He paused close enough so as not be ignored, but far enough away so as not to crowd either of us. Like a perfect diplomat or a well-trained headwaiter. His features were mostly unremarkable, but he did have a lot of poise and presence and was impeccably turned out. He must have used up half a jar of Vaseline to keep his dark wavy hair slicked so firmly in place. He wore a polite expression and gave a slight bow.

"Pardon me," he said in a gravelly voice with a local accent, "but I'd like to finish my dance with Miss Robillard."

"Sure, Tony," she responded with visible relief, rising from her chair before I could object.

I tried not to show irritation at this turn. To judge by the amused glint in Upshaw's eyes, I failed. Rita allowed herself to be swept onto the dance floor. She and Upshaw made quite a show of things as the band swung into a hot rumba. He was the more practiced of the pair, but she did a reasonable job of keeping up with his lead, laughing and squealing with delight the whole time. When the music shifted into another song, he decisively led her away. They went to Coker's table. Upshaw saw to it she was seated, then melted into the background, his errand of separating us as neatly executed as one of his dance steps.

Rita wouldn't be returning, not while I remained, anyway. I waited long enough to see if Upshaw also planned to retrieve her purse. Instead he approached one of the many other women in the joint, inviting her to dance. She happily accepted.

While the opportunity lasted, I snooped. Rita's little beaded handbag held a folded-up wad of a couple hundred in worn tens and twenties, lip rouge, a gold face powder case with her initials on it, a vial of perfume, some keys, an address book, and a driver's license from which I got her address. I flipped through the book. It had only names and phone numbers to some bookie joints I knew about and a few I didn't.

A girl who liked to gamble. If the cash was anything to go by, she did well at it, too.

Leaving the purse, I moved back to lounge at the bar, finding a spot where I could see Rita and Coker. There was little point moving closer; even if I'd been at the next table my improved hearing wouldn't pick much useful conversation out from the constant blaring music and other voices. I wondered if it was too late in life to start learning how to read lips. The idea of getting away for a moment so I could vanish and sneak up on them occurred, but was momentarily impractical. Upon quitting Rita's table, I noticed every gorilla in the place watching me. I couldn't duck into the john without having company, now. Coker had been too thorough passing word to them.

Rita and Coker had their heads close together. Rita shook hers a few times. I could guess he wanted to know what I'd been asking and was getting all the details. He frowned the whole time, which gave me a warm feeling inside. It meshed comfortably with my burning ears. If I had him worried, then I was definitely on to something interesting.

His questions eventually ended, and he started doing all the talking. He was mostly turned away from me, his attention full on Rita. As he spoke, he made little chopping gestures of emphasis. She began frowning herself. Whatever he said was making a hell of an impression, for she looked both grim and uneasy, quite a contrast to her unrestrained laughter only moments earlier.

It'd be nice to know what was going on between them, but I couldn't find out for some while, not until they relaxed their guard. Annoying, for there was no way to tell how long the wait might be. Working with Escott had taught me a little about patience, but I couldn't hang around all night.

Malone came by to ask if I wanted anything. I said no, then he put someone else in charge of the bar. Break time. He made his way toward the gambling entry. I briefly wondered if he spent his tips on the games there, then decided I needed to get off my duff and do something.

The gorillas still giving me the eyeball, I found a pay phone hiding in a curtained-off nook in the bare lobby and called the Red Deuces. Bobbi was busy on stage, so I left a message for her to take a taxi home if I didn't show at the usual time.

Responsibility discharged, I decisively left the club. I had no doubt word would shortly get back to Coker.

The weather was still strangely cool for summer. I welcomed it, consciously breathing the soft night air to flush my lungs clean of the club's choking smoke. With a certain amount of justified smugness, I knew my own place would have decent ventilation. Bobbi said it was good for the singers' throats.

For a day worker the hour was late, so not many people were out and about. The Flying Ace was in the middle of a business area where everything else closed just as it opened, which further cut down on foot and road traffic. Too bad for me; I wouldn't have minded the extra cover. I went right, toward where I'd parked, but strolled past my car. Apparently I wasn't on a tight leash; the bouncers were content to hang around the front, and didn't bother following.

Unless something better occurred to me, I planned to wait around until Rita left, then follow her home. If I worked it right; she'd never be aware of my invasion. Vampires are known for making clandestine visits in the wee hours to see young ladies in their boudoirs; far be it from me to break with tradition.

I'd get back to Booth Nevis when his migraine eased. His reaction to the news of Lena's death struck me all over again as I walked around the block. That he'd cared for her more deeply than he wanted to admit was obvious. There'd been genuine surprise from him at my bad news. Unless he was a better actor than my partner, I was inclined to think Nevis to be uninvolved with her murder. So, why bother to hide how he felt toward her? Probably something to do with his business; it was a smart man who did not admit to weaknesses like having been in love with a murdered woman. The authorities could turn a blind and well-paid eye to his gambling club so long as no other complications forced them to take notice. The sensational "Jane Poe" death might change that delicate balance for Nevis. Or he had a jealous wife hidden somewhere I didn't know about.

