Not too far from the west side of the Loop, Booth Nevis ran a place with a good bar, a small band, and a dance floor. That was all pretense; anyone interested who'd been in town for more than a day knew it to be only thin cover for the gambling in the back and upstairs rooms. The Nightcrawler Club had the same thing going, but could cater better to a more respectable, less informed crowd with its fancy shows and singers. The Flying Ace was strictly for the pros and their marks.

Nevis called it the Flying Ace because he was supposed to have been a pilot during the war, but no one believed that. He'd been too busy running numbers for some uncle in San Francisco, learning the family business. Word had it that he and the uncle got interested in the same woman, and she played one against the other for money and gifts. She got found out, though, and wisely left town before either of them could express his annoyance to her. Nevis was supposedly looking for her when he hit Chicago, learned how to pilot a plane, and began short hops across the Canadian border to bring in booze. He couldn't fly big cargoes, being limited by what his plane could carry, so he smuggled in premium stuff for the rich and discriminating and played the role of the dashing bootlegger to the hilt. The snob crowd ate it up. Or rather drank it up.

Selling the fancy booze and special wines at a five hundred percent profit per bottle, he soon had plenty of dough to flash and invested it in staking out a piece of territory to build his club. The lessons he'd learned by the foggy bay stood him just as well by the windy lake. He prospered with the gambling, and now only flew for his own amusement.

The club was decorated with aviation souvenirs, and behind the bar was a big photo of Nevis decked out in leather flight gear standing next to his plane. There were some medals in a frame next to it, the implication being that he'd won them in service. Anyone who'd been in the war would know at a glance that it was bullshit, since the medals were navy honors he'd probably bought in a pawnshop. No one told him that to his face. It just wasn't worth the trouble.

The gorilla watching the door knew me from my dealings with his boss and nodded when I asked if Nevis was in. I passed through a small, bare lobby. It had no cover charge, no hat check, nothing to prevent a person from quickly going through to the gaming rooms, where bigger change was to be made. Anyway, there was little point in leaving your hat out front if you were forced by a raid to make an exit out the back.

The main room was choked with a week's worth of loser's sweat and stale cigarette smoke. My night vision was no good here, but at least I didn't have to breathe the stuff. I felt my way over to the bar. The bartender, who looked far too clean-cut for the joint, came over. Mindful of the drink that had been left so mysteriously on the bar at Lady Crymsyn, I ordered a shot of whiskey and asked where I could find his boss. He gave me one, told me the other, then I paid him fifty cents and said he could keep the change.

Nevis didn't have a regular table for himself, always sitting in a different spot, and he usually moved several times a night. No one was gunning for him that I knew about; he was just being careful. Gordy was often the same way. I hoped I wouldn't need to follow their example once my place was up and running. I was pretty bulletproof, but details like that I just didn't want to have to think about.

The band was playing loud and hot as I threaded between tables, and some couples were making use of the floor. There were a number of dressed-up women sitting in groups, some looked bored, others predatory, as they drank and smoked, thickening the atmosphere. None of them made an offer at me, so I politely assumed they were waiting on their men to finish gaming in the back. It might be a while; Nevis usually let things go on around the clock.

I discerned Nevis's outline in the shifting murk. He was at a table away from the crowd, his back to a wall, of course. He had a phone receiver jammed against his ear and, from his gestures, was holding quite an animated conversation. In a short lull between the din of the music and other sounds I just barely picked out his voice.

"No, no, no, I'm telling you, you can't push anyone out of a plane like that. The damn door is too small for that kind of thing. Oh, I gotta go." He'd spotted me and hung up, flashing a big smile my way. "Fleming, long time, no see. How's that wreck of mine doing?"

"Not too many hitches." Pretending I'd not heard anything amiss, I stuck out my free hand and we shook. He invited me to sit across from him. If anything interesting snuck up behind me, I'd see it in his eyes first. "You can't call it a wreck anymore. I've put too much work into it."

"So I've heard." He was a long lean man, with thin hair smoothed back over a skull without much meat under the skin. He seemed frail, with the hollow, wasted look of a lunger; only his assured manner and robust confidence belied the initial impression of illness. He had a square jaw and wide mouth full of good humor for himself and the world. Most of the time it was sincere. "Is this a social visit?"

"Not really. I'm opening soon and thought you could help me find people to work there. I need the usual and a general manager to run the place when I'm not around."

