Jokertown Shuffle

"W O. R. S. E."

"Yes. That one. She had decided to make us her target. She wanted to have her people follow our geishas on their assignments and make trouble for them, draw attention to them, embarrass our clients. There is no doubt she could have destroyed the business this way."

"When was this?"

"Seven years ago. Nineteen eighty-one. She had just joined the group. She had many problems, with her marriage, with drinking and drugs. She was not… stable. She came to me and told me what she planned to do. She had not formally proposed it to the group yet."

"And?"

"And I gave her money not to."

"Hannah? You bribed Hannah?"

Ichiko held up her hands. " I made her an offer. A hundred-thousand-dollar anonymous donation to the organization. Enough money to keep them going for years. In exchange she would let me take my business apart slowly, in my own time, in my own way."

" I can't believe it."

"She was not the same woman then. When she brought in that donation, it gave her much power. She soon became president. That in turn gave her personal strength, let her conquer her private demons. There is no simple good and bad here."

"So the two of you stayed in touch."

"We shared that guilty secret. The guilt is mine also. I have done little to keep my end of the promise. Little until now. But perhaps the time has come."

"What about W O. R. S. E.? Are you in touch with them? Could they help me?"

" I will try. But you are not safe here. Check into a hotel somewhere. Pay cash; do not use your real name. Tell no one. Call me tomorrow at noon. I will see what I can do."

Veronica did as she was told. The next day, Ichiko gave her a single name: Nancy. This was the woman who had arranged for Hannah's lawyer. Ichiko described her over the phone with typical precision: five foot three, long brown hair parted in the center, wire-rimmed glasses, small breasts, full hips. Veronica was supposed to meet her at Penn Station at three o'clock, by the ticket windows for the Long Island Railroad.

She stopped off for her methadone on the way. She still had a check from Ichiko in her purse, the check she'd been meaning to deposit two days before, when Hannah…

Her numbness had started to wear off. The thought hurt her more than she could have imagined.

Finish it. When Hannah had gone berserk. Taken a guard's gun and started shooting.

The check would have to wait. She couldn't go back into that bank again, even if the cops weren't likely to be looking for her there.

Ichiko had said she was to be ready to travel, which meant lugging the suitcase and cat carrier with her. Liz hated being in the cage and squalled continuously. The suitcase, full of winter clothes, was enormously heavy. She was tired and sore and sweating by the time she made it through the labyrinth of tunnels to the LIRR.

Someone touched her elbow. "Veronica?"

Ichiko's description had been carefully nonjudgmental. It had omitted Nancy's clear skin, her smiling Clara Bow mouth. No makeup, of course. Intelligent light brown eyes. "Yes," Veronica said.

"I'm Nancy," she said. "I'll watch your things. Get us two one-way tickets for East Rockaway. We can just make the 3:23."

Veronica bought the tickets and Nancy carried her suitcase onto the train for her. They got settled and Veronica opened the door of the cat carrier to stroke Liz, hoping to shut her up. "Where are we going?" Veronica asked.

"I'm putting you up at my place for the duration. You'll be safe there. Not even Ichiko knows."

"I don't know how to thank you. I mean, you don't even know me."

"Hannah knew you. That's enough."

Veronica noticed the past tense. "You've heard, then." Nancy looked away, nodded stiffly.

"I'm sorry" Veronica said. "I don't know you, I don't know what to say to you."

Nancy nodded again, and Veronica suddenly realized what an effort she was making to be polite. "You don't have to say anything at all."

They changed in Jamaica. The wind whistled through the open platform, and Liz huddled in a corner of her cage, crying softly. They boarded the Long Beach train in silence.

When the train stopped in Lynbrook, Nancy suddenly grabbed Veronica's suitcase and started for the doors. "Come on," she said. "This is us."

Veronica got off the train behind her. "I thought…"

"It never hurts to cover your trail. Carrying that cat around-somebody at the ticket window might remember you." They walked downstairs and crossed the street to Carpenter Avenue. Veronica had never been on Long Island before, and the sense of space made her uncomfortable. None of the buildings were over two stories high. There were lawns and vacant lots covered with trees and grass. The streets were nearly empty.

Nancy led her to a door in a row of tall, narrow woodframe houses across from the library. There was a dead bolt but no police lock or alarm system. They climbed two flights of stairs to a refurbished attic. There was a bed, a bathroom with a shower, a half-size refrigerator, and a hot plate. A huge leather-covered armchair sat by a lamp and a crowded bookshelf.

"If somebody comes along who's got a worse problem than you, we'll have to make other plans. Until then, you can stay. I'll do your shopping for you, at least for a while, until we see how hard they're looking for you."

"I've got money," Veronica said. Or she would have, once she could find a way to cash the check. "I can pay for the room."

"That'll help." Nancy stood up. "I'll get you some foodand a litter box for the cat-and then I've got to get back to the city. Will you be okay here?"

Veronica nodded. Her growing despair seemed to make the wood-paneled walls grow even darker. "I'll be fine," she said.

The priest droned to a close, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. Ichiko would rather have been cremated, Veronica suspected. Miranda had refused to hear of it. And she had come up with this bastard amalgamation of Shinto and Catholic for a funeral service. Miranda was Ichiko's oldest friend, and she was Veronica's mother, so she got her way.

They filed past the hole, and each threw in a ceremonial shovelful of dirt. Veronica's dirt hit the coffin with a hollow whack. She passed the shovel on and went to stand by her mother. Miranda had walked well away from the others and stood with her arms folded, watching the driveway.

"He's not coming, Mother," Veronica said.

"He's Ichiko's only son. How could he not be here?"

"What do you want me to say? I could tell you maybe his flight was delayed. Maybe he got held up in customs. But you know as well as me he just decided not to come. She's dead, there's nothing he can do."

Except, she thought, use his tantric powers to bring her back to life. A particularly nasty thought that she left unsaid. Miranda started to cry. "It's the end of everything. The business is closed down, Ichiko's gone, Fortunato might as well be dead. And you, you've changed so much…"

I must be getting stronger, Veronica thought. I can almost handle this. She put her arms around her mother and held her until the crying passed.

It had taken Veronica a week to settle in at Nancy's house. Nancy had gotten her a fake birth certificate, which they'd then parlayed into a driver's license and a bank account. Ichiko had rewritten the check with Veronica's new name on it. With the money Veronica had Nancy buy her a portable stereo and a TV set for her attic cell.

She also got on a methadone program at Mercy Hospital. This was the biggest risk of all, but there was no way around it. It meant riding the bus up Peninsula Avenue once a day.

The hospital, with all its Catholic paraphernalia, seemed comforting to Veronica, an island of her childhood.

More and more she would find herself remembering her comfortable middle-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. Miranda had been making a lot of money working for Fortunato, most of it going into savings. There was enough left over for a good-size apartment in Midwood, new clothes every fall, food, and a color TV Linda, Veronica's younger sister, lived in the apartment now, with her good-for-nothing husband, Orlando. Between Orlando and the smack, Veronica hadn't seen her sister in two years.

Nancy tried to talk her out of the trips to the hospital. It would be safer, she said, for Veronica to go back to shooting up. The words alone brought back the memory of the rush.

The floor seemed to drop out from under her like she was in a high-speed elevator. "No," she said. "Don't even kid around about it." What would Hannah have thought?

On her first Saturday night in the attic, there was a meeting downstairs. People showed up all through the afternoon, and the sound of movement and laughter filtering up through the stairwell only made Veronica's loneliness worse. For a week she had been cooped up there, seeing Nancy for no more than ten minutes a day. She lived for her short bus rides to the hospital, where she might sometimes exchange a few words with a stranger. Her life was turning into a prison sentence.

On Sunday, when Nancy came up to check on her, Veronica said, " I want to join the organization."

Nancy sat down. "It's not that easy. This isn't NOW or Women's Action Alliance or something. Hiding fugitives isn't the only illegal thing we do."

" I know that."

"We only invite people to join us after months, sometimes years of observation."

" I can help you. I worked for Ichiko for over two years." She took a notebook out of the nightstand by her bed. "This is my client list. We're talking some major people here: restaurant and factory owners, publishers, brokers, politicians. I've got names, phone numbers, preferences, personal statistics you're not going to find in Who's Who."

There was more, but Veronica wasn't willing to tell her the rest, not yet, about her ace power. She still didn't know how it worked or how to control it. And she didn't know what Nancy's reaction would be. Veronica had been watching CNN there in the room and was just starting to realize how strongly the tide had turned against wild cards. Aces and jokers were even turning on each other, thanks to Hiram Whatsisname, the fat guy's, murder of Chrysalis.

Nancy stood up. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to have to say this, but you pushed me to it. Try and look at it from our point of view. You're a prostitute, a fugitive, and a heroin addict. You're not exactly a good risk."

Veronica's face felt hot, as if she'd been slapped. She sat motionless, stunned.

"I'll talk to the others," Nancy said. "But I can't make any promises."

Ichiko's funeral was on a Sunday. On Monday, Veronica was back at work. At the moment, she was the receptionist at a company that published trade journals: Pipeline Digest,

Catering!, Trout World. The owner, one of Veronica's former clients, was the only male involved in the business, and he was never there.

When she'd decided to go back on the job market, she'd gone straight to her client files. At her first two interviews, the men who'd once salivated at the sight of her naked body simply stared at her. She'd put on twenty-five pounds in the last four months, and her metabolism, still trying to adjust to life without heroin, had taken it out on her complexion. She wore no makeup, her hair was cut short, and she'd given up dresses for loose drawstring pants and bulky sweaters. The men smiled with faint distaste and told her they'd let her know if something came up. The third interview landed her a cooking job at one of the better New York hotels. After a couple of months, she moved up to a senator's office.

She'd been with Custom Publishing for six weeks. For the first time in her life, she felt comfortable, surrounded by competent women. She had even relaxed enough to stop for a drink with them now and again at Close Encounters, a fern bar across the street.

Which she did on the Thursday after the funeral. It was still only slowly dawning on her that Ichiko was dead, that the most significant part of her life thus far was finally and absolutely over. She needed a little companionship to ease the sudden fits of panic and loss that would sneak up on her. A drink would have helped, but she'd quit that when she quit the heroin.

She looked up from their corner table at the restaurant to see a man standing beside her.

"Veronica?" he said.

She'd gone back to using her own name, but none of her new friends knew about her past. She wanted to keep it that way. "I don't think I know you," she said coolly. Betty, a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair, stared at the man hungrily. He was young, good-looking in a soap-opera sort of way, wearing an Armani suit.

"We… went out together a couple of years ago. Donald? You don't remember?"

There had probably been more than one man she'd forgotten, what with the heroin. "No," she said. "I wish you'd quit bothering me."

"I wanted to talk to you, just for a second. Please."

"Go away," Veronica said. She didn't like the touch of hysteria she heard in her own voice. "Leave me alone!" People all around them were looking now. The manDonald?-held up both hands and backed away. "Okay," he said. "I'm sorry"

Veronica saw, to her horror, that her wild-card power was affecting the man, without her conscious control. He had turned pale and seemed barely able to stay on his feet. He caught his balance on the back of an empty chair and walked unsteadily out the door.

Donna, a thirty-year-old blond who wore short skirts all winter long, said, "Are you crazy? He was gorgeous. And that suit must have cost a thousand bucks."

Betty said, "This is the first we've ever seen of your sordid past." She turned in her chair, watching Donald move away down the street. "You can't blame us for being curious. You never drink anything but club soda, you never talk about dates or husbands, none of us even know where you live…" Veronica tried a smile. It was supposed to be mysterious, but she could feel the wrongness of it. "My lips are sealed," she said.

On a Saturday evening, her third week in the attic in Lynbrook, there had been a knock on her door.

Nancy stood in the stairway, looking uncomfortable. "It's okay for you to sit in on the meeting. But for God's sake, don't say anything, okay? You'll just make me look like an idiot."

Veronica followed her downstairs. A dozen women sat around Nancy's dining-room table. They were all dressed casually; most wore little or no makeup. Three of them were black, two Latin, one oriental. One was a joker who seemed to have too much skin for her body; she had no hair, and folds of flesh hung off her chin and neck and hands. She looked like one of those weird wrinkled bulldogs that rich people sometimes had.

Only one of the women was under thirty, and she stood out like a panther in a rabbit hutch. She couldn't have been out of her teens. Even with her bulky winter clothes, Veronica could tell she was a bodybuilder. It showed in her neck and the width of her shoulders, in the way she held herself. Her hair was black, shoulder length, and to Veronica's expert eye, almost certainly a wig.

