade open in his eyes. And I didn't like what I saw." "What?" I asked. "Evil Ways Santana 1970." Like a melting icicle, a chill ran down my spine. "What's his name?" "Kevin O'Hare," she said. "But they call him Kevin O'Hell."

"Why do they call him Kevin O'Hell?" I asked. "Kevin of Hell? Kevin? Oh Hell! What?" "Say A Little Prayer Dionne Warwick 1967 that you never have to find out. The hard way." "Hard way. Easy way. Either way I'm going to find him." "Then what are you gonna do?" she asked. "We Can Work It Out Beatles 1966," I said. "By the way, what kind of name is Carol Lina?" "Euphonious. And better than Ocean Lina. Which my drunken imbecilic parents almost called me." "Imbecilic, indeed. But Lina? Italian?" I asked. "Got something against wops?" "Not a thing. My forbears were in the same boat, so to speak, coming here from Ireland." "True," she said. "We were both stung by the WASPs." "O'Hare. That's Irish, isn't it?" "No," she said. "Oh, but I'm sure it is," I said. "The Fighting O'Hares of County Sligo." "So?" "So Kevin's in with the boyos, isn't he?" "No," she said. "The Irish Mafia." "No." "Headquartered or, in their case, rumpquartered in dear old Southie," I said. "I don't know." "What do you know?" "Okay, he was a baddie," she said. "Happy now?" "O Happy Day Edwin Hawkins Singers 1969." "Low level. Bagman." "Don't be so modest," I said. "Okay, on occasion, free-lance leg-breaker. But not murder. And not with the Irish Mafia. Not until the Twelfth of Never Johnny Mathis 1957." "When was The Last Time Rolling Stones 1965?" I asked. "That I saw him? He came by and said he had to go underground," she said. "Was that the exact word he used? Underground?" "Yeh, Yeh Georgie Fame 1965." "When?" I asked. "About five years ago." "Say anything else?" "No,"she said. "Heard from him since?" "No." "What did you understand him to mean by 'going underground'?" I asked. "Drop out of square society so he couldn't be traced or tracked." Or maybe he meant it literally. Dropping underground into the City of the Dead. "My card. Hear or think of anything else?" I said.

"Call me." "Aretha Franklin," she said. "1970." Kevin O'Hell. Fine upstanding Celtic lad, I'm sure. Member of the Irish Mafia? Hm. Two attempts to kill me by these jamokes in the last week. Skim the Screwball. The Forgotten Bastards of Ireland. I assumed and they let me believe it was Blackie Driscoll reaching out from the Old Country. But maybe it was from the fertile imagination of one Kevin O'Hell. Who killed Diedre five years ago. And, for some unknown reason, had come back to haunt me, taunt me, chill me, kill me. Tangle with the Wild Wild Wasties again? The Forgotten Bastards of Ireland? Skim? Why not? A man's reach should exceed his grasp, else what's hell on earth for?

CHAPTER 45

I drove back to my office. To ponder. To cogitate. Mostly, to get my gun. And why hadn't Phoenix checked in? I called and got her answering machine. "This is Phoenix Chan. Look in the newspaper and see if my obituary is there. If not, leave a message. Maybe I'll call you back." I said in my foppish upper-crusty British voice: "Norman Conquest here, old top, calling for Magna Carter. I should be ever so delighted if she communicated with me. Hm? Hm? Wot? Quite so." As soon as I put the phone down, it rang. "Checking in, boss," said Phoenix. "That was fast," I said. "What was fast?" "Just left a message to call me." "Didn't get it," she said. "Just felt like calling." "Good Lord, woman! Know what this means?" "I have a feeling I'm going to find out." "We're changing into mind-reading mutants!" I said. "Call me Professor X. You're obviously developing mirror neurons. From now on, you're Jean Grey, telepath extraordinaire." "Yawn. Stop babbling or I'll come over and tear out your tongue. What did you want?" "Report," I said in my Star Trek Captain Kirk voice. "All quiet on the Eastern front." "Good show. Ever hear of Kevin O'Hell?"

"No," she said. "Nor do I care to." "I think he may be Diedre's killer." "When do we kill him? So I can stop guarding Margie. I've been playing poker with boredom and I'm almost out of chips." "Your zeal is ever inspiring," I said. "Where? When?" "Problem." "What?" she asked. "Who in hell is Kevin O'Hell?" I asked. "And?" "And I thought you might amble for a frosty one down to the Bounty Hunters Union Hall and ask around. Someone's bound to know." "I don't amble," she said. "I stroll. I saunter. I swagger. On rare occasions, been know to stagger. But amble? Never." "So don't amble. Do The Stroll the Diamonds 1958." "Still trying to impress with useless information?" "A verbal tic I acquired recently," I said. "Not contagious." "Still. When I see you? Don't breathe on me." "What say?" "A thought," she said. "Share." "Kevin O'Hell? Real name?" "Kevin O'Hare," I said. "Sounds Irish." "It does have that Celtic quality." "Which means..." she started. "Probably," I sighed. "...that he's hooked up with the Irish Mafia." "In Boston? No such thing." "Of course not," she said. "And yet. Already two encounters. Skim. And the Forgotten Bastards of Ireland." "During which episode, I saved your life. Thus putting me two up." "One," I said. "But why quibble?" "I don't amble. I don't quibble. Where? When? Just tell me who to point the crossbow at." "Still carrying the crossbow? Rather conspicuous in a crowd, is it not?" "Why?" she asked. "Wherever we're going, going to be crowded?" "One hopes not. But one never knows." "Don't make me ask again. Where? When?" "Meet me at my office after you see Margie safely home tonight," I said. "Leave the crossbow in the car. I hear that the carrying of crossbows in public in this day and age is much frowned upon by the citizenry and constabulary alike." "Uhura out." I called Rat.

"Think I've got our man." "Name?" "Kevin O'Hell." "Never heard of him," Rat said. "You sure?" "Not one hundred percent. But when I look in his eyes and ask if he killed Diedre, I'll know." "I'm coming." "No," I said. "I've got Phoenix to back my play. I could be wrong." "You? Wrong?" "Been known to happen," I said. "Rare, granted, but still. Keep your ear to the ground. See if Match Cut comes up with anything." "I want to kill the fuck as bad as you do," he said. "I appreciate it. But if something happens to me and Phoenix, I know you'll get the job done." "Don't worry," Rat said. "If you don't kill him, I will."

CHAPTER 46

I bopped along South Boston's main drag, Broadway. Funky, funky Broadway. Being also a fair-skinned son of the sod, I mingled freely with the indigenous population. Oh oh. Approaching were the six members of the Forgotten Bastards of Ireland. The ones Phoenix and I had routed the week before in Chinatown. And extracted their promise never to bother us again in word or deed. Of course, then we were on our turf. Now, I was on theirs. And, oh yes, Phoenix had shot two of them with her new plaything. The crossbow. Insult and injury. Before they recognized me, I sang out a cheery greeting. "Ah! The Forgotten Birdbrains of Idiocy! Fear not, lads! I, for one, haven't forgotten you!" "Castille!" said the leader, Ear-To-Ear, his hand wrapped in bandages but a smile spreading from - it has to be said - ear to ear. "What are you doing here?" "Come to renew our friendship treaty and non-aggression pact." The monstrous one called Nutso said to Ear-To-Ear: "He's all mine this time, boss. Please let me have him." The leader - being the leader - was actually thinking ten seconds ahead. "Where's your girlfriend with the crossbow?" Ear-To-Ear asked. "She's around." "Where?" "Somewhere." "She shoots us? We shoot you," he said. "Get it?"

"A simple straightforward equation. Not hard to fathom." "Good. Now. What do you want?" "Kevin O'Hell," I said. "Who?" "You heard me." "Who's he?" he asked. "One of your compatriots." "Supposing there were such a person. Why would you want him?" "He killed my wife," I said. "When?" "Five years ago." "Sorry for your loss excetera," he said. "But I don't know no Kevin O'Hare." "Who said anything about Kevin O'Hare? I said Kevin O'Hell." "My mistake," he said. "I'll say." "Oh hell!" "Exactly," I said. "Where is he?" "Ireland." "Ireland, is it then? On pilgrimage with Blackie, is he?" "They like to take long walks," Ear-To-Ear said. "Sure and can't I see it in my mind's eye even as we speak," I said. "They tramp the countryside, stopping at each holy well. They circle the well nine times on their bony knees, clutching the crucifix in their hands, feeble from fasting. "They raise their eyes to heaven, praying for forgiveness for their sins, many and heinous. And they're always watching in the holy waters for a glimpse of the Sacred Speckled Trout. Which will mean that God has accepted their renunciation of sins." "Something like that," he said. "Then why do I get a threatening letter from him every single day?" "From Ireland?" "Postmarked Boston," I said. "No idea." "Why don't I believe you?" He shrugged. "I don't believe you because you're a sociopathic simpleton," I said. "Which answers that question. But back to the original question. Where's O'Hell?" "You got a lotta nerve coming here alone," he said. "I take it your ethics are situational. Besides, who says I'm alone?" "Jesus Freaking Christ. I'm tellin' ya, if that Chinese broad shoots that crossbow again, we'll..." "You think she can only handle a crossbow?" I laughed. "She's an intergalactic grandmaster of exotic weapons: shuriken ninja throwing stars, Japanese samurai swords,

medieval chain maces, Martian star whips." "Don't be ridiculous," Ear-To-Ear said. "As well as your usual weapons: your revolvers, semi-autos, Glocks, submachine guns. Your streetsweepers. Your bazookas." "Let her try." "You'll never hear or see her coming," I said. "They call her the Breath of Death. So. No more shilly-shallying. Kevin O'Hell's whereabouts. Or else." "Or else what?" "Or else I raise my hand and the Breath of Death blows on you all." They all looked around nervously. "There!" I said. "She might be in that window!" "She ain't in any windows. We control every apartment." "But she could be in any parked car," I said. "She could be behind a car, drawing a bead on you right now with God-knows-what weapon. Look! Maybe she's on a rooftop with a night-scope rifle." "Jesus, Castille, you're giving me the creeps." "I can see that," I said. "You're surrounded by them. And, as you might imagine - if you had any imagination - that I am not myself without resources." I lifted my leather jacket to reveal on a belt-holster my Beretta. "You're lucky I know your partner is such a good shot," Ear-To-Ear said. "You mean you're lucky. Where's O'Hell?" "I don't know," he said. I started to raise my hand. "No!" he protested. "Honest! I don't know. Skim's got him on a special mission." "Where's Skim?" I asked. "Headquarters." "Same?" I asked. "Back of the Shamrock Bar?" "Same." "Cross the street and keep walking. You and your gravy-eyed gombeen men." "Why don't you cross the street?" he asked. "Because the Shamrock's on this side of the street." "Oh, yeah," he said. That subtle ploy befuddled them. Dutifully, they crossed the street. "Next time, Castille," Nutso said in passing. "Next time." "There's a good goofball," I said. "Just keep walking."

CHAPTER 47

Phoenix and I stood at the end of an alley. "Familiar," she said. "Same alley," I said. "Same problem. The jamoke guarding the back door to the Shamrock. Same solution?"

"Didn't bring my sling." "Pity. What's in the trash bag?" She pulled out her crossbow. "We probably don't want to kill this low-level soldier," I said. "No?" she asked, surprised. She put the bow on the ground and seemingly out of thin air produced a bamboo flute. "Secret ancient Chinese melody that immobilizes?" I asked. "In a sense." She pulled out a thin metal dart and inserted it in the bamboo flute. She put one end to her lips, aimed and expelled a deep breath. In the darkness, I saw nothing. Yet the guard slumped to the ground, unconscious. Apparently, I was somewhat mistaken in my initial assessment. Not an ancient Chinese bamboo flute. Rather, one of the latest, greatest generation of Amazon tribal poison blowguns. "Phoenix, old comrade and campaigner," I said. "You never cease to amaze." "And I never will. Let's move. Fast-acting but short-lasting knock-out serum on the point of the dart. Now coursing through his veins." We trotted behind the next building to the backdoor of the Shamrock. I inspected the unconscious guard. I took his nine-millimeter and chucked it. "Ready?" I asked Phoenix, now holding her crossbow with a bolt notched. Where the blowgun had disappeared to, I knew not. "I'll die..." she started. "...ready," I finished for her. "Time you came up with new material." "Think I'm doing stand-up?" Phoenix asked. "That's my life motto. On my own personal coat of arms with a phoenix rampant." "I had no idea it meant so much to you," I said. "All right. Let me complete the formula. You'll die ready. Just not tonight, okay? In we go." We silently entered the back room of the Shamrock. Irish Mafia HQ. Not so different from last time we were there. Except, of course, no Blackie. But, oh, the mighty warriors therein assembled: Moto, E-String, Lightnin' and Skim. "Hail, hail!" I said. The front room was a cacophony of shouting and swearing and music blaring. "The gang's all here!" They went for their guns but Phoenix drilled a bolt into Skim's, formerly Blackie's, wooden desk. An inch from his hand. "No guns!" I ordered. They pulled their hands away from their guns and just sat there. Phoenix had already pulled back the drawstring and notched another bolt.

Skim's other arm, which I had broken, was in a sling. "So good to see you again, Dim," I said. "Dim? My name's Skim." "Of course. I had you confused with a character from A Clockwork Orange." "Which one?" he asked. "The dim one." "Castille, I've had it with you." "Funny," I said. "I get that a lot." "I don't doubt it. So whatta ya want?" "Kevin O'Hell." "Who?" he asked. I nodded at Phoenix. She unleashed a bolt from the crossbow that stuck in the wall near Skim's head. "You missed," I said, surprised. "Odd, isn't it?" she said. "Next time, I won't." "Aw, Castille," moaned Skim. "Can'tcha gimme a break and leave me alone?" "Sure. Just tell me where to find the fabuloso mysterioso Kevin O'Hell." "Why?" "He killed my wife," I said. "I thought she was your wife," he said, nodding at Phoenix. "Ha!" barked Phoenix. "You told me you were marrying a Chinese br... girl," said Skim. "I was," I said. "Not her. I'm talking about my first wife. Murdered five years ago." "How do you know it was Kevin?" "I don't." "Then why are you after him?" he asked. "To ask him." "If he killed your wife five years ago?" "Yup," I said. "And you'll believe what he says?" "Remains to be seen. One step at a time." "What makes you think it was him?" he asked. "For one thing, he disappeared five years ago. When my wife was killed." "Five years ago? Remember the heist in that Medford bank? Over a three-day weekend, they tunneled in from the business next door." "Vaguely," I said. "That was O'Hell." "So?" "So he went to ground," he said. "The City of the Dead?" "City of the Dead? What's that?" "In a comic book I'm reading," I said. "That's why he disappeared at that time? Coincidence?" "I guess," he said. "I want to hear him say it." "Castille, you're nothing but trouble on the bubble,"

said Skim. "For instance, you broke my arm." "You tried to kill me," I reminded him. "Turnabout is fair play." "Don't know how fair it is," said Skim. "My arm hurts like hell. Tell ya the truth, been racking my brain thinking of ways to kill you."

CHAPTER 48

"Don't rack too hard," I said. "A friend of mine lifted something heavy and his eyeball exploded." "No! From the pressure? Like a hernia?" "His eyeball must have been his weakest part," I said. "What's your point?" "Give up the so-called racking. Your brain might explode." "See, Castille?" said Skim. "You can't leave well enough alone. I'm tryna be nice and you insult me." "Didn't mean it as an insult." "What then?" "Friendly medical advice," I said. "Funny. See what I mean? With you, it's always trouble." "On the bubble. So?" "So I'll forget the broken arm," he said. "In which case, I'll forget you tried to kill me." "And I'll aim you at O'Hell, you talk with him and stay out of Southie and stay outa my hair." "You're bald," I said. "Jesus, I oughta..." "Only kidding. Deal," I said. "Truce between the Irish Mafia and the Castille Gang." "What Castille Gang?" he asked. "You're looking at us." "Just the two of you?" Phoenix aimed the crossbow at him. "Think we need more?" she asked. "No, no," answered Skim quickly. "So," I resumed. "A truce." "Check." "You and your esteemed peers of the realm in this room and also the Wild Wild Wasties and the Forgotten Bastards of Ireland. The whole crew. Right?" "Righto," he said. "You don't bother us anymore and we won't bother you." "Unless I have to kill Kevin O'Hell." "That's different. But we'll burn that bridge when we get to it." "So to speak," I said. "I'm gonna give you the low-down. Can I trust you?" "Scout's honor." "And your, uh, partner?" he asked. "I vouch for her. Where's O'Hell?"

"Good enough. I'll tell you where to find him. But it's just between us guys, right?" Phoenix cleared her throat. "And ladies," Skim said. "Or, uh, lady. I mean, woman." "Enough," said Phoenix. "Where?" Skim leaned across the desk. We all leaned our heads closer. "With the money from the bank job?" Skim said. "We set up an operation which you don't need to know about. Generates good income. Also keeps Kevin out of the light of day. Which he wants." "Win-win," Moto said. "Thank you for clearing that up, Moto," I said. "I'm just saying," said Moto. "Shut up!" commanded Skim. "All right, all right," said Moto, raising both palms in the air. "Continue," I said. "That's about it," said Skim. "So, where is this wonderful operation?" I asked. "That's classified," said Skim. "So how am I going to see him?" I asked. "I'll call him and tell him to meet you in a neutral place." "Such as?" "A defunct fish wholesaler on Atlantic Ave.," he said. "It's..." "I know it," I said. "Will that do?" Skim asked. "How do I know I'm not walking into a trap?" I asked. "How does Kevin know he's not walking into a trap?" "I'll answer your question after you answer mine." "I know he didn't kill your wife," said Skim. "How do you know?" "At that time, he was much too busy planning and carrying out the bank job. And I give you my word of honor. No trap." "Your solemn word of honor?" I asked. "Yeah, whatev," said Skim. "My solemn word of honor. Want me to cross my heart and hope to die? Cut our hands and become blood brothers? Really, Castille. Sometimes you're too much. Do I have your solemn word of honor? No trap?" "No trap," I said. "I swear by yonder blessed moon." "One hour," said Skim, sitting back. "You and your partner. Meet Kevin O'Hell and his partner." "Who might that be?" "Righty Tighty Lefty Lucy."

CHAPTER 49

"Skim tells me you think I killed your wife," he said. "I think you might have killed my wife," I said. We stood in the same unused wholesale fishery building

where King Pimp, Crazy F and I had parleyed with Pipe Billy, Voodini and Hannibal. It was filled with the same dusty machinery and rusty anchors, fraying rope nets and rotting wooden boats. It still smelled of brackish salt and briny fish. Outside, a surly seagull screeched. Phoenix - oversized gym bag on the cement floor next to her - and I faced Kevin O'Hell and a woman, presumably his partner. O'Hell did look like me. In a general police line-up sort of way. Roughly the same height, build, coloring and short brown hair. But stamped into his features was the predatory grimace of a basking shark. The woman stumbled around expertly as a clownfish. She staggered up to Phoenix and demanded: "What's your name, sweetheart?" "What's yours, honey pie?" Phoenix responded. The woman's laugh was like the bark of a seal. "I'm the thing with no Christian or given name," she said. "She's called Righty Tighty Lefty Lucy," said O'Hell. "She been sucking on Mother Gin's tit all day. Shut up, Lucy!" "Damn your heart, O'Hell!" Lucy screeched. "When I run outa gin, I'll be drinking your blood!" "Sot," sneered O'Hell. "My apologies, Mr. Castille and friend. When sober, Lucy, my left-handed wife, is the most industrious and ingenious of women. Absolutely indispensable for my business. But when drunk, she is...well, you can see for yourselves." Lucy said in a sing-song voice: "Mother Gin and Mother Goosey. "Righty Tighty Lefty Lucy. "One it is but two it ain't. "One thing I lack is self-restraint. "I know I'll drink until I faint. "Why? Because I ain't a saint. "I think I was named after that nursery rhyme. Do you think I was named after that nursery rhyme?" "No," said Phoenix. "Right as my left leg," laughed Lucy, reeling. "Cuz I just made it up. Pretty good, huh? Doin' a hundred, battin' a thousand. Can you lick your own eye? I can." "Damn the bitch!" cried O'Hell. "She'll crawl over broken glass for some gin!" "Hole of the ass!" Lucy screamed at him. Phoenix and I exchanged glances. She winked. Left eye meant 'yes.' Right eye meant 'no.' She winked with her right eye. My best guess was that Phoenix believed Lucy was faking her drunkenness. Maybe she was a master of Drunken Kung-Fu. Why the fakery? Lucy suddenly turned and looked at me. "Naturally, as one does, I looked back.

"What are you looking at?" she demanded. "You are a most interesting specimen of modern urban humanity," I said. "Simulata blotta femina." "Hear that?" she said proudly to O'Hell. "I'm one for the books!" "Not another word!" I said. "Think you have a soul above buttons?" Lucy asked. "I'll say whatever..." "Phoenix," I said. Phoenix was already behind her, applying a strangle hold. The inside of her forearm pressured Lucy's carotid artery, thus cutting off blood to her brain. Lucy slid down Phoenix into a narcoleptic heap. "You'll have to show me that one," said O'Hell. I stepped up to him, face to face. "You might have killed my wife," I said. "How are you going to find out?" "Ask you." "What if I'm lying?" he asked. "I'll be able to tell." "How?" "By looking into your eyes," I said. "Go ahead." "Did you know you my wife, Diedre Malone?" "Took dance classes with her," he said. "Even though the boyos laughed and called me a fruit and a sugar-plum fairy." "So you quit." "I quit because I wanted to." "Because you were infatuated with Diedre," I said. "But she repulsed your advances." "I quit because I had other business that required my complete attention." "When she repulsed you, it made you angry." "Thought she was too good for me," he said. "She was." "But not for you, huh?" "You came to the studio that night," I said. "She wasn't on her guard because she knew you from dance class. In a fit of rage, you attacked and killed her." "No." "You killed Diedre." "No," he said. "I didn't." I looked into his eyes. He looked back. I shone my spotlight to the far end of the back of his skull. "No," I said, with disappointment. "You didn't kill her." "I wouldn't kill Diedre," he said. "I liked her. Even if she did think she was too good for me. She was a good teacher. Of course, the cops bungled the investigation. I hope you find who killed her." God. I had been ready. So ready. What a letdown. Now what? Start again? Did I have the heart for it? Still. The murdering fiend was in Boston. Somehow, sooner or later, I'd get him.

"I'm satisfied," I said. "We'll leave." "Not so fast," said O'Hell, whipping out a nine and aiming it at my chest. "I didn't kill your wife. But Skim will give me ten thousand dollars to kill you, Castille." "Ha!" said Phoenix. "I'll do it for five!"

CHAPTER 50

"Skim gave me his word of honor that we had a truce," I said. "Skim?" Lucy - awake, standing and sober - laughed. "Honor? Never to be used in the same sentence." "Or even paragraph," said Phoenix. "Frisk her," O'Hell ordered Lucy. Lucy patted her down. "She's clean." "Check her gym bag," said O'Hell. "Cha got in the bag?" asked Lucy. "Crossbow," said Phoenix. "Funny," said Lucy. "Not really." "Serious?" "As the Red Sox in the World Series," said Phoenix. "That'll be the day," O'Hell commented. "John Wayne in The Searchers," I said. "Who's talkin' to you?" O'Hell asked, frowning. "You," I said. "I'm gonna look in the bag," Lucy said, approaching it warily. "No poisonous snakes or crazy shit like that?" "Not in this bag," said Phoenix. "Not in this bag?" asked Lucy, incredulous. "I don't think so," said Phoenix. "But take a look to make sure." Lucy gingerly unzipped the bag and jumped back a long step. Waited. No explosion of venomous reptiles. She stepped closer, looked in, smiled and pulled out the item within. "Crossbow," said Lucy. "What I told you," said Phoenix. "Give me it." "Nuh uh. I'll hold on to it for now." Phoenix shrugged. "Careful you don't hurt yourself." "Skim give you ten G's to ace me?" I said to O'Hell. "I'll give you fifteen to let me live." "Great. Let's see it." "Don't have it on me." "Don't count then," said O'Hell. "Does it? Put your gun on the floor and kick it away." "It seems my days have crackled," I said, doing as he said. "And will soon go up in smoke." "Nothing personal. You understand," said O'Hell. "Heard you broke Skim's arm just shaking hands." He laughed. "Wished to God I'd seen that."