"Why not ask Gordy? He knows everyone."

"I did, he said to come to you." This was true, Gordy and I had discussed the intricacies of hiring and firing many times.

Nevis smiled amiably, long, nimble fingers lightly touching a sweating glass in front of him. He turned it clockwise slowly, a quarter inch at a time. His drink was down to melting ice.

I wondered how much alcohol he'd had tonight. That would affect my ability to get reliable information from him. "I figured you could put the word out for me."

"Sure, no trouble."

"Especially for the general manager spot. I need a guy who knows how to do books and keep them straight."

"Not asking for a lot in this town, are you? All the people who come here have an angle-their own. Maybe you should advertise for some college kid who's never been hungry."

I let that one pass as the joke it was. "I'll be at my club between nine and midnight for anyone who wants to see me."

"Why so late?"

"So I know they can work the hours."

"What if they're working someplace else at that time?"

"Then they don't need a job." I pretended to taste my whiskey. It was like bringing gasoline to my mouth, but I managed without any face-twisting to wet my lips. Next time I'd just ask for water. "Doing a good business tonight?"

"Good enough on both sides of the door." He jerked his pointed nose toward a discreet opening that I might have seen had there been less smoke. On the other side of it were the gambling rooms. He'd taken me through once, but I'd turned out to be disappointingly immune to the offered temptations. When I wanted to gamble it was always blackjack at the Nightcrawler, where I had a chance to win.

The horse racing bets I didn't count as gambling. Those were a sure thing, after all.

Nevis and I talked a bit about this and that, and he offered to buy me another drink when I carelessly knocked my whiskey off the table. I told him I'd be happy with some plain water as obviously more booze would only add to my problems. He laughed at that and signaled a waiter, telling him what was wanted and added another drink on the order for himself.

"You're all right, Fleming," said Nevis. "Most guys would get a double just to prove they could handle it."

A year ago I'd have done so. Not anymore. "Why give myself a worse hangover than I'm already going to get just to make a point?"

"You're not drunk," he stated. "Come morning you're not going to feel a damn thing from tonight."

Truer words and all that.

He wasn't showing it, just a sheen on his face, but I figured he'd already had too much of his own stock for me to be able to make a hypnotic dent in his mind. There were other ways to get a man to talk, though. A waiter brought his order and mine. We listened to the band, watched the dancers, and with a little prompting I got a couple funny of stories out of him about his business. The phone rang twice. His conversations were no more than a minute each, with words of one syllable. No names were spoken.

He'd worked his drink down to the halfway point when the band took a break. He regarded them with a benign smile as they filed out. When he turned it on me, it beamed with happy goodwill. "So. Why haven't you asked me about that body you found?"

"Because you'd want to talk about it yourself when you were ready."

His eyes warmed up. "Not bad, kid."

No need to correct him on my real age. "What do you know about it?"

Nevis shook his head. "I read the papers. That's all. Welsh Lennet could probably tell you more. But he's not around."

"So I heard." As the previous owner of the building, the thoroughly deceased Lennet would have to be mentioned sooner or later. I had just enough apprehension banging around inside to know Nevis was giving me a mild warning to back off. And maybe I was also being tested for a reaction. I tried not to give one. "I heard he kept rough company. Who's still around I could talk to about him?"

"What's it to you?" Nevis smiled, very steadily.

"My place isn't open yet and already has a black mark against it. I want to wipe it away."

He chuckled. "You shouldn't try to play clean in this town. Most of the time it won't let you."

"I heard that, also. This is something I have to do, though." I waited him out as pieces of other conversations floated around us like the stale smoke. A drunken woman laughed, loud and high, across the room. No one paid her much attention.

Nevis sipped from his glass, put it on the table, and began making those quarter-inch turns again. "You wouldn't come here unless you knew more than you're saying. You're thick with Gordy, and he'd have given you an earful about me and Lennet."

"I just heard rumors, is all. No skin off my nose if you bumped him. My only concern is about the dead woman."

His smile dimmed. "Well, I don't know anything about her."

In the middle of his level, brimming-with-honesty gaze, I said, "They found out she was Lena Ashley."

His smile faltered, then faded completely. His open face shut down and went blank, and not from my influence. "What?"

I repeated the name, giving him a long look of my own. A hypnotic prompt might not work, so I had to wait him out. It took him a while. He seemed genuinely surprised. I couldn't tell if it was real or overacting.