Veronica found a chair. The meeting started and lurched slowly forward. Every issue was put to a vote, and then only after endless debate. The young bodybuilder seemed as bored as Veronica. Finally she said, "Screw all that. Let's talk about Loeffler."

The joker said, "I can't see that being as important as the joker issue. Wild-card violence is tearing this city apart." She slurred her words, and Veronica found it hard to understand her.

One of the black women-Toni, her name was-said, "Zelda's right. This joker shit could take forever. Let's talk Loeffler."

The joker woman objected and was quickly overruled. Even W O. R. S. E., Veronica thought, was not completely free of prejudice. As the discussion heated up, Veronica put the pieces together. Robert Loeffler was the publisher of Playhouse magazine and head of the entire Global Fun amp; Games empire. The group intended to confront him and force changes in the magazine's attitude toward women. The problem was, nobody knew a way to get through to him. A slight woman in her fifties named Frances offered to use her locksmithing experience. Zelda wanted to use a bomb.

After a half hour of debate, Veronica excused herself. She went upstairs and copied Loeffler's unlisted phone number and the combination to his penthouse elevator on a piece of paper. She took it downstairs with her, handed it silently to Nancy, and took her chair again.

Nancy, across the table from her, said, "Where did you get this?"

The debate stopped.

Into the silence Veronica said, "I used to fuck him." The table came to life. In ten minutes they had the outline of a plan. The rush of power went right through the top of Veronica's head, like a hit of crystal meth.

Toni said, "Let's go on this. My only question is, how soon?"

Marline, the joker woman, threw her weight behind the bandwagon. "How about tonight?"

"We haven't got time to get set up," Veronica said. "But tomorrow is possible. Sundays were always good for him." The next night, Nancy and Veronica took the train to Penn Station, and Veronica made the call from a pay phone in the lobby of the Penta Hotel across the street.

"Bob? Veronica."

"Veronica!" His voice was muffed, but he sounded pleased. "Darling, how are you?"

"I'm gorgeous, Bob. And the thermostat in here doesn't seem to be working. It's so hot! I had to take all my clothes off." A gust of freezing air came through the front doors, attacking her legs. The extra weight she had put on in the attic made her feel thick and clumsy, and her nerves were ringing like a switchboard at a radio station. "And one part of me is hotter than all the others. I bet you remember which part that is."

She heard a soft moan. "Don't do this to me, Veronica. I'm a married man now. Don't you read the papers? She was the May Doll of the Month."

"I don't care if you're married to Miss America. It's not marriage I'm interested in." At first, Nancy's jaw had dropped in amazement. Now she was starting to crack up. Veronica had to turn away to keep from losing it herself. "I'm freelance now, Bob. I'm offering a special to my very favorite clients. The first one's free. Just to remind you why you should always let a professional take care of your needs. All your special needs. Hint, hint."

"Oh god. We can't do it here. Bev would kill me."

"That's why the good lord made hotels."

"Tonight?"

Veronica covered the receiver and mouthed "Tonight?" to Nancy, who nodded. "Sure, baby. I'm just over here at the Penta, with the heat turned all the way up. Oh! It's really getting damp and sticky in here."

"I'll be there in an hour."

"Call it ten o'clock? I'm ready now, but by ten o'clock I'll really be ready. I'll have the room set up just the way you like it. Call me from the lobby."

She made a kissing noise into the phone and hung up, a little uncomfortable at how easily it all came back. She left Nancy to phone for reinforcements and rented a room under her own name.

By ten till ten, they had five more women, including Toni and Zelda and Martine, the joker. Nancy wanted Veronica to get into bed with Loeffler so they could take pictures. Veronica refused.

"It's not like you've never done it before," Nancy said. "How much could it hurt?"

"Leave the chick alone," Zelda said. "I wouldn't want nobody inside my body unless they was invited."

"The ends are the means," said Toni. "We can't victimize our sister."

"Okay, okay," Nancy said.

"I got a better idea," Zelda said, taking off her clothes. She was not as built-up as Veronica had thought. She was smooth and feminine, with extraordinary muscle definition. Veronica found it a little hard to look away.

The phone rang. It was Loeffer. Veronica gave him the room number and told him to hurry. She left the hall door slightly ajar and took the other women into the darkened bathroom.

"Don't nobody fart," Zelda said, and there was muffled laughter.

Veronica heard Loeffler come in, the door clicking shut behind him. "Veronica?" he said. "Did you bring the pickles?" One of the women strangled a laugh.

"Get undressed," Veronica said through the door. "I've got a surprise for you."

She heard the sound of a zipper. "Mmmmmm. I love surprises." Clothes hit the floor, covers swished back, the bedsprings creaked. "Okay, darling, do your worst."

Zelda was the first through the door. She pulled the sheet down and had Loeffer's erect cock in her hand by the time Nancy got the lights on and the camera focused. Somebody else threw a copy of that day's New York Times on the bed to verify the date. It took Loeffler at least three frames to shove Zelda away and say, "Veronica, what the hell is going on here?" Veronica shook her head. Toni stood at the foot of the bed and presented their list of demands. They weren't asking him to kill Playhouse or turn it into a women's-lib magazine. They wanted the Doll of the Month to become Woman of the Month, and feature the occasional professional woman over thirty. Feature articles supporting the ERA and condemning the NRA. Fiction by women. In short, finish out the decade with at least a minimum of social consciousness.

"And," Zelda said, "I want your centerfolds to stop lying about their waist sizes. Nobody has a twenty-two-inch waist. That is such bullshit!" Veronica giggled in spite of herself.

Loeffler was not amused. During the lecture, he had gathered up his clothes and gotten dressed. "Do you realize who you're fucking with, here?"

Nancy said, "Maybe you don't realize who we are."

"WORSE would be my guess."

"That's right."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be," Toni said. "We can mobilize letterwriting campaigns that will get your magazine pulled from every convenience store in the country. Picket lines to keep your employees from getting to work. Media coverage that will have the fundamentalists all over you like flies on shit." She nodded toward Nancy and her camera. "Not to mention breaking up your marriage."

Loeffler sat down to put his shoes on. "If you'd come into the office like reasonable human beings and discussed this, I might have listened to you."

Martine said, "I've been trying for an appointment for three months. Don't pretend you're interested in our `input."' "Okay, then, I won't." He started for the door, then turned to look at Zelda. She was still naked and had been following him around the room. "And put some clothes on," he told her. "Looking at those muscles makes me sick."

Zelda didn't change expression. She merely leaned back, still smiling, and threw a side kick that snapped Loeffler's neck. His body hitting the floor was the only sound in the room. Veronica thought of the carnage in the bank and Hannah's swinging corpse. She thought she might pass out. She made herself kneel next to Loweffler's body and reach for a pulse in his throat.

Zelda slapped her hands away. "He's dead. Trust me."

"Jesus," Veronica said.

"Sorry," Zelda said without conviction. " I wasn't thinking."

"Zelda, for Christ's sake," someone said.

"You really are a loose cannon," Toni said.

Nobody but Veronica seemed particularly shocked or upset. Nancy looked at Veronica and said, "Uh-oh. Trouble." Toni took Veronica's hand and pulled her to her feet. "Give me your room key. We take care of this. You get across the street and catch a train home. Can you do that?" Veronica nodded.

"Shit," Toni said. "Nancy, you go with her. We handle this."

After they were out of the city, somewhere around Forest Hills, Nancy said: "Are you okay?"

"It's so weird. It's like… like it was all a dream or something."

"That's right," Nancy said. "That's all it was. Just a dream."

It was all over TV the next day. Loeffler's body was found in an alley near Penn Station, apparently the victim of a robbery.

That evening, Nancy came up to tell her they were in the clear. "You don't need to know how they did it," Nancy said. She seemed radiant with success. "But they got him out, and there's nothing to connect us with him at all."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Veronica asked. "That he's dead?"

"Look, I'm not crazy about violence either. But you have to remember. The guy was scum. With him dead, his daughter takes over GF amp;G. It becomes a women's corporation, and that's going to make things better for women everywhere." Veronica remembered Loeffler's childlike energy, the way he threw himself into sex with unrestrained enjoyment. She remembered the flowers he'd always brought her, his sense of humor. "I guess," she said.

The next Saturday, one of the women brought in photos of Zelda and Loeffler that she'd printed up herself at work. They were passed around to much laughter and admiration.

There was a nervousness behind the bravado. Veronica felt it, and the others probably did too, but no one mentioned it. Veronica left the meeting early, and the next Saturday she stayed in her room. No one came to invite her downstairs, and Nancy never mentioned W O. R. S. E. again.

Donald-whoever he was-had put Veronica off her feed. She left Close Encounters and went home, put a frozen dinner in the micro, and turned on the news. They had a feature story on the Rox, a follow-up on the unsuccessful park ranger raid back in February.

"Admit it," the reporter said to some man in a ranger uniform. "Those kids could have done a lot worse if they wanted. It was like they didn't even take you seriously. A few people got shot up, but that was all. They made fools out-of you."

"Mister," the ranger said, "you don't know what's out there on that island. It's worse than you could ever imagine. Just pray to God you don't ever find out."

Veronica had saved one photo of Hannah. It had been sitting on an end table, but she'd gotten to where the constant sight of it was a reproach. Now she took it out again and sat down with it in front of the TV She realized she had never cried for Hannah, not once in the sixteen months since her death. With that thought, the tears came.

Jumpers, she thought. They made fools of all of us.

She turned the TV off. She couldn't seem to get herself back together since that man in the restaurant. It was the past come to haunt her. Like all hauntings, it was something she'd brought on herself. It was something she'd left undone. For over a year, she'd been pushing it away, but the questions had been there all this time, fighting to get out.

She walked nervously around the apartment. She wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight, not in this state. She had to do something, no matter how small, to buy off her conscience. She sat down and dialed Nancy's number.

"Hello?"

"Nancy?"

"Yes?"

"It's Veronica." After the odd terms they'd parted on, she didn't know how Nancy would react.

"Yes?" she said again, this time nervous, reluctant.

" I don't mean to bother you. It's just… there's this question I always wanted to ask you. It's about… it's about Hannah."

"Go on."

Veronica could picture her standing on the faded carpet in the hallway, back stiff, eyes staring straight ahead, waiting for some inevitable ax to fall. "Ichiko told me W O. R. S. E. paid for Hannah's lawyer. I just wanted to know… I mean… how did you know she was in jail?"

"You mean, did she use her one phone call to call us, instead of you? Is that what you're asking?"

"I guess so. I mean, she told me she was through with all of that."

"She was. She didn't call us. Latham, Strauss did."

"They called you?"

"It was Latham himself. He said they would provide Hannah an attorney free of charge, but they didn't want that fact to get out. They wanted us to say we were paying for it. It wasn't an offer I was willing to refuse at the time."

"How did he know where to find you?"

"I have no idea."

"Really? You don't have any ties to Latham?"

"We'd talked about targeting Latham for an action. Believe me, it was as much a surprise to us as it was to you." After a few seconds, Veronica said, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Life goes on. You know?"

"I know," Veronica said.

When she hung up, her hands were shaking. Latham. She's seen him on TV: elegant suits, razor-cut hair, eyes as cold as a winter sky. Jerry's brother was the Strauss in Latham, Strauss, and he'd told her stories about him. He was so inhuman that Jerry's brother had wondered if maybe he was a secret wild card, that the virus had somehow killed all his emotions. Just the idea that he could somehow be mixed up in Hannah's death was terrifying. It was like opening up a tiny box and finding everything in the world inside it.

There was nothing left to do that night. She went to bed but didn't sleep. Instead she lay awake, seeing Latham and Hannah. And Nancy.

When snow fell on Long Island, it stayed. It had lawns to pike up in and kids to make snowmen out of it. Veronica had sat in her cell that December and listened to the wind howl outside.

On Christmas Eve, Nancy brought her a bottle of white wine with a ribbon on it. Veronica had wrapped an antique silver comb just in case, and Nancy had seemed touched by it. Later, Veronica heard her crying downstairs.

She had only been in Nancy's apartment for W. O. R. S. E. meetings. She agonized for ten minutes, then went down quietly. Nancy was stretched out on the couch, clutching a pillow. She didn't even look up when Veronica lay down next to her and took her in her arms.