Shivvey Coker I figured to be intelligent muscle primarily interested in keeping his job by making sure things ran smoothly for his boss. That'd be sufficient reason for him not to want to talk to me about Lena and see to it Rita was hushed. I knew a little about his background. He could and certainly had been violent when necessary, but was smart to keep from being solidly linked to any specific crime, not even to the death of Welsh Lennet.

I couldn't picture Coker going to all the work of walling up anyone, though. The slow cruelty of the act somehow didn't seem to fit him. He was more the type to just get the job finished, bury it, and move on. And if, as Escott maintained, Lena Ashley's death was meant to be an example or a warning to others, then why hadn't even a hint of it been whispered about in the last five years? In some ways the Chicago underworld was the smallest town on earth. Always knowing what your neighbors and rivals were up to was as much a necessity of the life as turning a profit.

I'd made nearly a full circle of the block and approached one of the club's side entrances. It was in the middle of a wide service alley and used as a back exit for the gamblers should there be a raid. Some of the rollers were hanging around the steps, having a smoke and lying to each other about this and that. Malone, along with two of the waiters, stood around as well, still taking his break. For me, the knot was cover enough from the bouncers, who were presently out of view. I spotted a few people I knew from the Nightcrawler and went over to join their group. They were always good for rumors.

"Fleming! Heard the cops were giving you the works."

"Don't you know enough to leave dead bodies lie?"

"What's the real story, huh?"

"Ya shoulda let Gordy fix it for ya."

"What kinda action you gonna be runnin' once the place is open?"

This last came from a dapper, clean-jawed guy named Gardner Pourcio. He was addicted to most kinds of betting, but unlike others with the malady, actually managed to win a marginal profit. It was enough to keep him coming back for more. He had at least ten wives in as many cities, and they were all gunning for him.

I'd been faintly hoping I'd run into Pourcio or someone like him. From talks with Gordy about my club's dark history I knew of half a dozen guys who'd been there when Lennet died. Gardner Pourcio was one of them.

"No action in my club, just the best booze, good music, and great acts," I said.

"Jeez, what's the point, then?" His sharp features registered supreme disappointment.

"To keep the cops from giving me more works."

"How's that going? I heard the dead dame you found got carried out in pieces."

"I didn't watch. The cops took care of that, and they were welcome to it."

"Think she was one of Welsh Lennet's leftovers?" Pourcio pushed his fedora a little higher on his head, lifting his chin at me. The others listened in as well; Malone and even the jaundiced-looking waiters were clearly interested.

"Could be. Didn't you go to his old place a lot?"

"All the time. In fact, I was there the night of his big boom. You ever hear about that?"

"No, not really. It must have been something."

Pourcio gave a mock shudder and lighted a cigar half as long as his arm. He'd evidently recounted his story many times; he had a well-rehearsed manner about him. "I tell you, I thought the world was coming to an end. I was toward the back, or I'd have bought it for sure."

"What happened?"

With a riveted audience, he took his time, first getting his cigar well started. "It was like this: I was really doing a number on Buster Yeats-remember him, boys? We had a craps game going, an' I was doin' so well with the sevens he thought I'd switched the dice. Now everyone knows I'm honest as the day's long-"

Someone gave a derisive laugh.

"-but I had a hard job convincing Buster of it when he's in the hole for a grand."

"Last time it was only one hundred," the heckler put in. A couple of the bouncers emerged from the exit, crowding through the other staffers. One of them unconcernedly elbowed Malone aside. He made no protest and moved clear.

"I'd raised the bet by then," said Pourcio smoothly. "Well, I put a fifty down and was just wishing to lose it so Buster'll cool off, when I hear glass breaking up front. I didn't pay no mind, 'cause that thing happened all the time with the waiters going butterfingers with stuff, so I made my roll. But before the dice stopped there was one hell of a bang. Two or three, I think, and the whole place is suddenly coming down. There was a big guy right behind me who caught some of it, and he falls on me like a brick, knocking me flat. I was pissed at the time 'cause he weighs a ton and bleeding all over, ruining my suit, but later I figure he saved my life. He took a hunk of shrapnel that would have cut my arm off, but all he needed was a few stitches."

"Lucky for you, then," I said.

"Luckiest night of my life, except countin' the time I raked in a pile from that forty-to-one shot. You guys remember that?"

"What happened after the boom?" I asked to keep him on the right subject.

Shedding some of his storytelling affectation, Pourcio's face went serious. "It was pretty bad. Blood and screaming women, and people running around trying to get out. I got under the craps table, not knowing if there might be more of the same coming in, but it was finished. Welsh and three of his goons was all over the front, making most of the mess. They wasn't nothing to me, but I was sorry about Myra."

"Who was she?"

"This poor schmuck lady bartender who bought it out in the lobby. Throat got tore wide open, she dropped in her tracks and bled to death. I was sorry about her. Whenever I was playing at Lennet's she'd always steer my fourth wife off to some other joint and even make her believe I was the one lookin' for her. Poor Myra. I'd have married her, but she was too wise to me."