Finally: "You sure?"

"Yeah. You knew her pretty well, too."

"No, I didn't."

I didn't believe him. No one would.

He went back to fiddling with his glass. Now he made turns of a full inch. "Lena, huh? Poor kid. Who would have figured it?"

"Exactly. Who had it in for her?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Because you paid her bills."

He stopped a moment with the glass. "So I did. My problem is I'm too much of a soft touch when it comes to dames. She'd hit me up for a loan whenever things got tight, and I'd give her dough. I really didn't know her that well."

He was nervous. With that last sentence he said just exactly too much. "Oh, yeah?" I made sure he heard doubt in my tone.

No change to his blank expression, but his face flushed, his hand drawing away from the glass to form a white-knuckled fist. I'd hit one hell of a nerve.

He was a thinking man, though, and restrained himself from actually trying to slug me. The flush faded, and he put on a smile that almost looked right. "I don't need to explain the birds and bees to you. She hit a lot of guys up for what she called loans. She was a great gal, good company, so no one minded too much when she didn't pay back. She spent it fast and would call guys for more. She was like a little kid, always wheedling, forgetting what she owed. Maybe she hit the wrong guy, and he got sore and-"

"Walled her up alive for a bum debt?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Because she could find more money and pay him off. You have to come up with a better excuse than that."

Nevis flushed again and went still. When he finally spoke, he kept his voice level, but cold enough to raise the hackles on a marble statue. "I know what you're doing, and it won't work with me. I don't have to come up with a damn thing. Who the hell do you think you are coming into my place with that kind of shit? You're no cop."

"Right. Meaning you can talk to me and it won't come back on you. Why'd you bump her?"

He started to surge forward. "I didn't-" He caught himself and eased down. In slow stages the smile gradually returned, but his eyes were hard. "You're good, Fleming."

"And I thought I was being subtle. Why'd you bump her?"

Nevis took a drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. "First, I didn't bump her, and second, I couldn't say who did. She just stopped turning up. Except for the people she owed money to, no one was all that much bothered. Nobody knew what happened to her. That's the truth."

"Who'd she owe?"

"Uh-uh. I'm not making trouble for others."

I regretted not being able to really question him. He was past the point of me getting him mad enough to talk. For the moment, he'd say nothing or only shoot out lies, but those could be just as useful in their own right. Now I knew he had something interesting to hide. "Come on. You read the papers."

"Yeah. But it's nothing to me."

"You know what was done to her."

He started turning his glass again, watching me with everything behind his face shut down and locked for the night.

"Nobody deserves that kind of death," I said quietly.

A shrug. "You'd be surprised."

"Who are you protecting?" I could hear the beginnings of futility in my own voice and didn't like it.

"No one. I've got nothing to tell you."

"Look, some bastard's walking around having a good laugh on her-"

"Oh, stop or I'm going to cry."

The power of my own sudden anger and frustration took me by surprise. I'd been holding things in, trying to match Nevis for steadiness. It didn't work. Something shifted and broke free inside; the heat of it rushed through me, spilling out.

I made no effort to stop it.

Though his mind was well insulated by alcohol, Nevis rocked back, big bony hands grasping the table edge at the last second to keep his balance. His eyes went wide.

I pressed him. "Who could have killed her, Nevis?"

His jaw sagged, but he made no sound.

"You hear me? Who?"

His mouth flapped; he couldn't speak, only made a small gasping sound like pain.

Too much. I broke eye contact. When I looked again, he was still holding on to the table, dazed and trembling. Damn. I wondered if I'd done him permanent harm. It didn't seem likely, but I'd been careless with my temper once before with disastrous results.

"Nevis?"

He blinked, shook his head like a boxer with one too many punches. His fish-white skin shone with new sweat.

"Nevis. Who killed Lena Ashley?"

All he could do was shake his head, refusing to meet my gaze. I said his name a couple times, fighting off a stab of real worry. To my relief he finally responded with an inarticulate growl. He sounded more confused than annoyed. "You're okay," I told him with more reassurance than I actually felt.

"Wh-wh-at?"

I gave him my water, helping him slop down a few gulps. He didn't look good, and people were staring. I waved through the smoke at the barely visible waiter. He saw and came over with a fresh drink and a concerned expression. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"Your boss ain't feeling so well. I think he should lie down for a minute."

"The office has a couch."

"That'll do."