"I can demonstrate," I offered. "Only thing you're gonna demonstrate is the condition of corpsedom." "Skim promised. No trap," I said, stalling for time. "Pause for laughter." "Skim wants you dead. In the worst way," said O'Hell. "Pause for tears." "No honor among thieves," I said. "I'm not after you. I'm after my wife's killer." "What about my business?" O'Hell asked. "I don't know what your business is. And I don't care." "Skim cares." "I don't know what you're doing," I said. "But I bet it doesn't involve murder." "Murder? No." "Yet," I said. "Skim said..." started O'Hell. "Skim said," I interrupted. "But you'll be pulling the trigger. Who'll go to prison for life?" "They won't find your bodies," said Lucy, still looking over the crossbow. Trying to figure exactly how it worked. Phoenix stood silent, alert, ready. "Bodies?" I asked. "Plural?" "Her too," said O'Hell. "Your partner." "Why her? She didn't do anything to Skim. Or you." "Witness," said O'Hell. "Skim's a maniac," I said. "You know that. Take orders from him?" "He's my boss, ain't he? So, yeah, I take orders from him." I sensed someone behind me.

CHAPTER 51

Two jamokes approached from the shadows. "Just in time for the party," said O'Hell to them. Then to me: "Castille and friend, meet Maul the Sledge and MacBrayer the Black." "Maybe we should wear name tags," I said. "Kill-party, I hope," rasped Maul. "Would I drag you two from your beauty sleep for anything less?" asked O'Hell. Beauty sleep? These two would have to pull a Rip Van Winkle to the tenth power to catch up. Maul was short, thick-set, pug-nosed, pug-eared, pugnacious with eyes as deep and empty as the holes in five-foot lead pipes. MacBrayer was taller, deeply tanned, deeply wrinkled - sailor or fisherman - with the sneer of a jungle buzzard and - honest to God - a black eye patch. "What?" I asked. "No talking parrot on your shoulder?" "I'll kill 'im meself," he growled to O'Hell.

"Good friends, good conversation," I said. "What could be better?" I studied our disposition. To my left, O'Hell with his gun. To my right, Maul and MacBrayer. Facing me, ten feet away, stood Phoenix. Off to the side, Righty Tighty Lefty Lucy sat cross-legged on the floor trying to figure out, like a child with a new toy, how the crossbow worked. Instead of standing in the posture we both habitually assumed from our training - feet parallel, about shoulder width apart, weight evenly distributed on the balls of the feet - Phoenix placed a good ninety percent of her weight on her right leg. A signal. Her first target would be the person to her right. My left. O'Hell. I put ninety percent of my weight on my right leg. Which meant my first target would be to my right. Maul and MacBrayer. "Last words?" asked O'Hell, pointing his gun at my chest. "Rosebud," I said. "Rosebud?" frowned O'Hell. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Good question," I said. "Of course, you've seen Citizen Kane." "No," O'Hell said. "But once I saw Candy Cane stripping at the Two O'Clock Lounge. Any relation?" His head snapped, he grabbed at his neck and fell unconscious to the cement. Phoenix had materialized her blow gun and sent a dart into O'Hell's neck. "What the...?" started Maul. I side-kicked his knee and heard a satisfying snap. He crumpled to the cement, rolling around, clutching his ruined knee. MacBrayer came after me with a...marlin spike? "Where'd you get that?" I asked. "Never mind, mate," he said, scowling. "It's where it's going that counts." He swung it - a long wooden pole with a nasty metal hook at the end - at me and I danced back. "Shoot him, Phoenix!" I yelled. "Can't!" she yelled back. I glanced over to see her and Lucy fighting for control of the crossbow. MacBrayer approached, shoving the marlin spike at me. I couldn't grab it like an ordinary wooden stick or even metal rod. The hook would rip my hands open. He advanced and jabbed. All I could do was retreat. If I could get to my gun or O'Hell's gun... But they were both on the floor, too far away, useless. I glanced at the women. Apparently, Righty Tighty Lefty Lucy knew how to fight. Otherwise, Phoenix would have dispatched her by now. They grappled, tangled up with the crossbow. MacBrayer advanced, jabbing, jabbing.

I retreated, heels raised so I wouldn't trip and fall over backward. The ball of my right foot hit something. I reached behind me and felt a fishing net. I pulled it loose, brought it in front of me and challenged MacBrayer. "Like Spartacus, huh?" "What?" asked MacBrayer. "Gladiators fighting in the Roman Coliseum. You never saw that movie? A classic." "This ain't no movie, mate." He lunged at me with the marlin spike. I sidestepped and flung part of the net over the front of the spike. It caught on the metal hook. MacBrayer tried to but couldn't pull the spike loose. I held on tight. We pulled, as in a tug of war. But neither of us was winning. I quickly looked around. O'Hell was still down and out. Had Phoenix shot him with knockout serum? Or something more lethal? And if knockout serum, how soon till he awoke? Maul the Sledge lay on the floor, clutching his broken knee to his chest, moaning and groaning. Long time before he stood on two feet. Unbelievably, Phoenix still tussled with Lucy over the crossbow. I pulled my way, hand over hand, along the netting until I gripped the wooden pole of the marlin spike beyond the hook. I continued pulling my way along the pole, until I was almost within striking rang. When MacBrayer realized this, he let go of the pole. I wasn't ready for that. Off-balance, I stumbled back a step. He saw his advantage, stepped forward and threw a boxer's right cross at my jaw. As his fist came toward me, I recovered my balance and slipped the punch to the outside of his arm. He, expecting to hit me and not air, was now off balance with his right arm fully extended. From his side, I kicked straight up into his armpit. Few people realize how tender the armpit is. Few realize how much pain results when kicked dead on into a fully exposed armpit by a shod foot. But MacBrayer now did. If his agonized screams were any indication. Meanwhile, somehow, Righty Tighty Lefty Lucy still held her own against Phoenix. This was unprecedented. Phoenix seemed to have forgotten her fighting skills. They struggled for control of the crossbow like little children fighting over a toy. I walked over behind Lucy, reached over her and gripped a handful of hair at the front of her head. Grabbing hair at the back of the head provides little leverage. But the front? A lot of leverage. I pulled her hair back, thus her head and thus her whole body which fell to the floor. She started to get up. I stepped on her hand. "Ow! That hurts!" she yowled. "You splatter-face

toe-rag!" "Down, girl," I said. "And stay down." "Time?" asked Phoenix, stuffing her crossbow into the gym bag and picking up her blowgun. I retrieved my gun. "Like, let's split from weirdsville, baby," I said in my 1950's beatnik voice. "I don't dig this crazy far-out scene." "I'm hip," said Phoenix. "Where did you hide the blowgun on your person?" "Ancient Chinese secret." "By the way," I said. "Now you're only one up." "How do you figure?" "I just saved your life." "Saved my life?" she demanded. "You were struggling with her." "I was toying with her." "Didn't look it," I said. We were almost out of the building. Behind us, we heard the blood-chilling roar of MacBrayer the Black. "I'll get you, Castille! If it's the last thing I do!" "I've heard that so often," I said, "it should be on my personal coat of arms." Phoenix laughed softly. We ran out into the darkness to be swallowed by the mouth of night. Diedre. Oh Diedre. Searching for your killer after five years re-opens old wounds. Painful wounds. But, though I feel heartsick, I won't quit. If - if? - when I find him, I'll make him pay for your suffering. As well as mine.

CHAPTER 52

YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO GET ME. BUT I'M GOING TO GET YOU.

Tuesday at the office: another infuriating letter. Was this freakshot playing cat and mouse with me? Was it all a hoax and someday I'd stop receiving the letters and forever after wonder who sent them? Or was he going to, when I least expected it, murder me and then shoot out my eyes so, in the afterlife, I wouldn't be able to see him and exact retribution? I didn't know. The uncertainty and frustration played stickball with my nerves. Nothing I could do until he showed his hand. But I had to do something before they found me sitting on the floor, gibbering and cutting out paper dolls. I had almost forgotten. The Curious Case of the Missing Gypsy Girl. Time Frankie - the brother - and I made some

chin music. Al dente. Or was it aldante? I always got them mixed up. I drove up Washington Street into the South End, under the shadow of the el. The South End was not to be confused, as many non-Bostonians did, with South Boston. South Boston was almost completely Irish-American. No, unlike South Boston and nearly every other neighborhood in the city, the South End was that American verity and rarity - a real melting pot. Immigrant group after immigrant group had flooded into the South End since the Colonial Era, only partially washing away the previous groups. In the mid-19th century, the city fathers had started to transform it into a more wealthy area. But soon the Back Bay, built on filled-in land and modeled on Paris, became the place for the well-to-do to reside. The South End sank back into the glorious squalor of diverse racial, ethnic and religious groups mixing it up. Black, white and Latino; Irish, Italian and German; Syrian, Lebanese and Greek; Chinese, Russian and Polish. Jews from both Western and Eastern Europe. Every type of Christian: Catholic, Maronite, holdover old-time Yankee Protestants of every denomination as well as Eastern Orthodox - Russian, Armenian and Greek. And, finally, the unclassifiable group known to the world as Gypsies. I reached the address Tita had given me, parked and walked up to the old townhouse. Parked on the sidewalk was a big, heavy Harley-Davidson with the back fender chopped off. A real hawg, probably with a 1,000 cubic centimeter engine. It was all black except for a red flame job painted on the gas tank. Two Gypsy youths - wearing black engineer boots, blue jeans and black leather jackets, loitering at the bottom of the stone steps leading to the entrance - came to attention. "What do you want?" demanded one, no doubt the leader of the pair. "To talk to Frankie." "About what?" "It's private," I said. "Who are you?" "Ai-Mor." "Who?" he asked, mystified. "Ai-Mor. Professional superhero from the 30th century. Just dropped into this dimension on assignment." I looked around as they stared at me. "Nice little century you got here, bub." They didn't say a word, only continued to stare daggers at me. Apparently, a staring contest. Okay by me. After a long minute, they gave in. "What you want Frankie for?" the leader, chagrined at losing the staring contest, demanded. I leaned closer and said: "His real name is Frankizola. He's an ancient

Egyptalonian underworld figure from 2400 B.C. One of the Legion of the Damned who perpetrate mendacity and chicanery in the universe. I've been chasing him for centuries." They both frowned, wondering if I was putting them on or if I was psycho. In that regard, they had plenty of company. "He's my arch-enemy," I added modestly, leaning back. Why not? Superman had his Lex Luthor, Captain Marvel his Black Adam, Holmes his Moriarty. "Whew," the other Gypsy, sporting a red kerchief, spoke for the first time. "Now I don't have to take acid to have hallucinations. All I have to do is listen to you, glimjack." "Thank you. Do I get to talk to Frankie?" "You're talking to him." "You?" I asked. "Me," he said. His black hair was so slicked back, so shiny, so oily that if he ever took a header he wouldn't fracture his skull but just slide down the street on his head. "And who are you?" he asked. "Really." "Castille." "Cop?" he asked. "Private." "What do you want?" "Tita asked me to..." I started. "Tita! That conniving little pig! What does she want?" "She says your sister Sascha is missing." "She is," he said. "Aren't you worried?" I asked. "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means, with your father at the point of no return, who gets to take his place as leader of the Gypsies?" "King of the Gypsies," he said. "I do. Of course. Have you ever heard of a female king?" "Yes. She's called a queen. Sascha is the oldest child. Tita said Sascha wants to be Queen of the Gypsies. I'm wondering if maybe you have, ah, arranged for her absence until you get the sceptre." "You think I would harm my own sister?"

CHAPTER 53

"I have no idea," I said. "I'm only asking." "The answer is no, glimjack." "Is it?" "If I harm Sascha," he said, "may my elbows be bent crooked and my arms never straighten out!" "So you know nothing of her disappearance?" "Sascha is Rom, glimjack. She is probably traveling. A Gypsy who does not travel is not a real Gypsy. We are a free people, not slaves like you gajo." "She wouldn't be traveling," I said, "with her father dying."

"No? What makes you an expert on Gypsies, gaje?" "Not just a Gypsy daughter. Any daughter wouldn't leave her dying father." "Have you met Sascha?" he asked. "No." "Then you know nothing of her, do you?" "Just what Tita said," I said. "That Sascha wants to lead the Gypsies." "Listen, glimjack, I don't know where Sascha is. But I do know if she were here, she'd rain a sky full of curses on your gaje head. Starting with, 'May your manhood always be as soft as a flower.'" The other Gypsy laughed, Frankie laughed and pretty soon they both laughed wildly. Frankie abruptly stopped and scowled at me. Then I saw he was truly his father's son. The cruelty and brutality dormant in the old man's comatose features were alive and well in the son's. "Sascha is a wheel ever-turning. Like all Rom. Gypsies, to you foolish gajo. Do you know why we will always be free?" "Why?" I asked. "You don't know your own Christian Bible, son of a dog gaje?" "I don't remember anything in the Bible about Gypsies." "You fool," he said. "I will tell you about your own culture." "Apparently, part of my education has been sadly neglected," I said. "Please hasten to enlighten me." "The Romans always crucified their victims with four nails, two for the hands, one for the feet and one through the heart. But a Gypsy stole the fourth nail, the one meant for Jesus' heart. In gratitude, Jesus, speaking in agony from the cross itself, declared that because of this act of bravery and kindness, Gypsies would be forever free." "Still don't recall it," I said. "Then go to church and read your own fucking Bible, you stupid gaje! If you interfere in our affairs, may the devil's hell-hot hand pull your intestines out through your burst-open belly button!" "May it be so," the other Gypsy solemnly affirmed, as if at a pious religious ceremony. "May God kill all your children at birth!" said Frankie. "May it be so." "May you be buried alive and die in agony as the worms and maggots eat you!" "May it be so." "May God strike your mind so that you are a demented monkey-man, jeered at and tormented wherever you go!" "May it be so." "And," he said, pulling out a nine-millimeter semi-automatic, "if you interfere with our private affairs, may your hands and feet be crippled by bullets, may your face be shot off and, finally, may your body be pulled to pieces by rabid dogs."

"Wow," I said. "You're really a colorful Gypsy." "Don't try to jump over your own shadow, glimjack." He fired the gun into the ground six inches from my left foot, leaped on the motorcycle, kickstarted it and revved the engine. Now he really let the monkey out of its cage, laughing couldn't-care-less crazy. I announced in my 1950's documentary voice: "In the steel and concrete jungle of the big city, a tribal group - product of a sick society - survives!" Frankie roared off down the sidewalk forcing people to run into the street, gunned the engine, which rumbled like thunder, and rode up Washington Street speeding and weaving between moving cars. Should I try to follow him? I looked at the remaining Gypsy. "Which one is he?" I asked. "Captain America or Billy?"

CHAPTER 54

On my way to Rat's and a guided tour of the City of the Dead, I cut through a little-known by-way between two buildings. I recognized the canopied doorway where Maria the Prophet had materialized as I waited for a downpour to end. Who I had believed to be a legendary, even mythical, creature of Combat Zone folklore stood next to me. Not only did I see her in the flesh, but she accurately prophesied the downfall of both Blackie Driscoll and Pipe Billy. Chieftians, respectively, of the South Boston Irish Mafia and Roxbury Black Mafia. When the rain stopped, I had looked out; when I looked back, she was gone. Vanished. Ms. Mysteriosa the Magnificent, mystical magician. How? I had time before the appointment with my underground tour guide, Match Cut. I studied the doorway more closely than last time. Yet, after scrutinizing every inch, I was still baffled. The door into the building had no handle, knob or push-bar. I tried every possible way to open it but no go. One of those industrial doors or fire escapes that only opened from the inside. Then I saw it. On the steel floor, a slight indentation. I knelt down, put my fingers in the small opening and pulled. A metal plate lifted; an opening appeared. A rush of fetid air, a murk of gloom and...a ladder. Good golly, Miss Molly. It led down into the City of the Dead. Should I go down? Was I crazy? Nothing in God's gangrene earth could make me descend without a reliable escort. I closed down the door. Almost impossible to see the handle. Maria the Prophet must have been standing in the dark when I ducked in to escape the sudden rainstorm. Later, when

I looked out, she must have disappeared down the rabbit hole. Except she was no Alice in Wonderland. She must have lived in the City of the Dead. Would Match Cut know where she was? Would he take me to her?

CHAPTER 55

"Been working my brain to the bone about Diedre's killer," said Rat behind his bare desk in his office. His face was as pale as watery milk instead of its usual vein-twitching vermilion. "Without benefit of alcohol?" I asked. "You're just like Sho Sho. And Theo. Employees have a pool going on when I'm gonna start drinking again." "They had a pool on me when I quit." "They're still waiting for you to fall off the wagon," he said. "These daily letters from Diedre's killer may do it." "Getting to you, huh?" "Kind of," I said. "What has your brain-work come to?" "Not much yet." "Me either." "Your tour of the City of the Dead may give us some clues," he said. "You're not coming?" "Been down many times. Working on a couple of leads up here. Told you. I want to kill this sicko as much as you." "If it works out that way," I said. "But if we have a choice, I have first dibs on killing him. Agreed?" "Agreed," he said, walking out in front of his desk. He started rolling up the rug. "Be careful down there. Don't forget. Match Cut was one of the top hoods in the Irish Mafia before he was driven underground. And you haven't even met Power of Ten yet." "Bad news?" I asked. "Let's just say, be careful around him. Plus, he and Match Cut are film nuts. They take movies very seriously." "Fortunately, as you know, I'm one of Boston's foremost film cognoscenti. But Match Cut's on board with the quest, right?" "He is," said Rat, continuing to roll up the rug. "But prepare yourself. It's not like Match Cut is mayor of the City of the Dead. "Down there? All kinds of people, different groups, the darkness, the...weirdness. Try not to upset or insult anyone." "My dear Rat," I said, pulling open the trap door, "you know very well that I am the praying mantis of propriety." Hearing voices below, I descended. When I hit solid ground, Rat, above me, closed the trap door. Total darkness. Total silence.

Two lit-up ghostly Halloween-flashlight faces appeared and yelled: "Boo!" My heart jumped, bumped and pumped. "Gotcha, right?" asked Match Cut. "As scary as seeing that Anthony Perkins' mother was actually dead in Psycho?" "I'm all clutched up with fright," I said. Match Cut turned his industrial-strength flashlight away from his acid-ruined nosebleed-red face toward another guy. His face was a bowl of tapioca pudding - pale, pudgy, porridge-like - with two raisins floating on the surface for eyes. "Castille, meet my partner Power of Ten." We shook hands but he didn't smile. "Match tells me you want a tour of the City of the Dead," he said. "Why?" "In general," I said, "because I'm a private detective. Knowledge of subterranean Boston could help me in my work." And specifically?" he questioned. "Specifically, I'm looking for two people. One is a murderer, probably male, who killed a woman five years ago. He was never found. But he's suddenly returned with taunting, even threatening, letters addressed to me." "Why you?" he asked. "His victim was my wife." "I wanted for murder in Boston? Be in Trinidad Tobacco, Sasquatchewhacko or Jerkoffistan." "Who's the other specific person?" asked Match Cut. "A missing Gypsy girl," I said. "Possibly kidnapped." "Think she might be down here?" "No idea. But as long as I'm here, attention must be paid." "But the main purpose," Power of Ten asked, "is a get-acquainted tour of underground downtown?" "Knowledge is power." They flashed their lights on each other or me. Other than that, darkness reigned like a Caligula-led orgy of lightlessness. Ordinarily, I thought of darkness as the absence of light. Down here, however, darkness was a living, invertebrate entity; a huge, inhuman, H.P. Lovecraft organism; a monstrous, malevolent life-form that could crush the breath out of us anytime it wanted. What was I doing down here with two guys I hardly knew? "Whatta ya think of voice-over narratives in films?" Power of Ten interrogated. Clearly a test. I hesitated. "You feel like Steve McQueen in Papillon, right?" "Which part?" I asked. "When he's escaping from Devil's Island and runs right into the leper colony. And the chief leper's smoking a cigar. He offers a puff to McQueen. "Should he put it in his mouth and maybe get leprosy? Or refuse, and probably be killed by the lepers? Remember?" "I remember," I stalled. "Well, whatta ya think about voice-overs?"

"An occasional soliloquy so we know what a character is thinking is okay," I said. "No, no, no!" fumed Power of Ten. "I mean when some disembodied voice is narrating the story that you're seeing and hearing for yourself." "That's different," I said. "I'm definitely against it." For the first time, Power of Ten smiled. I'd passed the test. "Exactly!" he exulted. "See?" he questioned Match Cut, who didn't look too happy at my remark. "I told you," Power of Ten continued. "Voice-over narrative is the kiss of death to any movie." "No, it ain't!" Match Cut protested, cutting a sharp glance at me. Great. Now I had to take sides. "It adds a whole new dimension." "No friggin' way!" yelled Power of Ten. "Think of 2001: A Space Odyssey with a voice-over, you schmuck!" "All right," conceded Match Cut. "Maybe. I'll give you that one." "Don't do me any favors." "Fellow film buffs, please!" I interrupted. "We have a job to do. We can discuss the aesthetics of cinema some other time." "You're right," said Match Cut. "Let's get to work." "Offhand," said Power of Ten, "I can't think of anyone who appeared down here about five years ago who might be your wife's killer." "Disappointing." "Keep my ears and eyes open. However, there is someone you might want to see." "Who?" I asked. "I should first give you the mise-en-scene." "Open the pod-bay door, Hal," I said in my 2001 voice. "Did you see Carrie when it first opened?" "As, indeed, who did not?" "Remember the last scene?" asked Power of Ten. "When Carrie's hand comes up out of the ground and grabs the girl's wrist? Did you jump out of your seat?" "For one of the few times in my life, I literally jumped up at a movie. As did everyone in the packed theatre. I was so surprised and shocked." "Prepare to jump out of your seat." "Why?" I asked. "You're about to meet Doctor McGhoul." "Of the old Beacon Hill McGhouls, one presumes." "Doctor McGhoul of Bedlam," said Power of Ten. "Who's he?" "Christopher Walken type." "Psycho," I said. "Imagine, instead of Mel Gibson, Walken in Road Warrior but written and directed by George Romero." "That scary, huh?" I asked. "Mad Max Midnight of the Russian Roulette Dead," said Power of Ten. "Yup. That scary."

"Then why are we going to see him?" "Your choice." "Why would I want to see him?" I asked. "He's got a kidnapped Gypsy girl."

CHAPTER 56

"Take me to him," I said. "Let's be clear on two things," said Power of Ten. "By all means and methods." "We have a code down here," he said. "'What you do to one of us, you do to all of us.'" "Freaks," I said. "Todd Browning. 1932." "I do believe you know your movies," he said. "For this belief, much thanks. Second?" "By putting you on to Doctor McGhoul, we're breaking the code. Which is why he can't see us with you. And why, if pandemonium breaks out, we can't help you. Understand?" "I'm on my own," I said. "Like Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind." "'As God is my witness," I said in my Scarlett voice, "I'll never go hungry again.'" "So I put it to you," Power of Ten said. "We can take you on the tour. Show you air shafts, abandoned subway tunnels, former Prohibition speakeasies. The tanks of fish, eels, lobsters under Chinatown. The interconnecting service tunnels and bootleg wine basements under the Hotel District in Back Bay. "The cellars of costumes and props under the Theatre District. Very Phantom of the Opera. Also the tunnels connecting the Theatre District restaurants and clubs. The, shall we say, experiment rooms under the Medical District. Very Bride of Frankenstein. "Even, if we have time, la creme de la creme of the Boston underground: the North End. Tunnels used by everyone from smugglers avoiding British taxation during Colonial times to pirates to Freemasons to the Brinks robbers who supposedly hid over one million dollars in loot, never discovered to this day." "A tidy sum," I said in my Clint Eastwood voice. "Different areas, physically. Also different areas, socially." "Such as?" I asked. "The Spiders' Web. The Thieves' Knot. The Leper Colony. The Hornets' Nest. The Room With A Deja Vu." "Come again," I said. "You heard me right the first time." "Psychics? Mediums?" "Mumbo-jumbo," he said. "Hocus-pocus. Hoodoo-Voodoo." "What else?" "Not enough coming attractions? Want more? The Field Of Diamonds. The Half A Hundred. The Witches' Coven." "Does Maria The Prophet hang there?" I asked.