"Nobody should be alone on Christmas," Veronica said. "Everything, everything just kind of fell apart," Nancy said. "I was supposed to go to Connecticut, and then their kids got measles, and I…"

"It's okay," Veronica said.

"I can't believe you're being so sweet to me when everything's gone so badly. I've left you alone up there, night after night…"

"You've done so much," Veronica said, trying to be generous.

"No I haven't. I was jealous. Of you and Hannah. We used to be…" She didn't seem able to finish.

"You were lovers."

"Years ago. But she got tired of me."

Veronica kissed the top of her head. Nancy looked up at her, helpless and vulnerable. Veronica unhooked Nancy's glasses and put them on the table, then kissed her on the mouth.

They made love awkwardly, with vague passion and no conviction. Veronica was ashamed of her body. With nothing to do all day, her addict's metabolism had developed a craving for sugar that she couldn't control. It took all her strength to stay on methadone and off heroin. There was no strength left to diet. In a month and a half she'd already gained fifteen pounds and was still gaining.

Nancy's body was covered with fine dark hairs, and her skin seemed unhealthily pale. The taste of her vagina seemed odd and sour. Veronica would find herself remembering Hannah, then have to force herself to go on.

Eventually they moved into the bedroom. They held onto each other through the night but didn't try to make love again. Toward morning, Veronica woke to find that Nancy had turned away and was snoring softly into her pillow. Veronica got up a little after dawn and got into her clothes. She came back to kiss Nancy lightly on the forehead. Nancy woke long enough to squeeze her hand, then went back to sleep.

After that, Veronica stayed in her room. She stayed there through the bitter cold of January, into the worse cold of February. One Sunday, the temperature fell below zero, and all of Long Island was covered in ice. Veronica was unable to get out of bed. She thought about Hannah, about the things they'd done together. She thought about the scene in the bank, the change that had come over Hannah's face just before she took the guard's gun and started shooting. She thought about Hannah hanging in her jail cell, dead.

She curled deeper under the covers. She'd gained another ten pounds, and now she felt heavy all the time. Liz settled into the small of her back, and the two of them slept through the day.

By nightfall, Veronica was sick.

It was like nothing she'd heard or imagined. Suddenly she was outside her body, filling the room, lighter than air. Distantly she felt her body begin to convulse. Vomit trickled out of the distant body's mouth, and Veronica knew, distantly, that if the body did not roll over, it would likely strangle. The body did move, fortunately, when a fit of coughing made it double up on its side.

Nancy came upstairs to see what had happened when Veronica fell out of bed and crashed onto the floor. She found a bottle of Hydrocodone and made Veronica swallow three of them, forcing them past her raw and swollen throat.

It was another quarter hour before the spasms passed. "I have to get out from under this," Veronica whispered. "I don't care what it costs."

The next morning, she boarded Liz at the vets and checked into Mt. Sinai's drug-treatment program. It took six weeks. She lost all the weight she'd gained, then put it back on again. Handfuls of hair came out of her scalp, and the crow's feet that grew out of her eyes never went away, even when she finally got clean and was able to sleep again.

She still had money left from her hooking days, enough to get her through the end of the year, as long as she stayed out of the hospital. But she needed something to fill the empty days. No one seemed to be looking for her. She had her hair cut in a pageboy and bought herself new clothes, pants and sweaters, all dark, all loose-fitting.

She found her own apartment, a few blocks from Nancy's. Nancy only nodded when Veronica told her the news, cried a little when Veronica brought the last of her things downstairs. "I haven't been much help to you, have -I?" Nancy said.

"You saved my life."

Nancy squeezed her, then let her go.

Veronica took a job typing and filing at a Lynbrook insurance office. She made minimum wage and watched while the boss flirted with another of the secretaries, a hardened thirty-year-old who chewed gum. Veronica had less than no interest in a toupeed insurance salesman in a doubleknit suit. Still, it was the first time in her life a man had ignored her. And why not? She had taken herself out of the game. Overweight, severe haircut and clothes, no makeup or perfume, her sallow skin broken out from all the sweets.

It was late summer, the summer of 1989, before she saw how the world around her had changed. Instead of going home after work, she sat on the lawn of the library and watched the kids playing in the grass. It was a perfect afternoon, the skies clear, a light breeze rattling the leaves. She was able to look at it and realize, objectively, how beautiful it was. It seemed possible to her, for the first time in years, that one day she might be able to look at a sunset and actually feel it, and not be overwhelmed by Hannah's absence or her own fear of being discovered, or her worries about her weight and what she was to make of her life.

She suddenly wondered what was happening in the world. She hadn't even bothered to plug in the TV at her new apartment. She bought a newspaper, sat on the bench, and started to read.

The headlines were full of something called jumpers. She had to force herself not to skip ahead, ignoring the buzzing in her ears and the unease in her stomach. Teenage gang members all over the city had developed the ability to somehow trade consciousness with unwilling victims. The teenagers would ride around in the shanghaied bodies, killing and looting and terrorizing, and then would jump back into their own bodies when they were done.

Once more, Veronica remembered the scene in the bank, the handsome blond kid whose eyes had dulled at the same time that Hannah's had changed.

Hannah had been jumped.

The press-and everyone else-was convinced that this was a new manifestation of the wild card. It had cranked the anti-wild-card hysteria in the city to a new pitch. It was a good thing she'd kept quiet about her ace power. All the wild card victims were being treated with fear and hatred. New York State had started a "voluntary" registration for aces. Editorials argued for internment camps, and letters cried out for blood.

Veronica went home and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. In October, less than a month from now, she would be twenty-seven. It seemed beyond belief that so much of her life was already gone. She'd been hiding out almost a year. No one would recognize her the way she looked now. Reading the Times had reminded her how much she missed New York. She was strong enough now, she thought, to stay clean. It would be easier, really, once she was back in the city where there were places to go and things to do. The temptation was always lurking in Lynbrook because of sheer boredom.

It was time to go home.

On the Friday after Ichiko's funeral, Veronica got up with bags under her eyes and'a feeling of dread in her heart. Before she left for work, she called Latham, Strauss. She asked for Dyan Mundy, Hannah's lawyer. Mundy wasn't in, but Veronica got an appointment with her for that afternoon. Lunch at Close Encounters was the office tradition on Friday, followed by very little work getting done the rest of the afternoon. Their usual table for six was waiting for them when they got to the restaurant. Veronica looked around the bar nervously as she walked in, afraid she would see the man in the suit-Donald-again. Instead she saw a woman at the bar and froze where she stood.

Veronica could only see her from behind. She had dark brown hair worn loose past her shoulders. She had on a blue lame dress, cut below the waist in the back, completely inappropriate for afternoon.

It was Veronica's dress.

The woman turned slowly on her stool. Veronica knew, with the certainty of a nightmare, what she was about to see. She was right. The woman had her face, her old face, the one she'd had when she was hooking. Lean, languidly sexy. Lots of makeup. She stared at the firm breasts and trim waist that had once been hers.

The woman stared back.

Okay, Veronica thought, this is clearly not happening. I am clearly dreaming this.

The woman reached into her purse, and Veronica thought, she's going to pull out a gun and shoot me; then I'll wake up. She waited for the eternity it took for the woman's hand to come up out of the purse. It held a photograph, torn out of a newspaper. It showed a blond boy in a tuxedo-handsome, sensual, smiling with the confidence of money. It was the boy from the bank. The one who'd jumped Hannah.

"What do you want?" Veronica whispered.

The woman stood up, wrapped herself in a shawl. She took a few tentative steps toward Veronica, unsteady on her four-inch heels. "To talk," she said. It was Veronica's own voice. "Will you listen to me?"

Veronica nodded and followed the woman outside.

"I'll make this quick," the woman said. "I know a lot more about what's going on than you do. The kid's name was David Butler. He was seventeen. He was a summer intern at Latham, Strauss. As far as I can tell, he was the one running the kid gang when all this jumping business started."

"'Was'?"

"He's dead. But the jumping is still going on."

"Who are you?"

"Never mind that now. The point is, this is some kind of wild-card phenomenon. It's not just a coincidence that all these kids developed the same power. The wild card doesn't work that way. Somebody is giving it to them."

The way Croyd gave it to me, Veronica thought guiltily. Then, in an instant, her brain flashed from her own infection to what she had learned about Jerry. About how he could change the way he looked. Change everything.

The woman was saying, "We have to find-" Veronica took a step backward. "Jerry? Is that you?" The woman broke off. "What?"

"It is you, isn't it? You bastard, how did you find me?"

"Your mother. I convinced her it was life and death."

"Change back. Change back now. I can't stand looking at you like this."

"I haven't got anything else to wear. I'm not going to stand here as Jerry Strauss in a dress."

"Do something."

The woman's features melted and reformed. It was like a coat of facial mud washing off. Now Veronica was talking to the young Ingrid Bergman.

"Oh Christ," Veronica said. "Did my mother give you the dress, too?"

Ingrid nodded, blushing.

"What do you want from me? What am I supposed to do?"

"Help me find who's behind this. Whoever is creating these jumpers is responsible for my brother's death."

"Kenneth?"

"That's right. They killed him. Last fall. They killed Hannah, too. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" Veronica slapped her, then swung her purse at her head when she tried to cover up. "Don't you tell me what Hannah meant to me. You bastard! Get out of my life and stay out!" Suddenly she saw the women from the office, watching her out the window of Close Encounters. They'd seen everything, of course. Her life was in a shambles again.

She turned and ran.

It had been Veronica's mother that told her about Jerry. Veronica had gone to see her that past Christmas. She knew at the time she was taking a risk, letting herself make contact with her former life, but she wasn't willing to go on living in fear forever.

The brownstone was dark when she arrived. At first, she thought something drastic had happened, that the Mafia or the Shadow Fists or Global Fun amp; Games had finally taken over and shut the place down. She rang the doorbell, and after a minute or so, Miranda's voice came over the speaker by the door.

"Yes? Who is it?"

"Mom, it's me." She had even called the week before to warn her. "Can't you see me?"

"Veronica? Is it really you?"

The door opened. Veronica stepped in with her shopping bag full of presents. Miranda hugged her. "I'm sorry, darling, it's just that.. ."

"I know. I've changed."

They had Christmas dinner: turkey in garlic sauce with rice and snow peas. Chinese food was as oriental as Miranda was willing to go as a cook. Ichiko's native Japanese cuisine appalled her. It was just Miranda, Cordelia, Ichiko, and Veronica. "Most everybody you knew was already gone," Miranda said. "Melanie is a translator for the UN, if you can believe it. Adrienne is doing shop windows at Bergdorf's. Everyone has decent jobs, and they all sent Christmas cards. We still get two or three calls a week from clients who hadn't gotten the word."

"They need me to help with the rent now," Cordelia said. Miranda said, "We have all the money we need, and you know it."

Cordelia shrugged. Her hair was cut short now, very businesslike. "Let me pretend I'm useful. I've got money to burn, now that I'm a producer. Everybody in GF amp;G moved up after Bob was killed."

Veronica tried not to let her guilt show. She turned to Ichiko. "Have you told Fortunato? About shutting down the business?"

"I wrote him and told him. I got no answer. I write him every so often, but it's always the same. The letters don't come back, but there is never an answer either." Behind the bitterness, Veronica saw how tired Ichiko was. The business was the only thing that had kept her going all these years. Veronica wondered how long she would last without it.

Miranda talked about Linda and Orlando. The marriage, it seemed, was on the rocks. "Pray God," Miranda said. "Mama!" Veronica said, shocked.

"You were right about him," Miranda said. "He's a good-for-nothing. She's better off without him."

"Give her my love, okay? I really want to see her."

"Maybe you should see her. I think she would like that." It was a thought. It would be good to see the old neighborhood again. Good to patch things up with Linda, to be friends with her. She had another helping of turkey. "What about Jerry?" she asked. "Do you ever hear from him?"

Ichiko and Miranda exchanged a look.

"Mama? What is it? What aren't you telling me?" Miranda looked at her empty plate. "Did Jerry ever tell you about… his, uh, special ability?"

Veronica thought she had seen most of Jerry's abilities, and they were pretty average. "What are you talking about?"

"I was afraid of that."

"Mama, don't keep this from me."

"It's just, with things the way they are these days, you don't want to talk about it… see, baby, Jerry is an ace."

"You're kidding. Jerry? He never said anything to me." But of course he wouldn't have. Jerry wanted her to love him for himself, as he'd told her more than once.