"What about Welsh Lennet?"

"He was an asshole. And then he was dead." Pourcio dismissed him with a cloud of thick blue smoke. Story ended, his audience broke up a bit, some going back inside. The bouncer with the elbow was saying something forceful to Malone, who listened with a pinched and troubled expression, his gaze lowered. I wondered if he was due for an interview with Coker about me. There was damned little he could say.

"I heard Lennet was good with women, though," I said, returning my main focus to Pourcio.

"He had the money for it, ya mean." He smirked. "That's what made him so good."

"Didn't he have a couple of real classy jobs on the payroll? A gal here said there was one called Lena Ashley that he was tight with."

"News to me, Fleming. I remember her, sort of, but she wasn't one of Lennet's string, she was strictly Booth Nevis's property."

"Oh yeah? I didn't know he was in that game."

"He ain't, I meant she was his special girl. She wasn't working, that is to say, not in the usual sense."

"Tight, huh?"

"He looked out for her. They was joined at the hip, if ya know what I mean." That gave him a laugh.

"If she was with Nevis, then why'd she hang at Lennet's place?"

Pourcio snorted. "Who said she ever went there? Not me. I never seen her there, only at the track or the bookie joints. Wouldn't think she was smart enough for it, but she was a humdinger for pickin' winners. Maybe it was women's intuition or something, but she was good. She never made a big noise about it with the bookies to make them wise, so she could keep on bettin' with 'em. Wouldn't think she was smart enough for that either. She had looks, though, which was enough for her to get by fine."

"You knew her pretty good?"

"Nah, just to see her around. She never said two words to me. Probably heard about my wives and got spooked off, that's the only excuse I can think of."

Another round of derisive laughter along with, "Yeah, Gardner, sure."

"In your ear, too. I've had better luck than you guys could ever hope for and don't you know it." Pourcio turned back to me, puffing out a smoke ring. The air was still enough for it to hold its shape for a time. "They're all jealous of me, you know, so I can afford to feel sorry for 'em."

"That's one way of looking at it." I was about to try for more details about Lena and Nevis, when a commotion toward the back exit got my attention. The bouncer with the elbows was laying into Malone like Benny Leonard with a grudge. Malone was lean and small and not putting up much of a fight. Mostly he was trying to duck and run clear, but the second bouncer trundled forward with an ugly grin and grabbed him. He roughly dragged Malone around so his partner could go to work in earnest. Malone caught some hard fists in his face and gut.

No one stepped in to stop things.

Malone didn't make a sound except for pain-driven grunts as he was hit. The second man abruptly laughed and released him. Malone flopped boneless to the pavement. That's when the first man kicked him.

I was over my surprise and moving by then. I didn't know what the beef was, but two on one just isn't right when he's not hitting back. I pushed through the crowd and shoved the first goon hard out of my way. He cannonballed against the building's brick side with an audible thud and dropped. Onlookers tumbled all over themselves to get clear.

The second man paused to grin at me assessingly; he shifted his balance fast and swung. I blocked it easy with one arm, pushed him back, and told him to take a walk.

His response was to inform me of what I could do with myself. He stepped over the prostrate Malone so we could properly square off.

I felt a smile creeping over my face. Maybe it was only an excuse to show my teeth. "You don't want to do this," I warned him, arms out, palms down.

"Sure he does," Gardner Pourcio crowed behind me. "I'm giving four to one on Fleming, who's taking?"

The big bouncer scowled at what to him must have been insulting odds. We were of a height, but I'm also on the lean side. A year ago, he'd have bent me in two the wrong way and not broken a sweat. I'm no fighter, but had one hell of a supernatural edge he didn't know about.

While Pourcio hastily gathered bets, the bouncer made another swing, which I dodged. I once more tried to tell him he should stop, but that just annoyed him.

He'd had some experience in the ring and in old-fashioned street fighting, with no qualms against hitting below the belt or any other place he could plant a fist or a foot. I kept my distance and darted in when an opening presented itself, but he was quick enough to dodge or put up a guard before I could connect. Someone yelled at me to stop dancing with him.

Okay, what the hell. Pourcio had probably collected enough bets by now to last him a while.

I let the bouncer close and felt a solid punch in my belly that should have flattened me for a week. The pure force of it doubled me over, but I didn't feel much in the way of pain. It did put me in a position to return the favor with some very steep interest. I piled in with a right, not as hard as I could have made it-no need to rupture his internal organs-but sufficient for the job. He wheezed in shock, folding. I followed with a quick, solid shot to his chin, and it was all over.

He wasn't the only one shocked to judge by the faces gaping at me when I straightened and brushed my clothes back into place. An odd silence descended upon the gathering. There was one happy man in the crowd: Pourcio, who immediately began calling in markers.

"Hell of a show, Fleming! Hell of a show! I owe you a drink. Hell, I'll even buy you dinner!"

"You owe me ten percent of the take," I corrected him. I trudged over to Malone, who was feebly trying to sit up. The bloodsmell hit me a yard away. His face looked like a bad road, and his once neat white shirt and black vest were stained with gore and torn past repair. "Can you stand?" I asked.