He shone the flashlight in my face. "So say some," he said, somberly. "What else?" "Satan's Pest-Hole." "What's that?" I asked. "A greater hive of scum and villiany you will not find elsewhere in the galaxy," he said solemnly in his Alec Guinness Star Wars voice. "Me, Luke Skywalker, novice," I said. "You, Obi-Wan Kenobi, master." "Or we can do a page-one rewrite," said Power of Ten, ignoring my remark. Then he asked in his A Clockwork Orange Alex voice: "What's it going to be then, my droogie, eh?" "We'll save the grand tour for another day. Take me to McGhoul." We walked through a dirty wide-open space made possible by huge concrete pillars. They flashed their lights ahead of us, opalescent beams cutting into the oppressive dark. A gust, a breeze, a gale, a hurricane blew in from somewhere. Along with a menacing rumble. "What's that?" I asked. "Just a subway train," said Match Cut casually. "Subway train?" I asked. "How close are we to the subway?" "Fifty feet. Nothing to worry about. Unless you get lost and wander onto the tracks. If that happens, don't step on the third rail. And if you hear a train coming, get the hell out of the way." The wind and noise slowed and stopped. So quiet I thought I could hear my stalwart companions' eyes blink. After a minute, the wind and noise resumed, increased, decreased, ceased as the train thundered out of the station. "Has anyone ever been hit by a train down here?" I asked. "Plenty," said Match Cut in his maddeningly casual manner. "Plenty? What do you do?" "About what?" "The bodies!" I said. "Nothing. What can we do? Usually, there's very little left. And the rats eat that." "Rats down here?" "Cast of thousands," Match Cut said. "If you hear them coming in a horde, hide." "Hide where? And what does a horde of rats coming sound like?" "Can't describe it. But you'll know," said Match Cut. "The meek won't inherit the earth. The rats will." "And the cockroaches," added Power of Ten. They snickered, chortled, guffawed, laughed hysterically. I feared for their sanity. "I'm having second thoughts about the mission," I said, as the laughter subsided. "What's so funny?" "Let's just say," said Match Cut, "that the spirit is

willing but the flesh is weeks behind in the rent." "I thought you guys didn't pay rent down here," I said. "Isn't that part of the whole point?" "Everybody pays rent," said Power of Ten. "One way or another." "Nothing for nothing," I said. "Even here in good old Beantown." "With apologies to Gene Pitney," said Power of Ten, "Boston is the city without pity." "Movies and music," I marveled. "I work on many levels at the same time," Power of Ten said. "Like a knee to the groin," I said. They started laughing hysterically again. "Enough with the laughter already," I said. "Where exactly do I hide when the Golden Horde of rats descends like a plague?" "Don't worry about the four-legged rats," said Match Cut. "It's the two-legged rats you have to worry about. Like Doctor McGhoul of Bedlam." "What should I know?" "His backstory. Know where the word 'bedlam' comes from?" "A shortening of 'Bethlehem,'" I said. "It's actually a shortening of 'Saint Mary of Bethlehem.' Old insane asylum in London. 'Bedlam' passed into English usage as a separate word meaning a place of uproar." "My Word Wealth word of the day," I said. "St. Mary's of Bethlehem - Bedlam - was noted for its barbaric treatment of the mentally ill," explained Power of Ten. "Deprivation, weird punishments, sadistic torture." "And the good Doctor McGhoul?" I asked. "Claims that he worked there." "Did he?" "I doubt it," said Match Cut. "In fact, I think that particular madhouse was shuttered decades ago. But McGhoul might as well have worked there." "Why do you say that?" "Because he's savage, brutal, sadistic. Loves to shock people. Loves to put one over. Got a dozen scams going. Loves to hurt people. He operates a kind of sick entertainment." "Like what?" I asked. "For ten bucks, you can go through the left door and torture someone for ten minutes. Or, for ten bucks, you can go through the right door and rape a tied-down girl. "A Gypsy girl."

CHAPTER 57

"I assume McGhoul isn't his real name," I said. "No. When a resident joins the City of the Dead, he

takes a new name." "Like the French Foreign Legion. McGhoul got any moves?" "He's a bugged-out bugger," said Match Cut, "not a fired-up fighter." "Who does his fighting?" "The Unholy Trinity." "Who's that?" I asked, laughing. "Father, Son and Unholy Ghost?" "Exactly," said Power of Ten grimly. "Elucidate." "Three scumbags been down here a long long time. Father and son team of brawlers. And a third whacko. Looks like Casper the Unfriendly Ghost after a root canal job without novocaine. And they like to make a meal of it." We walked through the humid, stenchified darkness; my companions' flashlights revealed mounds of garbage and debris. I heard a voice pitched loud. Match Cut and Power of Ten turned off their flashlights. Fifty filthy feet away, dim spotlights were trained on a strange figure on a makeshift stage. "McGhoul," whispered Match Cut. "How do the spotlights work?" I asked. "They jack into the underground electric wires. Necessity is the mother of invention." "And practice is the father of wisdom," I said. "And days are the daughters of Time. And life is a son of a bitch." The ramshackle stage on which McGhoul held forth was backed by a black curtain with two openings. At the front corners of the stage were two blown-up posters, reminiscent of 1950's and 60's El Cheapo exploitation movie advertisements. To the left, the poster depicted in lurid colors a gruesome scene of fiendish torture and dismemberment. Reminiscent of the Z-grade cult classic Scream Baby Scream in which a vicious psychopathic painter kidnaps and mutilates people to serve as 'models' for his dementoid artwork. To the right, the poster reminded one of the classic Women in Chains. Except it proclaimed Wild Gypsy Girl In Chains! Showed a voluptuous long-haired dark-skinned woman with her clothes ripped and torn, manacled hand and foot. "Go get your Gypsy girl," said Match Cut. "But remember. We won't be able to help you. Lights! Camera! Action!" As I approached, stray figures were magnetically attracted to McGhoul's spiel. All were male. Mole-men. Tall and thin, Doctor McGhoul stood arrayed in all his ghastly glory. Filthy coat with two long tails, besmutched stovepipe pants, bent and battered top hat. Hands with long dirty fingernails conjured invisible images to accompany his mesmerizing spiel. A depraved Uncle Sam with a debauched British accent. McGhoul's face was like a formerly lush tropical landscape now claimed by drought. What had once been teeming

pools and fertile rivers were now dry holes and desiccated gulleys. What remained was his mountain of a nose and his eyes with thirsty pupils enlarged to drink in as much light as possible. And his voice. The smoothie-woothie voice I'd heard so often in my life. The voice of the confidence trickster, the con artist, the flim-flam man, the eel-slippery guy who shortchanges and shortweights, who loads the dice and deals off the bottom of the deck, the finagler, the faker, the fraud. When he saw me, he turned all his attention on my humble self. "Welcome, my fine young fellow!" he invited me. Despite his ragged, haggard appearance, he projected a certain charisma. "I see by your cleanliness - next, as we know, to godliness - that you are from upstairs." He looked up, as did, following his lead, the mole-men. I wondered how much of their brains had been zapped by alcohol, drugs, disease, malnutrition, mental illness. McGhoul's upward glance could have been to the concrete city streets or to Heaven. He returned his eyes to me. "Step right up, my fine young fellow, to the Chapel of Perdition, the Church of Universal Ruin, the Cathedral of Eternal Damnation. And yet it's not only religion but art. A theatre of sorts. Yes. Guerilla Theatre. Theatre of the Absurd. Theatre of Cruelty. "Rest assured, my fine young friend, should your scruples be shaken, that the miserable creatures within receive only their just and due punishment for their heinous sins and wicked crimes. For it is also medicine. Because I, yes, even I, diagnose their conditions and prescribe their cures. "Throw down the gauntlet through fire and water. Throw caution to the wind through thick and thin. And so, finally, it remains only for me to ask: what's your pleasure? "Sex? "Or violence?" I pursed my lips judiciously, as if deciding a matter of great moment. "Either way, only ten dollars," he nattered impatiently. "The merest tenth part of a measly C-note." "Is she a real Gypsy?" I asked blandly. "Real?" McGhoul reeled. "Real as real can be! Straight from Egypt she came, on an authentic Gypsy caravan." "The general consensus among contemporary anthropologists," I said, "is that Gypsies come, not from Egypt, but India." He peered down at me. "Do I know you?" he asked. "Sebastian Squalm," I said. "Of the old Threadneedle Street Squalms." Off to the side, I saw three figures bestir and look my way. Two hulks and a Long Skinny Davy. The Unholy Trinity.

"Egypt. India. Antarctica," said McGhoul. "What's the bleedin' difference, Sebastian, me laddie buck?" "Far as I'm concerned?" I asked, forking over a ten-spot. "None." "Aye! That's the spirit," said McGhoul, secreting my ten dollar bill. "Right through there to the right. Take your fill of pleasure. But only ten minutes! Not a second longer! "The rest of you rabble, move in closer! Closer, you savages of the gallery! Take yer thumbs out of yer bums and take yer minds out of neutral! Closer, I say!"

CHAPTER 58

I pushed through the curtain into a room where a woman lay on a cheap four-poster bed. Her wrists and ankles were indeed handcuffed to the four posts so that her arms and legs were spread in two V's. Her whole body was an X, like Apostle Andrew crucified. She was naked. On the lower part of her face was a metal-and-leather muzzle. One look at her eyes - bloodshooting orbs of violent hatred - gave the reason. Without the muzzle, if any man lay on her, she would surely bite his face off. I took a step. Her violent roar was muffled by the muzzle. The poor creature. "I'm not going to hurt you," I said. She roared again. Of course, that's what every rapist said. "My name is Castille." I opened my wallet, took out my driver's and P.I. licenses and held them close so that she could read them. She frowned, as if to ask, what new porno-pervo sport was this? "Are you Sascha Stanley?" I asked. She narrowed her eyes to slits and stared at me with rank malevolence. Great. "If you are Sascha, your sister Tita hired me to find you. And rescue you." She tried to speak but the muzzle prevented my comprehension. She looked down at herself and then at me. "Where are your clothes?" I asked. She threw her eyes to the right. I followed her glance to a small closet. Inside were women's clothes. I took out a long dress and draped it over her. Her eyes softened. "I'm going to take off this muzzle so you can talk," I said. "If you scream, I'll put it back on. Okay?" She stared at my eyes, then nodded curtly. I lifted her head and found the buckles for the straps. What if she were crazed by the experience and bit one of

my fingers off? Hell, what's one finger more or less? I undid the straps and pulled the muzzle off her face. "Aaargh!" she spat out. "I'll kill you!" "I'm here to help you," I said. "That's what McGhoul said." "How long have you been...held prisoner?" "What month is it?" she asked. "November." "Since August! Raped over and over by the filth, the scum, the dregs of the earth! Under the earth! They dare to look down on us Gypsies! It's they - you! - gajo who are subhuman!" "Some, to be sure," I said. "The question is, however, are you Sascha Stanley?" "And if I am?" she asked. "I unchain you and take you back to your family." "And if I'm not?" "I unchain you and take you back to your family." "I have no family!" she said defiantly. "Then you're not Sascha Stanley," I said, disappointed. "But I know her. And her family. Her father is the so- called King of the Gypsies in Boston. What of it?" "What's your name?" "Tawney Michaels," she said proudly. "Want to stay here? Or leave?" "I am Rom! Of course, I want to be free!" "Where's the key for the handcuffs?" I asked. "That monster has it." "McGhoul?" "That's what he calls himself," she said. "That - how shall I say? - complicates matters." A voice bellowed from the stage: "Hey! You in there! Sebastian! Yer ten minutes is up!" "McGhoul!" I yelled. "Ten minutes already?" "Time flies when you're having fun," Tawney said sardonically. "I should know." "Come out now!" bellowed McGhoul. "Or my men come in and give you the beating of your life!" "Yes," I sighed. "This definitely complicates matters."

CHAPTER 59

"Good Dr. McGhoul!" I shouted. "I should like to negotiate a continuation of my private festivities!" "Right you are, Sebastian, sir!" he said eagerly. "Another ten minutes, another ten dollars." "Come in and get it." "Come out and give it," he said. I looked at Tawney. She shrugged, shoulders and eyebrows pulled up simultaneously by the same invisible strings.

"I'm afraid I'm rather in deshabille in flagrante delicto," I said. "If you follow my meaning." "Of course," he said. "We are, after all, men of the world, n'est-ce pas? I am coming in." I stepped to the side. McGhoul entered. "What the...?" he started when he saw Tawney unmuzzled and un-naked. From behind, I corkscrew-punched him in the kidney. Hard. "Oof!" he expelled. I thrust my left knee into the back of his left knee, pulling him off-balance, while boa-constricting his throat in a choke hold. "Yell out and I crush your windpipe," I whispered in his ear. "Certainly, sir, certainly," he rasped. "No need for violence. No need at all. I'm but a humble student of human nature." "You're but a humble worm studying to be a snake." "Customer always right," he said. "Where's the key?" I demanded. "Key, sir? I don't know..." "In his vest pocket," spat out Tawney. "Tawney," said McGhoul, "haven't I looked after you and fed you all these months? And this is the thanks..." "If he doesn't kill you," she said, solemn and yet smirking, like a hanging judge declaring the death penalty, "I will." I found the key. I let him loose and handed him the key. "Uncuff her." "But surely you realize this is a breach of the unwritten law of the businessmen's code of..." "I'm an undercover cop," I said. "You're under arrest." "But what have I done? And why haven't you read me my rights? And where's your badge?" "My badge is right here," I said, pulling out my Beretta. "Want to know your rights? If you don't shut the fuck up, you have the right to be dead." "Yes, yes, I see, sir," he cowered. "Once dead," I continued, "you have the right to remain dead for all eternity." "Yes, I understand," he whimpered. "You also have the right to an undertaker. If you can not afford an undertaker, the funeral home will appoint you one free of charge. You also have the right to a corrugated cardboard coffin and the right to be buried in the pauper's graveyard of your choice. "Any more questions?" "No, no. I understand perfectly. Customer always right." "Then shut up," I said. "Shutting up, sir, as of now."

"Uncuff her." "My men - strapping fellows of malignant dispositions - are poised just outside," he said. "Perhaps you'd care to rethink your situation, Mr. Sebastian Squalm, undercover cop." "Perhaps you'd care to uncuff her before I break both your arms." "Certainly, certainly." He bent and uncuffed Tawney's ankles. She spat a giant lunger - she must have been accumulating it the whole time we parleyed - into his face. When he flinched and closed his eyes, she kicked straight up between his legs into the Land of the Fragile Gonads. "Owwww!" he howled. "Shhhh!" I ordered. "Tawney! Get free first, then tear him apart." "I am Rom," she said. "In my soul, I am always free!" "Good for your soul, but I assume you wouldn't mind freeing your body also." "True," she agreed. "Get up!" I commanded McGhoul, who writhed on the floor, clutching his privates. "My men," he said. "The Unholy Trinity. You are both dead." "Uncuff her wrists! Now! Or I swear..." "Tell her not to hurt me." "Tawney," I said. "Don't hurt the kind gentleman. Yet." He uncuffed her right wrist. Instantly, she iron-gripped his throat and he gagged. "Tawney, you mad impetuous fool!" I said. "Do you want to stay cuffed or do you want to get loose?" Reluctantly, she let go of his throat. McGhoul uncuffed her left wrist. While McGhoul cowered, Tawney quickly dressed. She walked over to him, gripped his jacket with her left hand, raised her right hand and... McGhoul unleashed an ear-engraving scream of daggers and demons, of black night and blue murder.

CHAPTER 60

The Unholy Trinity ran in, one by one, two young guys followed by a middle-aged brute. Standing to the side, they didn't see me. I tripped the last one - the Father - sending him sprawling. Tawney sprang at the first one - the Son - taking him by surprise, gripping his head and biting his nose. Clean off. He yowled and clutched his face. When he realized what had happened, he fell to his hands and knees, looking for his nose. The second guy, confused, not realizing I was behind him, went for Tawney with a vengeance. Tawney fought, but she was obviously weak from her ordeal. I came up behind her opponent, tall, thin, ultra-pale:

the Unholy Ghost. I dug my thumbnails and fingernails like claws into his shoulders. My nails dug into the pressure points of his brachial plexus. He lost consciousness and collapsed. Something like Spock's knockout shoulder grip on Star Trek. By this time, the oldest member of the Unholy Trinity had got to his feet and approached me. "Forgive me, Father," I said, "for what I'm about to do." "Blasphemer," he growled and threw a wicked right roundhouse punch to my head. I blocked it with my left hand at an angle pulling him forward off balance. I gripped his wrist and hand. At the same time, I swung the point of my right elbow into his solar plexus. He grunted in pain. The blow caused him to bend forward, leaving his neck exposed. With my left hand, I twisted his wrist and hand, straightened his arm and moved it back and around in a circle. At the same time, my right hand gripped the back of his neck. I pivoted, applying more pressure to his hyper-extended right arm which pressured his right shoulder. Along with the neck grip, this allowed me to easily fling him heels over head. He crashed into the floor and didn't get up. "And away we go!" I yelled to Tawney. "Before they recover." She hesitated - torture and kill these bastard or get free? - and said: "Let's go!" We ran out onto the stage to the audience of amazed mole-men. "Which way?" I asked, disoriented. Tawney gripped my hand; she ran; I followed. Into total darkness. "Know where you're going?" I asked. "Yes." "How? You can't see anything." "You can't see anything," she said. "I wandered around down here for two months before McGhoul's slobbering henchmen captured me. My eyes are used to the darkness." We hadn't tripped over anything or run into any concrete walls face first. So I guess she could see better than me. I nearly slipped, hitting what felt like a subway rail. "Sure you know where you're going?" I asked. "Want me to let go of your hand?" I'd be totally lost and easy prey. "Not really. But we're not running headlong into a subway train, are we?" She laughed. "As a matter of fact, we are." I slowed down but she pulled harder. No choice. Dim light ahead. We were on a subway track. My hypodermic heart flew against my ribs like a blind bird in a cage. The light

increased. To my amazement, we emerged into Boylston Street Green Line station. A subway car was indeed ahead of us. But it hadn't moved in years. On a discontinued track that went into an abandoned tunnel. The real track was on the other side of the concrete platform. She let go of my hand, bolted through the steel turnstile and bounded up the steps and out of the station to the corner of Boylston and Tremont Streets. Tawney, I hardly knew ye.

CHAPTER 61

Later, around 8 p.m., I went into the Hot Spot. Not much action. The new bouncer - who, last time, had accosted me and forced me to knock him out - pushed himself off the wall. I got ready. "You," he said. "'Tis I." "I oughta knock your block off. But..." "But?" I prompted. "But King Pimp said you were okay and I deserved what I got and that I should..." "That you should..." I prompted. "Apologize." "Feel free." "Feel free to what?" he asked. "Feel free to apologize." "I just did." "No, you didn't," I said. "You said King told you to apologize to me. So feel free to apologize." "I just did!" "No, you didn't," I said. "Do I have to bring in an expert in semantics to explain it to you?" "The Cy-Mantics?" His features lit up. "My favorite group! You like 'em?" "Love 'em," I sighed. "Apology accepted." "Great. King said you could go in the backroom any time. So go ahead." King Pimp's headquarters had thinned out. His posse looked sullen, morose. The two bodyguards to the sides of King's throne raised their fully automatic Uzi pistols at me. Sister Flukie lay on the throne platform at King's feet. She was in a silvery gown, with feet bare and eyes like paper cups with worms on the bottoms. Maybe Crazy F was right. Maybe King Pimp was past his prime. Maybe he should retire. Except a vacuum would ensue, Crazy F would fill it and a lot more people would get hurt. And I cared why? "Fly kite to Crazy F from King Pimp?" asked King Pimp. "That I did, O epitome of well-bred aristocraticalness."

"And?" "And," I said, "he said no sit-down." "War?" "War." "Bring him up, teach him the game and this the thanks Ah get," King shook his head sadly. "Crazy F has a slightly different view of his childhood education," I said. "Like what?" "Said you treated him badly and made him do all the dirty work." "That punk ingrate!" said King. "He get my Irish up. No offense, Castille." "None taken," I said. "Or even understood." "Blood in, blood out," muttered King. "Meaning?" "Only one way leave King Pimp's crew. Killed dead." "Come, come. Must we go to extremes?" I asked. "Extremes? You white mother-raper," King said. "Same go for you." "Meaning?" "You in King's crew till you dead." "When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way?" I asked. "Not what I signed on for." "Make no never-mind. Way she work. Don't worry 'bout it. Right now? Book closed on Crazy F. Book closed hard on that bottom-dealer." "What next?" "You my consigliere," King said. "What you advise?" They all looked at me. Sweat broke out on my forehead. "Drop back ten and punt," I said, stalling. "Sometimes you funny," said King. "Sometimes you ain't. Now? You ain't." "Can't win 'em all," I shrugged. "Wait a freaked-up minute!" exclaimed King. "What?" I asked, hoping for a reprieve. "You talk with Crazy F. You know where he at. Tell me. We go and croak him. End of problem." He looked at me with glittering eyes. I looked back. His eyes de-glittered. "Well?" he demanded. "The thing is," I said, realizing I had talked myself into a no-way-out. "Crazy F wouldn't talk to me until I promised I wouldn't tell you where he was hiding." "So what?" asked King. "Tell me." "I promised I wouldn't." "So? You teach me. How you put it? Son Zoo say first thing about war is deception. So you lied to Crazy. That okay. Cause this be war. "So tell me." "I'd prefer not to," I said. King motioned his nameless, speechless bodyguards forward. They descended the steps of the throne platform

with their shiny Uzi's. One put the muzzle of his Uzi against my right temple. My brain. Which pulsed harder and faster than ever before in my life. The other bodyguard put the muzzle of his Uzi against the left side of my chest. My heart. Which pounded harder and faster than ever before in my life. Was Phoenix lurking near, ready to burst in and save my life? No, I had explicitly asked her to stick with Margie and guard her, no matter what. "Castille, Ah kinda like you and everything," said King. "But this be bidness! This be war! So tell me where Crazy at. Ah count to three. Don't tell me? Your brain and heart be confetti spaghetti." "Wait..." I started. "One!" King shouted. "But..." I started. "Two!" King shouted.

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"Okay, okay!" I said. "Okay what?" asked King. "I'll tell you." "Tell me." "I saw Crazy F at the Avery Hotel," I lied. "Less go," King said, jumping up. "Evvabody get strapped. We go and clip Crazy. Then come back for champagne and caviar." Everyone scurried. The bodyguards took their Uzi's away from me. I breathed out in relief. Only Sister Flukie remained motionless. She lay on the throne platform, feeling my face with her zero cool eyes. "But!" I yelled. Everyone froze. Sister Flukie permitted herself a scanty smile. "But what?" demanded King, wearing a crown of frown. "But he was just moving out of the Avery," I lied. "Say, movin' out?" asked King. "That's right." "Going where?" "Wouldn't say," I lied. "Castille, you scheming mother-raper!" King exploded in his eat-the-flowers-off-the-wallpaper voice. "Now is you is or is you ain't lying?" "I'm not lying," I lied. King studied me. In fact, they all studied me. I tried not to gulp or turn pale or turn red or pee my pants.

Finally, King said: "Ah believe you." The essence of warfare is strategy. The essence of strategy is deception. Thank you, Sun Tzu. King sat heavily on his throne and mulled. "Damn, Castille, you bird-dog!" he burst out. "Shoulda hid and watched and followed Crazy F to his new hide-out." "I've failed you, sire," I said. "Shall I fall on my sword?" "Maybe later. Now we gots to figure out where Crazy at and snuff him 'fore he get too strong. You know me. Ah a peace-loving man. But, before Ah let Crazy take anything from me, Ah kill every fucking mother-raper in the Zone! In the city!" "What about the state?" I asked, purely out of curiosity. "Whole a Massa-fuckin'-chusetts! Who gonna stop me? The governor? Hah! Ah a king!" "To the manner born," I added, for the sake of royal thoroughness. "This the plan," announced King. "Castille, you go back to the Avery. See if you can pick up the info where Crazy go. Rest of us? Open up the armory, oil up the guns, count up the ammo, prepare for war. "Castille. You find out? Don't even bother coming here. Jess call me. Got it?" "Got it," I said, almost saluting. "Crazy F think he the boogie-woogie king? Ah'ma gonna boogie his woogie big-time!" Sound of broken glass, a bump and a roll. Everyone looked. "What is it?" asked King. I knew what it was. "Hand grenade!" I shouted. I ran in the opposite direction. Everyone followed me. Except one of the nameless, speechless, Uzi-toting bodyguards. He ran toward the hand grenade which had rolled to a stop on the floor. Over my shoulder, unbelievably, I saw him dive and land on top of the grenade. He smothered it with his body. So when it exploded, it did little damage. Except blast the bodyguard into the middle of the next world. If such there be. We all walked back. "Turn him over," commanded King. Gulping audibly, the other bodyguard toed his partner's body face up. Almost no midsection. Mostly bloody legs, arms, head. "Dead gone," commented King dispassionately. "He have family?" I asked, indicating the corpse. "Ball-and-chain and crumbcrusher or two." "Wife and little kids? What are you going to tell her?" "Man died in line of duty."