"Last winter, around the same time as… as that business with Hannah, he was here." Miranda flushed, obviously sorry that she'd mentioned Hannah's name. "Some of those Shadow Fist people were here, threatening us. He… I don't know exactly how he did it, but he's got this ability to change the way he looks. Everything about the way he looks. He turned himself into Fortunato. He made his skin dark, and he got all skinny and even-you know. The thing with the forehead."

Veronica couldn't get over it. Jerry an ace. Of course she was one, too, but she didn't dwell on it. As long as she didn't use her power, she couldn't say for sure that it was still there.

"We haven't seen him since," Cordelia said. "I think maybe he gave up on you."

Dessert was fried bananas in honey. Afterward, they gathered around the tiny bonsai pine in what had once been the waiting room. Miranda had bought Veronica a beautiful silk blouse that was now two sizes too small, even if Veronica still wore such things. Cordelia gave her earrings that she couldn't wear since she'd let the holes in her earlobes close. "They can put clips on them," Cordelia said awkwardly. Ichiko gave her a delicate china saki jug and bowls. Veronica didn't mention that she had given up drinking as well. Veronica had bought books for all three of them in a fit of idealism and repressed anger: The Marx-Engels Reader, The Women's Room, The Feminist Encyclopedia. There was a moment, when all the presents were opened, when Veronica was sure she was going to cry. Then Miranda said, "Some Christmas, huh?" and started to laugh. Then they were all laughing, arms around each other, huddled on the floor, laughing until they did cry, after all.

And as Veronica had feared, Ichiko hadn't lasted, dying on the last day of February. And Jerry, it seemed, hadn't given up on her, after all.

Close Encounters, and the magazine offices, were on Broadway north of Columbus Circle. When the first burst of energy from her anger and embarrassment wore off, she kept on walking, into Central Park. She found a bench and looked at the bare trees, the little knots on their branches showing the first fuzzy signs of the leaves to come.

A man and a woman, both in their sixties or seventies, shuffled past, wearing knit caps, gloves, and layers of sweat clothes. They seemed to be jogging in slow motion. And how long, Veronica thought, am I going to keep on running? How long am I going to hide my power and let other people make decisions for me?

The sky had started to cloud over, and the wind had turned cool. Veronica walked south, out of the park, and stopped for a cup of coffee at the Cosmic Cafe, a Greek-run lunch counter. She asked for a phone book and looked up Latham, Strauss. The address was on Park Avenue South.

She took a cab and got there a few minutes early for her appointment. It was an older building, and the wallpaper between the slabs of granite in the lobby was turning the color of nicotine. Latham, Strauss had one of only two suites on the eighth floor. It looked like a movie studio. Behind double glass doors was a reception desk, a single thin sheet of ebony supported by steel legs the diameter of pencils. There was nothing on the desk but a telephone. Behind it was a stunning blond in a white silk blouse, and behind her, on a wall covered in red velvet, was the name Latham, Strauss in gold.

Veronica walked in. "I'm here to see Dyan Mundy."

"Ms. Mundy is in conference just now. Do you have an appointment?"

Veronica gave her name. The receptionist directed her to a waiting area to her right, out of sight of the elevators. Veronica was fascinated by her precise, emotionless gestures. "What do you do if you have to write something down?" she asked.

The woman smiled mechanically. "We have secretaries for that."

Veronica looked through the magazines. Smithsonian, Fine Homebuilding, European Travel and Life. No Aces or Cosmo here.

In less than a minute, a woman appeared behind her and said, "Veronica?" She was six feet fall, heavily built, with strong features, glasses, and slicked-back hair. "I'm Dyan Mundy."

She was not the socialite Veronica had expected. It was comforting, but it made things more difficult as well. Mundy led her down wine-colored carpeting, past recessed lighting, toward a huge office with corner windows. Veronica caught a glimpse of someone she felt sure was Latham himself. Then they turned into a side corridor, and Mundy ushered her into an empty office.

As soon as Mundy sat down, Veronica said, "This is about Hannah. Hannah Jorde."

"I don't recall the name."

"You were hired by an organization called W O. R. S. E. to defend her. A shooting in a bank? There was all this weird stuff about the case. Only it never came to trial because Hannah killed herself in her cell."

"Yes, yes, I remember it now"

"The problem is, W O. R. S. E. wasn't paying you at all. Latham, Strauss volunteered to defend her. I want to know why." Mundy swiveled her chair around and scooted over to a file cabinet. " I remember you now. You were… personally involved, I think."

Veronica gave her a small shrug.

"Ordinarily, the sort of information you're asking for is confidential. But I can promise you that you're on a wildgoose chase." She pulled an olive-drab hanging file out of the cabinet and opened it up on her desk. "Here's the case file. We show payment in full, by cashier's check. W O. R. S. E., as I'm sure you understand, is not a chartered corporation with bank accounts and so forth, so that is the form of payment we would be looking for in this situation."

If the woman was lying, it was beyond Veronica's ability to tell. Which meant the answers lay higher up.

With Edward St. John Latham.

From Jerry she knew that Latham worked long hours, nights and weekends. When he wasn't in the courtroom, he was in the office.

Getting a key was not difficult. She called Frances, from W O. R. S. E., who gave her a wax block in a small plastic case. "Be sure and get the whole key," Frances told her, "head and all, both sides."

At noon on the following Monday, Veronica rode the elevator up and down in Latham's building. On her third trip, a young guy in a suit got on at the eighth floor. She followed him to the street, then used her power to stagger him. She shoved him face first against a wall and smiled at the people passing by, who all turned their heads away. He didn't seem to notice as she took out his key ring and sorted through them. Two keys looked possible. She printed them both and put the key ring back in his pocket. By the time he turned around, she had faded back into the crowd.

Frances made the keys for her while she waited. "You sure you don't want no help? Been awhile. I'd love some action."

"It's a one-woman job," Veronica said.

"And you won't tell me who you're going after."

"You can read about it in the papers."

She sat in a coffee shop until ten P.M., so nervous that she ate three pieces of chocolate pie and drank four cups of coffee. There was a guard in the lobby when she went inside. She signed Dyan Mundy's name and got in an elevator. The guard never looked up from his copy of the Post.

The first key worked. The office was barely lit by a couple of pin spots. Veronica locked the door after herself and retraced the route she'd taken the day before.

Latham's office was lighted, the door closed. Veronica crept down the hall and tried the knob. It turned. She shoved the door open and stepped inside.

Latham looked up from his desk. He was working at a computer, with green-bar paper spread all around him. He didn't seem surprised to find a stranger in his office. "Yes?" he said.

"We have to talk," Veronica said. "I doubt that."

"It's about Hannah Jorde. She was jumped, and the jumper made her shoot up a bank. The jumper's name was David Butler."

That got a reaction. Latham's mouth twitched, and his eyes lost their focus for a second.

"Butler worked for you. You arranged to have Latham, Strauss represent Hannah in court. That let you send David down to see her in jail. Where he jumped her again-and made her kill herself."

Latham's finger moved a few inches and touched a button on his intercom. Veronica focused her power on him. The hum of the computer drive slowed and made a coughing sound. The lights flickered and dimmed. Before Latham could say anything into the intercom, he blinked, and his hands dropped to his sides.

"Don't touch that again," Veronica said. "Now. I think you're in this up to your neck. What's your connection with David? What do you know about these jumpers? Why are you helping clean up after them?"

"I-" Latham said. He never finished the sentence. Veronica saw a blur come at her from the right. She ducked reflexively and only caught a grazing blow to her shoulder. Even that was powerful enough to knock her across the room.

"Get rid of her," Latham said weakly.

Veronica focused her eyes. It was Zelda, minus the wig. Her head was shaved smooth. "You," Veronica said.

Zelda smiled. "Veronica. Long time no see." She bent and grabbed a fistful of Veronica's jacket. "You want her dead, boss?"

"Yes," Latham said. "Dead."

"I'll take her out to the Rox to do it. Bloat can find out what she knows."

Veronica felt the room start to spin. "You were working for Latham

… all the time."

Zelda threw her into the hallway and shut Latham in his office. Veronica started to crawl toward the receptionist's desk. "Boss had his own reasons to want Loeffer dead. He owed money to some of Boss's friends. Boss likes to keep his options open. Wanted to make sure Tina and her friends didn't come after him." She let Veronica crawl, stalking her. "Let me go," Veronica said. "I'll go away somewhere. You won't ever hear of me again. I promise."

Zelda laughed, and Veronica got up onto her feet, taking a couple of lurching steps. Her right shoulder was dislocated or worse. The sense of betrayal was almost as bad as the pain. Almost. To know that even W0. R. S. E. had been no more than a puppet of the male establishment. It made everything seem futile.

Stop it, she thought. If she didn't fight back, Zelda would kill her. She had to use her power, quickly, while she still had the chance. She turned and concentrated all her rage and despair against Zelda, burning it into her eyes.

The lights flickered, but Zelda was unaffected. "Trying to scare me, Veronica?" She swung a halfhearted side kick with her right leg, and Veronica jumped backward out of the way.

She stumbled against the receptionist's desk, and then the obvious truth hit her: her power was only good against men. "You'll have to do better than that," Zelda said. "Looks can't kill. Not since Demise bought it."

It made sense, in that twisted way the wild card sometimes had. The only power she'd ever had was over men. Probably had something to do with hormones. Didn't everything?

Veronica's hand touched plastic. The telephone. She lurched forward and swung the receiver at Zelda's head, catching her solidly across the temple. Zelda hopped back half a step and shook her head. Veronica swung again, but Zelda blocked it and knocked Veronica down with a punch to the solar plexus.

"That actually hurt," Zelda said. She seemed puzzled. Veronica couldn't breathe. She dropped to her knees, listening to the air squeal in her throat.

"I liked you, you know," Zelda said. "Out of that whole bunch, you were the only one knew who you were. Even if you don't take care of yourself for shit."

"Then… let me… go."

"Sorry, kid. No can do. You shouldn't have pushed this one."

As Zelda moved in, Veronica saw the cage she'd been in, how no matter how fast she ran, she never got anywhere, just like a rat on an exercise wheel. The never-ending cycle of violence, from Hannah's death to Veronica's own wild card power, from the murder of Robert Loeffler to this. It was so sad and small, and when she looked at it from this angle, it seemed like it should have been so easy to go another way. But now, of course, it was too late.

She tried to get up.

Zelda smiled and leapt into the air. The rest was darkness.

Nobody Does It Alone by Walton Simons

It was past midnight, and Jerry was about to call it a night. He was in his car across the street from the building housing Latham/Strauss when they carried the body out. Jerry could hear their shoes scraping heavily on the pavement through his directional mike. He pushed the earpiece in and quieted his breathing.

"What did you say her name was?" The voice was female but didn't mean anything to Jerry.

"Veronica. Old acquaintance. Not much of the hero type when I knew her." This voice Jerry did recognize. He'd gotten to know most of the jumpers, and Zelda scared him even more than the rest of them.

"Where do you want to do her?" he asked.

"Let's take her to the Rox and give Bloat or Blaise something to play with," Zelda said. "She's damn sure no interest to me."

Jerry reached into the front seat and picked up one of three guns. This one had an infrared scope and fired rubber bullets. The other two were a high-powered rifle and a tear-gas launcher. Almost any weapon could be gotten hold of if you were a millionaire who could impersonate anyone. He took a deep breath and sighted in on the larger of the two figures. Zelda had Veronica under the armpits and was walking backward. Jerry centered the cross hairs on her throat, then lowered a bit to her chest. He pulled the trigger. The gun kicked noisily in his hands.

The bullet knocked Zelda backward and free of Veronica. She clutched her chest and went to her knees. Jerry heard her gasp and moan. The other woman looked at Zelda and was gathering herself to move when Jerry nailed her in the back with his second shot. She fell to the asphalt, screaming. Jerry loaded the tear-gas launcher and fired it. Moments later, the canister exploded in a cloud by Zelda. Jerry pulled on his mask and trotted across the street. He saw a car round the corner and began changing his shape, making his features more angular and his hair pure white. He moved slowly into the cloud, groped around on the sidewalk, and found a motionless female body, which he figured had to be Veronica. Jerry bent down close enough to recognize her and picked her up under the arms. She was heavy and hard to move. He began dragging her back out of the cloud. A hand grabbed his ankle and squeezed hard. Jerry turned around and brought his booted heel down on the wrist. There was a crack, and he heard Zelda scream, but she couldn't jump what she couldn't see. Jerry hoisted Veronica onto his shoulders and staggered out into the street.