He stayed to help, though I could have managed on my own. A lot more stares came our way as we each took an arm and helped Nevis along. He walked under his own power, but needed guidance like a blind man. We went through the door leading to the gambling area. There was a bare, dim hall on the other side and more doors, some open to the gaming within. The sounds of risk, triumph, and failure floated from them.

I'd been in the club's big office before to close the deal for Crymsyn and went straight to it. The waiter and I eased Nevis onto a battered leather couch and put his feet up.

"He just got a little dizzy," I explained, straightening.

The waiter looked dubious. "Should I get a doctor?"

"That's okay. Let him rest. I'll keep an eye on him."

Still dubious, he left. Probably to pass on the news. I dropped to one knee and slapped Nevis's face hard enough to sting. "Come on. Wake up. It's not that bad."

I hoped it wasn't that bad. The change in me could be dangerous for others. On one occasion my uncontrolled rage drove a man stark-staring mad, which had taught me one hell of a lesson about self-restraint. But then I'd had him under my complete hypnotic influence, and that contact made him more vulnerable to mental damage.

Nevis's reaction puzzled me. Maybe he was just highly susceptible to suggestion. Being drunk and having to deal with my anger banging around in his head was apparently not a good combination for him. When I'd had need in the past to try questioning others in a similar alcoholic state, they always seemed able to shrug off my influence. I didn't know what had gone wrong this time.

Or maybe I didn't want to admit to myself that I'd been extremely stupid.

Nevis mumbled something. His eyes were partly open, but not focused on anything.

"What's that? Talk to me." I leaned close.

"Ask," he slurred out.

"Ask what? Ask who?"

His hand brushed against my coat as he struggled with the words. His face went red from the effort to speak. "Ask. Rita."

Rita Robillard. On my list of people to see. "What about Rita? You think she killed Lena?"

"Nun. Knew her. Friend."

"Where do I find her?"

"Nuh..." A head shake, then his eyes shut as he dropped back. "I. Hurt."

"Headache? Is that it?"

"Mi-graine. God-damned migranes. Oh, damn . . ." Moaning, he writhed over on his side, bringing his arms up to cradle his skull. There was pain all over his face and in every line of his long body. I knew exactly what it was like to feel that bad.

"You want anything? What do you want?"

"Light. Off."

I stood, feeling more than a little helpless, and cut the overhead light. A small desk lamp remained on, but he seemed not to object to its vague glow. He relaxed a little and went very still. His tight breathing gradually steadied, but I didn't know whether to take that as a good sign or not. I took a whiff of air, concentrating, and in between the normal smells of booze, the day's sweat, and tobacco, I caught an odd, flat sourness floating up from him. It was the stink of illness. Sometimes I could pick it off a person. Not one of my favorite abilities.

Someone made a commotion in the hall and pushed in. The light crashing through the door from the outside overhead fell across Nevis, but he was too out of things to notice.

"What's the problem? Tom said the boss got sick." The newcomer was Shivvey Coker, a solidly built man of medium height who seemed to take up more space than he should. He also knew me by sight, nodded a perfunctory greeting, and muscled past for a better look at Nevis. "Musta had too much again," he pronounced with mild disgust.

If Coker was unaware of Nevis having a problem with migraines, then it wasn't my place to enlighten him. "He didn't seem drunk."

"He never does. He packs the stuff away without showing it, then-wham-he's out cold. It's kinda early for him, though."

"Maybe he started early. Let's let him sleep it off."

He hesitated, and I couldn't blame him since Nevis was in charge of his daily wage. From the flashy clothes and the thick gold watch on its gold chain, the pay looked to be pretty good.

"C'mon, I'll buy you one," I said, wanting distance from the sickroom. With every breath I seemed to take in more of that sour scent.

Coker let me herd him out, and I left the desk light on. I'd known a few people plagued by migraines, and there wasn't much you could do for them but leave them alone to sweat it out.

"Don't look so worried, kid," said Coker, as we emerged into the club. "He'll bounce back. He always does."

"Sure." With a small twinge of guilt, I hoped Nevis would be all right, seeing how I was most likely the cause of his attack. No way to fix it, either. Better to forget him for the time being. I now had someone else from my private inquisitional list requiring my full concentration.

Coker found a couple openings at the bar, and we eased in. He had a beer, I asked for water again.

"You could do with something stronger," he observed.

"I don't want to end up like Nevis."