"Line of duty?" I repeated, repulsed. "Man died defending king and country." "What country?" "Zone, mother-raper," King said. "Zone like Vatican. We discuss this before." "How can you trust her not to go to the cops?" "Give her pension. Carrot. Tell her, she talk? Goodbye, little sonny boy and baby-kins. Stick." "You make me sick," I said. "'Sides," he said, ignoring my comment. "Ah own so many po-lice, she sing like canary bird? Won't make no never-mind." "Crazy F?" I asked. "Sho 'nuff, this be Crazy F's work. Boy be crazy as his mother." "Mother?" It never even occurred to me that Crazy F had a mother. "Who's his mother?" I asked. "Make no never-mind to you," King said, frowning. "Question now, what we gone do?" "Road to a man's conscience sometimes runs through his mother," I said. "Who's Crazy's mother? Do I know her?" "Tole ya!" King turned on me ferociously. "Make no difference! Crazy F have no conscience. He not regular folks, like you 'n' me. Forget I said it. "Now what we gone do? This be declaration of war, mother-raper. Not Mother's Day. "Crazy the clown try kill me! Me! King Pimp! King of the Combat Zone! Get me cannons, howitzers, tanks! Ah crush him like a cock-a-fuckin'-roach!" "Take it easy, King," I said. "Take a teasy?" King steamed. "Take a hike to the Avery! Get a line on Crazy F." I walked out through the Hot Spot. The front door bouncer smiled in delight. He hummed an off-key tune. "'Member that?" "No," I said. "No?" he asked, surprised. "Number one song for the Cy-Mantics." "Save Music Appreciation Class for another time," I said, exiting.

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Crazy was crazy. In trying to kill King Pimp, he had almost killed me. Would have killed me if the bodyguard hadn't dived on the hand grenade. Now it was personal. Parked in front of the Hotel de Gink was a red Honda. I went into the lobby. The desk man had his head down again. My eyes scanned for the gun woman but I saw nobody. Slowly, I eased down the hallway. Crazy's door showed a

strip of light under it. I stood still and listened; my fingertips grazed the butt of my gun. The only sound was the thumping of my heart. A wave of pure pleasure swept through me as I anticipated the look in Crazy's eyes when I put my gun against the bridge of his nose. Straining my ears, I heard faint sounds of movement from inside the room. The metal doorknob felt cool as I slowly twisted it. Lightly, I gripped my gun. A film of sweat broke out at my hairline and trickled down my left temple. I pushed open the door and burst into the room. No Crazy F. No Backsnapper. Only a stark naked white guy lying on the bed. His wrists and ankles were tied with red silk scarves to the four corner posts of the bed. Plastered over his mouth were strips of Scotch tape. I holstered my gun and ripped the strips off. The guy looked vaguely familiar as he put on a big shit-eating grin. "What happened?" I asked. "Be glad to tell you but would you, uh, mind untying me?" I undid the knots, he rolled off the bed and pulled on his pants. "Last time I go out in the Zone," he muttered. "Who are you?" "Security," I said. "Tell me exactly what happened and maybe I'll let you go." "Yes, of course, sir," he said, getting dressed. "I was cruising; picked up a woman on LaGrange Street. I told her my, uh, special needs and she said she could accommodate me." "What time was this?" "Around one a.m." "You drove over in your car?" I asked. "Red Honda?" "Yes sir. That's my shitbox." "Anybody in the room when you came in?" "Not a soul," he said. "Sure?" "Of course I'm sure. You think I'm going to do something like this with somebody else around?" "You came in and then what?" I asked. "She tied me up and then left me! Shit!" He tore his wallet apart. "Took every cent plus my credit cards!" "What did she look like?" "She was white," he said. "What color hair?" I asked. "Flaming red. Why?" Janna. Up to her old tricks. So to speak. "Just curious." The guy smiled sheepishly at me while buttoning his shirt. "I'll let you go," I said. "This time." He bolted; I searched the room. Looking under the mattress, I remembered who the guy was. I had seen his face

on TV or in a newspaper photo. The mayor of one of the cities just outside Boston. I found nothing useful. Back in the lobby, the desk man still had his head down, studying the Racing News. At my approach, he looked up: a little squint of a guy with a quasi-demented smile and black-rimmed glasses half the size of his whole face. "I'm looking for Crazy F," I said. "Who?" he asked, sounding and looking like an unfriendly owl. "Black guy. Held court last night in 18-A." "Sorry. Only remember the faces of horses, never human beings. And I ain't kiddin' ya neither. Got a system, see? Today I'm gonna lay a deuce on Century Shower. Know why?" His face lit up with an unholy light. "Why?" "Cause every day I walk past the Century Bank and every day I take a shower. See? A system." He tapped his right temple with his right forefinger. "You gotta have a system." "You mean you didn't see a black guy and a huge white guy come in or leave last night?" "Look, mister, we got so many flesh peddlers, smack slammers and jug jammers coming in and out all hours of the night, I hardly notice 'em at all. Hey! Maybe I'll bet on Cherokee Treasure. Get it?" "No." "I like Indians," he said indignantly. "And I used to like that story. Treasure Island. See? A system. That's what counts in life." I sighed. "Can I look at your register?" I asked. "Help yourself." He pushed over a green book. The lined pages crawled with scrawled names. I didn't find 'Mr. Crazy F and entourage.' "I suppose you didn't see any of these people who actually signed their names last night, either?" "Don't get me wrong but I don't get paid to see," he said. "I get paid to be deaf, dumb and blind. Capeesh? I didn't see nuttin' last night and I ain't kidding ya neither. That's how I lived to this ripe old age. See? A system." "Would a couple of dead presidents help the memory any?" I laid two twenties on the counter. "Mister, I need the moola, don't get me wrong. I bet a finnif on a caterpillar yesterday. He couldna won if he'd a started the day before. But I don't know nuttin' 'bout nuttin' and I ain't kidding ya neither." The guy's train had gone off the track many miles ago. "Don't work too hard," I said. "Don't worry about that. I got a system." "Wish I had one," I sighed. "Use your phone?" King answered on the first ring. "Crazy" I said. "Vanished into thin air." "Find him, you mother-raper." "In the fullness of time."

CHAPTER 64

AUTHENTIC GYPSY FORTUNE TELLING. FIND THE ANSWERS TO ALL YOUR QUESTIONS ABOUT LIFE, LOVE, WORK AND HEALTH, ABOUT THE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE.

So read the sandwich-board sign on the sidewalk near the donut shop on Tremont across from the Boston Common. An arrow on the sign indicated a side door of the donut shop. Oh goodie. Finally, I'd get the questions answered that had long haunted me. First, who was going to win the next Super Bowl so I could lay down a huge bet and win enough to retire on? Second, how could we achieve global peace in our time? Third, what was the capital of Liechtenstein? Next to the donut shop, a building had recently been demolished. Amid the rubble played Gypsy children with several Gypsy women keeping them from darting out into the traffic. When they saw me, the children burbled and chattered on happily, but the women stopped talking. I pushed open the side door and descended into the darkened basement. The scents of exotic spices and perfumes filled my nostrils. A few small round tables with scarlet tablecloths almost to the floor. All the better to conceal telepathic midgets. In the far corner, sat an old woman quietly mending a garment with needle, thread and scissors. She was almost completely covered in a black shawl and puffing on a pipe clenched between her teeth. She looked up - right at me - and I shuddered. Her expression was grim, fixed, fatalistic. Her left eye was normal with a black pupil. But her right eye was strange, almost all milky white, without color, seemingly without vision. Yet I felt she was staring intently at me with both eyes. Our eyes locked. I couldn't look away. Then she lifted her hand, aimed the scissors at me, opened and closed the blades with a sharp metallic click, as if threatening me or warning me. I felt a weird sense of foreboding. Someone emerged through a beaded curtain. I half-expected Madame Ruth with the gold-capped tooth. Instead, it was a youngish woman in movie-Gypsy costume: long bright swirling many-colored skirt, short-sleeved sky-blue blouse, wrists and forearms with dozens of sliding, clicking bracelets, long dangling earrings that looked like gold coins and a pea-green bandanna around her head over long dark luxuriant hair. "Yes, mister. You have come to the right place." She put her hand on my wrist and half-pulled, half-attracted me with the well-practiced magnetic gaze of

her seemingly huge eyes to sit. "You have many questions about your fate," she said in a genuinely fake mystical voice. "I can see in your face that there is trouble in your life." "Plenty, sister," I said. "But I'm here because of the trouble in your life." She stood up abruptly and stepped back, hissing curses at me in Romany. "Not exactly," I replied to whatever she said. "I'm here to see Tita." "Tita?" she narrowed her eyes. "She tell your fortune last time?" "No. She invited me to come see her." "Invite?" she asked, incredulous. "Yes. Is she here? Ask her to come out from the inner sanctum." She pushed through the beaded curtain. In a minute, out came Tita, dressed similarly. "It is you," she said. "Do you have news of Sascha, mister sir gentleman Castille?" "Not exactly." "Oh," she said, disappointed. "But I talked with Frankie. And I got the distinct impression he has something to do with Sascha's disappearance." "Yes," she brightened up. "You see?" "Where would Frankie hide Sascha?" "I do not know." "Hm," I said, thinking of Frankie pretending at first not to be himself. Reversal of expectation. Strategy. Deception. "He would expect others to think he has her hidden outside the city," I said. "But maybe it's the opposite. Maybe he's holding her in a usual haunt and so nobody thinks of looking there." "Yes," said Tita, like a congenital idiot who hadn't understood a word I said but pretended to agree. "So that would be where?" I asked. "I do not know." "Frankie's apartment in the South End. He tried to get me angry and then make me follow him to lure me away. But that's why the other guy stuck around. As a guard." "Yes. Maybe," she said. "I do not know." I began to wonder if Tita was mentally retarded. Still, a client is a client is a client. "I'll call or see you later," I said, "when I learn more. Maybe I'll find Sascha." "That will be good." "Catch you on the horizon." "Excuse, please, mister sir?" I dare say, I thought in my Norman Conquest voice, she seems a trifle foggy in the old crumpet, eh wot?

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I needed a time-out and hit the gym. Checked my Beretta at the front desk and went up to the semi-secret boxing room. I stretched, did abdominal crunches, skipped rope; punched, elbowed and head-butted the speed bag; punched, elbowed, kneed and kicked the heavy bag; and shadowboxed in the ring. After working out, I was starved. Instead of going to Chinatown to eat, as usual, I walked down crowded Washington Street to the fabulous food court at Downtown Crossing. One huge room of tables with small restaurants built into the walls: Indian, Italian, Korean, Thai, Indonesian and more. Even, for those with truly exotic palates and a taste for culinary adventure, McDonald's. I passed the rickety old Avery Hotel, where Crazy F supposedly had been. Beyond, on my left, were two closed-down old-time theatres, the Paramount and the Opera House. On my right was a new fancy eight-story hotel said to have a huge heated swimming pool on its roof. Beyond that was Jordan Marsh Department Store. Downtown was like the still point in the center of a centripetal vortex, ceaselessly sucking in characters that could only exist in big cities. Maybe in medieval and ancient times, they survived in isolation in the forests on small game, fish and insects. But, now that the forests were gone, they hid out in the open, in the dense urban wilderness, where you couldn't see the megalopolitan forest for the electrical trees. My personal favorites were the Nelson Sisters. Septuagenarian, chain-smoking, literally joined at the hip, three-legged Siamese twins, they stood downtown much of the day, commenting on the passing scene. And never agreeing. "The good Mrs. Nelsons," I said to the white-haired sisters who, unimaginably, had between them four ex-husbands, the last two of whom were brothers, eight children and seventeen grandchildren. "Castille," said Alexandra, sole owner of the head on the left - that is, my left as I faced them - blowing a stream of cigarette smoke by my face. "What's the greatest movie song ever? In your humble?" "I say 'Someday My Prince Will Come' in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," rasped Cassandra, sole owner of the head on the right, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke by my face. "Cripes, Cass," yelled Alexandra, turning her head ninety degrees to her left and blasting cigarette smoke in Cassandra's face. "Why don't you just tell him your choice!" "I just did," Cassandra smiled smugly, taking a drag and blowing smoke in her sister's face. "Oh, that's real fair. In that case, I'm telling him my choice." "Well, who's stopping you, for Chrissake, you goddamn bitch!" "Who you calling a bitch, you slutty whore?! I'll..."

Alexandra's one arm tried to punch Cassandra's face. Casandra twisted her head back and away as far as possible, and also tried to block the punch with her one arm. Soon it was a slugfest, complete with gawking onlookers. "Ladies! Ladies!" I raised my voice. "I implore you to conduct yourselves in a civilized manner!" They pulled their arms back to their sides, with both heads pointing in opposite directions. Then, simultaneously, they both took tremendous drags on their cigarettes, turned to face each other and blew huge billowing clouds of smoke. They both coughed loud and long. Finally, they recovered and looked at me. "To be fair, Cassandra," I said, "Alexandra should tell me her favorite song." "What do I care what that tramp thinks?" she roared. "Alexandra?" I asked. "Thank you," she said daintily. "My favorite song is 'Ole Man River' in Showboat, sung by that wonderful Mr. Paul Robeson." "See?" screeched Cassandra. "She has no heart! A song like that? Number one? Imbecile!" She hocked up a giant loogey of cancerous phlegm and spit it at her sister's feet. I mean foot and a half. "And you're a hopeless romantic twit!" retorted Alexandra. "'Someday My Prince Will Come.' What drivel, what empty-headed twaddle, what saccharine-coated maudlin Disney flummery! Sap!" "Who ya calling a sap, you swinish creature!" Now they fought to burn each other's faces with their cigarettes' glowing coals. Slowly they subsided, looked away from each other and then looked at me expectantly. "Well?" demanded Cassandra. "Which one's the greatest movie song of all time?" "Ladies, I so hate to disappoint. But for my money, it's 'America' in West Side Story." "What?" they both asked, shocked. "Da da da da da da da da da! Da da da da da da da da da!" "You blithering ninny!" screeched Cassandra at me. "Watch out, Castille!" yelled Alexandra, looking over my left shoulder.

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Instinctively, I dove to my right beyond the Nelson Sisters and rolled, tucking in my shoulder so I wouldn't dislocate it against the concrete. As I came to my feet, a motorcycle zoomed by me. Frankie looked over his shoulder and scowled. "You all right?" I asked the Nelsons. "Yes," said Alexandra and Cassandra simultaneously. "Don't worry about us," said Alexandra. "He's after you!

Just like The Wild One with Mr. Marlon Brando! How exciting!" I turned just as Frankie's motorcycle roared straight at me. I faked diving to the right. When he turned in that direction, I dove to the left. When I came up standing, I saw a dozen young Gypsy men shouting and clutching billy clubs, lead pipes and knives twenty feet away and running straight toward me. By Jove! The monumental cheek of these chaps! I suddenly remembered - Oofus McDoofus that I was - I'd forgotten to take my gun when I left the gym. I darted inside Jordan Marsh, right into the Ladies Department. I ran down the main aisle; women frowned. Frankie's motorcycle roared behind me; women screamed. I didn't dare try to run out another entrance/exit in case more Gypsies were stationed there with weapons. "I'm gonna kill you, glimjack!" Frankie yelled. I kept running. But where to? The only way off the floor, if not out, was up. I hit the escalator running, gently shouldering aside shoppers. At the top, I turned and looked back. Frankie was cycling up the moving metal stairs; jumping on was the gang of armed Gypsies. Shoppers shrieked. I ran up the next escalator to the second floor, turned and looked. Frankie on his motorcycle and behind him, his gang. In that case, onward and upward. The fear of the shoppers somehow transmitted itself ahead of me and the whole store became hysterical, as shoppers, workers and unarmed security guards alike took cover. Up and up I ran. Third floor, fourth floor, fifth floor, sixth floor - how many freakin' floors did Jordan Marsh have? - seventh floor, eighth floor. I slowed down, gasping for breath. Yet, implacably, like Nemesis, like the Furies, like bad karma, crazy fucking Frankie and his band of Gypsies were still in hot pursuit. It was like a bad dream, where you're running faster than you ever thought you could but the monster's right behind you, he's reaching his gigantic hairy paw, he's just about to grab you... The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Huffing and puffing, but pushing myself relentlessly, I reached the tenth floor and looked back. Frankie was still humping his Harley up the escalator. Christ! I heaved and panted, literally breathless, and slumped to the floor. Oh, what an ignominious end. Beaten to death by Gypsies in Jordan Marsh! The shame, the pity, the infamy of it. The motorcycle roared closer and closer. As Frankie bumped up off the escalator onto the floor, he started to turn. He hadn't realized I had stopped running. With a desperate burst of energy, I stood up and struck with the inside knife edge of my hand - rigid extended fingers - at his throat. I missed his throat, but hit him in the upper lip. Almost as good. In effect, I clothes-lined

him and he flew backward off the bike. I jumped on before it could tip over and gunned it up the next flight of escalator steps. Behind me, Frankie screamed: "May my children be born with no faces if I don't torture you to death with steel and fire!" I heard his gang behind me, picking Frankie up and dusting him off. Now they all ran after me. I bumped up the next set of moving stairs. Most people heard me coming, looked back and quickly shrugged aside to let me pass. One woman - maybe she was deaf - didn't. "Laaaaaay-deeeee!!!" I yelled in my Jerry Lewis voice. She turned just in time, her face instantly transformed from blas`e to shocked; she shriveled over to let me pass. "Madman!" she yelled. I yelled back: "Think I'm a madman? Look who's following me!" She looked and let loose an ear-splitting screech. I rode up and up, putting distance between me and the Gypsy posse until I reached the twelfth floor. No more escalator! No thirteenth floor! What, was it unlucky? I had about five seconds to decide what to do. Fight them all? Drive all around the twelfth floor, trying to avoid them and tiring them all out? Brainstorm! The elevator! Dead ahead a hundred feet! I gunned the bike, as people squealed and leaped or dove out of my way. Forty feet away, the elevator door opened and another gang of young Gypsy men stormed out, brandishing weapons and howling for my head. Ten thousand hells! The ruddy peasants were revolting! How many times did I warn Lord Axelrod that this day would come? I hit the brakes, skidded, turned the bike around to see Frankie and his band emerging from the escalator, running full-speed toward me. Frankie looked hot-faced, demented, murderous. I drove between display cases of men's suits. An old white gentleman in a three-piece suit calmly watched as I rode toward him. Everyone else ran for their lives. The old guy must have worked at Jordan's for a hundred years and seen it all, so imperturbable did he look. Behind me, the Gypsies brayed for my blood. Another brainstorm! Good boy, brain, good boy. "How may I help you?" the old guy asked, calm as a carrot. "The roof, man, the roof!" I yelled. "How do I get to the roof?" He raised his eyebrows to indicate that my request bordered on the irregular. Then he turned his head and lifted his chin toward a back room. I didn't have time to express my admiration for his economy of movement. I just hoped he wasn't leading me into a trap. I hit the swinging doors with the front of the bike and

found myself in a room full of counters of boxes and extra suits and a big black guy who just stared at me. "Roof! Which way?" He pointed to a door. I gunned the bike and hit the door. It didn't swing open. I went flying into the door, banging my head and falling off the bike. I heard my pursuers and would-be murderers. "You all right?" the guy asked, helping me to stand. "How do I get to the roof?" "The door. But know what? Gotta open it first." "Jesu Freakin' Christ`e! Why didn't you say so?" I wrenched the door open, righted the bike, jumped on and zoomed through the doorway. The roof! Open air! I drove across the gravelly cement to the edge. Mother of pearl! I was a thousand feet above the street if I was an inch. Now what? Think fast, Mr. Castille! I rode around the periphery, looking over the edge. Carefully. Street. Street. Street. And on the fourth side, the new hotel and yes, on its roof, two hundred feet below me, the Olympic-size swimming pool. Frankie and the gang of two dozen Gypsies burst through the door onto the roof. Now that they had me cornered, they stopped, exhausted, to catch their breath before they killed me.

CHAPTER 67

What to do? Ride straight toward them as fast as the bike would go? They'd have to scatter and I'd blow by them, ride down the escalator or, better, take the elevator to the ground floor and escape to the street. But they had all kinds of weapons. It would only take one of them to step aside and bash me in the face with a lead pipe as I tried to pass. Then they'd overwhelm me and beat me half to death and throw me over the roof to the street. A thousand feet below. Even if they were caught and tried, they'd all alibi each other out. It wouldn't be as if I'd be there to give my version of events. No, I would have to be scraped off the cement with a putty knife. My heart pounded so hard my whole body throbbed with each beat. It was going to burst out of my chest. Still, I aimed the bike, preparing to drive straight at them and take my chances. Up here with no witnesses except fellow Gypsies, Frankie pulled out his nine. From fifty feet away, he aimed it at me and fired. I didn't feel hurt and I didn't seem to be bleeding, so I guess he missed. But so much for Plan A. Time for Plan B. Wait! There was no Plan B. They had regained their

breath and, now that I was cornered, walked resolutely toward me. I realized what Plan B had to be. I revved the engine - Vroom! Vroom! - hoping to scare them back. But with a gun, they weren't too scared. I put it into first gear and started riding toward them. Frankie smiled, as if to say, to blow this gaje's head off is going to be both fun and easy. Second gear. Faster. I turned sharply left. Third gear. Faster. I headed toward the edge of the roof. Good bye, cruel world. Fourth gear. Zooming now. Gypsy curses cut the air behind me. One shot fired. My brain still functioned so I hadn't been shot in the back of the head. At the edge of the roof, I soared off into space. What a feeling. My high-wire heart had never felt so terrified yet exhilarated. Like those rare dreams where you're flying high above the ground. Two hundred feet below casually rippled the water of the swimming pool. I guided the bike as best I could. Half way down, the motorcycle and I parted company. I aimed my body, keeping my feet down so I'd cut them open instead of my head if I was lucky enough to... Splash! I hit the pool in the deep end, feet first. My steel- reinforced shoes protected my feet as I hit the water. I tensed my neck muscles, dug my chin into my breastbone and covered my face with my forearms and elbows, so that the impact wouldn't snap my head back and break my neck. I plunged down through the water. When I hit bottom, I bent my knees like shock absorbers and pushed myself, lungs full of water, up. I emerged into sunshine, choking and coughing, guests caterwauling, hotel workers studying the wreckage of Frankie's motorcycle as it had hit concrete. I looked up. Frankie and his crew peered down over the roof's edge. I climbed out of the pool. "Anyone hurt?" I yelled. "No," said a hotel worker. "Good," I said, "bye." I ran for a doorway, hoofed it to an elevator, rode it soaking wet and shivering to the ground floor, ran through the ritzy-ditzy lobby by the dumbfounded stares of hoity-toity types and out onto Washington Street. The Nelson Sisters stood there, smoking. "Castille, ya goddamn fool!" yelled Cassandra's head. "'America'? Ya make me bloody sick!" "What are you talking about?" yelled Alexandra's head at her twin's head. "It's not such a bad choice." "It's ridiculous, you wench!" "Who ya calling a wench, you hussy?" As they pummeled each other, I ran through the parking lot to the lobby of the Textile Building. "Coffee?" enticed Mike, the Vietnamese vendor, with the ever present mercenary twinkle in his eye. "Number one

coffee." "A liter of adrenaline," I said. "To go." I rode the elevator four flights, ran down the hall, unlocked my office door, locked it behind me, unlocked one of the file cabinets, took out a sawed-off shotgun. Then I sat behind my desk, reached underneath and ripped free a nine taped to the underside of the desk with duct tape. I sat, gun in each hand, wet with sweat and pool water, heart galloping. I didn't think they knew where my office was. But if they did and they got through the locked door, they could only enter one at a time. And, as Sun Tzu said, 'If but one tiger stands at the river crossing, ten thousand deer dare not cross.' And if they did enter my office, I'd send them to sleep with their forefathers. One by one. May it be so.

CHAPTER 68

YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO GET ME. BUT I'M GOING TO GET YOU.

