Dead Mans Hand

8:00 P.M.

A little old woman, tiny as an ancient sparrow, opened the door a crack when Brennan knocked.

"Is Sascha in?" Brennan asked. "No."

Brennan put his foot in the door, holding it open as she pushed to close it. He had seen a flash of movement in the room beyond the door, and he knew who it was.

"Sascha, I don't want to hurt you," he called out. "I just want to talk."

The old woman struggled to close the door, pushing valiantly but uselessly against Brennan's weight, then a weary voice called out, "It's all right, Ma. Let him in." There was a long sigh, then Sascha added, "I couldn't hide from him for very long, anyway."

Sascha's mother backed away from the door and let him enter. She had a worried expression on her wrinkled face as she glanced from Sascha, who'd collapsed on the living-room sofa, back to Brennan.

"It's all right, Ma. Why don't you go brew some tea?" She nodded and bustled off to the kitchen as Brennan looked at Sascha with concern. The bartender had always been thin, but now he was no more than muscle and bone. He looked deathly tired and his face was lined and pale. "What's going on?" Brennan asked.

"Not a damn thing." Sascha shook his head tiredly. There was pain and loss in his voice, and an unconcealed bitterness that Brennan had never heard before.

"Why are you hiding out? Did you recognize Chrysalis's murderer telepathically?"

Sascha just sat there. For a while Brennan thought he wouldn't say. anything, but then he nodded. "I heard someone," he finally said.

"Who?"

"That PI, that Popinjay character."

Jay Ackroyd, Brennan thought. He'd had a run-in with the ace before, but he couldn't conceive of him as a murderer. "What was he doing at the Palace?"

Sascha said nothing, just shrugged. "What about Elmo?" Brennan asked.

The bartender shook his head. "She'd sent him out late the night before on some kind of secret errand. Didn't tell me anything about it." The bitterness came back, this time edged with fear. "He never got back to the Palace. I heard that the cops are looking for him."

"Do they think he did it?"

Sascha laughed. "Maybe. What a joke. Do you think the dwarf would ever hurt her? He loved her. It's almost as funny as thinking you killed her."

"You don't know anything more? Nothing specific about the murder?"

Sascha fidgeted nervously and picked at an ugly scab on the side of his neck. "How about who did it?" he asked in a frantic burst of words. "I was getting a drink at Freakers this afternoon, and everyone was talking about it."

"About what?"

"About Bludgeon! He did it! He killed Chrysalis. He's been bragging about it."

"Why would Bludgeon kill Chrysalis?"

Sascha shrugged. "Who knows why he does anything? He's crazy mean. But I heard he's trying to get back with the Fists. I guess he's had hard times since the Mafia got busted up."

Brennan nodded grimly. It made sense. Bludgeon was nothing but muscle. He was strong but stupid, and he'd proven to be even too brutal for the Shadow Fists, who'd cut him loose a couple of years ago. He'd hooked on with the Mafia, but the Mafia had been crushed in a vicious gang war with the Fists last year. If Kien and the Fists had put a contract on Chrysalis, Bludgeon was certainly capable of beating her to death to ingratiate himself with them.

Sascha's mother returned from the kitchen with a tea tray. Brennan watched as Sascha lifted a steaming cup with shaking hands.

"I have to go," he said. "Take care of yourself, Sascha." He nodded to the old woman as he left her apartment. If the rumor was around town as Sascha said it was, Tripod would pick up on it and find Bludgeon. At any rate, Bludgeon was only the muscle. He may have done the killing-and if he did, Brennan wanted him-but he wanted the one who had sicced him on Chrysalis even more.

He had a truce with Kien. He had called off his vendetta against his old enemy, but if Kien-or anyone in Kien's organization-had ordered Chrysalis's death, the Fists were going to bleed.