Two cars had stopped, and the people inside stared at him as he opened up his backseat and laid Veronica inside. She was in bad shape, one side of her head bruised and swelling, her eyes watering from the tear gas. Jerry jumped in behind the wheel and started the car, then whipped out into the street and swerved through the parked cars. Someone was sure to get the license-plate number, but he'd ditch them and nut on another set. He'd done it before.

Veronica moaned from the back seat. It was ten blocks to the nearest hospital. Jerry hoped she wasn't as bad off as she looked. Jerry had been in love with her back when she was one of Fortunato's geishas, or at least he'd thought it was love. He was focused on driving now and couldn't let his heart distract him. All he could do was drop her off and hope for the best. Latham was still his main concern. If Veronica died, that would be just one more reason to see him dead. One way or the other.

Except for a drunk snoring on a nearby bench, the park was quiet. Jerry crouched behind a row of half-dead shrubs with Jay Ackroyd. Jay had done E I. work for Jerry in the past, and they got along. Ackroyd was expensive, but then, he was a projecting teleport. His power had inspired the nickname "Popinjay."

"You sure she comes home this way?" Jay asked, shifting his weight uneasily.

"Every night I'm aware of, for the past three weeks," Jerry said. "She's been to the Rox at least three times, so I figure she must be a jumper by now."

"She have anything to do with what happened to Veronica?" Jay's eyes glimmered in the moonlight.

Jerry shook his head and pointed. A teenage girl was walking quickly toward them, her sneakers squeaking slightly on the walk. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of her worn denim jacket. Her straight brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

"Now," Jerry whispered. "Don't let her see us."

Jay pointed his first finger toward the girl like the barrel of a gun. The girl disappeared. There was a loud pop. The drunk sat up on his bench and looked around, then lay carefully back down.

"Let's go," Jay said.

Jerry had spent two months and a bundle of cash getting the basement ready. He could see her pacing around inside, but she couldn't spot him through the unbreakable one-way glass. There were handprints smeared on the glass where she'd been looking for a seam. Jay was waiting upstairs. He would probably be better at interrogation, but Jerry wanted to keep the information to himself.

Jerry flipped a switch. "You're in trouble," he said. His voice was electronically distorted to sound like aliens from a fifties science-fiction film.

She took a step back and looked around.

"The speakers are in the ceiling, but there's no way out," Jerry said. "Unless we let you out. And that won't happen unless you tell us what we want to know"

"Who the hell are you?" She rubbed her nose. "Someone with enough on the ball to trap a jumper." Jerry was enjoying intimidating her, then remembered what had happened to make her into one of Latham's bodyswitchers. "We don't want to hurt you."

She continued to look around the mirrored room, her eyes hard. "I've been hearing that all my life."

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Valerie." She sat down. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Let you go=" Jerry paused, "as soon as you tell us what we want to know."

"And if I don't?" Veronica started picking at her fingernails. Jerry sighed audibly. The distortion made it sound spooky. "Then we'll turn you over to the government. They're offering a fortune, under the table, of course, for a live jumper. They need to do some experiments to try to isolate the genetic abnormality that produced you. They sew your eyelids together to make you harmless. At least, that's what I hear." Valerie's eyes got big, and she bit her lip. "Bullshit. You're feeding me bullshit."

Jerry knew the only way to get anything out of her was really to scare her. "You just don't know about our government, little girl. I hope you get old enough to wise up some. But if that's the way you feel, there's no point in talking." Jerry left it at that and waited.

Valerie's shoulders slumped. "Are you still there?" Jerry paused for effect. "What is it?"

"Tell me what you want to know"

"What do you know about Latham?" Jerry asked. "Who?" Valerie looked genuinely puzzled.

Jerry shook his head, mad at himself for making a mistake. "Prime."

Valerie hugged herself. "He did that thing to make me one of the gang. I've only been in it for a couple of weeks. Zelda and Blaise are the ones you need to talk to."

"You must know something. Plans he might have. Anything." Jerry rubbed his palms together.

Valerie shook her head, then tilted it. "I don't know if this is what you mean, but he likes blond boys. Not to be in the gang, but for other things. At least, that's what Molly says."

"Does the name David Butler sound familiar?" Jerry asked. "I think so. I don't know" Valerie got up and started pacing. "Please let me go."

Jerry pushed a button, a signal to Jay to come downstairs. "So you can go back to them."

"I can't do that now. You know that." She went back to worrying her nails. "Bloat would know I told." She clutched her hands over her chest. "You don't know what they'd do." Ackroyd opened the door and stepped into the room. Jerry cut off the audio to the mirrored cage. "Get what you needed?" Jay asked.

"Nah. But it was worth a shot." Jerry pointed to Valerie. "I guess you can send her back to the park now."

Jay shook his head. "I think you'd be better off telling me everything, but you are the one who signs the checks." He made his hand into the familiar gunshape.

"Trust me," Jerry said.

Valerie disappeared. There was a muffled pop. "Mrs. Ackroyd didn't raise any boys that stupid."

"The check is in the mail," Jerry said, smiling.

"You going to be at the memorial service tomorrow?" Jerry stopped smiling. He'd been trying not to think about it. "Yeah," he said. "Want a lift there? I could use the company." Jay nodded.

People were taking turns speaking, remembering the man who had been their friend. It had rained off and on all morning but was dry enough inside the tomb.

Jerry looked up at the replica of the JB-I. Jerry hadn't ever been much interested in Jetboy, even after he drew the wild card, and had never felt much about the young flier's death. It was impossible to think about a world without Tachyon, though. Jerry was still trying to get his mind around the idea. If it weren't for the Takisian, Jerry would still be a giant ape. He hadn't been able to help Tachyon any more than he'd been able to save Kenneth. Latham was responsible for the deaths. He had to be made to pay.

The clothes of those attending were a stark contrast to the gray weather. Almost everyone had dressed in outrageously colorful outfits because "Tach would have wanted it that way." Jerry was wearing a lime-green suit with a paisley-print shirt and rainbow scarf. Ackroyd had dressed in an everyday suit. "A man in my line of work can't afford to look stupid, even for a minute," he'd said.

Father Squid stepped forward to speak. "I cannot claim to have understood all that he did, but his was a great heart, full of compassion and understanding."

Jerry glanced over and saw Cody. He eased his way through the crowd toward her. Her bad eye was to him, but she turned just as he reached her side. "Mr. Strauss," she said. "I haven't seen you recently. I suppose I should have expected to today, though."

Jerry fished a twenty-thousand-dollar check from his pocket and slipped it to her. "I know. It's hard to go near the clinic, now that he's gone."

Cody took the check and tucked it away. "Thanks. Hard as Finn and I have been working to raise funds, we don't seem to be getting anywhere."

"Bad times," Jerry said.

Cody nodded. There was a strain in her face he'd never seen before, something that didn't have anything to do with being a doctor.

"How could Tach get jumped?"

Cody shook her head and looked down. "They jumped me first. Used me as a Judas goat. Tach never could think straight when there was a woman involved."

Jerry could understand that well enough. "I guess there's no chance that somehow he's still alive?" He had an almost blind faith in Tachyon's ability to work miracles.

"He's gone," Cody said, her voice flat, weary. "But how can you be sure?"

"Blaise used to visit me once a week. He wanted me to know what he was doing to his grandfather. He told me everything. He kept moving Tachyon from body to body. All jokers, each more twisted than the last. He brought me obscene pictures. Is this what you want to fuck? he'd ask me. Is this what turns you on? But finally he got bored with the game. That was when he killed Tachyon." She looked away. "He brought me pictures of that, too."

"Maybe he was lying," Jerry said. "Trying to hurt you."

"The nrisoners were all kept in the warehouse," Cody said. "If he was still alive, he would have been freed in the raid, along with the rest of us. He's dead, Mr. Strauss. Denying it only prolongs the pain."

Jerry figured she was right. He put his hand on her shoulder, then walked back over to Ackroyd.

"Trying to pick up Cody at Tach's memorial service is a gesture he'd probably understand," Jay said, smiling. Jerry's shoulders slumped. "I wasn't trying to pick her up."

"I know, I know," Jay said. "What is it about tombs that makes people lose their sense of humor? Let's get out of here before someone asks us to make a speech."

Jerry sighed. "How about dinner?" He didn't feel like being alone.

"Now you're talking," Jay said. "Being morose gives me an appetite."

The pair made their way to the edge of the crowd and out onto the rain-slicked concrete. A rainbow arced over Staten Island. Jerry wondered if there would be a pot of gold on his doorstep when he got home. It was the last thing he needed.

Jerry sat alone in the private room of the Haiphong Lily. Half the Gambione family had died in this room, and he wasn't happy about the apparent thinness of the walls, but he could live with it. His look was burly, middle-aged, and Italian. The person he was meeting thought he was a Mafia kingpin from Vegas. He'd been laying the background for the disguise for several weeks.

The door slid open, and the Lily's owner ushered in a young man in a pressed dark gray suit. The man looked more Greek than Italian. His eyes and mouth were impassive and deadly. Jerry studied his face and build. Never could tell when it might come in handy.

The door closed. "Sit down," Jerry said.

"Thank you." The man unbuttoned his coat and quietly took his seat. Jerry passed him the menu. "No, thanks. I'm not here to eat."

"Whatever." Jerry ran a finger cautiously along his lower lip. "You come highly recommended."

The man shrugged. "There aren't many of us left. To still be around, you have to be the best."

Jerry nodded and pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket, then slid it across the table. Inside was everything he'd managed to find out about Latham's habits and associates in the past months and twenty thousand dollars in cash. He'd removed his fingerprints when handling the paper and didn't have any now either. "How soon can you start?"

The man opened the envelope and slowly went through the contents. "Soon as I'm out the door."

"He's heavily guarded most of the time," Jerry said. "Watch out for the kids especially."

"I'll want another twenty when I'm done." The killer carefully tucked the money back into the envelope.

Jerry nodded.

The man stood and took a step toward the door, then turned and smiled. "Want any souvenirs? I do that for free."

"No," Jerry said. "I'll save the news clippings."

The man nodded and left.

Jerry sat in the Tomlin International Airport, fidgeting in one of the plastic chairs. A newspaper was folded across his lap. Mafia Killer Found in East River was a front-page headline. Next to the story was a picture of Alex "Buttons" Parylos. Jerry should have known Latham would be too tough for one man, even a professional.

"Delta Flight twenty-three now arriving from Chicago at gate nine," came a soft voice over the public address.

Jerry bounced up from his chair and shouldered his way through to the front of the receiving area. Latham would have to wait; this was more important.

After a couple of minutes, the passengers began trickling out of the plane. After fifty or so had passed by him, Jerry panicked and wondered if he'd gotten the wrong flight number or come the wrong day. He'd made that sort of mistake before. She was almost in his arms before he saw her. She'd grown her blond hair out several inches and dropped some weight, but her smile was the same.

"Hey, bro," Beth said, setting down her blue overnight bag and giving him a big hug. "Long time no see."

Jerry squeezed Beth hard and kissed her on the forehead. Her touch and smell were both wonderful and familiar. "Too long, as far as I'm concerned. I can't believe Chicago has that much to offer."

Beth took a step back and rolled her eyes. "We're not going to go through how I don't love you anymore before dinner, are we?"

Jerry laughed. "No, before dinner is for your presents. Later on, I had you penciled-in for some serious doting. How long are you in town for this time?"

"At least a month." Beth picked up her bag and tucked her arm under his. "Presents, huh? After the baggage handlers are done with me, you can have me practically all to yourself "

Jerry knew that wasn't really true. Beth still seemed married to his brother, Kenneth, although he'd been dead for months. "After showering you with gifts, it's dinner wherever you want tonight."

Beth nudged him as they walked down the concourse. "Why, sir, you're positively the most generous multimillionaire I know," she said, in a bad Southern-belle imitation. "I'm sure you're going to spoil me for anyone else."

Jerry straightened his shoulders and let his voice slip into Clark Gable. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

Jerry pulled the Olds up to the gate and punched in his code. He changed it every couple of days, just in case. The wrought iron creaked and opened. He eased up the drive and pulled up to the garage. The door there had a coded entry as well.

Beth wrinkled her forehead. "Is this going to open up on the Jerrycave?"

Jerry pulled into the garage and waited for the door to close again. "Rich people have been getting jumped, you know" Beth nodded. "I thought that was mostly high-profile types like Dixon."