After half an hour, I figured I was safe. Just to be sure, I looked out the window. No jazzed-up Gypsies lurking four flights below on Chauncey Street. I stepped out into the hallway. Empty. No obstreperous yobs of the Gypsy persuasion. My heart slowed down. I got the mail and brought it in. When I saw the business envelope with no return address, my heart bumped up again. When I opened it and read the same type of insulting threat, my heart bounced around my thoracic cavity, not in fear but anger. Same m.o. 8 1/2" X 11" white paper. Letters cut out of magazines. And where was Phoenix? Why hadn't she checked in? Was she still on the job guarding Margie? The phone rang and I rose an inch out of my chair. Great minds think alike. Phoenix checking in. Finally. "Hello." "Castille, you fucking asshole!" shouted Margie. "Why is Phoenix following me?" "Phoenix?" I feigned ignorance. "Following you?" "Don't play the dummy. I had a funny feeling of being watched all weekend at the restaurant. I thought I spotted

her outside. Yesterday and today at work, I had the same feeling. And I just spotted her again. Out my window. Across the street. "Why? Those letters?" she asked. "In a word? Yes." "When will you ever listen to me? Go to the cops." "Useless," I said. "I assure you." "You. But why is Phoenix following me?" "She's not following you." "What is she doing then?" she asked. "She's guarding you." "Guarding me? Why? Oh! Those letters. You think I'm in danger?" "Hypothetically," I said. "Bullshit. Nothing hypothetical about you siccing Phoenix on me. Did you get any more letters?" "One a day by mail. I'm looking at today's right now." "One a day?" she asked. "When was the first?" "Thursday." "Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday... Sunday? No mail delivery on Sunday." "Slipped under the door," I said. "Fuck. Monday and today, Tuesday. That's six threatening letters in six days. Wise up. Go to the cops. What? You don't trust them?" "Excuse, please, Miss Margie," I said in my Charlie Chan voice. "Fish trust water. Yet it is in water that fish is cooked." "Castille, you racist asshole. I'm calling the cops!" "Don't. I beg of you." "Why not?" she asked. "First, I don't think you're really in danger. But just on the off-chance that you are, I have my best operative guarding you." "Phoenix Chan. Who I hate." "As she does you," I said. "Appreciate the diabolically sublime symmetry of it all?" "No. But you said 'first.' What's second?" "Second. I don't want this virus arrested. I want to kill him myself." "Even if the attempt kills you?" she demanded. "One hopes it shan't come to that, my precious prophet of doom. But if it does, yes." "Why?" "Because I'm a go-down-with-the-ship kind of guy," I said. "I'm a women-and-children-in-the-lifeboat-first kind of girl." "Opposites attract." "They used to," she said. "Now they repel." "I say, snookers, have you seen my Ching Dynasty snuff bottle? I must have left it in your domicile. Perhaps I could pop over tonight for a spot of Jade Stem Opens the Gates of Heaven."

"Oh no, your imperialist lordship. I have to go. Meeting with Uncle Billy Wong, the fascist Mongolian fuck. Wouldn't care to kill him for me, would you, Flash?" "Anything for you, Dale," I said. "Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner tonight. I know of no culinary delight greater than zebra marrow. Unless it be rhinoceros heart which I just had last week." "With you? You're a marked man. Gotta go." "But we're okay, right? Me and you?" "Calling the cops?" she asked. "No." "Then we're not all right." "But..." I started. She had hung up. Sigh. The phone rang. I rose two inches out of my chair. Phoenix. "About time," I said. "I think Margie made me." "I don't think. I know." "How?" she asked. "Margie just called and told me." "She actually saw me?" "Yes," I said. "I must be slipping." "Are you carrying the crossbow?" "Course not," she said. "Gun under my jacket." "Because a crossbow would tend to draw attention." "Think I'm stupid?" "No," I said. "But how did she realize you were shadowing her?" "Don't know." "You! Phoenix Chan! Intrepid pathfinder in the wilderness of the savage city. You! Phoenix Chan! Hunter and slayer of violent men." "Enough," she said. But I was on a roll. "You who, like water, cannot be grasped. You who, like wind, cannot be seen. You who..." "Enough, I said! I feel bad enough as it is. Don't rub it in. Now what?" "Damnably awkward," I said. "But no choice. Stick with her." "Stick? My cover is blown." "My dear Phoenix, I beg of you not to lose sight of the task. You're not following her; you're guarding her. Keep my beloved from harm. That is the sacred mission with which you were charged." "Okay, chief," she said. "Not a hair of her head will be hurt." "I knew I could count on you," I said. "But check in more often." "I'll check in when I feel like it." "Of course you will."

CHAPTER 69

Around ten p.m., I headed to the Hot Spot to see what insanity King Pimp and Crazy F had improvised in my absence. I entered and my new friend, the bouncer at the door, said: "Go right in, sir." Sir? What was the world coming to? As I walked through the bar to the back room, I was astonished to see Sister Flukie sitting at the counter, sipping a drink. She wore her usual slinky long-sleeved gown. Gladiator sandals protected her usually bare feet. When she saw me, she smiled. Slightly. Her eyes were deep, murky wells. Someday, I'd drop a bucket down those wells and see what I pulled up. "Flukie, what are you doing out here? Never seen you out of the back room except that one time you flew a kite from King to me at my office." "I still on invisible leash," she said. "I'm glad to catch you alone," I said. "You glad? I glad." "A question." "What?" she asked. "Who's Crazy F's mother?" She looked at me: a nubile Nubian princess. "Why you wanna know?" "Like I told King," I said. "It could give us leverage with Crazy F." "Ain't no leverage with Crazy F. Believe me. I know." "Tell me anyway. If you know." "I know," she said. "Who?" "I Sister Flukie. Ain't no ran-through hoe. But Sister Flukie a slave. My master be King Pimp. I don't tell nothing to nobody he don't want me to tell." "King Pimp told you not to tell me?" I asked. "Or anybody?" "Anybody." "Why?" "Tell you why, then you know who," she said. "So. No." "I'm very disappointed." "You disappointed? How 'bout me? How you think it feel to be a slave? Worse 'n disappointed." "I tried to help you escape," I said. "But you refused. Remember?" "I 'member. But like I tole ya. I gone live and die in the Zone. Way it is. Way it have to be." "But why does it have to be this way?" "Just do," she shrugged. "Go in back. King wanna talk to you." "About what?"

"Who knows? But he always going on 'bout you." "Saying what?" I asked. "Sometime good, sometime bad. Sometime, you gone save him. Sometime, he gone kill you." "Nice to be appreciated," I said. "Wouldn't know," she said. I got up and went to the back room. Door locked. In fact, the old wooden door was replaced by a steel door. I knocked. A panel slid back revealing a pair of eyes. "Swordfish," I said. "That Castille?" King's voice boomed. "Let 'im in!" I heard deadbolts released and the door opened. Changes. Big changes. Not only the steel door. The windows were covered with bolted steel sheets. No more hand grenades coming through. Crazy would need a Sherman tank to crash through the wall. Something I wouldn't put past him. If he could get one. But they didn't exactly sell them at flea markets and yard sales. Yet. King sat on his throne with a handgun on the right armrest. The remaining bodyguard stood to his right, hyper-alertly eyeballing me as I came in. I wondered how King disposed of the corpse of the other bodyguard. Fewer camp-followers but they also looked hyper-alert. A knock at the steel door. The guard pulled the panel back. Flukie's voice said: "This here Melody. Say she know where Crazy F at." "Vouch for her?" asked the guard. "Don't vouch for no one," replied Flukie. "Let 'em in!" yelled King eagerly. The guard undid the bolts and opened the door. Flukie came in with a white girl. Eighteen or nineteen, six-inch high heels, super-tight jeans, flimsy top under a windbreaker with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Under her fake face, terror and shame tightened their noose-like control of her features. They approached King. Melody had a tattoo of a music staff around her left wrist. On the staff were musical notes. "Nice tat," I said. "Thank you," she said. "Didn't even notice it," said King. "Are these notes random?" I asked. "Or a melody?" "Melody," she said. "What?" "My favorite song." "Which is?" I persisted. "King of Soul by James Brown."

"Say, King of Soul?" repeated King, energized. "Say, James Brown?" "Soul Brother Number One," I said in my disc jockey voice. "Hardest Working Man In Show Business. Godfather of Soul." "Lemme see that, girl," King beckoned her up the steps to the throne platform. "King," said the bodyguard. "You said nobody comes up to the throne except you and me and Flukie." "You're not a deaf-mute," I said in wonderment. "And you're not a philosopher-king," the bodyguard replied. "Just a philosopher," I said. "King Pimp is the king." "Damn right. So shut the fuck up," King said. "Come up here, girl. 'S okay." "I'm afraid," she said. "Shitman," King said to his bodyguard. "Stop aiming at her." The bodyguard reluctantly lowered his Uzi. Flukie sat in a corner, pulled up a sleeve, tied her left bicep with a belt using her teeth and right hand, slapped her arm looking for an unruined vein. Into which she injected a needle. The girl walked up the steps to the platform and held out her wrist tattoo for King's rapt attention. "Damn! What a good idea. Ah got to get mahself one of these. Hurt?" "Hardly at all," the girl said. "Castille," King said. "You know music, don't ya?" "A little." "C'mere. See if this melody really for King Of Soul." After a glance at the bodyguard, I started walking up the steps. While King held her left hand and studied the tattoo, the girl's right hand reached inside her jacket. "Whoa!" yelled the bodyguard. "What you getting?" "Just some perfume," she smiled. "Make myself smell nice for King Pimp." "Damn, girl, you smell fine already," said King, turning her wrist this way and that, fascinated. "But you wanna smell finer, go ahead." She took out a small but expensive-looking atomizer and sprayed it in King's face. He let go of her hand, gagged, slumped, his face turning blue. He clutched at his throat. "I...can't...breathe," he rasped.

CHAPTER 70

The girl ran down the steps, looking for egress. The bodyguard raised his Uzi to blow her away. I grabbed her around the waist and she hid behind me. "Get out the way, Castille!" the bodyguard yelled.

"No!" I said. "We need to know what that stuff is." King slumped further. "Can't...breathe," he gurgled. Was that the death rattle? "What is it?" I asked the girl. "Poison," she said. "What kind?" "How do I know?" "Crazy send you?" I asked. "No." I slapped her. Hard. She looked like she was going to cry. "Crazy send you?" I asked again. "Yes!" she said. "What poison?" I asked. King didn't have long to live. "Don't know," the girl pleaded. "You must have heard Crazy say it at some point." "No." "Either you tell us a name or that guy with the Uzi blasts you into ribbons." "Don't!" she pleaded. "I think he said...Tramexia? Something like that." "Tramexia," I repeated. King was now flailing on the throne, unable to control his limbs. His head looked like a blue balloon. "Igor! Quasimodo! Happy Hooligan!" I shouted at the bodyguard. "Whatever your name is!" "Me?" "Yeah, you! Get as much coffee as you can. As strong as possible." "Where?" he asked. "Don't have it out front?" "Don't think so." "Then down the street at Dirty Gertie's," I said. "Go!" "How much?" "A gallon jug. A bucket. Go! Now!" He put down his Uzi and ran. King didn't look like he'd make it, writhing and groaning and flailing. Maybe I should just let him die. He'd probably die anyway. And then Crazy F, loose cannon on deck, would become captain of the Good Ship Combat Zone. "I'm sorry," the girl said. I held her wrist as she sank to the floor. Flukie sat in a chair, nodded out. The hang-arounds milled and whispered. Unbelievably, the bodyguard returned with a gallon of coffee. "Strong?" I asked. "She said yeah." I went up the steps to King. "King, can you hear me?" He seemed to nod his head up and down, though it was hard to tell amid his general thrashing about. "You're going to drink all this coffee down," I said to

him. "Every bit. Then you're going to throw up everything inside you. Got it?" He seemed to nod. I raised the jug to his lips. Everybody except Flukie held their breath and watched. He choked and spit it up. "Don't spit it up!" I commanded. "Force it down or you're dead!" This seemed to register. He forced himself to drink down all the coffee. His agitation increased. I waited one minute. "Now," I said. "Throw up. Vomit. Upchuck." His midsection convulsed and I put the jug under his mouth and backed away. He vomited up ghastly-smelling evil-looking chartreuse-colored liquid. Over and over. A good ten minutes. Then he stopped. "He dead?" asked the bodyguard. "His chest is rising and falling," I said. We waited. The poisoner sat slumped on the floor, crying. "Please don't hurt me!" she wailed. "He made me do it!" After fifteen minutes, King focused his look on me. He looked like he had just returned from two weeks vacation in hell. "What happened?" he asked. "Poison," I said in my Sherlock Holmes voice. "A woman's weapon." "What?" "She said Tramexia." "You save me?" he asked. "How?" "Took a chance. Caffeine is a central nervous system stimulant which kept your body functioning until you had the strength to vomit up the poison." "You saved my life." "Probably some still in your system," I said. "You won't feel so hot for the next couple of days." "Least Ah alive. Which is more 'n Ah can say for you, little white girl. Waste her." "No," I said. The girl crouched on the floor behind me, clutching my knees. I looked down at her, her makeup streaky and runny. Crying her eyes out. She wasn't nineteen; more like fourteen. "I know you," I said. "You do?" she cringed. "In the summer, you were being twisted out by some Pepsi-Cola pimp on the Stroll. I didn't even notice your tattoo. What was your pimp's name? Something to do with cards." "Double Aces." "Double Aces!" I said. "How'd you fall into the clutches of Crazy F?" "Aces gave up on me. I can't do nothing right. Can't

even hoe. I'm useless. Aces lost me to Crazy in a poker game. No reason for me to live." "Thass right, girl," said King. "Shoot her." "No," I said. "Out the way, Castille." "No." "Save my life or not," he threatened. "King, she's a half-witted terrified little girl. A tool, an unwitting weapon for you-know-who. You have to find the finger that pulls the trigger. The trigger's just a piece of metal, got no brain." "That's right, Mr. King," said the girl, still cowering behind me. "I ain't got a brain." "Where's Crazy F hiding out?" I asked her. "Please, mister," she said. "Tell me," I commanded. "I don't know," she said, her eyes darting from mine. An obvious lie. "You do know, fraulein, and you vill tell me," I said, holding her shoulders. "If not, vee haff vays to make you talk." "Really! I don't know! He'll kill me!" "No, he won't. I'll make sure of that. Tell me. Where?" "I don't know! I don't know! I don't know!" she repeated, like a desperate wind-up doll. "King, have your man kill her," I said, prying her off me and backing away. "Mah pleasure," said King. "No!" she screamed, scuttling over to hide behind me. "Then tell me," I said. "All right! But he'll kill me! You don't know him!" "I do know him," I said. "He won't kill you. Where?" "Back room of a restaurant in the Theatre District." "Name?" "No Regrets," she said. "Get the guns, boys," shouted King. "Let's go get that traitor!" "No!" I said. "What?" asked King. "Give me one more chance to talk sense into Crazy F." "Now is you is or is you ain't one head-soft Caspar X. Jackass?" "One last shot, King," I said. "If he doesn't come across, he's all yours." King mulled. "Let's get him," said the bodyguard. "I'm your consigliere," I said. "Hand-picked by your highness." "Aw'ight," he said, begrudgingly. "One last chance, Castille, you mother-raper. Boy don't approach mah throne on his knees? Then Ah blow his kneecaps and knucklehead to kingdom come." "Amen," I said, gripping Melody's wrist and departing.

"Whatchoo want with that slummy bummy bitch?" King yelled after me. "My business," I replied. "Sho. Ah gets it. Save some for me."

CHAPTER 71

I dragged Melody by her musical wrist through the Hot Spot. Nobody bothered to look up from their drinks. A zombie convention. Outside, on LaGrange Street, the girl pleaded: "Please, mister. I'll do whatever you want; just don't give me back to Crazy. He'll kill me." "Heaven will protect the working girl," I said, walking, pulling. "What are you gonna do with me?" "What's your name?" "Melody," she said. "Real name." "Believe it or not. Melody. That's what gave Crazy F the idea for the tattoo." "Where are you from, Melody?" I asked. "Cohasset." "Cohasset? The Oaks. Jerusalem Road. People with money. How'd you end up in the Zone?" "I ran away," she said. "Why?" "Because..." she stopped. I remembered the night I confronted her pimp, Double Aces. He had described her father as 'one rape-happy pappy.' That was why she had run away from home. "I take it you don't want to go back home." "No, no, no! Please!" "What about Double Aces?" I asked. "Double Aces? He dead." "Him and Mistah Kurtz. How?" "Knifed in a poker game," she said. "He was cheating." "Why am I not surprised? Then where do you want to go? You can't stay in the Zone." "I don't know," she bawled. "Nobody wants me. Can I be with you? Cook and clean and do, you know, whatever." "I don't think so," I said. "Please!" I couldn't keep her with me even if I wanted to. Not with a madman stalking me. Jeez. I'd forgotten. I swiveled my head, looking for suspicious characters. On LaGrange Street? They were all suspicious. What to do with Melody? I looked at my watch. 11:15 p.m. Too late to call? Not for a workaholic. I ducked into a phone booth and dialed.

"Hi!" I said in my Larry Lounge Lizard voice. "Single, bright, personable, warm, funny white private eye looking for attractive, intelligent, articulate Chinese woman. Must have nice body and be hot to trot. No fats. No fems." "You're a credit to your racism," Margie laughed. "What's up?" "I got two women pregnant." "Only two? Disappointing." "If you play your cards right," I said, "you could be number three." "My father's sick enough. That would kill him. Call the cops yet?" "Forget the cops. What are you doing?" "Stuffing envelopes for Jim McKean," she said. "Who?" "He's running for city councilor here in Quincy." "Good, kind, decent, helpful Margie," I said. "I should be asleep. Tomorrow, I have 49,000 things to do." "Then 49,001 won't be much more." "Now what?" she asked. "Little girl lost in the Zone. Can't stay here. Can't go home. Can you put her in a decent place in the system?" "There are no decent places in the system." "Can't be worse than the Zone," I said. "Already chewed her up and spit her out." "All right," sighed Margie. "But only if you promise to call the cops about those letters." "I told you. Forget the cops. And don't play emotional blackmail. Will you help this lost soul or not?" "Bring her to the Service Center tomorrow." "Has to be tonight," I said. "Now." "Service Center's closed." "But you're not." "Oh no," she said. "Come on. You put up with those two mini-terrorists. You can put up Melody for the night." "Emerald and Wellington Tsang aren't terrorists. They're troubled kids." "Just like Melody," I said. "Touch`e, no?" "Castille, you fucking asshole. All right. Bring her here." After hanging up, I said to Melody: "I'm bringing you to someone." "When?" "Now." "Who?" she asked. "Margie Wong. She'll put you up for the night." "Can't I spend the night with you?" she asked, putting her hand on my leg. "Who do I look like?" I asked, removing her hand. "Mick Jagger? Tomorrow, Margie will find a place for you in the system." "The system? No. Please."

"Better the system than the Zone," I said. "I guess," she said, deflated, her last ounce of resistance gone. I drove south over the Neponset River to Quincy and handed Melody off to Margie. Mother Margie had already made up a bed for her. Melody was not my problem anymore. Now my problem was Crazy F.

CHAPTER 72

"Castille, you bird-dog!" exclaimed Crazy F. "You track me down twice? How?" "The little girl you sent to kill King Pimp," I said. "She kill that mother-raper? O happy day!" I was in a back function room of No Regrets on Tremont Street. Not far from the site of Diedre's studio. Crazy and company - ten gun-toting guys all muscled-up from gorilla juice - chewed and chomped, gobbled and choked on blue plate grub; swilled and swigged, scoffed and slurped liquor, straight up or mixed. Out front, in the regular dining room, the apr`es-theatre crowd also shoveled down food and liquor, discoursing loudly on the merits of the shows just seen. From the front door, gun discreetly covered, one of Crazy's goons had conducted me to the back room. "No, the girl didn't kill him," I said. "King saw it coming and stopped it." "Damn that little white chicklet," lamented Crazy. "Can't boost. Can't hoe. Now? Can't even kill? Wait Ah get my hands on her. Rip the white right offa her." "Too late." "Why?" "I sent her to live in Alaska," I said. "She's going to train for the Iditarod." "Say, idiotrod? Say, Alaska? Crazy F may be crazy but Crazy F ain't stupid. She a stone Zone zombie. One a these days? Ah catch her on these streets. And when Ah do..." "Knock it off, Crazy." "What?" he demanded. "You tell King Crazy, knock it off? That what you say?" "You may be crazy but you're not deaf. It's not too late to negotiate with King Pimp." "Who?" "All right," I said. "With Pimp." "That better. Show proper respect in presence of King Crazy." "Yes, your imperial magisterial potentate," I said. "Certainly you are a mad king for a mad world." "Don't get mouthy," he said, "or Ah have Backsnapper snap your back." The monster with the gash in his forehead stepped out of a shadow.

I'd forgotten him. "Just...say...word," he said to Crazy F. "Not right now," said Crazy. "Disappointed?" I asked Backsnapper. He opened his mouth wide from which issued a weird sound - half hissing, half guttural. "Is that the manner of communication back in whatever haunted forest in Transylvania you were spawned?" He advanced on me. "Back, Back, back!" yelled Crazy. "You may have just invented a one-word language," I said. But it did cause Backsnapper to stop. He stared at me. "Someday, I, Backsnapper, will...snap...your...back." He took a pencil off a table and broke it in two. I tried not to gulp. "You be tweakin' the devil's nose," Crazy said. "Oh dear," I said. "What have I gone and done?" "Not succeed, try, try again," said Crazy F. "Is that your plan?" I asked. "Keep at it till you kill Pimp?" "Fo' a white boy, you pretty sharp." "What if Pimp or his men kill you first?" He shrugged. "Live hard. Die hard," said Crazy. "Nothing in between." "Who first said that? Pliny the Elder? Or Pliny the Younger? I always get the two mixed up." "Tell me. King Crazy curious. Why you care if Ah kill Pimp?" "Personally," I said, "I don't." "Then why you always in the middle a things, tryna stop 'em?" "Because as bad as Pimp is, you're worse. Pimp at least is half-way sensible. Keeps the carnage to a minimum. You're chaos personified." "Say, chaos personified?" he asked. "That not bad. Like Murder, Incorporated. First of mah royal titles. King Crazy, Chaos Personified. Ah like the sound of that." "It does have a certain ring," I said. Crazy took a big drag on a blunt. "Here. Have a hit of woo." "Woo?" I asked. "Woo who?" "Woo. Just a joint a weed. But with that new street shit mixed in." "What new street shit?" "New kinda cocaine," he said. "Crack. Try some." "Against my religion." "What religion?" He asked contemptuously. "Cath-o-lick?" "My religion," I said, "is the worship of the beauty and utility of the human foot." Crazy laughed. "You is a funny fuck. Now Ah see why Pimp like havin' you around. And you a smart fuck. For a white mother-raper.

So Ah axe you again," said Crazy F with all the sincerity he could muster. "Join me. Be mah consigliere. You and me? Take over Zone, city, state." "Then the country? Then the world?" "Sky the limit," said Crazy and laughed wildly. "You in?" "No." Abruptly, he stopped laughing. The room went quiet. Deathly quiet.