He snorted. With a nickname like Shivvey you expected someone good with knives or an ex-prizefighter. But there was a gun under his coat, and his face and knuckles were unmarked by much of anything. He was ordinary enough to vanish into wallpaper, but if you knew what to look for you could see he was down-deep tough. It was in the way he moved and the hard cast to his colorless eyes; you went by those, not the milk-bland, amiable expression. "You're Fleming, ain't you? The guy what bought Welsh's old place? I'm Shivvey Coker; I used to work for him."

We briefly shook hands. "I heard that. Too bad about what happened to your old boss."

Coker shrugged off the sympathy. "He was an asshole."

"Oh, yeah? Is that why he got scragged?"

"Probably. I didn't like him much, but he paid good, and the girls he kept around were friendly."

The bartender, whom Coker called Malone, delivered our drinks. I gave him a quarter and motioned for him to keep the change. A touch surprised at this second tip, he nodded his thanks and moved off to polish glasses, still looking too clean-cut for the joint. He was within earshot, but the band was filing back, and their noise would cover what conversation I had with Shivvey Coker.

He polished off half his beer in a gulp. I banished any thoughts about hypnotizing straight answers out of him. After what happened to Nevis, I was justifiably gun-shy.

"Who do you think threw those grenades at Welsh Lennet?" I asked, pretending to sip water.

Another shrug. "Not my business to think."

"Lotta people say it was Nevis."

"Why you interested? It's old news."

"Just wondering if there was a connection between his death and that woman who was walled up in what used to be his basement."

He didn't flicker an eyelid. I took it to mean he'd long figured out why I'd come around. "Probably not."

"You're pretty sure."

"Walling up dames wasn't Welsh's style. If they got outta line with him, he'd either bust 'em one in the chops till they behaved or send 'em packing. There was always more coming in to replace the troublemakers."

"What if the dame owed him money?"

"Then he'd take it in trade. I don't have to tell you what he'd trade for." Coker sniggered, enjoying his joke, and finished his beer. I signed for Malone to bring him another.

The band started up. The drunk woman squealed with delight and coaxed a man onto the dance floor. She was a tall, frizzy blonde and for a while looked like she was wrestling with him over who was to lead. I didn't watch long enough to see who won.

"Thanks," said Coker, accepting his new beer. "Now, when you gonna try for the real questions? If you think pumping me full of this stuff will get me talking, it won't work. I got more stamina than Nevis."

"Fair enough. I want to know about Lena Ashley."

He paused in mid-lift of his glass. "Who?"

"You heard. She ever touch you for money?"

"She touched everyone. In all kinds of ways." He winked at Malone the bartender. "Maybe not everyone. She was before your time wasn't she, pretty boy?" Malone gave him a nervous tic of a smile and nearly dropped the glass he was polishing. Coker laughed at him, his mouth suddenly thin with distaste, then looked at me. "Let's get a table before pretty boy here falls in love with one of us."

We carried our glasses to a table by the dance floor. The drunk blonde was all over the place, laughing and whooping as her partner swung her around to the fast music. He was smooth and sober, moving with the ease and assurance of much practice. He didn't look hungry enough to be a real lounge lizard, though he was dressed for the part in an expensive tuxedo. You could shave with the crease of his trousers and use his patent leather dancing shoes for mirrors.

"How well did you know Lena?" I asked.

Coker said he couldn't hear me over the band, and I had to repeat the question. "We was friendly, but that's as far as it went."

"How far was that?"

"Just friendly. You know how it is with some skirts.

We'd have some good times, but I didn't send her no valentines or Christmas cards. She was wise. Didn't nag like other dames might. When she got tired of me she'd just find someone else and play with him."

"Ever loan her money?"

"Me and a dozen other guys. She called it loans, we knew better." He gave a short chuckle.

"Who'd she annoy?"

"Annoy?"

"She had to get someone mad enough to kill her. Who'd she run with?"

"It's been too long. Lot of those guys have moved on."

"Who's left? Besides you and Nevis?"

He grinned, showing two straight front teeth and half a dozen crooked ones. "He didn't know her well enough to want to kill her. And I won't play for it, either. Don't slop your mess on me, kid. Get on my bad side and you're just asking for trouble."

"Then point me to someone else."