"Mostly," Jerry said. "But you can't be too careful. They might decide to go slumming on us old-money types." He got out of the car and trotted around to her side to open the door. "Just one more set of coded locks, and we're in."

"And just in time. I need a shower." Beth ran her fingers through her hair. "This stuff needs help."

"Want any company?" Jerry had made several tame advances, but Beth had always gently declined.

She sighed and stroked his face. "I'd like that a lot, Jerry. That's the main reason I'm here."

Jerry stood motionless for a second. He hadn't really considered the possibility that she'd take him up on it. "Really?" Two syllables were all he could manage.

"Really," she said. "Now get us inside."

Jerry walked up to the door and paused with his hand over the keypad, the combination momentarily gone from his mind. His fingers took over and punched it in. The locks clicked, and Jerry opened the door.

They kept their clothes on until they got upstairs. Jerry watched her undress. Her legs were a little heavy, and she didn't have much of a waist, but he couldn't imagine a more desirable female body.

The bathroom was big enough to pitch a tent in, one of the perks of being fabulously wealthy.

"How hot do you like it?" he asked, turning on the shower. Beth smiled and gave him a peck on the lips. "Can't stop talking in movie dialogue, can you? I like it really hot to begin with. We can cool it down a bit after a while." She slid open the glass door and led him into the shower.

Jerry picked up the soap. "Want me to do your back first?"

"Sounds good." She leaned forward and let the water run over her head as Jerry began to soap her shoulders.

He worked his way down her back and paused at the base of her spine. "I hope you're not planning on missing any spots," she said.

Jerry slid the soap over her bottom. He almost resented the slippery film that kept him from actually touching her flesh. "Now who's talking straight from the movies?"

Beth turned around and put her arms around his neck. "Kiss me, dummy." She put her lips on his and pushed her tongue into his mouth.

Jerry relaxed and let his hands roam all over her. She twisted her fingers into his damp hair and bit his lip. Jerry closed his eyes and let go completely.

This was going to be as good as he'd always imagined.

He ran his fingers slowly up and down the hollow of her back. Beth reached around and took his hand, then brought it to her mouth and kissed the tips of his fingers.

"I can die happy now," he said.

"Don't say that, even just kidding." Beth rolled over and looked at him, unblinking. "With me it's not funny."

Jerry pulled her close and kissed her neck. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking." This was positively the worst time to make her think of Kenneth. "You know what's weird?"

She breathed heavily onto his shoulder. "What?"

"The better sex is, the harder it is to remember. I think that's why at the beginning, couples don't do much of anything else. You try to have something to keep, but it always slips away like a dream. Doesn't seem fair, somehow."

"Is that a hint?" Beth lowered her mouth to his chest and bit his nipple.

Jerry laughed. "I don't know if I'm up for another take right now"

Beth smiled. "You underestimate me. It's like being a lion tamer." She reached down between his legs. "Enough skill and determination, and the beast will obey you."

Jerry arched his back, pushing his head into the pillow. The phone beeped. Beth looked up at him.

"Let the machine downstairs answer it," he said. "That's what I bought it for."

"I love a man with his priorities straight." She began to nibble and lick him.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "You're one hell of a lion tamer."

He wandered downstairs to get the phone messages. The first one was several hours old. He hoped it wasn't important. Jerry pushed the button, waited, and heard Ackroyd's voice. "Jerry. I have it on pretty good authority that Veronica is going to be transferred to an institution upstate in a few days. This place is famous for experimental and dangerous methods of treatment. Veronica might not do so well there. I figured you would want to know. I'm busy with other commitments right now, or I'd help you out myself. Keep in touch." Jerry sank onto the couch, not hearing the other messages. In spite of the problems they'd had, he couldn't abandon Veronica to some nutcase shrinks.

Beth bounced down the stairs in her blue terry robe. She plopped down on the sofa and put her arm around him, then frowned. "Something wrong?"

"Veronica," Jerry said.

Beth kept her arm in place but pulled her hand from his shoulder. "I thought that was over a long time ago."

Jerry sat up straight and took her hand. "It is. That's not it at all. She's in the hospital in a coma or something. I think she's in real danger. It's not like we're close or anything, but I feel like I owe her."

"Jesus," Beth said. "Is there anything you can do?"

"I'm rich-there ought to be something." He chewed on his lip. "You used to be a nurse way back when, right?"

"Yes. Got tired of dealing with doctors and hospital administrators. I've done some volunteer work in Chicago, though."

"Okay." Jerry tapped his fingertips together. "I'll need you to set up my old projection room with all the equipment we'll need to handle a coma patient. All I need to do then is figure out how to get her here."

"You'll have to take me along, you know" Beth turned his face toward hers. "That's my price for doing the rest. You have to let me be there with you."

"Thanks," Jerry said. "I would have asked you to anyway. I need to have someone I can trust around me when I'm scared. If I'm in trouble, I want you there. Mr. Selfish strikes again."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'd do more, but we're going to need our strength for other things."

"Right," he said, standing. "I'm going to get cleaned up, then go down to the hospital to do a little snooping. If you could take care of buying the equipment, I'll help you set it up later on."

"Okay. I hope I can get everything we'll need," Beth said. "You're rich and gorgeous." Jerry helped her up from the sofa.

"With that combination, anything is possible."

It was three A. M. Wednesday, probably as quiet as the hospital ever got. Jerry strode down the corridor with what he hoped was a weary authority.

Beth was handling the gurney. The nurse's uniform flattered her figure more than he'd expected. "You really look great. Next time I'm sick, I want you to wear that."

"So much for the silk teddies and leather outfits I was going to buy." Beth's voice was nervous and edgy.

Jerry clutched at his doctor's clipboard and leaned close to her. "This will be easy, trust me. I do this kind of stuff all the time. You're in the care of a professional." He thumbed the orange badge on his smock that said Dr. Evan Sealy.

Beth gave him a hard glance. "Yes, but you can change your face, which, by the way, looks like too many doctors I've known. I'm stuck with what I'm wearing."

Jerry didn't have anything clever to say to that. He counted down the room numbers until they were outside Veronica's door. He took a deep breath, pulled his glasses down onto the bridge of his bulbous nose, and went in without knocking. Beth followed him, leaving the gurney in the hallway.

The guard was sitting in the chair, engrossed in a wellthumbed copy of Soldier of Fortune. He was middle-aged and rounding all over. There were two empty styrofoam cups on the cheap bedside table.

"Morning, Dr. Sealy." The cop nodded once and stared back down at his magazine.' "Morning." Jerry sighed and walked over to Veronica's bed on the side where the guard was seated. She looked terrible. Her skin was broken out, her features sunken, and her breathing shallow. A yellow-and-purple bruise covered one side of her head. Something inside Jerry hurt to look at her. He edged closer to the guard and pretended to take her pulse. Beth moved closer to them. Jerry put Veronica's hand down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cotton rag, then jumped on the guard's lap and shoved the rag into his mouth.

The cop bit down hard on Jerry's fingertips. Jerry clenched his teeth to avoid screaming. Beth was backing away with an empty hypodermic in her hand. He hadn't even seen her stick him. "How long?" he asked, trying to tug his hand free. Beth capped the needle and put the hypo in her pocket, then stepped in for a better look. "He's out already."

Jerry flattened his fingertips and pulled his hand free. "Fucking flatfoot cannibal," he said, rubbing his fingertips. Beth rolled the gurney next to the bed and quickly unhooked everything but Veronica's I. V and gently slid her hands under the comatose woman's armpits. "Get her feet and lift her over."

Jerry grabbed Veronica's ankles and carefully hoisted her over.

Beth folded up the metal arm and hooked the I. V bag to it. "Let's go, Doctor."

Jerry opened the door and stepped into the brightly lit hallway. He motioned to Beth, who wheeled the gurney out next to him. They headed slowly toward the elevator. Jerry marked something unreadable on his clipboard and hoped he looked the part. The elevator was empty, and they both sighed as the doors closed.

"So far, so good," Jerry said. His back and armpits were soaked in sweat.

"Mm," Beth said. It was more a growl than anything else. The car stopped in several jerky motions, and they moved out into the basement. Jerry could hear someone in Emergency moaning. There were several patients sitting in the hall. One, a bloody hand held to the side of his head, was talking to a police officer. Jerry didn't breathe as they moved past. The cop didn't bother to look up.

"Dr. Scaly?" The female voice came from behind him. Jerry's shoulders tightened. He turned around slowly. A nurse with sharp eyes and features was looking at him hard. "Yes," he said.

"Is that patient being transferred out?" The nurse looked at Veronica.

"Yes. Why else would she be down here?" Jerry hoped his sarcasm would back her off.

The nurse made a face. "Then I assume you have some paperwork for me?"

Jerry nodded stiffly. "Of course. Once she's situated in the ambulance, I'll be back to take care of you."

"If you don't," the nurse said, "I know where to find you."

"I hope not," he whispered, turning away. He looked over at Beth. Her skin was a couple of shades paler than usual. They quickly rolled Veronica out to the nearest ambulance and opened up the rear.

"Everything you'll need?" he asked, looking inside. Beth nodded. They lifted Veronica in, and Beth climbed up after her. Jerry closed the doors and walked around the far side, pulling off his smock. He had his EMS outfit on underneath.

He made his face rounder and changed his hair from gray to brown. Jerry got into the driver's side and tossed the smock onto the floorboard. He softened his fingertip and slid it into the ignition slot. When he felt it fit, he hardened his finger and turned. The engine caught immediately, an echoing roar in the concrete underground. A few blocks away he could stop and hot-wire the ignition, until then he'd have to make do with one hand.

"Shit," Beth said from behind him. "What?"

"Her heart's stopped." Beth took a deep breath and prepared an injection. "I'll try some adrenaline. Get us the hell out of here. I don't want to get caught now. Move it."

Jerry put the ambulance into gear and drove slowly through the Emergency parking area to the street.

"Is she going to be all right?" he asked.

"I can't tell yet." Beth's voice was shaky. Her face was covered in sweat. "I've got a pulse, but it's erratic. Could go either way."

Jerry drove one-handed for as long as he could stand it. There was no way he could make it through three boroughs to reach the family home in Staten Island that way. He stopped, softened his fingertip, and tugged it, bleeding and swollen, from the ignition. He pulled a knife and electrical tape from one pocket and bent under the dash. "We'll be moving again in a minute," he said.

Beth sighed. "I can't believe I volunteered for this. If we get caught, I'm going to strangle you with my bare hands." Jerry brought the wires together with a tiny blue spark. The engine kicked to life. "I love you, too."

After taking Beth and Veronica home, Jerry drove the ambulance into Queens and abandoned it. He caught a cab back from there. It gave him a twinge of glee that Veronica had wound up in his projection room. She'd never have come there when they were dating. You were paying her to fuck you, he thought. It wasn't a date.

Beth was looking Veronica over when he walked in. "This isn't good, bro. They didn't use a gel-foam cushion under her while she was there."

It bothered him a little that she called him "bro," although he wasn't sure why. Jerry knew what a gel-foam cushion was only because it was a squishy bed covering he'd figured might have real erotic possibilities. "What's the problem?"

"She's got some ugly lesions on her bottom, and a couple are starting on her shoulders, too. They weren't looking after her well at all." Beth squeezed some antiseptic cream on a gloved hand and applied it carefully to Veronica's flesh. "'Lesions'?"

"Bedsores." Beth pulled off her gloves and tossed them into a trash can. "If she doesn't come around soon, we're going to have major complications."

Jerry snorted. "Over bedsores?"

"That's right. If they get bad enough, you have to do skin grafts to prevent life-threatening infections. That requires a plastic surgeon and anesthesiologist at the very least, assuming I can grow a few more limbs to take care of everything else." She walked past him and patted him on the shoulder. "Trust me."

"Shit," Jerry said, turning and following her out of the room. "How do you get somebody out of a coma?"

"You don't, really," Beth said, putting her arms around him. "I guess we'd better get some rest."

"Rest?"

"I'm afraid so," she said. "We'll need our energy to devote to Veronica." She kissed the end of his nose. "This is another reason I stopped being a nurse."

"You're so good," he said. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

Beth laughed. "For his next trick, Jerry will put all of his self-esteem into a thimble."

Jerry slapped her ass. "Enough. Let's get some sleep."