CHAPTER 73

"Say, no?" repeated Crazy F. "Ah tole ya before, Castille, you crazier'n me. Now you prove it." A black woman came in. "'Scuse me, King Crazy," she said. "Didn't know you was conducting business." "'S okay, Honey, it's all good," said Crazy F expansively. "Every king need a queen. Ain't that right, Castille?" "So logic would dictate." "This here mah queen. Mah main squeeze. Honey Jill, meet Castille." "Pleased to meet you," she said politely. "Charmed, I'm sure," I said, as ever on my best behavior. "Honey Jill," ordered Crazy, "turn around and shake that beautiful black azz." "Oh, Crazy. I couldn't." "Couldn't? Can and will. Now." She turned and shook her solid behind. "Mm mm," marveled Crazy F, like a connoisseur. "Man, you diggin' on the junk in her trunk?" "She's a fine strapping lass, to be sure," I said. "Even a white mother-raper like you gotta 'preciate that booty. Man, it mah duty to slide up in under that booty." "Quite so." "Me and Honey Jill even goin' halvesies on a baby. You know that's some serious shit." "Halvesies?" I said. "I know a woman whose house is half in Boston, half in Cambridge. Right on the boundary line. She adopted fraternal twins. One's Asian. Other one's white." "So smart, ain'cha?" frowned Crazy. "Always have to one-up evvabody, don'cha?" "I merely sought to make diverting but pleasant conversation continuing the theme." "What theme?" demanded Crazy F. "Halvesies," I reminded him. "Now, Ah axe ya. Is you crazy or is you ain't?" "You sound just like Pimp," I said. "Don't never be sayin' that," Crazy F fumed. "Ah ain't

like that slum scrub. No way. No how. Ah warns ya, Castille. Compare me with him again? You be caught behind the 15-ball." "Touchy," I said. "For so excellent a king." "Ah tell ya straight up. Next time Ah see Pimp, Ah shoot 'im between his eyeballs. So you wanna 'range a sit-down, you 'range it. But he there? Ah there? Without even a how-de-doo, Ah shoot him dead." "Have a spot of sherry," I said. "Perhaps that will soothe your nerves, Crazy." "King Crazy," he corrected me. "Fine. Listen, your royal anointed blowhard King Crazy. Start an all-out war on the streets of downtown Boston and innocent people will be killed." "Fine by King Crazy. What Ah care 'bout mushrooms like that?" "Don't care about your fellow huddled masses yearning to breath free?" I asked. "Ah'm free," he shrugged. "Ah'm not huddled." "I'm not finished," I said. "Then finish, you white mother-raper, 'fore Ah have Backsnapper do his awesome thing." "The authorities don't care about your little war. But they do care about the image of the city. If downtown turns into Dodge City, they'll bring in the State Police, the National Guard and, if necessary, the United States Army." "Too late," said Crazy. "The dice is cast." "Die." "You tell me die? Ah shoot you right now!" "I meant, die, the singular of dice," I said. "Two or more is plural. Dice." "Oh, now you play English perfessor again. Die. Dice. Drop dead. Whatever. Cops. Guard. Army. Whatever. Bring 'em on. King Crazy don't care. Long as Pimp die. And you ain't far behind him on my list." "In which case," I said, "I'll take my leave of your royal personage." "Oh no. Ain't goin' nowhere. Not alive. King Crazy done had it with you. Honey Jill, disappear." "Yes, King," said Honey Jill who exited stage left. "Backsnapper!" barked Crazy F. "Now Castille all yours. Do yo' throw-down thang. Like a twig, man, like a twig."

CHAPTER 74

I went for my gun but before I could pull it, ten handguns were pointed at me. "Nuh uh," said Crazy F. "No gun. Just hand to hand, mah man Backsnapper and you." "That's certainly fair," I said. Backsnapper swiped at me, like a bear with a huge paw. I danced out of reach. He advanced toward me. I saw he had

no philosophy, no art, no science. But he didn't need them. He had tree-trunk strength. His black button eyes bored into mine. "Kill 'im, Back," chuckled Crazy F. "But take your time." He moved again. I turned a chair over in his path. He knocked it aside. I heard the late-night theatre crowd in the front room talking, laughing, boozing, shouting. When I first met Diedre, No Regrets was called Nathan's. After Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls. In that musical, Nathan, played by Frank Sinatra in the movie, was proprietor of New York's Oldest Permanent Floating Crap Game. It was his job to find a new, hidden location each week for the game, unknown to the cops. Hidden. Unknown. Backsnapper moved on me fast. Faster than I thought he could. Without thinking, I snapped a hard left jab to his jaw. Ouch! Almost broke the knuckles of my hand. I hated to punch. Might hurt my hand and curtail my guitar playing. Besides, as the Old Legionnaire often said: Punching. So crude. But the shod foot was something else again. I threw a punch at his face. He flinched back. Fake-out! With his attention up high, I attacked down low. In a few seconds, I unleashed a barrage of savate kicks with my steel-toed, steel-embedded rubber-soled shoes. Ankles, shins and knees; inside, outside and straight on. What the Old Legionnaire called - in his Latvian-French-American accent - sabotage. Derived, as was savate, from the Old French sabot, meaning shoe. Because, when machines replaced men in the Industrial Revolution, the French workers threw their shoes into the internal workings of the machines, causing them to malfunction. Sabotage. "Let 'im do you like that, Back?" Crazy F egged the monster on. His legs hurt and he was now aware of my feet as weapons. But again he advanced. He tried to corner me, like a slugging boxer against a dancing boxer in the ring. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waiter go by with a platter of food, glance in, eyes widen and keep moving. Back tried to cut off my escape space. Which wasn't that hard. Considering Crazy F and his men, guns in hand, prodded me in the kidney every time I retreated toward them. Back rushed me, arms outstretched. I sidestepped left, observed his timing and - just as his right foot was about to

land on the floor - I swept it forward from behind his Achilles tendon. The effect was like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel. He slid forward awkwardly on his right leg and fell. Crazy F laughed. "Castille got some pump-from-downtown moves, Back! Tole ya!" Back righted himself, cut a cramped glance at Crazy and stared at me with one eye full of malevolence and the other full of mayhem. "You..make...me...mad," Back notified me. "Mad as in angry?" I asked. "Or mad as in insane?" "Both!" he hollered, and then charged like an enraged bull. And, silly me, I'd left my toreador cape at home. I crouch-stepped under his arms and, behind him, kicked into the back of his knee. He buckled. But quickly recovered. We turned to face each other. "Come on, Back," encouraged Crazy F. "Kill this mother-raper. Slow and easy or fast and fun; keep it real but get it done." Sooner or later, he'd grab hold of my arm or leg or torso or head and I was done for. Unless Crazy got tired of waiting and shot me. But what could I do? Back opened wide his mouth and emitted that strange half-hissing, half-guttural sound. I didn't think it boded well for my immediate future. Soaked with sweat, my heart beat like a machine gun in a 1930's Warner Brothers gangster film. Rat-a-tat-tat. Back moved in on me. Nathan Detroit. Hidden, unknown location. High-low. I remembered Match Cut's description of the guided tour of the City of the Dead. Every joint in the Theatre District had a cellar, most connected by tunnels. The tunnels opened into the underground. Pitch dark. No Regrets must have had the same set-up. If I could make it into the underground, these jamokes would never find me. But how? And did I really want to be alone, without escort, without flashlight, in the City of the Dead? On the other hand, did I really want to be torn limb from limb by the Abominable Slowman closing in on me? One nightmare at a time. While staying out of Back's grasp, I cudgeled my memory of late nights here with Diedre. I visualized the dining room and tried to recall which way the wait staff came and went. I also used my sense of smell - not quite canine in its discrimination but you use what you have - and I thought I had it figured. Crazy had a gunman at the front door so a simple frontal exit was a no-go.

Choice: stay and wind up dead. Or take a chance and possibly lose these jamokes in the City of the Dead. And then take my chances on finding my way out of the City of the Dead without being attacked in the dark or getting lost and dying of hunger or getting flattened by a subway train. I danced in and kicked Back in the knee. Which momentarily halted his forward progress. "Fight...like...man," Back said. "I am," I said. "Not an animal like you." Crazy laughed, head back, eyes closed. Now. I bolted out of the room. "Only way out be the front door," yelled Crazy. "He a dead man." Instead of going into the dining room, I followed my nose to the kitchen. "You can't come in here!" yelled the chef. "That's why I'm here," I said. "Huh?" he said. Abstract logic befuddles them. Every time. "Where's the cellar?" "The cellar?" quizzed the chef, even more confused. "The cellar, man, the cellar!" I yelled. "Where you keep the supplies!" Before he could answer, a busboy emerged from a trapdoor with boxes of frozen food. I ran over. Ladder down. I jumped, hit the bottom. Yup. The cellar. Cold. Refrigerators filled with food. Above, I heard Crazy F yelling at the poor chef: "Where is he?" "That guy?" "Which way'd he go?" "There." I saw feet descending on the ladder. Frantically, I eyeballed the cellar for a tunnel. Or an opening of any kind. Crazy was almost to the floor, gun in hand, but with his back to me. I hopped over and chopped him on the back of the neck. He fell with a soft "ooh." But more feet descended. Where? There! Partially obscured but a genuine tunnel. I ran for it. Just as I entered, a burst of gunfire hit the wall behind me. I moved as fast as I dared, arms extended - one high, the other low - so I wouldn't run face first into a brick wall. I had run the same way, in the extremity and folly of my youth, when chased by cops after dark through backyards. So I wouldn't decapitate myself on clotheslines or castrate myself on low spiked iron fences. In total darkness, I stopped. At the beginning of the tunnel, I heard Crazy F - not

much of a neck chop, I guess - and his boys. They debated the merits of entering an unknown subterranean space full of Stygian darkness. "Fuck 'im!" he said. "Sooner or later, we catch up to 'im! And when we do, Ah shoot his big mouth off his head and his head off his body!" Thank you thank you thank you. I was a wreck. Pouring sweat. Pounding heart. Gasping for breath. I put out my hand and touched a pillar. Yecch! Clammy. Creepy. Cruddy. I listened. Strange sounds. I looked. Pure blackness. I couldn't go back. Crazy and his crazies had set up shop in No Regrets. I could only go forward into the darkness. After two steps, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I knew - I knew - someone or something nearby in the darkness watched me.

CHAPTER 75

"Who's there?" I asked the darkness. Silence. I still felt eyes upon me. Eyes, unlike mine, accustomed to lightlessness. "I know you're there," I said. Silence. With a burst of panic, I realized it might be Diedre's killer. My thoughts jumbled and tumbled. I couldn't control them. My body flooded with adrenaline. I didn't want to be shot to death under the streets of Boston and my corpse be a feast for rats. I took out my gun. But what direction to fire in? The odds were against me hitting him. Even if I did hit him, who knew what creatures of the underground the sound of gunfire would draw. No doubt, life-forms of a most unsavory type. "At least tell me why you killed my wife," I said to the darkness. Silence. Just as I was about to pull the trigger and shoot blindly in different directions, a voice said: "I didn't kill your wife." A female voice. Which I recognized. "Maria the Prophet!" I said. "The mysteries of the city are many," she intoned. "You ain't kidding, sister," I said, relaxing. "Where

are you?" "Nearby." "Can you show yourself?" "No," she said. "Okay. By the way, the first of your two predictions to me came true. The black men were undone. I wonder if the second prediction is still in effect. Will my wife's murderer be undone?" "Yes." "When?" I asked. "I say unto you: when the time is ripe, the murderer will be undone." "I look forward with unmitigated anticipation. In the meantime, any chance of your helping me to get out of this charming hell-hole?" "Do as I say," she said. "Walk straight forward." I walked slowly with arms outstretched. I felt her eyes on me. "Keep walking?" I asked. "Keep walking," she said. I groped my way forward. "Stop!" she commanded. I stopped. My heart pounded. Except it wasn't my heart. Something else. What? Getting closer. "Quick!" she said. "Turn left! Walk till you feel a wall. Find the narrow opening." I did so. The noise grew louder, demanding, inhuman. "What is that?" I asked. "Rats." My heart went into hyper-overdrive. I remembered Match Cut warning about armies of rats on the move. And to be sure to get out of their way. I had hoped he was joking. But this ever closer, ever louder, indescribable noise wasn't a joke. "I found the opening." "Get inside!" she said. "Quick!" The opening was about four feet by four feet. I crouched and entered and felt increased dampness. "Move in further!" she said. "I have to get in too." I moved deeper: the humidity increased. "What is this?" I asked. "An unused tunnel that runs into the harbor," she said, close by. I was tempted to reach out and touch her. "It was meant as a run-off from heavy rains or flood in the subway. Now be quiet. If you want to live." The ruination of rats passed by us. They made a weird, inhuman, ungodly sound. Besides the trampling of their little feet by the hundreds - thousands? - they squeaked, squealed, almost shrieked in an infernal cacophony. A horrible grating that split my ears, set my teeth on edge, jangled my nerves. The stench was horrific. To think that right under the feet of unsuspecting Bostonians were hordes of one of humanity's worst scourges.

Destructive pests who had wiped out whole populations throughout history as carriers of horrible contagious diseases like the Black Plague. God help us if they smelled us and turned into the tunnel for a little snack of human-on-the-half-shell. I held my breath. I didn't see or hear or smell Maria, but I knew she was there. The eerie helter-skelter din subsided. The verminous army had passed. The sweat poured off me. "You can come out now," said Maria with a touch of sarcasm. I scrambled out. "Where are they going in such a rush?" I asked. I could almost feel her shrug. "Who knows?" I felt like saying 'You're a prophet; you should know.' But I thought it best not to antagonize the spool of thread that would lead me out of this labyrinth. "Walk," she commanded. I walked. "Do you know if my wife's murderer is hiding in the City of the Dead?" "I do not know," she answered, behind me. "Do you know who killed my wife?" "No." "How do you know he'll be undone?" I asked. "I have a...gift. Some call it second sight. I can look into your mind and, not exactly see the future, but - how to put it? - see filaments of possible future outcomes concerning you. Some filaments have greater probability than others." "Ow!" "What?" she asked. "My foot hit something hard, solid, metal." "It's a rail of the subway." "The subway?" I asked. "Follow the tracks and you will get out of here. Just stay close to this rail. The rail on the opposite side is next to the third rail. Step on the third rail and you will be incinerated." "You'll guide me?" "I have to go," she said. "Stay on this side of the tracks." "What if a train comes?" "Get out of the way." "How?" I asked. "The mysteries of the city are many." I knew she was gone. I walked, careful to feel the near rail with the side of my left foot. Good thing the rail was there, solid and straight and dependable. Otherwise, in the darkness, I would have been completely disoriented. I heard a distant roar in front of me.

A wind blew stronger and stronger against my face. A train coming? What was Maria's advice? Oh yeah. Get out of the way. Brilliant! I stepped over the rail away from the tracks. I walked smack into a solid wall of concrete or cement. God help me! I was no longer in wide open space. I was in the tunnel. With the roar getting louder, the wind blowing stronger, the train coming closer. What to do? Why would Maria let me die like this? Wait! Didn't they have human-sized niches in subway walls for workers? I desperately felt along the cold, clammy wall. Then I saw it. A piercing bright light at the front of the train. Moving fast. Almost on me. I didn't know if the conductor could see me or not. Even if he could see me, did he see me? And even if he did see me, could he apply the brakes and slow down in time? I doubted it. But the light showed the interior of the tunnel. And the light showed me a human-sized niche ten feet ahead. The train barreled toward me. I moved. Could I make it to the niche before the train crushed and crumpled me? The wind rushed and roared like I was standing on top of Mount Washington. The light blinded me if I looked right at it. Just before impact, I shoved my body into the niche. I stood inside the recessed opening as the train rumbled by, terrified that I might still be struck. But I wasn't. The train blew by and the roar subsided and the wind died down and the darkness reclaimed ownership of the tunnel. I made a mental note to have my heart attack later. My foot found the close rail. I walked another hundred feet until I saw, literally, the light at the end of the tunnel. I ran. Before another train came. I emerged in a subway station. As I clambered up onto the concrete platform, only a few people bothered to look. They read their newspapers, they skimmed their paperbacks, they stared into space, the space of their insoluble problems. I walked through the turnstile, up the stairs and out into the welcome sunlight.

CHAPTER 76

SOON. Next day at my office, another mailed letter from Diedre's killer. These letters were driving me insane. I mean, really insane.

I opened my fourth-floor window and yelled down at the pedestrians and cars: "Soon? How soon? Can't be soon enough for me! Vicious coward! Show yourself!" Nobody bothered to look up. Just another random outburst in the maniacal megalopolis. If I jumped to my death, they'd step over my mangled corpse. Just another meaningless death in this meaningless cosmos. We Earthlings lived in a bad neighborhood of the universe. And it wasn't getting any better. Get a grip! I ordered myself. To take my mind off the madness, I studied the chess board for the game in progress by mail. But I couldn't concentrate. So I picked up my guitar and played a rousing flamenco tango. Not to be confused with the Argentinean tango. But I stopped halfway through the tune. Putting down the guitar, I picked up the phone. "Service Center mah wai?" "Pinky. Castille. Ni ho ma?" She started crying. "They beat up my son." "Who?" I asked. "The other kids." "Why?" "Because my boyfriend black," she said. "What I do? I don't know." "Let me think about what we can do," I said. "Do what?" she sobbed. "Can do nothing. You want talk to Margie?" "Yes. Hang in there, Pinky." This fucking world. "Speak," commanded Margie. "Can't you help Pinky?" "Jesus Christ, I'm trying. But her son's too afraid to press charges." "Maybe I can catch them in the act," I said, "and knock some sense into them." "Good idea," said Margie. "Then you'll be in jail for attacking children." "Let's think of something. Speaking of children, what did you do with Melody?" "She's at the Child Welfare Office on Washington Street. Being interviewed and evaluated. Woman there's going to call me." "What can they do?" I asked. "Maybe get her adopted." "Check it out first," I said. "I don't want her chained to a radiator in the cellar the rest of her life." "Is that all? I'm busy as hell." "By the way, what are we doing for Thanksgiving?" "We, Lone Ranger?" she asked. "We," I said. "As in you and I." "Don't know what you'll be doing. But I'll be running a restaurant."

"You're open on Thanksgiving?" "I tried to talk my father into closing," she said. "Just one day. But he refuses. I told him he needs to rest. But he's so stubborn. He infuriates me!" "So that's where you get it." "Get what?" "Your stubbornness," I said. "Me? What are you talking about? I'm not stubborn!" I laughed. "You're the most stubborn person I know. In fact, you're the very strobe light of stubbornness." "I am not stubborn," she insisted. "When have I ever been stubborn?" "You're being stubborn now. And if it weren't so funny, it would be infuriating." "You infuriate me!" I changed the subject. "What's wrong with your father?" I asked. "Who knows? He won't say. You know these Chinese." "Stubborn. Try acupuncture?" "Yes, but acupuncture doesn't work," she said. "He refuses to see a real doctor. A medical doctor. So we're open for Thanksgiving." "Perhaps I'll pop over for turkey with all the trimmings." "In a Chinese restaurant? Better bring your own turkey. Besides, now you can spend the day with your girlfriend." "Who's that?" I asked. "Tucson or Flagstaff or whatever her name is." "Phoenix?" "Is that her name?" she asked innocently. "I knew it had something to do with Arizona." "Margie, dear daft deluded one. As you perfectly well know, Phoenix is not my girlfriend." "She's a girl. And she's your friend." "She's not a girl; she's a woman," I said. "She's not a friend; she's an ally." "Whatever you say." "Why, Margaret, honey," I said in my Southern drawl. "I do believe y'all are jealous." "Hah! Speaking of her, I haven't spotted her the last couple of days." That simply meant Phoenix had raised her I.Q. Invisibility Quotient. "Thanks for calling her off," Margie said. "You did call her off, didn't you?" "Well..." "Well, what?" "The aforementioned member of your fine upstanding gender and highly esteemed race is on the job," I said. "What job?" "Guarding you." "I don't want her guarding me!" she said. "Call her off."

"I fear for your safety, my love." "I'm in charge of my own safety, buster." "I'd feel better if you took a few days off," I said. "Until we run this psycho to ground. Stay home." "Are you fucking out of your mind? I have too much to do. Here at work, I'm still catching up from taking off time to go to El Salvador. And then nurse you back to health. At the restaurant, I have more to do because my father is ill." "Stay home. I have a feeling I'll catch this guy. Soon." "I'm not going to cower in my apartment," she said, "just because you think some nutjob who wants to kill you is going to kill me." "Please. Be much easier for Phoenix to guard you." "I don't want her guarding me! Call her off! Call the cops yet about this madman stalking you? No, of course not. Next time I see Phoenix, I'm going to call the cops on her for stalking me!" "I wouldn't do that if I were you," I said. "Why not?" "One. She is guarding you from potential harm. Two. Probably not wise to make an enemy of Phoenix. I'm all understanding and forgiveness, as you know. Phoenix? Different story." "I'm not sitting around and doing nothing," she said. "I'm not a moper. See something I don't like, I don't mope. I bitch! I bitch about it till I get what I want!" "So I've discovered over the years." "Gotta go." "Me too," I said. "Hi yo, Silver, away!"

CHAPTER 77

Tita Stanley wafted in. "Having a full, rich day, are we?" I asked. "Yes, mister sir gentleman Castille. Have you found my sister Sascha yet?" "No," I said. "But I will. By the way, you haven't told Frankie where my office is, have you?" "I never speak with Frankie." "Why not?" "His heart is evil and his hands are violent," she said. "That is why he should not be King of the Gypsies after my father dies." "And that's why Sascha should be Queen?" "Yes, mister sir. That is why." "When I talked to Frankie, he was with another Gypsy," I said. "Same age. Sidekick." "Johnny." "Tita, I'll find Sascha and give her a chance to become Queen of the Gypsies at the...what?" "Kris," she said. "When?"

"According to Gypsy custom, it must happen quickly. As soon as my father dies." "Tita, be fearless," I said. "For in my job, I am peerless." "Thank you, mister sir gentleman Castille." They never came for me in my office. But if the mountain won't go to Muhammad... So, around sunset, I drove up Washington Street. The Orange Line burst out of the ground at the boundary of the Medical District and Chinatown. Nearby, in a vacant lot, bent old Chinese had planted and cultivated tiny vegetable plots to supplement their meager diets. Above me, on the rickety el, Orange Line trains groaned and grumbled every five or ten minutes. Some parts of wounded Washington Street had been in shadow for decades, unable to heal. At the intersection of Washington and East Berkeley, several male Boston cops gawked and guffawed as a female cop wrestled into the back of the paddy wagon a one-armed, shouting, scuzzed-up drunk with a gold ring in his left nostril. The huge ring was shaped like two question marks joined bottom to bottom. A TV camera crew filmed the bizarre incident; a newspaper reporter furiously scribbled in his notebook. This victory would be a real silver star for the female cop's forehead; a Tabloid article to tape to the family refrigerator. I parked two blocks from Frankie's townhouse, eagle-eyed the entrance. No signs of life outside; no lights inside. I got out and cut down a narrow side street, hopped a fence and made my way through backyards until I was behind Frankie's building. Through the window, I saw only darkness and heard only silence. From the pockets of my leather jacket, I took out burglar's tools. Attaching a suction cup to the window, I cut out a circular piece of glass around it. Instead of falling and shattering, the glass stuck to the cup. I removed it and placed it on the ground. I reached my hand in through the cut circular opening, unlocked the latch, removed my hand and pushed the window up. Over the sill I climbed. Once inside, I didn't move. My eyes adjusted to the darkness until I saw odds and ends of furniture. I heard a few creaking boards: the old building settling. Or was it? I slowly walked to a doorway, keeping my weight on the balls of my feet. The doorway opened into a corridor. Should I take out my Beretta, retrieved from the gym where I'd checked it earlier, or keep both my hands free? I decided on the latter and felt my way down the hallway, lightly touching the wall with my shoulder. Partly to progress by touch rather than rely on sight in the darkness. And partly to step on the floorboards closer to the wall, where they were less likely to creak than in the middle of the hallway.

Out of the darkness, a figure hurtled and knocked me into a small room. I put my hand back to stop myself and felt cool porcelain. The light flicked on to reveal the Gypsy - in a black suit and a long thin black tie - who'd been with Frankie. "Johnny," I laughed out loud. "Of Frankie and Johnny." "How do you know my name?" he demanded. "Everybody knows your name," I said, then sang from the old folk song: "'Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts/ they had a quarrel one day.'" "You saying we're fags?" "I'm just bopping along, singing a song." The bathroom was so small and he attacked me so fast, I didn't have time to go for my gun. He lunged at my eyes with a sharpened piece of tin. I ducked and punched him hard in his now-exposed abdomen. He groaned and started to fall, but stopped his descent by grabbing the porcelain of the toilet bowl. I lifted my left foot onto the edge of the raised toilet lid and seat and slammed them down onto his hand. Oo, that must have hurt. I was rewarded with a scream. But also, unfortunately, probably alerting Frankie or others that an intruder was inside. "Gaje bastard!" Johnny muttered loudly, pulling his hand free and coming at me again. He aimed the kill-keen tin at my throat. I shrugged aside and pulled opened the medicine cabinet door, slamming it into his face. Again, he screamed and staggered back a step, dazed. Not wanting to give him a third chance to perforate my person, I shot out my left leg, turning my knee ninety degrees, so that the outside edge of my shoe slammed into his knee, hyperextending it, and knocked him into the bathtub. Now he was enraged. Struggling to get out, he put his hand on the bathtub edge. I stomped on his hand; then kicked him in the jaw, knocking him out. No sound but the explosion of fear-and-anger gunpowder in my battle-scarred heart. I thirsted for a stiff drink, a real drink. Not beer or schnappes, but a Blue Ruin. I undid Johnny's necktie and tightly tied his wrists together. I slid off his belt and bound his ankles. Finally, I pulled out his handkerchief and stuffed it in his mouth. Hm. When this muck-spout awoke, he'd only spit it out and scream blue murder. I undid his shoelaces and tied them together. Then I tied the single strand around his head and over the handkerchief in his mouth. Tight. He wouldn't be talking or walking any time soon. Back out into the hallway, I continued slowly next to the wall. Another doorway. I listened hard and thought I heard labored breathing. Sascha? I carefully reached my hand in and searched the wall for a light switch. I found one and flicked it.