"There ain't nobody else." He leaned forward, and though he kept to his amiable expression there was a decided change in him. The pleasant facade simply ceased to exist, and I saw without surprise or any sensible shred of fear that I was dealing with an honest-to-God killer. This was indeed a man who would just as soon shoot me as look. "Lemme give you some good advice, kid. Lay off. The broad's dead, and nothing you do will fix it."

I waited long enough to let him understand that I'd heard. "You know something. I want to-"

He cut me off with an abrupt wave of his hand, then pressed it flat on the table between us. "I know you're a friend of Gordy's. I don't want no trouble with him, but some guys in this town ain't so smart. You make them unhappy, and you will get yourself dead, and then Gordy gets unhappy and all hell breaks loose. It's bad for business."

"He'll be glad you hold me in such high regard."

"Then I'm doing us both a favor." He emptied his glass and stood. "Thanks for the beers. I'll see you around."

He strode toward the office, and that was that, until I could corner him when he was more sober or there were fewer witnesses. I'd either have to start earlier in the evening or somehow persuade him to drink a gallon or so of coffee. Fists wouldn't work on him. He was the type to just grin and spit his crooked teeth at me.

I quit the table and went back to the bar with my glass of water. If Coker wasn't in a mood to talk, then I'd try Malone. Bartenders usually knew a little about everything going on in their place. Instead of change, I put a five-dollar bill in front of me. It didn't take him long to notice and come over.

"Yes, sir, what would you like?"

"Shivvey said you could help me."

He glanced past my shoulder, probably looking for Coker to get some confirmation of my statement. Coker was out of sight, though. "I'll do what I can, sir."

"I'm looking for a woman named Rita Robillard."

That quick nervous tic of a smile came and went, and he gave the bill a fleeting look of regret. "Perhaps Mr. Coker was having a little joke on you, sir. She's right over there, with Mr. Upshaw." He indicated the loud, frizzy blonde twirling over the floor with her well-dressed partner.

I felt foolish having been caught out in my lie. "What do you know about her?"

"She comes here a lot. She enjoys dancing."

"Who are her friends?" I slid the five toward him.

He backed away from it. "Perhaps you should talk to Mr. Coker about her, not me."

"Because he's one of her friends? Okay, I don't want you in trouble with Shivvey, but I'd appreciate an introduction to her."

"I don't think you'll need one. Just ask her to dance."

"I will." I pushed the money at him again.

"Oh, sir, that's not necess-"

"Don't worry about it."

The band eased into a slower number and the man called Upshaw slowed his high-stepping accordingly. He held Rita lightly, hands perfectly placed, balance perfectly centered. There was no intimacy of touch between them, though, not like when Bobbi and I danced. Upshaw was apparently just getting in some practice. Rita's eyes were shut, a dreamy expression on her face. When they circled toward my side of the floor I pressed forward and asked if I could cut in.

Upshaw paused at my interruption; Rita opened her baby blues and gave me a quick once-over. She wore a gold dress that clung like paint to her firmly built figure, yet swirled freely around trim ankles.

"Sure, Sport," she said enthusiastically, answering for him. Showing no more expression than a waxwork, Upshaw smoothly bowed out and glided from the floor.

Rita took hold of me-that was the only way to describe it-smiling like a happy shark. I led off, and we did all right for a few measures, then she tried to turn in another direction, reacting on her own to the music. I held fast, insisting on taking her my way. She finally came along.

"I'm Rita," she said, laughing from our brief wrestling match.

"Jack."

"Hello, Jack. You really know what you're doing, don't you?" She lifted her arms slightly to indicate our dancing.

"Most of the time."

"I saw you talking with Shivvey. You a friend of his?"

"Just business." No need to make up any more lies tonight. I had no real talent for it. "After he left I thought I'd like to dance with you."

"Well, it just shows you've got good taste." She didn't look as drunk as before. All the moving around with Upshaw must have helped her work off some of the booze.

Close up, without the smoky air obscuring the details, she wasn't too bad. There were good bones under the skin, by default giving her pretty features. She had height and was slim enough not to need much in the way of restrictive underwear. Her dress represented a month's pay for most men, and she knew what was becoming.

She would also know that every man had his own angle, and while I moved us around, she studied me from under her lashes, trying to determine mine. I figured her to be twenty-five going on fifty. Too many drinks, cigarettes, and late nights were already taking their toll, aging her fast. I didn't want to think of where'd she be in five years, and chances were it wasn't something she wanted to think about much, either.

"You know Shivvey for long?" she asked.