"One-one thing at a time," he panted, his voice thin and distorted by a split lip.

I looked toward the waiters, thinking his friends would come help, but they turned away, not meeting my eyes. "Hey, get a towel or something."

"Our break's over," one of them said, and slipped off with the other man to get into the club.

"Hey!"

"Never mind," Malone whispered. "I'll be all right."

"Yeah, and prosperity is just around the corner." When he was ready, I helped him up. "C'mon, let's get you-"

"No," he waved off my attempt to turn him toward the door. "No. Please. I'd rather not go back there."

"Okay, then where? You can't walk around like that, you'll scare the muggers."

"I'll just go home."

"You got a car?"

"I-no-I take the El. Please, you've been more than kind, but I'll see to myself now, thank you."

Well, if a man doesn't want to be helped, you can't force the issue. I backed off, checking on the bouncers. Neither of them moved. Pourcio was busy with his collections. I went over.

"What made you put the odds on me?" I asked.

He beamed my way, counting his cash. "I hear stories. You may look like a string bean, but that's only looks."

"What stories?"

"Just stuff. Heard you once mopped a floor with Lead-foot Sam and Bruiser Butler. You're gettin' a reputation, kid."

Wonderful. Just what I needed. In lieu of a dinner I'd never be able to eat, I collected over fifty bucks from Pourcio as my part of his take. He didn't seem to mind and got on with the counting of his lion's share, grinning fit to crack his face.

On uncertain legs, Malone stumbled toward the end of the alley, holding his stomach. He clawed at the lid of a trash can, but couldn't get it pried loose. Swaying, holding on to the can for dear life, he bent forward and vomited. He stayed that way for a time, then slowly straightened. His legs wouldn't hold, though. His back to a wall, he sagged all the way to the pavement. His face was gray under the seeping blood.

No one went near him. No one even looked at him.

"What gives?' I said, mostly to myself.

"He's one of them," Pourcio cheerfully informed me.

"What, a leper?"

"You know," he added with a twist of distaste, then moved off to count his money. The others drifted elsewhere until it was just me, Malone, and the two out-for-the-count bouncers in the alley.

Damnation. Now I understood the cause of the beating. I went over to Malone. "You're not going to make it to any train ride in the shape you're in, so don't argue with me."

He squinted up, one of his eyes already puffing shut. "You've helped too much already. I can't impose on you further."

"I'm volunteering. Come on."

He allowed himself to be helped up again and hobbled with me to my car. I'd have to deal with Rita Robillard later, which was annoying, but at the moment questioning her was less important than getting Malone someplace safe. If the goons woke up before he could get away, they would kill him. They'd have to get past me first, but I had enough wrinkles in my suit for one night.

Gently bleeding into one of my handkerchiefs throughout the ride, Malone muttered directions, and about half an hour later I set the brake in front of a two-story clapboard on a narrow street lined with similar structures. It housed eight cheap flats to judge by the number of mail slots. Not the Ritz or a fleabag, but somewhere in between on the lower end of things.

"You sure you don't want a doctor?" I asked. "I know a good one who won't ask questions."

"I'll be all right," he said in a near whisper, looking anything but well. "I'm very much in your debt, Mister-"

"Fleming. Forget it."

Before he could insist on trying to do it for himself, I went around to the passenger side and helped him out. No protesting this time. I got him up the steps and inside, then more steps to the next floor. This tired him; he was panting and white by the time we reached the upper landing.

His flat was in the back. The building was old, worn, with creaking wood and faded wallpaper saturated with the smell of decades of boiled cabbage and fish. He shuffled to his door and unlocked it, found the light switch. The kitchen was right there as you walked in. It was clean, but matched the rest of the joint for general shabbiness. He dragged himself over to a battered table; I pulled a chair for him to sit. In his case it was more of a collapse.

I opened the top door of his icebox, found an ice pick in the draining tray, and chipped some pieces off the block. There was a dish towel by the sink. I wrapped it around the melting shards and gave it to him.

"Try this over your eye and that lip," I suggested.

He did so, bowing over the table. "I'm sorry."

"For what? A couple of assholes knocking you around just for fun?"

He made no reply.

"Not the first time for you, is it?"

By degrees, he managed to look up at me. The forty-watt overhead didn't improve his face. Right now he was less clean and more cut. The expression in his brown eyes made me think of a beaten dog, pleading for the punishment to stop, just for a little while. "You know?"

"It's been explained to me."

"And you still helped?"

"Your life's your business, not mine, but I don't like bullies much."

"You are an exceptional man, then."

"Sometimes. You got anything to drink here?"

"I'm afraid not."

A bartender who didn't drink. What next? "Too bad, you need it. What about aspirin?"

"That cupboard." He gestured, and I searched. I made him take four tablets with a lot of water. It was even odds if he could keep them down after all those gut punches, but maybe enough would get into his blood to take the sting out of the worst of them.

"What about food?" I asked.