CHAPTER 78

A young Gypsy woman in t-shirt and jeans sat on a hard wooden chair in the middle of a bare room, feet lashed with ropes to the chair legs, wrists bound behind her back by thin black electrical tape and mouth covered with a wide band of silvery duct tape. I looked around while she emitted muffled shouts and jerked her whole body up and down in the chair. "Sh," I said. "You'll wake the dead. Or worse, the living." I called duct tape, until I was fifteen, duck tape. I knew a woman from Hong Kong who married a guy she met in college here in Boston. His name was Doug but for the first six months of their relationship, she thought his name was, and so called him, Duck. I ripped the tape off her mouth. "Ow! You fucking asshole!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "Jesus H. Fucking Christ! May God forgive me! Fucking untie me!" "Sh," I shushed her. "Frankie might be around here somewhere." "May I die with railroad spikes pounded into my ears if I don't kill him!" she bellowed. "May it be so," I said. "Are you Sascha Stanley?" Her eyes narrowed. "Who the fuck are you?" "Castille. Private detective. Hired by your sister to rescue you." "Tita?" she asked, astonished. "The same." "Tita hired you?" "She said you want to be Queen of the Gypsies," I said. She shook her long black hair and straightened up. Despite being bound to a chair for God knows how long, she actually looked regal. "I am the Queen of the Gypsies." "As I understand it, not till your father dies." "He did die," she said. "When?" "This afternoon. The shaggy old mountain lion." "How do you know he died?" "I heard Frankie and Johnny talking about it," she said. "So tonight will be the kris. I will grasp the sceptre and assume the title of queen." "Tita said the sceptre had disappeared." "Did she?" "When and where will the kris be held?" I asked. "Tonight at sundown. Boston Common." "Sundown? The Common?" "Across from Tita's fortune telling parlor," she said. "Frankie will not be a good leader. He thinks we Rom should stick to the old traditional ways. He doesn't see we live in a new world. "If the Rom are to survive, we must adapt to this modern

environment and learn the new ways. We can't continue to be isolated from the rest of the world and looked down on. In fact, we should have our own homeland, a sovereign nation, like the Jews in Israel. We should have a seat at the United Nations!" "You've got my vote," I said. "Meanwhile, let's get the freak out of here while the getting's good." "Untie me...Watch out!" she yelled, looking over my right shoulder. I instinctively dove to my left, rolled along the floor and, as I came up to a standing position, pivoted so that I faced whatever was behind me. Frankie. Dressed like Johnny but wearing a flame-red broad-brimmed hat. In his right hand, a pair of scissors. "Why are you here, gaje dog?" he asked contemptuously. "To free Sascha." "No!" yelled Frankie. "Yes!" yelled Sascha. "One way to settle this dispute," I said, tapping the butt of my gun. "The old equalizer." "And I have these," he said, clicking the blades. "So?" "These aren't ordinary scissors, glimjack," said Frankie. "They're barber's shears. The blades are heavier, longer, sharper." "What are you going to do?" I laughed. "Give me a haircut to death?" I reached for my gun. Before I had it out, Frankie had the points of the blades two inches from Sascha's eyeballs. "Put the gun on the floor, glimjack, or I blind her." He was serious. I saw the murder-lust in his eyes. I put my gun down. "Kick it away." I kicked the gun away. "Don't hurt her," I said. "I won't on one condition." "What?" "You take her place," said Frankie. "You sit here. You have the blades of my scissors against your eyeballs." "No thanks." "Then her blood is on your hands." "Frankie!" yelled Sascha. "Don't!" "Shut up, Sascha! You think women are as good as men? Then why are you tied up? And I'm holding the scissors?" "Frankie," Sascha said quietly. "It is time for us to come into the twentieth century." "No!" he exploded. "We are Rom! We exist outside of time as we always have and always will!" "No," she answered, "we must end the curse." "You know the curse will continue until the end of time."

"What curse?" I asked. "The Curse of the Fourth Nail," she said. "Frankie told me about the fourth nail," I said. "But it was a blessing not a curse." "No!" blazed Sascha. "That is the lie we tell gullible gajo like you. The truth is..." "Don't tell him," said Frankie. "The world must know about Gypsy culture," said Sascha, "just like all the other cultures in the world. Even the history and traditions of the Jews and Arabs are known to the whole world. So it must be with the Rom." "What is the curse?" I asked again. I could never resist a story with a curse. "The Romans crucified their victims with four nails," said Sascha. "Two for the hands, one for the feet and one through the heart." "So Frankie told me." "But he didn't tell you the rest." "I'm warning you, Sascha," Frankie growled, moving the sharp blades closer to Sascha's defenseless eyes. She didn't blink. "Roman centurions were sent to get the nails for the crucifixion," she said. "They asked a Jew, an Arab, a Greek - all blacksmiths - to forge the four nails. But they all refused because they had heard that Jesus was a great man. The soldiers killed them. "Then they went to a Gypsy blacksmith. He said he would make the four nails. After he had made three nails, the ghosts of the three blacksmiths appeared and told him not to give the nails to the Romans because they were for the crucifixion of Jesus, a great man." "Shut up!" yelled Frankie. His scissors-holding hand trembled, as if struggling hard to keep the metal points from penetrating Sascha's eyes. "But the Gypsy blacksmith didn't care," Sascha continued, defiantly. "He just wanted the money. So he forged the fourth nail. But no matter how much cold water he poured on it, it remained red hot. "The centurions became terrified and fled with the three nails. The Gypsy blacksmith spent all night trying to cool off the fourth nail. But it remained red hot. He buried the nail and fled. But wherever he fled, the nail - always glowing, always red hot - appeared. "And now the descendants of the man who forged the nails that crucified Jesus - wherever they stop to rest - see that eerie glowing nail, hear ghostly voices and, frightened, flee. That is why Jesus was crucified with only three nails. And that is why Gypsies are cursed to forever wander the face of the earth and always be outcasts." "Sascha, you traitor," said Frankie. "That story should never be told to a gaje." "But it is only a foolish story that we Gypsies believe! If we get rid of the crazy old superstitions, we can live free."

"We are free!" shouted Frankie. He plunged the blades into Sascha's eyes.

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She screeched and wailed and bellowed; like scarlet quicksilver, the blood ran from her ruined eyes down her cheeks and dropped onto her heaving shoulders and chest. Invisible hands of horror and pity wrenched and twisted my helpless heart. "For God's sake," I said. "Untie her. Call an ambulance." "A hearse," he said, closing the blades. "Little sister, go to hell." He stabbed straight into her throat. Blood spurted, she gurgled, rocked violently in the chair. "You're crazy!" I said. "Your own sister!" "You could have saved her," he said calmly. "I offered to let her go if you took her place." "I didn't take you seriously." "Do you take me seriously now?" "Yes," I said. Sascha's movements became less violent until she stopped completely. Frankie looked at me, his eyes mighty with madness. "Knowing now that I was serious, would you have changed places with Sascha? Let me blind you?" "No," I said. "See. You are no better than me." "How do you figure that? You just blinded and killed your own sister." "She was a dog," he said. "Like you. Now I blind and kill you. Now you go to hell." "Sure," I said. "First let me go home and pack my bags. Be back in a jiff." He approached, clicking and clacking the shears. He stood between me and my gun, on the floor thirty feet away. He stopped clicking the blades, still dripping blood, closed them and aimed the point at my eyes. Not only did it raise my fear of being blinded. It was also the same move used by experienced knife fighters. It took away my depth perception of the length of the blades. I glanced at my watch. "You're running late," I said. "The kris will be soon." "Plenty of time. Kill you, take the scepter, assume my rightful position as King of the Gypsies." He lunged at my belly with the scissors. I danced back. "Climb up into the chair," he giggled. "Just a little off the top, eh?" "Today's Thursday. I can't get a haircut on Thursdays. Old Irish custom." "You think we Rom are vagabonds, ruffians, desperadoes."

"You certainly are," I said. "Add psycho murderer to the list." "But would a vagabond wear such a beautiful hat?" He took off his hat with his left hand, admired it, turning it around. "The Old World craftsmanship, the double seams, the rich red color," he giggled. "Like blood, no?" When I glanced at the hat, he flung it at my eyes. I flinched. At the same time he lunged forward to stab my abdomen with the closed scissors. I sucked in my gut; avoided getting cut by a skimpy inch. "Almost," he said. "Next time will be the last time. You gaje dogs think you are so superior to us. Do you think you possess one-tenth, one-hundredth of my knowledge of edged-blade weapons?" "No." He moved the scissors in some unrecognizable pattern, almost hypnotic and always pointing at my eyes. My confidence wavered. Maybe he did have a hundred times more knowledge than me of blades. I didn't use them. Their use required a degree of cold-bloodedness I didn't possess. The hat sat on the floor between us, as if a third person had melted, leaving only his topping. Beyond, Sascha sat, trussed, bloody, head slumped forward. Dead. By her own brother's hand. Obviously he had the requisite cold-bloodedness. "You owe me one motorcycle," Frankie said. "And you will pay me." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to oblige," I said. "But - rotten luck! - I don't have my checkbook. Let me nip home and get it." "Not money," he said. "Blood." He lunged like a fencer three times, thrusting the closed scissors at my belly. I slid back, avoiding each thrust. He stopped lunging and resumed moving the scissors in the strange, almost mesmerizing pattern. I crouched, loosely held fists guarding my eyes. Though I was a natural lefty - both hand and foot - I stood in the usual boxer's crouch, with my right fist and foot in the back position. Most people, being right-handed, had their stronger right hand back to throw a longer, harder punch. The so-called right cross. The power punch to knock out an opponent. But I didn't want to hurt my hands, especially my left. Guitar. Plus, I followed the savate axiom the Old Legionnaire imparted. Put your best foot forward. Thus, though I appeared to be right-handed and right-footed, I had my dominant left side forward, closer to the opponent. This stance favored speed and deception over power. I figured his series of stabs at my midsection were setting me up for stabs to the eyes. If I couldn't evade the stabs, I intended to take the two opened blades on my

leather-jacketed forearm. He thrust the shears at my belly and I sucked in my gut. But it was a feint. What started as a low attack became high, blades open, at my eyes. I was almost fooled due to Frankie's - dare I say it? - blinding speed. I didn't have time to move my body. Just my arm. So that the blades closed on my leathered wrist, not penetrating to the skin. "Lucky," he said, social mask gone, revealing a face fuming with corrosive cruelty. "You need a new hobby," I said. "Maybe stamp collecting." He pulled back the scissors and thrust again at my face. Again anticipating a feint - thus expecting the true attack at my belly - I pulled in my mid-section, curving my back so that my face came forward. I realized too late this was just what he wanted. He switched the attack from high to low to high, the open blades destined for my eyes. I put my arm up. But not in time to take the blades on the leather but on the edge of my right hand. The blood squirted out and it hurt like hell. "First blood!" he exulted. For the first time, I thought I might lose this fight. Which meant I lost my vision and then my life. My confidence drained away.

CHAPTER 80

Now Frankie switched the shears back and forth between his hands so fast that all I saw was a blur. He thrust with his left. I pivoted just in time to avoid getting cut. Bleeding, aching hand or not, time to go on the offensive. I threw a left jab at his face. I withdrew in time not to have both hands cut. I threw another jab. When he lifted the scissors, I withdrew my hand and kicked his forward left knee. He buckled and fell to his knee. I moved closer; he stabbed at my upper thigh, aiming for my femoral artery. Again, I just barely escaped. "Lucky again," he said, standing up. "But no matter. I will blind you and I will kill you." "Let's fight fair. Get rid of the scissors." "No such thing as a fair fight, glimjack." He put his hands behind his back. Now what? He was one of the trickiest opponents I'd ever fought. "Which hand holds the shears, dog? Left or right?" My right hand still bled and hurt. I hoped the tendon wasn't cut. Guitar. What was wrong with me? I'm worrying about playing the guitar while fighting for my life? "Better not blink," he said.

"Why not?" "The time it takes to close your eyes is all the time I need to stab your closed eyes." I heard the Old Legionnaire's voice: Always stick to basic principles. Unless the basic principles aren't working. Then improvise. Frankie had already pierced my skin. But could he stab through an inch of vulcanized rubber embedded with steel plate? Hm? Violating the basic tenet of savate - to kick low - I started medium- and high-throwing my big shod feet. I aimed flurries of kicks at his abdomen and chest. He stabbed the soles of my shoes but the blades didn't penetrate steel. He backed up but didn't seem worried abut my new form of attack. I stopped kicking. "I have been trained in the use of every kind of bladed weapon since I was a child," boasted Frankie. "Today, I am a thirty-third degree Master of the Spanish Circle. These shears are not for cutting hair but for eating flesh and drinking blood. The razor-sharp blades were made of tempered stainless steel and handcrafted in Andalusia." "Home of flamenco," I said. "Ah, you have some knowledge." "I play flamenco guitar." "I hope you play better than you fight," he said. "I was rather hoping the opposite." "Flamenco guitar," he said. "That is ironic, glimjack, because now we do the dance of death in a flamenco dance hall." He launched into a series of stomping flamenco dance steps. "How aesthetically pleasing," I said. "I'm a maestro of flamenco. Now you see why I, and only I, have the breeding, the skill and the passion to be King of the Gypsies." He thrust with his right hand. I pivoted to my right. I didn't see it but, during the thrust, he passed the scissors to his left hand and was now attacking my right side. I pulled back and, at the same time, flung my still-bleeding right hand at his face. Sprinkles of blood hit his eyes, which he instinctively closed. This was the moment. Maybe the only moment when I briefly had the advantage. But, losing my bearings - between the big, empty space and Frankie's extraordinary speed, dexterity and trickiness - I inadvertently backed up against the wall. Instantly, Frankie leaped at me. Planted his two feet on my two feet to immobilize my legs and prevent me from using the shod foot as a weapon. His left hand gripped my right hand and slammed it against the wall. Due to blood loss, my right hand and forearm had weakened more than I realized and he pinned my arm. Now the coup de grace. He had changed the grip on the scissors so that his

right hand was in a punching position that held the two blades open. Powerfully, he plunged the two blades towards my eyes. Despite my panic, I gripped his right wrist with my left hand. I stopped the points of the blades a millimeter from my eyeballs. He pressed the blades harder; I held his wrist tighter. I tried to convert my terror into anger to throw him off me. But he had immobilized three of my limbs. And my fourth - my left hand - barely held off the excruciating pain the blades wordlessly promised my naked eyeballs. To be blind. Teiresias was blind but the god Zeus rewarded him with second sight. Oedipus was blind but the goddess Athena blessed him and made the grove where he died a sanctuary for the persecuted. Samson was blind but the god Jehovah allowed him to pull down the palace with his strength, destroying all his enemies. But I wasn't any of them. No god or goddess would bless me. Images flashed. If blind, I could still stretch out and lift weights. If blind, I could still play guitar. If blind, I could still hold Margie's hand. But I wouldn't be blind. I'd be dead. My hand was so slippery with sweat, I didn't know how much longer I could hold him off. He pressed harder. The blades came closer. I looked over Frankie's right shoulder and forced myself to smile. "Thank God you're here," I said. Frankie jerked his head to look over his shoulder. Nobody. If done properly, few people could resist that trick. In Frankie's split second distraction and confusion, I tore my bleeding right hand loose from his grip, extended the fingers into a rigid knife hand and swung it forward into the nearest weak part of Frankie's anatomy. His groinal area. "Uhhh!" he screamed as his whole system weakened, including his right hand holding the scissors. I brought my right knife hand up, chopped the pressure point on the inside of his right wrist and grabbed the scissors out of his hand. I pulled my left leg free and kneed him in the abdomen. As his head came forward and down, my right leg kneed him in the face. He fell on his back. I leaped on him, straddling his chest and pinning his arms with my knees. I held the sharp point of the closed blades at Frankie's throat. "Go ahead," dared Frankie, chest heaving, face heavy with hatred. "Kill me."

"Maybe I will," I said. "Justice." "Your lousy American justice," he sneered. "Your lousy Frankie justice. You just killed your own sister." "You don't have the guts to kill me, gaje dog! May you rot until skunks run from your smell!" "Go to your God like a soldier," I said. I plunged the blades into his windpipe and twisted. Blood spurted; he gagged and choked. Within seconds, he was dead. I rolled off him, lay on my back, panting, heart zooming. I was in a room with two corpses, one of whom I had just killed. I left his eyes open. Perhaps, seeing the death he had given to his sister, his spirit would be cursed to wander the earth forever. My whole body trembled; I had trouble swallowing. The wetness of my throat had traveled to my palms, which now sweated terribly. The aftermath of a lethal confrontation was often more difficult to experience than the actual fight itself. Mister Castille Gets The Shakes. I wrapped my handkerchief around my bleeding right hand. And, apparently, though I hated to admit it, I did have the requisite cold-bloodedness to use a blade. My only excuse was to plead self-defense. When I stopped trembling, I found a phone in the building and called in to the cops the deaths and the address, but not giving my name. Then I raced outside to my car, jumped in and drove back downtown. The sun was just setting. Was it possible? A Gypsy kris? On Boston Common?

CHAPTER 81

The Theatre District: huge crowds on the sidewalks and in the streets. Unable to move, cars honked angrily. Blue-uniformed cops everywhere, police cruisers with their red and blue lights flashing, arguments and fights breaking out. I pulled up on the broad sidewalk, turned off the car and got out. If they towed me, they towed me. May it be so. Take me hours to drive the remaining two blocks to the Boston Common in this epic traffic jam. I pushed through the crowd. Though warmish for November, everyone was irritated, annoyed, peeved. I got shoved hard a few times and even ducked one punch, but kept pushing through. When I got to the intersection of Tremont and Boylston, near the gym, I was amazed to see the entire Common packed with people. Ringing the Common, a hundred torches blazed high up on

poles. Fire engines parked half-up on sidewalks as grim firefighters watched. Frowning cops, slapping their nightsticks into their palms, formed a porous ring around the Common. On the outskirts of the crowd, a few tents were pitched. Gypsy men played jaunty, even wild, music on violins, accordions, guitars. Men in pants, shirts and vests and women in long, billowing, brightly-colored dresses danced. Some in couples, some alone. Others yipped, yelled, clapped, hit parts of their own bodies with their palms like percussion instruments. Men and women passed around bottles of vodka while they roasted meat on open grills. Children kicked soccer balls. Dogs barked. I walked closer, pushing through the ever more densely-packed people - gawkers, onlookers, tourists, news reporters, television crews, Gypsies and more Gypsies. And cops. Rookies taking in the wonder of it all with eyes as big and shiny as freshly minted silver dollars. Old-timers who'd seen it all with eyes as squint-small and dull as buried-in-the-dirt pennies. The sun surrendered to darkness, as if the day's eye couldn't bear to watch the unfolding drama. As night, punctuated by stars and streetlights and torches, assumed command, I pushed deeper into the increasingly frenzied crowd. The core was all Gypsy men: drunk, arguing, scuffling. Most wore dark suits, torn and worn. Their body language proclaimed: 'We are men of violence.' One riot-reeling madman focused his eyes on me and ferociously frowned. He wore brown wide-wale corduroy pants, a black V-neck sweater with paisley scarf and a battered light brown fedora with a playing card - ace of spades - sticking up out of the black hat band. "Gaje dog!" he vehemently accused. A dozen others stopped quarrelling and stoned me with granite glances. As if on signal, they grabbed me. I tried to fight but they pinned my arms. My legs were jammed up too close to theirs for space to kick. The rest of the crowd backed away, leaving me trapped by these berserkers. The ace-of-spades madman faced me, smiled - revealing crooked teeth - and pulled back his right fist to smash my face open. Heart wilding, I readied to open my mouth just before impact to bite down on his fist. Lose some teeth but at least draw blood. Out of the crowd stepped a young woman who shouted in Romany. Those holding me slackened their grip. The madman lowered his punching arm. Tawney's eyebrows, bushy when I rescued her, were now pencil-thin. She wore a flowing flower-patterned dress down to her ankles. Round white pearl earrings set off her luxuriant black hair. The men let me go and turned away. Ace-of-spades curled his lip as if to say 'you have no idea how lucky you are' and

disappeared into the crowd. Tawney and I looked at each other. I smelled her perfume even through the men's rank sweat and alcohol-befouled breath. "A thousand thanks, Tawney," I said. She spit at my feet. "I am no longer in your debt, gaje dog!" In the middle of the crowd, the commotion, the Common, stood a hastily erected wooden stage ten feet high with a back area cordoned off by an undulating curtain of glass beads that sparkled and glinted in the light of torches at the front corners of the stage. A strange thought hit my mind; a strange feeling slammed my solar plexus. Was it possible? Strategy? Deception? After pushing, even ramming, my way forward, I stood a few feet from the stage. Gypsies still flashed dirty looks at me, a gaje, an interloper, but most just stared expectantly, almost reverently, at the stage. Electric tension crackled through the crowd. Two huge Gypsy men came through the glass beads and positioned themselves at the front corners of the stage. The crowd held its breath. Then through the glass beads emerged a powerful, regal figure dressed in magnificent multi-colored flowing robes. The crowd's tension broke and the Gypsies yelled and shouted, clapped their hands and stamped their feet. The figure was a woman. Tita. And yet, it was not Tita. At least not the meek simpleminded Tita I had known, the Tita I had suspected of being mentally retarded. No, this Tita had a countenance which radiated power, intelligence and indomitable will. Her posture - ramrod straight and seemingly several inches taller than when I had last seen her - projected sovereignty. She was commanding, majestic and - dare I say it? - queenly. In her right hand, she grasped an intricately carved wooden rod, surely the sceptre of the Leader of the Gypsies. She must have had it all along. When she raised her left palm, instantly all noise stopped. Her voice was loud, clear, resolute, authoritative. "As you know, my father, King of the Gypsies, died today! May his soul find relief from wandering, and rest in peace!" "May it be so!" all the Gypsies shouted. "My father's last wish was that I - not my brother or sister - become the new leader!" The Gypsies murmured, some approving, some disapproving. Taking note of the disapproval, Tita commanded: "Though some of you may find it hard to accept the leadership of a woman, I tell you that it was my father, the King's, last wish and therefore it must be respected." This time, the murmurs of approval overwhelmed those of disapproval. "There are those who say we Rom must change, must adapt

to the new ways of a modern world, must give up our ancient traditional customs. I say no! What do you say?" A huge outburst of 'No's' poured forth. Tita smiled. "It is as I thought. We agree. The Rom way of life must never be allowed to disappear. No matter how much the gajo look down on us, kidnap our children to send to their hated gaje schools, arrest our men because they despise and envy our natural liberty, we will remain as we always have, free to wander, free to travel, free to roam this earth. "Free!" The Gypsies burst into wild applause. After a long minute of basking in the glow of this affirmation, Tita raised her palm for silence. "And we must always remember that there are gajo who will help us, whether knowingly or..." and here she glanced down and her eyes met mine "...unknowingly." She smiled - was it a smirk? - and then looked back out over the huge crowd. I was stunned. Later, in the middle of the night, I sat in my living room. I strummed random flamenco chords on my guitar. To run into a bunch of authentic for-real Gypsies and not learn a single new flamenco lick? The unspeakable disappointment. And, as I strummed, I wondered. Had I unknowingly helped Tita become Queen? Had Tita - meek, mild, unassuming little sister - somehow orchestrated the whole scenario? Had she fooled me into playing a part ensuring her coronation? Had she arranged the confrontation at the South End townhouse, hoping - maybe even somehow knowing - that my involvement would precipitate the deaths of Frankie and Sascha, opening the way for her to be Queen of the Gypsies? And did her father actually name her his successor? Had Tita cunningly worked a verbal boojo on me? I would never know. The more I learned about people, the less I knew about people. Each was an individual with a unique mix of wishes, desires, beliefs, memories, thoughts, feelings and dreams, whose actions could never be completely predicted or even understood. But better that, I thought, than a race of robots. The King of the Gypsies was dead. Long live the Queen.