"Just met him tonight. I've seen him around."

"What are you here for?"

"I had to talk business with Nevis, but he went under the weather. Had to take a nap."

"He does that sometimes. What kinda business?"

"I leased some property from him, turning it into a nightclub: Lady Crymsyn."

"Oh, you're that guy! I been hearing about that place all over town. Everyone says it's going to really be something. When do you open?"

"In two weeks." Officially. The private, invitation-only party was in one week.

"I gotta come see it. I used to go there all the time. To the old place, I mean."

"Really? I've made a lot of changes. Maybe I'll give you a special tour."

She punched my shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, I know all about those! Though with you it'd be fun, I bet."

"As much fun as you can handle," I murmured. She'd want to hear something like that.

She gave out with a loud laugh. Loud, but with genuine mirth behind it. This was a gal who knew how to enjoy herself.

"I wasn't in town back when Welsh Lennet had the place," I said. "What was it like?"

"Not fancy, but you could whoop it up fine there most nights. Too bad about poor Welsh. He was a jerk, but could show a girl a good time when he wanted."

"Who else used to be there with you? I might know some of 'em."

"Just the usual gang. Shivvey could tell you better. I'm not so good at remembering names."

Or she was just being naturally cautious. "I heard you were friends with a gal named Lena."

Rita lost rhythm for a moment. "Yeah, sure, we whooped it up, but she went away a long time back."

"Went away?"

"Owed some rent, too-we used to share a flat-but that wasn't the big deal. She left behind all her clothes and things. It was pretty strange. Not one word from her, either. I asked all over, too."

I knew exactly how that felt, looking for someone who would never be found. "Where'd she go? Any reason why?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't say. She left enough stuff to hock so I could cover the rent, so that was something."

"You try to find her?"

"Well, of course I did! I even went to the cops and filed one of those missing person reports, but I might as well have tooted in the wind for all the help they were."

"Was she tight with anyone back then? Maybe with Booth Nevis?"

She stopped dancing altogether. "You ask a lot of questions, Mister."

"With good reason. You need to talk with me."

"Oh, yeah? Why?" She took her arms away and planted her feet.

"To find out what happened to Lena."

"What do you know about her if you wasn't in town then?"

"Where's your table?"

Rita glared a moment, then stalked to a place right by the dance floor. The table was just big enough to hold two glasses, an ashtray, a handbag, and one elbow. She dropped heavily into a chair and leaned toward me as I took the opposite seat.

"C'mon, tell me what's what," she demanded.

"You see the papers today?"

"I don't have time for reading."

Probably too busy sleeping off her nightly revels. "Maybe you caught it on the radio, then. The workmen at my club found a body there-"

"Ohmygod," she breathed. "I heard that! Walled up they said. You telling me that it was Lena? I don't believe it."

I kept silent. She needed time for the surprise to wear off. It did, eventually, and the loud Miss Robillard started looking more sober by the second.

She canted her head, giving me a sideways eye. "You're serious, aren't you, Sport? About it being her?"

"Very serious."

"W-why do you think it was Lena?"

"She had on some nice pieces of jewelry. Real stuff, not dime-store. Had dark hair..."

"That could be anybody."

"The handmade dress she was wearing had a label of an exclusive shop, La Femme Joeena. The fabric was a really bright, deep red, like a traffic light. With a lot of sequins-"

Rita went white. She sat straight in her chair now, not touching its back, hands in her lap, her big shocked blue eyes staring at me and probably not seeing a thing. Dance music flowed over us; couples drifted past, laughing, talking.

"I'm sorry," I said, an inadequate response to her reaction. Anything would be. I don't think she heard.

After a moment, she scrabbled blindly at her handbag and pulled out some cigarettes and a lighter, which she couldn't get to work. I took it from her twitching fingers and did the gentlemanly thing. She sucked that first draw of smoke deep into her lungs. It shuddered out. Around the fourth draw she looked a little less stricken. I remembered what it was like to need one that badly. No such ordinary cravings now.

"You gonna be okay?" Another man might have offered to buy her a steadying drink, but that would have worked against me. I had plans for this gal.

"Not tonight, I'm not. That's the worst thing I ever heard. That poor kid. What a horrible, awful. . ." She sucked in more smoke.

"Try not to think about it."

"Easy for you to say, Sport, but Lena was my best friend. About the only friend I ever had, and I haven't had any like her since. My God..." More smoke.