"Veronica, I love you. You have to come back for me." Jerry stroked her hand, carefully avoiding the area where her I. V was attached. Saying he loved her was a lie, but he wasn't going to crucify himself for it at this point. "Hannah needs you. We all do." Veronica's chest rose and fell slowly. Her eyelids might as well have been carved in stone.

Beth walked into the room with two plates of food. "Fettuccine for two." She set the plates on the coffee table in front of the couch. "So much for the question `But can she cook?' Good men have plotzed for my Italian food since the dawn of time."

Jerry stood and stretched. He was glad Beth hadn't heard him telling Veronica he loved her. It would be too much trouble to explain right now. He walked on stiff legs over to the couch and sat down in front of the plate with the largest helping. It was weird having so much normal furniture in the room with a coma patient. "What time is it?"

"A little after seven." Beth took Jerry's seat next to Veronica and began bathing her with a fresh washcloth. Jerry fumbled for the TV remote control and punched the set to life. "Hot damn. I don't think I've missed much of it. Chrissie is probably dead, though."

"What are you talking about?"

"Jaws." Jerry rubbed his hands together. On the screen, Brody was looking down at the girl's crab-infested remains. Beth wiped Veronica's forehead. Her touch was light but firm. Like she'd been with him in bed a few nights before. "I thought jaws scared you to death."

"Several times." Jerry paused and glazed-over his eyes. "Very first light, chief, sharks come cruising."

"Enough," Beth said. "It's obviously going to be a long night."

Jerry nodded. "For all the wrong reasons."

He turned back to the TV It was a commercial break, and a fast-talking salesman had a penlike device at the end of an egg. "Wow. Look at that. You can scramble an egg without even breaking it open."

Beth laughed. "I forget how much you missed in your twenty years as a giant ape. You're Ronco's dream customer."

"It's nice to be somebody's dream something." Jerry bit his lip. He'd been trying to cut down on self-pity, but he had a genuine talent for it.

"God, I'm sick of hearing that kind of shit. If we're going to have a chance, that kind of talk has to start disappearing." She turned away from him. "Even now, you can't believe that I love you."

Jerry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm afraid to. I'm crazy about you, always have been. You make me deliriously happy. I'm not a bad guy, but I just can't imagine you'd ever settle for someone like me. I feel so… insubstantial or inadequate or something."

"I'm old enough and smart enough to know who I want," she said, "and I want you. Maybe you should consider counseling to get over your self-esteem problems."

"Maybe. Couldn't hurt, and at least I can afford it." Jerry took a bit of fettuccine. It was hot and delicious, but he didn't feel like chewing.

"Jerry" Beth sounded upset.

He looked over quickly. Veronica had reached up and taken Beth by the arm. The bedridden woman pulled Beth's face to hers. Beth twisted away and tucked Veronica's arms down beside her. Jerry jumped up off the couch and over to the bed. Veronica's eyes blinked slowly, then opened. "Veronica. It's Jerry" He brushed a damp strand of hair away from her eyes.

Veronica swallowed and looked slowly around the room. She stared long and hard at Beth. "I hope you're not married to this guy."

Beth squeezed Veronica's hand and brought a cup of water up to her dry lips. "Once you sweep them off their feet, they stay swept, bro."

"I feel terrible," Veronica said. Jerry smiled. "I feel better."

"Latham's girls were supposed to kill me," Veronica said. She glanced over at Jerry. "I guess you rode to my rescue." Jerry shrugged. "I couldn't just let them kill you. You'd have done the same for me."

Veronica closed her eyes. "Sure I would. How long have I been out?"

"Latham?" Beth grabbed Veronica's arm. "Edward St. John Latham? He did this to you?"

"Actually, it was Zelda who did the damage," Veronica said. "He just ordered it, as usual."

Beth looked up at Jerry. "And you knew?"

Jerry nodded. "I had a reason for not telling you."

"Kenneth. It was Latham, wasn't it." She put her hand over her mouth.

Jerry held her by the shoulders. "Yes. I knew he was behind it, but I couldn't prove anything."

Beth stood, shaking her head. "You should have told me. You know you should have." She walked stiffly from the room. Jerry headed after her.

"What about me?" Veronica tried to sit up, fell back on the bed.

"You're not going anywhere right now," Jerry said. "We'll talk later."

Jerry caught up with Beth on the stairs. He grabbed her by the elbow. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to get hurt." She wheeled on him, her eyes full of tears. "You think this doesn't hurt. My husband was killed, and you didn't think I had the right to know all the truth."

Jerry's shoulders slumped. His eyes were beginning to sting. "If I screwed up, I'm sorry. We both know I have a track record of doing that. But you have no idea how crazy Latham is. All the things he's into. And he's getting worse." "What about the police?" Beth dabbed at her eyes. "There are some good cops, but you can't know who they are. If somebody can be bought off or intimidated, St. John would probably go that way. If not, he'll just have them killed. Like Kenneth." Jerry looked down. "I swore I'd get Latham for what he did. I watched him for months, got to know his mind, his habits." Jerry made a fist. "I had him in the sights of my rifle once, and I just couldn't do it. Who knows how many other people would still be alive if I could have squeezed the trigger."

Beth took his hand. "You're not a killer, Jerry"

He looked up, right into her eyes. "Yes, I am. We all are. It just takes more extreme circumstances to bring that out in some of us. I have to kill him."

Beth shook her head. "For a promise to someone who'll never know you kept it?"

"No. Because he'll get me first. Why do you think I have all this security? He's bound to come after me sooner or later."

"Come to Chicago with me," Beth said. "We can start something for us there. If you go against Latham, he'll kill you. I can't believe I didn't figure this before now, anyway. Who else would want Kenneth dead?"

"It's only obvious in retrospect." Jerry dabbed the tears from her eyes. "No matter where I go, he'll find me. If there's one thing St. John is, it's thorough."

"Don't make me beg you, Jerry. If you try this, you'll only get killed."

"I don't think so." He tried to sound cocky. "I've got Veronica to help me now. If I can convince her to help. With Latham's killers breathing down her neck, that shouldn't be too hard."

Beth opened her mouth in disbelief. "She can hardly move, Jerry. There's no way she's up to any kind of fight."

"She's an ace. Aces heal fast," he said. "Trust me."

Latham made most of his personal calls late at night. Jerry was sitting in a building across from St. John's apartment, waiting for some action on the line. A regular phone bug would have been found in a hurry, so Jerry didn't even bother. But Latham had a cordless phone that operated on a specific frequency. It had taken some doing, but he'd found out what it was and how to intercept it. Most of what Jerry had learned came from the late-night listening.

He stifled a yawn. He still wasn't clear how to get Latham, but he knew he wanted Veronica to do the actual killing. That shouldn't be a problem, since Latham had ordered Hannah killed and almost put Veronica away too. The specifics were just not there, though. Probably he was. distracted about Beth. When he wasn't thinking about her, he was congratulating himself for not thinking about her, and then there he went again. Being that happy, even for one day, was a scary thing. All of a sudden, he had a lot to lose.

There was a dial tone. Jerry flipped on the recorder and listened to the numbers being punched in.

Several rings later, a young female answered the phone. "I was wondering when you'd call." The voice belonged to Zelda.

"Yes," Latham said. "I want you to make some arrangements for Friday night. I'll need a companion."

Zelda sighed. "Again? I don't know what you need that for, with me around."

"It wasn't a request, Zelda." Latham was cold, but his voice lacked the total control Jerry was used to hearing. "After letting that woman slip away, you should be eager for a chance to do something right."

"I don't think anyone else would have done a better job than I did." Zelda sounded angry and defensive.

"Blaise would have."

"Fine. I'll get your young blond god, but he won't be David. Even Blaise can't bring him back." Zelda paused. "Anything else?"

"That will be all," Latham said, and hung up.

Jerry stopped the recorder and pounded his fist into his palm. This was the setup he needed. He flipped through his notebook for the name of the escort service Latham had been using. He'd pay them a visit tomorrow as a handsome blond young man. Bight now, though, he needed to check on Veronica.

Beth met him at the door. She waited a moment before saying anything. Her face was tight. She forced a smile. "She's gone."

"What?" Jerry stared hard at her, expecting some kind of lengthy explanation. "So…"

Beth walked over to the couch. "She recovered so quickly. I've never seen anything like it. Look, I'm sorry, but I don't know what I could have done to stop her."

You could have gone to bed with her, he thought, remembering Veronica's current sexual preference and the way she'd looked at Beth. Jerry flopped down on the couch and combed the hair from his eyes. "How did she leave? Did she walk? Catch a cab?"

"A cab." Beth sat down next to him, perched on the front of a cushion. "Jerry, is it really that important?"

"Yes," he said, sharply. "Absolutely."

Beth's mouth tightened. "Starline," she said. "That was the cab company." She stood and left the room.

"Beth, wait." Jerry took a couple of steps after her, then stopped. Explaining would take more time than he had right now. He had to get on Veronica's trail while it was still hot.

He absolutely needed her to take out Latham. He'd apologize to Beth later. Get down on his knees if necessary. But there was no safety for any of them until Latham was dead and gone. He checked the cash in his wallet. There was plenty for what he had in mind. He headed for the door.

The back seat of the cab was sticky. Jerry didn't want to know how it got that way. He'd found out the name of the driver at the Starline central office and had him sent down.

The cabbie was young and Middle Eastern. At first, he could barely speak English. But after Jerry introduced him to the Jackson twins-a trick he'd picked up from Ackroyd-the cabbie became more helpful. He told Jerry how he'd picked up Veronica, described her clothing, the way she smelled, and how she behaved. After a little more financial inducement, the cabbie agreed to drop Jerry off at Veronica's destination.

They were in an old part of Brooklyn. The red-and-white stone walls were faded, but for the most part clean. Kids with easy smiles played on stoops or out in the streets. The cab eased to a stop.

"Here. It was on this spot." The cabbie leaned across the seat and pointed through the passenger-side window. "That building. She went into there." The cabbie turned and smiled. "You are grateful now"

"Unspeakably." Jerry peeled off another twenty and handed it over. The cabbie certainly had grasped the essence of capitalism. Jerry got out of the cab and walked over to the stoop. He looked up.

Veronica was staring down at him. "Fuck." He didn't hear it, but he could read the word on her lips.

This wasn't going to be easy or fun. He fingered the door and went in. The paint on the walls was fresh, but the overhead light flickered. Jerry walked slowly toward the stairway at the end of the hall. He could hear kids screaming in Spanish inside one of the rooms.

She met him at the landing between the second and third floors. Her teeth were clenched, her eyes wide with anger. "Leave me alone, Jerry. Just leave me the fuck alone." She said the words slowly. "My family lives here. Do you understand?"

Jerry looked her in the eye and took a step forward, like a kid trying to sneak up on a cat. "He knows who you are, Veronica. He's going to come after you. Either you help me take Latham out, or you're as good as dead."

"What business is that of yours? Maybe I'm tired of living." She put her hand on his chest and pushed him backward. "There's plenty of high-priced hookers out there. You don't need to mess with me anymore."

"Veronica, look at me. Can you see what's wrong with me? I'm scared, just plain scared. Latham wants me dead too. I don't blame you for hating me. I'm not here to dredge up the past. I used you and I'm sorry. I can't fix what's already happened." He was trying to use her again, but this time it was actually for her own good. "He killed Hannah, and he killed my brother. There's no telling how many others. I've been after Latham for months, but I can't do it on my own."

"Why?"

"Because he's the head of the jumpers from the Rox and runs organized crime in this city, to boot. He's probably the most dangerous, ruthless man either one of us will ever meet." Jerry extended his palms. "I don't want to die yet. If you won't do it for me or yourself, do it for Hannah." Veronica leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. He could see the beginning of tears. "Leave me alone," she said. Jerry swallowed hard. He'd never seen Veronica hurting before. She'd always been so tough with him. He went up and put his arm around her. She shrugged it off violently, banging his hand painfully into the plaster.

"Sorry," Jerry said. "You were really in love with her. I just didn't understand that until now. I guess I didn't want to." He thought of how he'd feel if Beth was killed and someone tried to use that as a carrot on him, then backed away, ashamed. "I won't bother you anymore. You should get out of town and make a new start somewhere else. if you don't want my money, I could arrange for a loan."

"No," she said.

Jerry turned and walked slowly down the stairs. He was useless to her now. She knew him too well, and he didn't know her at all. That was probably much more his fault than hers.

"Jerry?" Veronica was looking down at him from the top of the stairs.

"Yes."

"What do you want me to do?"

Veronica was hard and all business again. "I want you to help me kill him."