"I'm not hungry, but if you want something-"

"I'm fine, thanks." I allowed myself a quick look around. A wide archway led to a living area with three open doors in the opposite wall leading to a bath and two bedrooms. That seemed to be the whole flat. As with the kitchen, the place was well kept, with no trash or stray laundry on the floor. A tidy man, suddenly violated by brutal chaos. "Did those two guys have a long grudge on you?"

"They're new at the club. The others there, they never bothered much with me, just ignored me. The new ones, though... it's been building for the last few weeks. A lot of little things. I couldn't exactly complain to the boss about them."

"I guess not."

"No one seems to understand, this is not something I've chosen. It's just the way things are. Who would want to choose my sort of life?" He started to say more, then seemed to realize he might have said too much to a near stranger. "I'm sorry, I don't wish to burden you."

"Sometimes you gotta talk to somebody. I know what it's like."

"But you're not-"

"No, but I know what it's like." Right after my death and change I'd needed to talk to someone. If it hadn't been for Escott just simply sitting and listening, I'd have gone bug-eyed nuts. He didn't have to understand one word of what I was throwing at him, or offer advice; all he did was listen, and that was enough.

"I suppose you do, in a way," Malone admitted. He started to stand, then thought better of it.

"You got a tub? Hot water should help."

"Quite the doctor, aren't you?"

"I've had some knocks. You learn what to do about them."

While he hunched over with the ice and let the aspirin go to work I went to the tiny bathroom and started filling the tub, dropping in half a box of Epsom salts I found in a cupboard. On the way back through the living area I noticed he had a lot of serious-looking books on his shelves. They had the overweight look of college texts. The subjects were accounting and business and a couple on psychology. The latter made me think that perhaps he'd been seeking an answer to his situation. Or maybe a solution. Sometimes there just isn't one.

On a low table were some comic books and in one corner of the floor by the radio someone had set up an elaborate toy fort made of glued-together bits of cardboard. It was very detailed, with roofs that lifted off and working doors with tape hinges; there was even a stable, a watering trough, and a well in the middle. Wooden cowboys, Indians, and horses were scattered around it. Incongruously next to it was a homemade model of the Empire State Building standing about two feet tall. This time the cardboard had been painted gray, with tiny black rectangles marking its many windows. Someone who had seen King Kong had placed a small wooden monkey on the eighty-sixth-floor observation deck.

"You got a kid?" I asked, returning.

Malone's expression lifted and softened. He couldn't quite do that nervous tic smile because of his split lip, but came close. "Yes. Norrie. She stays with my neighbor while I'm at work. Oh, God, how do I explain this to her?"

"Get cleaned up first."

"You don't understand, she's-" Malone shut himself down again.

"She's what?"

"It's complicated," he finished, rather lamely. "She's had upsets like this before."

"And you think your face will scare her?"

He nodded.

"Kids are tough, given the chance. Wash off the blood, don't make a big thing of it, and just go on. If she asks a question, answer plain and keep it short. If you show you're not upset by what's happened, then she won't have anything to react to."

"You have children?"

"No, but it just makes sense."

He digested this while I went to turn off the tub water.

"I may have gotten it too hot," I warned him, coming back.

"I'm sure it will be fine."

"You need some help?"

"I can walk. Only not very fast." He levered himself up, moving by slow considered stages, pausing at the archway between the kitchen and living room. "I've no right to ask you, you've done so much already."

"What do you need?"

"I-I was wondering if you'd mind staying until I was finished. Those men. I'm afraid that they might know where I live."

Chances were they wouldn't be in any shape to come after him, and given a choice would be far more interested in me. Malone had been badly shaken, though. His fears were quite real to him. If it'd been me in his place, I'd have wanted some company, too. "No problem. Take your time. I'm a real nighthawk."

He looked pathetically relieved. "Thank you, Mr. Fleming." He finished shuffling to the bath and shut himself in.

I flipped through the comic books, speculating about his family situation. I could imagine when Malone was a very young man he'd tried to cure himself by getting married, then when things didn't work out, the split came, and it had probably been ugly. Usually any children went with the mother, though. That had happened to a man I'd worked with on the paper back in New York. The office gossip had been poisonous. He got fired, then jumped off a roof that same afternoon, the poor bastard.

I hoped Malone wouldn't be similarly tempted after this setback. He didn't seem the type, but you can't always tell.

There was no reason to expect trouble, but I caught a faint noise in the hall. Someone tried the knob, then softly tapped on the door. Out of habit, I'd locked up. More curious than on guard, I opened it. A sleepy-eyed dark-haired kid of about ten or twelve stood barefooted looking up at me. She was enough like Malone for me to figure out her identity. She wore wrinkled pajamas and clutched a well-worn teddy bear. She seemed too old for such a toy, but there was a fragile air about her, a vulnerability that made me wonder if she'd been sick.

"Who're you?" she asked, without fear.

"A friend of your dad's. He needed a ride home from work."

"Oh. Where is he?"

"Taking a bath. I'm Mr. Fleming. Are you Norrie?"