"Look, I didn't know her, and I can't imagine what you're going through with this news, but I want to help."

"Help? How help?" Her eyes narrowed. She was suddenly back to figuring angles.

"To find out who killed her."

"Why should you bother?"

I gave her a short line of what I'd told Nevis about clearing up black marks.

Rita finished her cigarette and stabbed it into the ashtray. "How could you find out anything? That's what cops are supposed to do."

"I got a few tricks up my sleeve, one of them is knowing you can be a big help in this."

"I don't know nothing."

"Yes, you do. I want the names of the people Lena ran with."

She bent forward, words hovering on her carmine lips. Then she must have thought better of it. She pulled back, crossing her arms. "Yeah, so maybe one of 'em comes and stuffs me behind a wall, too. No thanks."

"That won't happen."

"Oh, so you're some kinda swami. You gotta crystal ball to see the future? Nuts to that, Sport."

"Lena was your best friend."

"Yeah, and she wouldn't have wanted me in no trouble on her account."

"You won't get into trouble. I just want to hear what you'll say to the cops."

"I ain't talking to no cops. If the lousy bastards had done their job the first time, they might have found her and Lena'd still be alive."

The chances were that Lena had been dead long before Rita filed her report with the authorities, but there was no point in mentioning it. "You'll have to eventually. They've traced the dress, and they'll trace down where she lived, and finally come to you. You just tell me what you'd tell them."

She studied me, narrow and hard. I'd knocked her flat with the news, but getting back on her feet again must have been an instant reflex for her. "You're really interested in this, ain't you? It's more than just getting your club all square again."

"It's one of my more aggravating faults. Bothers the hell out of me all the time."

She made a short, nervous half laugh that reminded me of Malone's tic. I glanced at the bar and noticed him looking our way. He went back to polishing glasses. Upshaw was also there, also looking. I couldn't read his face. He slid from his stool and retreated into the thick atmosphere. I followed his murky progress toward the back wall.

Sitting at Booth Nevis's table was Shivvey Coker, returned from wherever he'd gone. Upshaw went there. He didn't bother to sit, just bent low to talk or to listen. Both, probably.

I turned back to Rita. "That guy you were dancing with. What's his story?"

"Tony Upshaw," she said. She got another cigarette out. I lighted it.

"What's he around here?"

"Nobody special. He just decorates the place, keeps the girls happy while their men are losing money. Looks like a pansy, but he ain't. Just likes to dance. What about him? You think he's with me or something? Nah, it's not like that. We just dance is all."

"What's he do when he's not dancing?"

"Nothing, 'cause that's all there is for him. He teaches in a studio somewhere, Takes acting lessons, too. Says he's going to Hollywood soon to give Fred Astaire some grief. He just might do it. I think he's waiting around to find a Ginger Rogers to go with him. Fat chance of that in this crowd."

"He ever work for Nevis?"

"Not that I heard of."

"Why don't you and me get out of here?" I suggested. "Go someplace where we can really talk."

She gave me a long considering look. Working out a few angles of her own, no doubt. "No, I don't think so."

"You pull that kind of shut-face with the cops, and they'll yank you in on suspicion."

For a second she believed me, then decisively shook her head. "You're not scaring me much, Sport. An' even if the cops do something that crazy, I got plenty of friends to spring me."

"Friends like Shivvey? Or Nevis?"

She puffed away and just grinned. It didn't suit her. I couldn't get mad at her, though, not the way I did with Nevis. Part of me could see things from her side. She'd only been about twenty or so when Lena vanished. Combine that with the life she led, and five years would be a very long time to Rita. In her world it didn't pay to be too loyal to live friends, much less a dead one.

I'd get the information I wanted, though. It would just take a while.

And a lot of coffee. "You eaten yet?"

"I don't have time to eat."

"Make it. I'll take you someplace nice."

There was a wavering in her eyes, and I knew I was reading her right. She was a gal with basic appetites, and enjoyed having them filled. A little food, a sympathetic ear, and maybe I wouldn't have to use hypnosis to discover why Booth Nevis had worked so hard to mutter out her name.

"Nothing good's open this late," she protested. Not too forcefully. She only wanted to be talked into it.

"I know a few spots. Come on."

She was right on the edge of saying yes, then gave a little guilty start. I looked where she looked. Gliding toward us, his tux still fresh despite all his dancing, was Tony Upshaw.