Tuesday morning was bright ... and chilly ...

Ted wasn't in when I arrived ... but neither was there a bomb on my desk.

If any messengers appeared, I decided, I'd have them deliver direct to the bomb squad - I had more important items to worry about today.

Taking first things first, I checked the answering service for messages. The weekend's calls were still there - hadn't been time for Ted to log and clear them.

The first call - time stamped early evening - was one of those anonymous blanks. The area and prefix were Oakland. A quick check of the number identified Evelyn Schaefer. I'd tried unsuccessfully to reach her previously, I'd try returning her call in the evening - maybe I'd have better luck then. Unfortunately, I didn't have much to tell her.

The second call was from a father wanting to locate his run-away daughter. He'd received a card postmarked Santa Barbara but, apparently, had a poor sense of geography. I made a note to return the call and to recommend an associate down the coast.

The third was another call from the carpet cleaners - they definitely deserved Ted's attentions ... when we had time.

A fourth, late evening, was asking for Ted. Sounded like a young run-away, female, probably someone he'd contacted and left a card with. No name, no number to return the call - from the prefix, the originating number was probably a pay phone. Ted could check it and find the location. If he recognized the voice, he might try canvassing the area. Otherwise, just have to hope she'd call back again.

The fifth was a repeat - the same voice and same originating number as the fourth. The time stamp was after midnight.

I left the messages for Ted to log - along with those from the weekend - and considered the attractions of the bakery around the corner.

The attractions were real enough ... but, on the other hand, I didn't need to carry any extra weight - my stub wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, I fished an old department directory from my desk, looking for Captain Matheson's office number.

* * *

After two wrong numbers, I decided it was time to cadge a new directory. Third time, I called the switchboard and asked, making a note of Matheson's new number. Chances were, I'd be calling him again.

When I got the Captain on the line, I thanked him for the recommendation and spent a few minutes in chit-chat. You know, catching up on department gossip, that kind of thing

"Reason I called," I switched to business, "is that I need a background check for a number of individuals. They'll be applying for positions with a security firm and I'd like to be sure they'll pass muster ... without causing any flags to go off."

"I see," Matheson considered. "There's a connection, of course."

"Very astute of you. You'd make a first rate detective."

"With your sense of humor, you'd make a great Commissioner."

"I though a sense of humor was a disqualification."

"Like I said, MacPherson ... Okay, okay, I'll have Tom Baker call you. Give him your list and he'll run a check and get back to you. Sound all right?"

"Couldn't ask for better," I agreed. I had a list of five names ready; the others would take a day or so ... I didn't want to embarrass any of my "irregulars". "I'll be expecting his call. Oh, yeah," I was trying to remember Matheson's wife's name and couldn't - even assuming he hadn't changed wives again. "Uh, give everyone my best. I'll drop by for coffee sometime."

"Call and I'll meet you someplace," the Captain corrected. "The coffee's better elsewhere - any elsewhere. Later."

"Later," I agreed, breaking the connection.

* * *

My next call was to the Fourth Street Mission. Most of the people I wanted were out - the only surprise would have been if they'd been in. I settled for talking to Jane Morgan - she'd been Madame Lu on Saturday - and leaving messages for the others.

Jane was all in favor of my proposition. The only things on her record, she assured me, were traffic violations ... and, since she hadn't driven in three years, she should be clear on those. If I liked, she'd be right over ... she could catch the bus at Bryant and ...

I didn't think traffic violations would matter anyway - unless they'd including speeding in a hijacked armored car or something equally interesting.

"No, there's no rush on this. What you could do," I offered an alternative, "would be look around for Pietro," - he'd been Peppe Le Pieu - "Terry Jackson," - a.k.a. The Jersey Kid - "and Bill Williams" - a.k.a. Kojak. These three I was pretty sure about but I couldn't remember Pietro's last name and I wanted to check with all of them before ... ah ... bringing them to official attention.

"Actually, Jane," I went further. "I could probably use another three or four candidates. It's important though that they have to be physically healthy, no police records and no drugs or alcohol. If you can think of any good possibilities, have them get in touch. Okay?"

Alcohol was the reason I hadn't asked for Cannonball, Space Cadet or Tinker Belle. I didn't need a bookie to give me odds whether they were drinking up Saturday's bonuses ... and I wasn't going to risk things by putting an unreliable in an undercover position ... even a relatively innocuous situation like this.

Keeping them sober for a day's work - well, a night's work - was one thing. Expecting them to remain straight for a regular job ... well, the situation just didn't need complications and I couldn't risk it. Besides, I knew there were plenty of other candidates ... even if it might take a while to find the right ones.

* * *

I was briefing Ted when the phone rang.

"Mr. MacPherson? Evelyn Schaefer. Uh, I tried to call but I guess you'd gone home."

"At 7:32 yesterday," I agreed. "Yes. I've tried to reach you as well but I guess you were out. I'm sorry but I don't have a whole lot to tell you yet except that it appears that your mother is on vacation ..."

"Yes, Disney World," Evelyn interrupted. "That's what I called to tell you. I got a post card yesterday. She and a friend. Mother won a trip - in a contest, I guess."

"What did Mrs. Platt's card say? Exactly?"