"Uh-huh." She stepped into the kitchen and slipped up onto a chair. She looked at the soggy, bloodied dishcloth left on the table. "Did Daddy get into a fight?"

"Yeah. He's all right, though." I got the cloth to the sink and rinsed it off.

"You sure? Once someone broke his nose."

"Not this time. He's mostly worried about upsetting you."

"He worries a lot." With a dramatic sigh, she flopped the teddy bear facedown on the table.

"He said you stay with the neighbor while he's at work."

"Mrs. Tanenbaum."

"She might worry, too, if she finds you gone."

"She knows I always come here. I heard him talking and woke up. It was too early for him to be home, so I thought something was wrong."

"You thought right, but it's not too bad. He'll be fine."

"Okay. Who are you? Are you a gangster? There's lots of them where he works, you know."

"Afraid not. Just a Good Samaritan."

"Oh." It seemed to disappoint her. "Can I have a glass of water?"

I got her water. "That's quite a fort you've got in there."

"Yeah, I made it an' the other building. Well, Daddy helped. He cut the stuff out for me, but I drew it out."

"So you want to be a cowgirl when you grow up?"

"No, an architect."

That brought me up short. At Norrie's tender age I wouldn't have been able to make even a close guess on the definition of the word. "Sounds pretty ambitious."

"I'm really good at drawing. Wanna see? I gotta real por'folio."

"Sure."

She toddled off to one of the bedrooms, returning with two big sheets of cardboard held together by a taped hinge and tied at the other three edges by strings. With great dignity, she placed it on the table and solemnly undid the ties, opening it out. I grabbed the stuffed bear and moved the water glass out of the way in time to keep it from being knocked over. Inside the makeshift portfolio was a stack of drawings in pencil, crayon, and ink.

"This is our house," she explained of the top one, which was on graph paper. "See, I've got it to scale. Every quarter inch equals a foot, so if it was real size it'd be as big as this building. Daddy showed me how to measure with a yardstick. And here's what the insides look like. See how the rooms here are like ours but turned around. It's Mrs. Tanenbaum's place where I stay, and that's how I know that it's all backwards from our place."

One by one, she flipped through them, her enthusiasm waking her up. She explained pictures of her house, school, and other buildings; even the Chicago Aquarium had been captured by her with some fair accuracy.

"I copied it from a postcard," she confessed. "But Daddy says it's good practice."

"This is really impressive." I wasn't just blowing hot air. The kid had a talent way beyond her years. "It's great your daddy encourages you so much."

"We visit the library a lot." Norrie shut her portfolio and carefully tied the strings. "He says I should go to college."

"I'd recommend it."

"But I know a whole lot already."

"Then you'll be way ahead of everyone when you get there."

"Maybe they'll think I'm a genius or something."

"Maybe. Just don't tell them you are or-" I shut myself off.

Norrie's plaintive dark eyes went right through me. "Or they might beat me up like Daddy?"

I shook my head. "No. It's just more polite to let other people figure out for themselves that you're smart."

"Why does Daddy get into fights?"

"People can be really stupid. Sometimes stupid people hit others for no reason. Like school bullies."

"You talk like him."

"Is that a good thing?"

"I guess. He knows a lot. He went to college."

You can't learn everything in the halls of higher learning, but it was interesting that Malone had been there. There was no sign of a sheepskin displayed on his walls, though. I wondered what had interrupted his education and kept him in bartending. Probably life.

Norrie talked about how she wanted to build the biggest skyscraper ever, waving her arms high. As she raised her chin toward the ceiling I noticed the pale line of an old scar along the base of her jaw, running with uneven breaks from ear to ear. It didn't seem like the kind you got when the docs remove a goiter. It looked chillingly like someone had used the poor kid for throat-cutting practice. Maybe this was what Malone had meant about things being complicated, and I wondered what history was behind the long-healed damage.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Malone reappeared, wrapped in a long, faded blue robe. His face was clean, but an iodine-stained mess, the bruising getting a real foothold, his eye colorful and swollen fully shut now. Norrie ran over to him, clutching him tight around the waist in greeting.

"Daddy! I been showing Mr. Fleming my por'folio. He likes my drawings."

"Hello, sweetheart," he said calmly. He visibly winced from being hugged, but didn't let on about it to the kid.

"You gotta swell black eye."

Malone glanced at me. I gave him a quick thumbs-up sign so he'd know all was well. "Yes, isn't it. I see we woke you."

"I always hear when you come home. You got in a big fight, huh? Did you beat 'em?"

"No, it was-it was Mr. Fleming's turn this time, then he gave me a ride home."

"He said he wasn't a gangster, but he's got on their kinda clothes."

"Ah-" Malone flashed a horrified look my way.

I held my hands out, grinning at his reaction. "Not me, I'm just trying to open a club. Norrie, just how is it you know what gangsters wear?"

"I seen 'em in the movies. Mrs. Tanenbaum takes me. They all got suits like yours."

"Maybe I better find another tailor, then."

"Maybe Mrs. Tanenbaum should take you to some other kinds of movies," Malone added. "It's very late, young lady. Off to bed with you."