Veronica was already inside. Jerry had fingered the service door to let her in, then walked around to the front of Latham's apartment building. After a brief conversation with someone upstairs, the doorman had let him in.

According to the old ad campaign, blonds were supposed to have more fun. Somehow, Jerry didn't expect that was going to be the case tonight. He was young, tawny, and gorgeous. They'd almost had to clean their shorts when he walked into the escort service. He was exactly what Latham wanted, a David Butler look-alike with just enough differences to make it believable.

Veronica met him at the elevator, and they stepped quietly inside. She was wearing a freshly ironed white blouse and navy pants. She fidgeted from one leg to the other as the car moved up the shaft to the penthouse. Jerry had been here before, and for the same reason. To kill Latham.

He'd blown it, though. Zelda had jumped him and only when she freaked out in his body had he been able to get away. He felt better about his chances this time, with Veronica along. All he had to do was take out Zelda. He touched the cloth of his shirt pocket, feeling the packet underneath. He was going to need it.

"I'm going to get the door unlocked and slightly open one way or the other," he said. "When I do that, move fast." Veronica nodded.

The elevator glided to a stop, and the doors opened. They stepped out, and Jerry motioned Veronica out of sight. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and knocked. Zelda opened the door, dressed in sweat clothes. Her eyes widened when she saw Jerry-David, but she quickly hid her surprise with a nasty smile.

Jerry took off his coat and folded it over his arm, then stepped inside.

"Look what we have here," Zelda said.

Latham emerged from the office, deep in conversation with a hairless pink bat. He looked at Jerry and stopped dead. His mouth hung open for a moment, then he closed it and eased over toward them. He was wearing a black silk robe with silver embroidery, and his hair was carefully blow-dried and combed. "Perfect," Latham said. "Ideal."

Jerry looked dubiously at the joker. "Nobody told me this was a group deal. I charge extra for bats."

"He won't be staying," Latham said coldly. He turned his attention to the bat. "Tell the governor that I'll take care of it."

The joker half walked and half flopped to the window. He perched momentarily on the sill. "Sorry to miss the fun, guys," he said. "Maybe next time." He dropped out of sight, and Jerry heard him flap noisily away.

Jerry put his arm around Zelda, and licked her neck, then bit it. "There's still plenty of us to make a party." Zelda grabbed Jerry by the throat and tossed him backward. Jerry's feet came out from under him, and he bounced across the carpeted floor on his seat.

"Don't touch me, whore," Zelda said, wiping her neck, "or I'll break every bone in your fucking body." She turned to Latham. "I'm going back to my workout." Zelda walked from the room.

Latham walked over and helped Jerry to his feet. He stared hard at Jerry's sculpted features, as if looking for something.

"Is your friend some kind of nutcase?" Jerry asked, throwing his coat on the back of the sofa.

"Zelda is very exceptional… in her own way." Latham guided him by the elbow over to the couch. "Please, sit down. I'll make us a drink."

Jerry eased back into the soft cushions. They were the only thing comfortable about the situation. "I hope I'm what you had in mind."

Latham smiled thinly. "Oh, yes. Exactly what I had in mind." Latham filled two glasses with liquor and sat down next to Jerry on the couch.

Jerry took the glass when it was offered and took a tentative sip. Whiskey he loved; scotch he detested. The liquor burned but didn't satisfy. Latham tilted his glass up and almost emptied it.

Latham pulled a vial and small spoon from his pocket. He popped the vial open and carefully poured a spoonful, then held it under Jerry's nose. "Inhale,". Latham said.

Jerry hesitated, then drew a deep breath. He felt like someone was pulling out his nose hairs from the inside. Something in his brain gave way, and he felt a massive tingle of pleasure. "Jesus," he said.

Latham snorted a spoonful himself and let out a long breath through his thin lips. "I think God will likely be absent from our company tonight. Just as well." Latham bent over and put his mouth on Jerry's, pushing his tongue inside, and ran his hand over Jerry's crotch.

Jerry felt pinned by both Latham's mouth and the unreality of the situation. He tried to think of it as the kiss of death for his brother's murderer. His brain snapped into a memory of Beth's lips. For a moment, he kissed back.

Latham broke off the kiss and sighed. "It's a shame."

"What?" Jerry asked.

"Nothing." Latham stood. "Let's go into the bedroom." Latham walked toward one of the open doors, his silk robe rustling. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Jerry. Jerry caved in under the stare and followed. The bedcovers were turned back, and the sheets were clean. A red robe and mask hung in the corner.

"Take your clothes off," Latham said.

Jerry began unbuttoning his shirt. "I forgot my drink in the other room. Back in a minute."

Latham nodded, unsashed his robe, and laid down on the bed.

Jerry quickly crossed the living room and made it to the door. He unlocked it and opened it a crack. "Now," he whispered to the outside.

He could hear weights clanking in the room Zelda had gone into. Jerry padded across the carpet and stepped inside. Zelda was bent over with a large dumbell in either hand, doing flies. She looked up when Jerry came in, her face flushed with exertion. Jerry reached in his pocket for the packet and thumbed it open.

"The man wants to see you," Jerry said.

Zelda continued working her arms. "You're being paid to please him. So do it."

Jerry pulled the packet out of his pocket and threw the contents into Zelda's eyes. She dropped the dumbells and screamed. The powder was finely ground drain cleaner. Jerry had used it once before, in Jokertown. He knew Zelda couldn't jump what she couldn't see.

The kick caught him below the ribs and sent him crashing into the wall. His shoulder smashed through the plaster and Sheetrock.

"Kill you," Zelda said, shaking her head.

Jerry crawled away from her, putting a workout machine between them. The lights flickered and dimmed. Veronica was doing it to Latham. It was all going to work out fine.

Jerry grabbed the machine and pulled himself upright. The barbell sitting on it clanked. Zelda wheeled at the sound and took a step forward. She stepped squarely on one of the dumbells and it slipped underneath her, pitching her forward. Zelda cartwheeled into the machine, and Jerry leapt out of the way. She slammed into the mass of metal, knocking it over with her on top. The barbell tipped and fell. One heavily weighted end thudded into her back. There was a snap. Zelda opened her mouth. Jerry expected a scream, but there was only a low moan.

He backed into the living room slowly, looking away from her. Zelda was one of his least favorite people in the world, but the suffering on her face was more than he could stand to see.

Veronica was sitting on the couch with a gun in her hand. "Did you do it?" Jerry asked.

She shook her head. "I couldn't. It's just not in me." Jerry gritted his teeth. "What about Hannah?" Veronica looked up and gave him a slow stare. "She wouldn't have been able to either." She handed him the gun. "You'll have to take care of it yourself."

"Fine," Jerry said, hefting the pistol in his hand. "Get out of here. I'll meet you at the car."

Veronica stood and left.

Jerry walked into the bedroom. Latham was lying on the bed. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. Jerry bent over and put the silencer to Latham's head, then paused. He understood why Veronica couldn't do it. After he fired the gun, Jerry would never be the same person again. No matter what the justification, killing a helpless person would leave a big scar. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. Nothing.

"Can't be jammed," Jerry said, fumbling with the weapon. "Can't be."

The hands were around his wrist before Jerry even saw them move. They twisted the gun from his grasp and sent it bouncing to the floor. Latham bounded up, and put the bed between them.

"Who are you working for?" Latham asked. "Tell me, and you might leave here alive."

Jerry moved around the bed and toward the door. Latham cut him off. "Nobody," he said.

Latham stared at him for a moment, as if weighing the situation. He head a groan from the exercise room. "What did you do to Zelda?"

Jerry thought he saw fear for a moment in Latham's face. "She did it to herself, playing with her weights." He knew that only one of them was going to live. Maybe that was the only way he could turn killer, by counting on his survival instinct. He let his features go and took on his natural face. "Recognize me now?"

Latham sneered. "Strauss the older. In years anyway. I knew there was someone sniffing around the edges of things, but couldn't ever pin you down. Kenneth would be so proud."

At the mention of his brother, Jerry bolted at St. John. He slammed into Latham, knocking them both to the floor. Latham took Jerry by the neck and began squeezing, his hands hard and relentless. Jerry aimed a knee at Latham's groin, but caught him on the inner thigh. He clawed at St. John's face. The fingers at his throat clutched him tighter. Jerry could feel the muscles in his neck going numb. His vision was blurring. He thought of Kenneth's shattered body lying in a street. Thought of what would happen to Beth and Veronica if he failed.

Jerry put his index finger into Latham's ear, and extruded the bone through his own flesh and into Latham's. His bone snaked through the eardrum and into Latham's brain. Jerry remembered the egg scrambler and whipped the strand of fingerbone around inside the lawyer's skull. Latham made a strangled, hissing noise and began twitching.

Jerry twisted away and reshaped his hand. It felt like he'd stuck it into boiling water. He kissed the tip of his finger reflexively, then jerked back. He spat the brain tissue from his mouth.

Jerry looked over at Latham. He wasn't breathing. He had to be dead. Had to be. Jerry sat down on the bed and took a deep breath. He'd always thought Latham was tougher and smarter than him, but it was St. John dead on the floor. Jerry closed his eyes and put a hand over his mouth, his insides suddenly cold. This was what killing felt like; what it really was. He knew the horror he felt now would be worth the peace it bought down the line, but now all he wanted was to be gone from this place.

He reached over and picked up the gun, tucking it into his pocket. He got up, but turned in the doorway and looked down at Latham. The dead man's face was all pain, without a trace of peace. Jerry staggered out into the living room and grabbed his coat, then left the apartment. He changed his appearance as the elevator descended. He darkened his skin and hair and added a touch of age. But there was no changing how he felt about what he'd left in the apartment upstairs.

They were walking through her neighborhood in Brooklyn. Veronica's skin had some lines, of course, but her color was back. Her hair shone in the sunlight.

"How do you feel? I didn't think you could actually kill anyone. You weren't up to talking about it the other night." Veronica waved at a couple of kids playing with balsa wood gliders. They grinned and waved back.

"Not good. I can't kid myself that murder is okay, but I had to do it. Part of being a grown-up is doing what has to be done. It was him or us." Jerry shivered, suddenly cold. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm okay and sometimes I'm not. Eventually, I'll make my peace with it."

"I hope so," Veronica said. "You're not bad, for a man. You're a fuckup sometimes, but you've got a good heart." Jerry rubbed the corner of his eye. "Veronica, I wish I'd gotten to know you. I guess it's too late now"

She smiled. "Probably. I need to start all over again. I've spent a lot of years finding out what I hated. I need to find something I can love. I guess that's why I came back to the old neighborhood. It's the last place I remember being happy. I want to be happy again."

"Good luck." Jerry held out his hand. Veronica took it, and pulled him into a soft hug, then backed away. "If there's ever anything I can do," he said.

She nodded and turned away.

Jerry walked to the corner and hailed a cab. He felt like he was going to throw up. He leaned against a street sign and tried to clear his head. A taxi pulled over, and he was in the backseat in an instant. He lay down and wondered about the roaring in his ears. Then he passed out.

The hospital room was as nice as hospital rooms ever get. Jerry pulled the bedcovers up to his chest. He was still cold.

If they didn't have those stupid backless gowns, he might be able to get warm.

Beth walked in and cocked an eyebrow. "Back in the land of the living, finally."

"I died and went to heaven," Jerry said. "It pays to be Episcopalian."

Beth put her hand on his forehead. "I think your fever's down from yesterday." She stroked his arm, carefully avoiding the area near his I. V "You were lucky not to lose that finger. The bone was pretty badly infected."

Jerry propped himself up on an elbow. "Why did you decide to sleep with me? We didn't really talk about that." Beth settled into a chair next to him. "Because no other man could make me stop thinking about you. That hasn't happened since I first met Kenneth. Don't know what it is about you Strauss boys, must be good genes. I want you to be part of my life, Jerry."

"Me too," he said. "I want that a lot."

"I'm going back to Chicago, though. I know that now. This town is crazy. It makes everyone in it crazy." She took his hand. "I want you to come with me, but I want you to think about it first. I want you to be sure."

"As sure as I ever get about anything." Jerry looked into her eyes. "I want to come visit real soon. I just might wind up staying for good."

Beth got up and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Get your rest. You don't have to decide on anything today. I'm not leaving until you're completely well."

Jerry closed his eyes. He was too tired to worry about it. He'd worry about it tomorrow.

Tomorrow was another day.

The Temptation of Hieronymus Bloat