CHAPTER 82

The panel on the recently installed steel door of King Pimp's HQ slid open, revealing a pair of eyes. "Joe sent me," I said. The door opened and I entered. Where was everybody? King Pimp sat on his throne, balefully eyeing me. But

no Uzi-toting bodyguard, no Sister Flukie, no crowd of hang-arounds. Behind me, a familiar voice said: "Take outcha gun, Castille. Easy-like. Finger and thumb. Put it on the floor." "Crazy F," I said, doing as he instructed. "How'd you get in? Through a crack, like a termite?" "He bribe Dijjy Doo!" blurted King. "You believe that?" "Who's Dijjy Doo?" I asked. "My onliest remaining bodyguard!" said King, his voice filled with the snake-in-the-grass sting of betrayal. "Money don't talk," chuckled Crazy F, kicking my gun across the room. "It yell and scream and do what it want. Move, Castille." I walked over to the throne platform and sat on the bottom step. Crazy F, all schizzed-out smiles and coked-up eyes, kept his gun aimed at us. "Ain't this cozy?" asked Crazy. "Jess the four of us." "Four?" I asked. Out of a shadow stepped Backsnapper. Gulp. "You get away from Back last time, Castille," said Crazy F. "But Ah willin' to bet even money ya can't do it again." "Unfortunately for you," I said, "I don't bet." "Unfortunately for you," he said. "Ah do. So before Ah shoot Pimp and take over the Zone, King Crazy decree some royal entertainment. Castille, you got no more chance than a kitty cat in hell without claws. Like a twig, Back, like a twig!" Backsnapper aimed a lopsided grimace at me. The gash in his forehead looked deep as a crevice. I glanced up at King who shrugged helplessly. This boded ill. I stood up. Back advanced. He had at least one hundred pounds of weight and six inches of height on me. Yes. Definitely ill. We circled each other. I in my usual deceptive boxer's stance, leading with left foot and left hand. He crouched low, arms extended, like a wrestler. He looked top-heavy with muscle and fat. Not soft fat. Hard-packed fat. He stared at my eyes but I refused to play that game. His eyes couldn't hurt me - unless I let his stare psych me out. Instead, I followed the Old Legionnaire's teaching. I looked directly at the center of Back's chest and, peripherally, at his limbs. He lunged and swiped at me with one huge hand. Like a hairy paw. In fact, Back seemed like a bear. Clumsy but strong; flat-footed but rock-ribbed. His killing motion was probably a powerful bear hug. That, yes, literally broke his opponent's back. His strategy was to get his hands on me. Mine was to keep him at a distance, dancing away from his grasp and using long-legged savate kicks, low, quick, painful. If he got

hold of me, they'd be slurping Castille soup for a late snack. "Get 'im, Back!" yelled Crazy F. "Ain't got all night!" Thanks, Crazy. Back, for all his power, seemed like a order-taker. Which meant in the next few seconds... He leaped forward to grab my knees and pull me to the ground. Where the advantage would be his. But, ready, I danced back and he fell full-length on the floor. I kicked him in the face. "Ow!" he said, as he inelegantly climbed to his feet. "That...hurt!" "How perfectly dreadful for you," I said. I flicked a glance at his eyes. Where before there was simple readiness to carry out a task, there now was a real anger. Probably not used to falling on his face in a fight. Or getting kicked in the face. I returned my eyes to his chest. In my chest, hammering heart and laboring lungs crashed into each other like unmatched cymbals, making unbeautiful music. He circled and recircled until I realized - too late - he had backed me into a corner. A downpour of fear rained on me. Fool. Madman. How had I let him do this? I darted left, then right; he blocked my getaway each time. I unleashed a low roundhouse kick at his knee; at the same time, he reached for my head. His knee buckled. Luckily, because otherwise he would have grabbed my head and pulled it into him. I was exhausted, gasping for breath, cornered. My right hand ached where Frankie had cut it. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage of my handkerchief. Backsnapper came at me for the morgue-move. Would he really crunch the life out of me with a backsnapping bear hug? Or just punch me into dementia or death? I was so out-of-gas tired, I hardly cared. He opened his mouth wide and made that weird sound: half-hissing, half-guttural. I put my hands in front of my chest, prayer-style. "Please, Mr. Back," I said. I slanted a glance at his eyes. Flecks of the fool's gold of arrogance glinted. "I pray of you," I said, hands extended, fingers straight. "Don't hurt me. I beg for mercy." He opened his mouth yet wider, stepped closer until I smelled his foul breath. He reached for me. I shot my hands at his face. My fingers curved out to the sides. My rigid thumbs drove into his wide open mouth. I turned the thumbs away from each other and drove them to the sides with full force. From the inside, my thumbnails ripped open his cheeks. His cheeks became blood-red ribbons of flesh. He stumbled back, head down, afraid to touch his face.

The Old Legionnaire's voice spoke inside my head. The most dangerous opponent is an injured opponent. I hated to do it; it was like putting down a harmless dying animal. Except Backsnapper wasn't harmless. God alone knew how many people he had tortured, maimed or murdered. While he reeled - and expecting Crazy F to shoot me - I moved in to dispatch him. But Backsnapper grabbed me and got me in a side headlock. The blood dripped from his ruined face. His enormous arms were crushing my head like a melon in a steel vice. But, in his fury, he'd forgotten my limbs. He grunted and streamed sweat; with both arms, he held my head against his right rib cage. I reached low across my body and put my right forearm behind his knees and pushed forward and up. At the same time, I brought my left hand up - rigid, fingers extended - and struck him in the throat, knocking him backward and down. The two actions combined to lift him into the air. Disoriented, bloody face up, he let go of my head. Pulse pounding, adrenaline accelerating, smelling the rank odor of blood still rivering from his cheeks, I knew - no matter how repulsive - what I had to do. As he fell, I knelt on my right knee, left knee up. Sweat and blood flying, arms flailing, he crashed down onto my left upraised knee at about his fifth lumbar vertebra. Crack! His spinal column broken, his spinal cord severed, his spinal fluid leaking, his disc ruptured, his blood vessels burst, his nerves torn to shreds. I had snapped the back of Backsnapper. Above blood-red confetti of flesh, his eyes squinted at me like two nail-heads. I pushed him off my knee, he groaned and expelled his last breath. Would Crazy F shoot me? Not yet. He believed so completely in Backsnapper's superior strength, he couldn't bring himself to believe I had killed him. But I had.

CHAPTER 83

"Castille," cheered King, coming to life. "Mah man!" "Shut up!" Crazy F commanded King, then turned to me. "Ah impressed," he said. "Didn't think you - hell, didn't think anyone - could beat Backsnapper. So. Ah give you one last chance. Final offer. Know what Ah mean?" "Rush now," I said, "For this free offer will expire soon." "Zackly," said Crazy F. "Be mah bodyguard. More, be mah partner. After Ah kill Pimp and take over the Zone? We be rollin' in money, dope, wimmins, you name it."

"Though you are the very jock strap of generosity, my answer must be 'no.'" "Say, no?" "Say no." "Castille," repeated King. "Mah man." Crazy F threw him a nasty look. "One more word out yo' fat mouth and Ah kill ya where ya sit." King zipped his lip. "One last chance, Castille," Crazy said. "Yes or no?" "Thanks. But no thanks. But thanks." "Pity." "Ain't it, though?" I said. "Stand up, old man," commanded Crazy F. "And come down to our level." King descended the steps of the throne platform. "Now. What Ah dreamed of mah whole life. Plantin' a bullet in your brain." King's whole body shook. "Don't, son," he said. "Ah'm beggin' ya. Don't. Ah'll leave the Zone. Have it all to y'self." "Now you beg me? How 'bout all those times when Ah a crumb crusher? Beg you not to hit me?" "Ah is truly sorry, son," said King. "Ah truly is." "You a lying hyena." "Son. Please. Wouldn't shoot your own father, would you?" "Yeah, Ah would, Papa," said Crazy F. Father? Papa? "I hate to interrupt," I said, "but are you actually father and son?" "That right," said King eagerly. "He mah boy. Taught him all he know. Ah'm proud a him. Yes, Ah sholy is." "Taught me, Papa?" Crazy asked, on the verge of tears. "Proud a me? You ain't got no teachin' in you. You ain't got no pride. You ain't got no love. "You done past due. Ah puts you outa yo' misery." "No, son. Please. Ain't right a boy kill his Pa." "Tole ya," said Crazy. "Don't call me boy." "Ah sorry," said King. "Course. You a full-grown man. Time for you take over the kingdom. Here. Ah hands you the keys to the kingdom. Ah takes the first plane outa Boston." "Too late, Papa. Yo' life ain't worth saving." "But, son. Ah..." Crazy shot him in the chest. King keeled over. Dead. Crazy F walked over and put another bullet in his brain. Just to be sure. Then he turned to me. "Castille, you mother-raper." "Still want me to join you?" I asked. "Never did," he replied. "Jess wanted to see what you

said. Ah'm so sick a you, Castille. Sick a your big mouth. Your know-it-all way." "I do admit I'm a polymath biblioholic autodidact, but..." "Shut up! You and your big words. Gimme a headache. Now Ah return the favor. Give you a headache." He aimed the pistol at my forehead. Too far from me to get my hands on the gun. My guardian demon dealt my life-and-death cards - twenty-one, or blackjack: I live. Over twenty-one, or bust: I die. When you think about it, not such good odds. "What a way to go," I said, resigned to my fate. "Gunned down in a sleazy Combat Zone joint by an insecto schitzo psycho flippo." "Shut up!" he screamed. "Don't talk to me like that!" A shot rang out. Crazy F fell face forward. Dead.

CHAPTER 84

Behind him stood Sister Flukie, holding my Beretta with both hands. She wore her usual silvery, long-sleeved gown. But no bare feet or gladiator sandals. Jet black high heels that matched her long braided hair. Her eyes looked remarkably clear. "Flukie!" I exclaimed. "Hallelujiah!" she said. "Now I free." She turned my own gun on me. "Going to kill me?" I asked. "You a guy always bring trouble," she said. "Like the raven." "Nevermore," I promised. She laughed and lowered the gun. "Shoulda seen the look on your face. No. Why I kill you? You always tryna free me. You my Abe Lincoln. Call you Massa." "Knock it off," I said. "Let's get out of here. Take you to South Station. Put you on a train or bus for home. Which is where, by the way?" "Here." "Boston? What neighborhood?" "Here," she repeated. "Here?" I asked, confused. "Where?" "Here. Combat Zone." "No. I mean, where did you grow up?" I asked, exasperated. "Combat Zone." I finally got it. "You mean you literally grew up here? In the Zone?" "For a private dick," she said, "you awful slow." "What about your parents?"

"Always tell people I a trick baby. But ain't true. I know my daddy." "Do I know him?" I asked. "Uh huh." "Who?" "King Pimp," she said. "King Pimp was your father?" I asked, shocked. "That makes Crazy F your brother." "Now you catching on." "Who's your mother?" She studied me. A long time. Then she said: "Maria the Prophet." "King Pimp and Maria the Prophet were married?" I asked, doubly shocked. "Don't know if proper marriage or just jump the broomstick. But they my parents. You know her?" "I met her once. Or twice." "She prophesy unto you?" she asked. "Yes." "Come true?" "First part did," I said. "Still waiting on the second part?" "Still waiting. Who is she?" Flukie shrugged. "She say she go back thousands of years. To the Old Religion," she said. "When menfolk and wimmins equal. Before the menfolk become beasts who treat wimmins like they not human." "Way King, your own father, treated you." "Uh huh. Maria prophesy someday Great Goddess change things back. Way they used to be." "I'm at a loss for words," I said. She laughed. "First time I ever see that, big-mouth." "Why did King and Maria separate?" "Maria be King's bottom woman," Flukie said. "Top earner. She ain't just got the wisdom. She got the superwisdom. Separates mens from they money like picking ripe fruit from the tree. "But King forget Pimp Rule Number One. Never fall in love with one yo' hoes. They marry. Still, he a rock-bottom macho fiend. Expect all wimmins do what he say. Specially his wife. Specially his top earner." "Even after they married," I asked, "King still kept Maria on the Stroll?" "King say she got a big ole cash register down there 'tween her legs. No sense wasting it. But Maria? She somehow find the Old Religion. Say she and King equal. Don't have to do what he say." "What did King do?" "King?" she said. "He beat her black to blue and then blue to black. But Maria still refuse. King say, don't earn, don't eat. So he kick her out the family. "She disappear. Nobody know where. Then she pop up

here and there in the Zone. Like a ghost. Zonies call her Maria the Prophet. Cuz she prophesy." "And what happened to you?" She laughed bitterly. "King put me on the Stroll when I twelve. Think I have purebred genes of superwisdom like my mammy. But I don't. Can't catch a cold, let alone a date. Don't earn dollar one. I a fluke. But King keep me around as a slave." "Good old King," I said. "So these two corpses - your father and brother - treated you like..." "A sin-ugly three-legged dog," she finished for me. "Some sick shit, huh?" "Not quite the harmonic height of mental health." "Why we's all screwed up." "No family is pitch-perfect," I said. "Now let's get you out of town. On a train for Nowheresville. So you can disappear. King's men - or Crazy's - will probably kill you and fight for the throne." "Prolly," she said stoically. "But ain't going to Nowheresville. Or nowhere else." "What then?" "Now I Queen of the Zone." "Be serious," I said. "That little white bitch Cora be queen," she laughed. "Why can't Sister Flukie?" "Take King Pimp's place?" "Why not? Know the Zone like the busted purple veins on my skinny-ass arms." Slowly, stately, she ascended the platform steps and sat on the throne. "How I look?" she asked, holding her head high. "Every inch a queen." "The queen thanks you, Castille, for all yo' service. Have a sword? Make you a knight. But you better get gone. Oh. One more thing." "What?" I asked. "My last act as Sister Flukie. Always keep my promise." "What promise?" "I owe you," she said, "a bump-de-bump or a boom-de-boom. Which it be?" "Neither. You saved my life by shooting Crazy F. Call us even." "You a good guy. For a mother-raping ofay peckerwood." "Thanks," I said. "I think." "I declare Sister Flukie dead. I is reborn Queen... What a good queen name?" "Cleopatra? Last pharaoh of Egypt." "Egypt in Africa?" she asked. "North Africa." "Good enough. I is reborn Queen Cleo." "Your majesty," I said. "May I take my leave?" "You may." The King of the Combat Zone was dead. Long live the Queen.

CHAPTER 85

NOW!

Another accursed letter delivered to my office. Down to one syllable. A wave of expectation rippled across my skin like the wind across the choppy water of the Charles River. The phone rang; a pinwheel of panic spun in my chest. "I told you I'd get him," Rat said solemnly. "Who?" "Diedre's killer." My body became encased in ice buried in the Antarctic. My mouth opened; I was astonished that words came out. Or, at least, one word. "Who?" "Not over the phone. Come over and see for yourself." Out of my office, out of the Textile Building, I bolted and ran up Harrison Avenue. When Jimmy Liu, Chinatown's lone beat cop, eyeballed me, I slowed down to a fast walk. Simply wouldn't do to be held up at this supreme moment. I felt my gun under my jacket. In his office, alone, Rat sat behind his desk and chugged a bottle of beer. He plonked it on his desk next to a dozen other empties. "And King Uzziah was a leper till the day of his death, and being a leper lived in a separate house. Two Chronicles 26:21," he said. "Who?" I demanded. "You won't believe it," he said. "Where? Down below? In the City of the Dead?" "You won't believe it," he repeated. "Tell me." "He that dies in the city shall the dogs eat. And he that dies in the country, the vultures shall eat. One Kings 14:11." "Tell me now," I demanded. "I killed her," he said simply. My brain short-circuited. Then I realized that demon alcohol had once again overwhelmed him. "Good one," I said and did my Jimmy Cagney. "You dirty rat! You killed my Diedre!" "I'm serious," he said. "So am I!" I shouted. "You boozehound! Why did you start drinking again?" "Because I couldn't live with this secret any more." "And I suppose you've been sending me the daily letters?" "That's right," he said. "Rat, you had me all charged up, you cockeyed dipsomaniac. Now I'm all let down. You don't have the killer at all, do you?"

"Remember the night she died?" he asked. "Five years ago. November 13th. A Thursday." "You always took that night off from working here." "Because on Thursday, Diedre worked late," I said, impatiently. "Alone in her studio." "Which I knew." "What about it?" I asked with growing irritation. So much for Rat's pledge to remain sober. Try to make sense out of a conversation with a drunk. Fucking alcohol. What a curse. He took a big swallow of beer. "I went to her studio," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "So?" I asked. "We talked. She loved me! She loved me more than you!" "Did she say that?" I asked with face-twisted skepticism. "No," he said. "But I knew it was true!" "How did you know?" "I just knew. You don't spend blind hours in tunnels under the earth without developing your other senses. Hearing and smell, sure. But something else." "A sixth sense," I said, humoring him. "Exactly. My sixth sense told me she loved me. More than you!" "That may be true. Or not," I said. "But she chose me." "You forced her!" "How?" "I don't know how!" he yelled. "I just know!" "Your sixth sense." "But she wouldn't admit it! Don't you see? All I wanted was for her to tell the truth about us." "The eternal triangle," I said, laughing. Rat was delusional. "The best friend." "I loved her as much as you did," he said. "It's just that she...married you." "And that made all the difference. Crawl back into your bottle. I'll find her killer myself." "I told you. I have her killer." "You said you had him," I said. "But I don't see anybody here but us." "I killed her. Me." "But the cops questioned you and your staff. They all said you never came out of your office that night. Perfect alibi." "I never left the office through the door into the bar. But I left the office another way. A way the staff knew nothing about." "The trapdoor," I said, as the light bulb went on over my brain. "Into the City of the Dead." "Even then, I knew it like the back of my hand. I came up in one of the dark alleys in the Theatre District. Nobody saw me. And I have a memento." In his left hand was a ribbon. Blood-red.

Diedre's ribbon. He had killed her. I felt like I was hit in the solar plexus by a sledgehammer. I reached for my gun. But, stunned, I moved in slow motion. In his right hand, Rat pointed his .38 revolver at me. I felt like I was deep underwater. Disoriented. Didn't know which way was up. "You killed her? Why?" "Because she should have married me," Rat said. "So you killed her?" I demanded. "I don't know what came over me," he said. "Like back in the war. Remember how we'd get? Ready to kill anything that moved. I hardly realized what I was doing. Next thing, my hands on her throat. She's...dead." "And now you're going to kill me," I stated. An angel entered the room. A huge radiant humanoid figure with large spread white wings. The Angel. The Angel of Death. Phrases from the Apostles' Creed from my Catholic childhood tumbled around my mind like a sonic kaleidoscope. 'Crucified, died and was buried...descended into hell ...resurrection of the body...life everlasting...' "You went for your gun," he said. "You were going to kill me." "That's right," I said. "And I'm still going to kill you." "Hard to do if you're dead." "I'll rise up out of my grave and strangle you. I'll appear in your dreams and destroy you. My spirit will haunt you and drive you insane." "I told you," said Rat, frowning, the furrows in his face pieces of a jigsaw puzzle I would never be able to assemble. "I would kill Diedre's killer." He turned the muzzle of the gun away from me and stuck it in his mouth. The gun going off in the small office sounded like a ton of dynamite exploding. Splattered against the wall behind Rat's almost-alive, almost-human face was an abstract painting of red blood, white skull matter and gray brain tissue. The Angel was gone.

CHAPTER 86

After a turkey dinner with all the fixin's - including eating half an apple pie to satisfy my sugar addiction - we sat on my couch holding hands. Margie had finally convinced her father not to open the restaurant on Thanksgiving. "So Rat didn't tell you why he killed Diedre?" Margie asked. "Not exactly," I shrugged. "But he was jealous."

"Of you? Why?" "Because I had had two wonderful women in my life who had loved me. You. Diedre." "He killed Diedre out of jealousy," she said. "And himself out of guilt." "Apparently." "You're in the clear? Legally?" "The coroner ruled it was suicide," I said. "And it took over five years before the guilt caught up with him." "Why he drank," I said. "And then the blackouts." "Maybe he killed her during a blackout. Not knowing what he was doing." "We'll never know." "You said he had it," she said. "What was it again?" "Soldier's heart," I said. "Soldier's heart," she repeated. "Life is sad." "Horrifying." "Did he leave a will?" she asked. "He didn't own much beside The Tunnel," I said. "He left everything to Sho Sho." "Who's that?" "Hostess. But, by the end, she ran practically every aspect of the operation." "She going to sell it?" she asked. "No. Quit school and upgrade it," I said. "Make it more Theatre District than Combat Zone." "On the boundary, isn't it?" "Almost." "One good thing," she said. "What's that?" "Closure. At least now you know who killed Diedre." "I didn't realize it had been such a burden these last five years," I said. We were quiet. "How do you feel about Rat's betrayal of you?" she asked. "I'm still too stunned to know how I feel." "That's how I felt about El Salvador." "Ready to tell me about it?" I asked. "It was awful," she said. Her hand turned cold. "How?" "The poverty. The unimaginable poverty of their everyday life. And then add a war." "Did you actually help build the orphanage?" I asked. "Not physically," she said. "That's why we raised the money. To hire professional carpenters, plumbers, roofers, electricians, etcetera." "What did you do? Supervise?" "No. We hired professional supervisors." "So what did you actually, you know, do?" I asked. "You won't believe it." "Try me." "When I realized I'd just get in the way of building

the orphanage," she said, "I asked the international relief people what I could do to help." "Ever the helper," I said. "They loaded cardboard boxes on a rickety old bus. It had been hit by a bomb. Windshield shattered, windows blown out, wooden crates for seats. Other passengers were toothless peasants. Most had live chickens. "The relief workers told me the bus was going to the mountains and I should bring the cardboard boxes to the farmers. A burnt-out bus with no shock absorbers on a muddy, rutted road." "What was in the boxes?" "I didn't look," she said. "Judging from how sickly everybody was, I assumed it was basic medical supplies. I didn't open a box until I saw the first farmer out in a field." "Medical supplies?" "No." "What?" I asked. "Sunglasses." "You gave out sunglasses?" "Yup," she said. "With tanning lotion and Mai Tai's by the pool?" "It wasn't funny." "Why sunglasses?" I asked. "Because the farmers work all day out in the sun." "And?" "And they go blind," she said. "From the sun?" "The fierce tropical sun. Literally blinding." "How did you distribute the sunglasses?" I asked. "Doreen - a relief worker - and I just walked around for two days giving out sunglasses to farmers." "That seems weird." "It felt weird," she said. "Did you see any blind farmers?" "Plenty." "What did they do?" I asked. "Nothing. Just sit on the falling-down porches of their falling-down shacks. And drink the local rotgut liquor." "You two just walked around?" "We asked the people to spread the word," she said. "Some farmers came to us. But a lot of farmers refused to wear the sunglasses." "Why?" "Who knows?" she shrugged. "Doreen spoke a little Spanish. Some farmers said they were uncomfortable to wear." "So they'd rather go blind?" "Doreen thought it had to do with machismo. You know how men can be sometimes." "I've heard rumors," I said. "After we gave out all the sunglasses, we got another burnt-out bus to take us back to the orphanage. Kids were already gathering."

"What were they like?" "Shell-shocked. Sick. Emaciated. Injured," she said. "Gangrene. The doctor had to amputate arms and legs. It was unearthly. You'd think the kids would scream. But they hardly made a sound. "I helped out here and there until I called Ruby Yang. When she said you were in the hospital, I came back to Boston. I can't say I was unhappy to leave. Their trauma almost traumatized me." "What about the orphanage?" I asked. "Doreen called me last Sunday. She's still there. It's finished. The kids now have beds, food, toys." "But no parents," I said. "More orphans in this pitiless world. You and I should be more thankful. We don't know how lucky we are to have found each other." "I know now," I said, squeezing her hand. "Me too," she said, squeezing back. "So," I said. "You and me?" "You're the only person I've ever let see into my soul and..." "And?" "And I believe you're the only person I ever will let see into my soul," she said. "Then you and I are all right?" I asked. "Yes."

"Well, I love that dirty water (I love it, baby) I love that dirty water (I love Baw-stun) I love that dirty water (Have you heard about the Strangler?) I love that dirty water (I'm the man, I'm the man)"

Dirty Water

by The Standells