"But I wanna hear about the fight."

"Tomorrow. Say good night to Mr. Fleming. I'll tuck you in later."

She gave another dramatic sigh. "Good night, Mr. Fleming."

"Good night." I tossed her teddy bear at her. She caught it clean, then ran to her bedroom. The sudden creak of bedsprings indicated she'd made a successful flying leap.

Malone paced slowly over and shut Norrie's door, then turned toward me. "She doesn't seem upset at all."

"I tried to cushion things," I said.

"Thank you."

"She's got quite a talent." I tapped the portfolio.

"Yes. She is very smart. Sometimes too smart. I'm sorry about that gangster remark."

"Don't worry, I get it a lot. There's nothing in it." Not much, anyway.

"It's this town... and my job, I suppose. My former job, I should say." He grimaced, which must have been painful with that shiner.

"You're not going back?"

He shook his head, shuffling to an overstuffed chair and easing into it with a small groan. "Not a chance."

"What'll you do?"

"Find another job when my face heals up."

I drifted over to look at the fort and the building again. The kid had a hell of an eye for detail. "Not a lot of those around these days."

"There's always work for a good bartender. I've been at the Flying Ace for such a long time, though, I'd gotten rather used to it. There were jokes about my being a fixture." The unbruised patches on his face were dead white. He wouldn't be able to hold off his fatigue forever, but I needed him to keep talking.

"If you've been there for so long, then Nevis should take you back. He can get rid of the goons."

"Not if he hears their side of the story first."

"I can fix it for you with him."

Malone waved one hand. "No, really, it's for the best. You saw how the others reacted when I was down. They won't tolerate me now, believe me, I know."

I could tell that he did, since this wasn't his first beating and probably not the last. People could be vicious to those who were different from the crowd. Something I had in common with him.

"Besides," he said, "you've done so very much helping me this far. I can never repay you."

"Maybe you can."

"How?"

"Tell me what the setup is between Shivvey, Rita, and Nevis."

He came out of his weariness just enough to give me a blank stare. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"What they are to each other. Nothing you say will get back to them from me."

The blank look relaxed. "Oh, that. Mr. Coker and Miss Robillard are very close friends. Intimate, you might say."

"Are they really gone on each other, though?"

He didn't have to think on that one. "They strike me as being friendly, but not in love. Neither one is the sort to settle down and make a family. I would say that they are... convenient to each other."

"And Nevis?"

"He's definitely everyone's boss. Miss Robillard does some work for him, but I don't know what kind. She's in the club nearly every night, always seeing him for a short while in his office. I've never heard her refer to having any job, but she's well supplied with cash."

"You think she has an intimate arrangement with Nevis? Maybe that's what he pays her for?"

"Oh, I don't think that's it at all, or she'd have said something. She's not exactly secretive in regard to her personal activities. I don't eavesdrop, she just talks. Somewhat loudly, after she's had a few. She's often mentioned her very high opinion of Mr. Coker's skills, which is rather more information than I ever wanted to learn about him."

I was close enough to try to hypnotically influence Malone, and, as he was sober, met with no resistance at all. It made a nice change from the rest of the evening. "You sure you don't know what kind of work she does?"

"No, I don't," he responded in that flat voice they get when they're under.

I pulled back so he could come out of it. He did, with no memory of what I'd done. "What about Tony Upshaw?"

"He comes to the club to dance and meet women. More often than not he leaves with them, too. I've noticed he's most careful not to pick those who might be attached to anyone. Except to the ladies, he's a harmless sort. Very polite."

"He was following Coker's orders tonight, though."

"Mr. Upshaw may best be described as a hanger-on to those in Mr. Coker's line of business. I imagine it gives him some sort of a thrill to do a few small favors, but he's not paid for them that I'm aware."

"I know the type." I'd seen dozens like him come and go at the Nightcrawler. They liked the danger of associating with the real killers, but that's as far as it went. I could expect a similar turnout for Lady Crymsyn, but as long as they bought drinks and didn't break the furniture I had no problem with them.

"Mr. Upshaw entertains when he can. Throws big parties in his dance studio," Malone continued. "I've tended bar at a few of them for extra work. I just heard that he's having one tomorrow night, a sort of bon voyage for some gangster's son who's leaving the country."

I raised an eyebrow. "You-ah-you wouldn't happen to know his name, would you?"

"Royce Muldan. Most of the club regulars will be there for it, he's popular with them. Perhaps I could ask Mr. Upshaw if he needs a bartender again, though once he sees my face-what is it?"

"Nothing." I shook my head, letting the chuckle run itself out. "Muldan's name came up in conversation not long back. Where's he headed?"

"Havana, I heard. It must be nice to be able to just go anywhere you want on a moment's notice like that."

And nice to know my suggestion had taken such fast root, though it wouldn't last. In a few weeks Muldan would be wondering what the hell he was doing lolling around in Havana in the off-season. "Yeah, some people got all the luck. The club regulars... would that include Miss Robillard and Coker?"

"I should think so, they usually turn up at Mr. Upshaw's events. She enjoys dancing with him. And Mr. Coker is friends with Mr. Muldan."

"So Coker's not jealous of Upshaw?"

"As I mentioned, Mr. Upshaw's careful not to involve himself with attached females. In her case he is always a gentleman. May I ask why you are so interested in them?"

"It has to do with that woman's body they found in my club's basement," I said, unworried about giving anything away. Malone would have heard all about it from either the radio, papers, or gossip at work.

"Oh, my God." If possible, he went a few shades paler under his already blood-drained skin, and I clearly heard his heart rate shoot up.

It's one thing to read about a killing, another to know the people who might be involved, and quite another to have it trotted out in your own living room. I should have remembered Joe James's appalled reaction to my news and softened things. "Hey, don't worry, they'll never find out I've been talking to you."

"Y-you think they had to do with that... crime?" Malone's mouth must have gone dry, for he could barely whisper the last word. I caught a solid whiff of fear scent from him, mingled with the soap, iodine, and dried blood. There wasn't much, if any, threat to him from my investigation, but after tonight's ugly calamity he had every right to feel nervous. Because of the beating, he'd be looking over his shoulder for weeks afterward and certainly didn't need or want my grisly business crowding in on him as well.

"I don't know. That's what I'm looking into."

"Dear God..." Malone's alarmed gaze flicked to Norrie's closed door.

"Hey, I said it's okay. You're not anywhere near this." I made a quick motion to include her. "Both of you. I promise."

"But you-"

"You got my word. No one hears a thing about you. You're safe."

"I don't... I..."

"Look, it's like this: the dead woman-Lena Ashley was her name-was close friends with Rita and was especially tight with Booth Nevis. Neither of them claims to know anything about when Lena disappeared five years ago, and I'm inclined to believe it. Shivvey Coker's another matter, though. He worked at that club just before someone lobbed the grenades and killed his boss. As near as I can estimate, about a month later Lena vanished, to wind up dead in its basement. I don't know if there's a connection, but I need to check things out. If I find something, I call the cops, and they'll take care of the rest."

Dismay came and made a home on his battered mug.

"You don't come into it," I repeated. "You've got enough troubles. I'll make sure no one bothers you."

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "It's just that... that these are very dangerous people, you've no idea what they're like. I've no idea, but I have heard things."

I grinned, hoping it would relax him a little. "So have I. I'll be fine. I can take care of myself with clowns like Coker, believe me."

He shook his head, unable to believe.

I'd never convince him otherwise, nor was it really necessary to try. My guess was as soon as I was out the door his own concerns would return quick enough. From the look of him, they were already well started. I didn't have much time left before he'd be too tired to think straight.

"Where's this studio of Upshaw's?" I asked.

It took Malone a moment to take in the question, but he eventually provided me with a name and a street. "You're really going to go there?"

"Unfinished business. I was planning to talk to Rita later, but I'll catch up with her there. I got a little sidetracked tonight. Which reminds me-" I pulled out the fifty-odd bucks I'd collected from Pourcio and gave it to Malone with a short explanation of its source. It probably represented a month's worth of tips plus salary for him.

His jaw sagged. "Oh, no, I couldn't."

"After all the crap you went through you're the one who earned it, not me."

"But I-"

"No arguments. I'm not out anything. Call it the severance pay you'd never get from Nevis. It'll tide you over until your face heals. Now I'm gonna scram outta here so you can get some rest."

I told him good-bye and let myself out, cutting short the embarrassment for us both.

Back in my car, I drove and thought, drove and thought. Escott often did the same, claiming that it helped him sort through stuff. I was picking up some bad habits. Next I'd be trading in my double-breasted suits for his kind of fussy banker clothes.

All the thinking didn't do me much good, though. I couldn't come up with anything new, needing more information to play with. The party tomorrow would give me another chance to dig around and really make a nuisance of myself.

I took a swing by Rita's address. It was a residence hotel similar to the one where Bobbi lived, but much more expensive. According to the address I'd memorized Rita was on the fifth floor. Making a slow circle around the joint, I counted windows, but found no lights showing, nothing to inspire me to make a break-in. Or in my case a sieve-in. Hell, I had no idea which of those windows was hers; chances were she was in the sack with Coker, which would really complicate the situation. Or maybe she was off at his place instead, and I didn't know where he lived.

Yet.

Anyway, I first wanted to test something out.

I'd taken a risk telling Malone so much about my investigation, but it was a calculated one. My openly talking to him was an experiment, an indirect way of perhaps stirring things up. If he decided to trot over to the Flying Ace in the morning and play stoolie to Coker, I could expect some swift and certainly violent retaliation from that quarter. Coker had warned me off in a friendly way, and that may have been all there was to it. But if he or Nevis had a direct stake in Lena's death, then he just might try to do something about me.

If it happened, then I'd have to be ready for the worst.

I liked Malone, though, and didn't think him to be the type to sell anyone out... but I'd been drastically wrong about people before.

I'd find out for certain tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I had just enough time to get over to the Red Deuces and save my girl some cab fare.