"Uh, just a moment, it's in my purse ... Here it is ... Uh, her handwriting's not the best. Uh, she says: 'Evie - having lots of fun - told you contests were worth it - Mary and I are having a blast - Love, Mother'."

I chuckled. "I take it you didn't approve of her interest in contests."

"Well, not exactly. I mean, I always thought it was pretty silly."

"Still, she's okay. I talked to her neighbor, yesterday. Mrs. Yarrow, if you've met her. Anyway, Mrs. Yarrow reported essentially the same thing. But I'm surprised your mother didn't call you."

"I am too ... she always calls right after five - when I get home from work and before she leaves for her job. We don't overlap much so it's kind of a routine. I ... I hope you didn't waste too much time on this. It seem silly, now."

"A few hours," I admitted, then added, "Not all that much. I'm glad things have turned out okay. I'll send you a bill and a refund check for the difference."

"I guess mother's vacation wasn't quite as free as she thinks."

"No, I guess not. You'll have my report in a few days. The keys will be enclosed.."

"Mr. MacPherson?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks ... for the reassurance."

"You're welcome." I replaced the phone, vaguely unsatisfied. Still, it was time to get back to business.

While I was on the phone with Ms Schaefer, Ted had been checking the call number from the possible run-away. "Pay phone," he announced. "Over in Haight-Ashbury. I'll check it out this afternoon. Maybe leave a note at the phone. If she used it twice, she'll probably come back to it. Probably convenient to somebody's pad."

When I'd been Ted's age, the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco had been The Place. The home of flower power and young chicks in mini-skirts. Not much flower power today - crack and street gangs had replaced grass and good vibes - but it was still a popular location for teeny-boppers ... and runaways.

"Don't know about these other ones," Ted was explaining. "The phone's over toward China Town but that's not much to go on."

"Sorry?" He'd lost me with this last jump.

"The 'no message' calls," Ted sounded hurt that I hadn't deduced the reference. "From this weekend. I checked the number. It's a payphone over near China Town - could be some kid who couldn't make up their mind what to say."

"But hasn't repeated since then?" That seemed curious - three calls on Saturday and nothing since?

"Unless it was the girl and she's in Haight-Ashbury now."

That was a long shot - a very long shot. "Thirty to one against," I decided. "And that's being generous. There's no value in trying to connect things that don't match up. Look, the girl calls twice - both times at night and both from the same phone in the Haight-Ashbury district. And her calls are both on Monday night. These were day-time, from China Town and all on Saturday. Unless there's been another since? Nothing from Sunday was there?"

Ted shook his head.

"Okay, all three times, the caller hung up as soon as the voice mail answered, right?"

"Yeah, guess so. That's how it sounded."

"Okay. Make it a thousand to one against. Now, if you want to deduce something, stick to the facts. What's the pattern in the actual calls?"

"That they rang off as soon as the machine picked up? That's a pattern?"

"Maybe they wanted to find out if anyone was here," I suggested.

"But nothing happened ... except Monday." The penny finally dropped.

"Give me the exact address," I invited, fishing a map out of the desk.

Just off China Town was correct ... and right around the corner from GreenSpace, Inc. ... which was right next to Viscount Services.

Coincidence?

In a pig's eye!

"I think I've got another job for you," I considered. "Tell me, do you do windows?"

* * *

Ted's an interesting character. You'd think between his six plus feet and his mop of blonde curls - not to mention his attempt at a goatee - that he'd stand out in any crowd. Somehow, though, he was just too much the archtypical post-teenager. You caught a glimpse of him, cataloged him and then forgot about him ... nothing really noticeable or remarkable.

Originally, we'd met because I'd been hunting for him. His older sister - their parents were deceased - had been trying to find him. She'd lost touch with him when he'd dropped out of college. Then she'd received a Christmas letter - written on the back of a poster advertising a band called the Zombie Elite.

It hadn't been much of a lead since the location on the poster was a warehouse and the date had been two months earlier - which mean the performance had been a rave gig. A rave involves a cheap location - empty warehouses are popular - with lots of lights, amplified bands and thousands of attendees from teens to adults trying to act like teens. A rave also means everything from psycho-enhancement drinks - most of which were fruit juices with vitamins of dubious value which were sold under fancy names as mental stimulants, ego boosters and aphrodisiacs - to balloons filled with nitrous oxide - laughing gas. Less openly, it also meant drugs ranging from grass and acid to hash, crack and coke ... or worse.

Ted's sister had also enclosed a picture ... of an eighteen-year-old - in a suit - with his zits air-brushed out.

It hadn't been much to go on - particularly since nobody seemed to remember a band called the Zombie Elite and the warehouse where the rave had been held was now full of industrial equipment and materials for a renovation job a block distant. Further, the property firm managing the warehouse denied the location had been rented for any purpose - certainly not a rave - in the past six months ... which meant that somebody had made a few bucks on the side, allowing the space to be used for the one-nighter.

With nothing else to go on, I'd added Ted's picture and description to a missing kids poster and paid a couple of streeters - street people - to post them around town and to pass copies to various street vendors, shoe-shine stands and buskers - all people who see a lot of street traffic. It works often enough to be worthwhile.

I'd also made the rounds of a couple of raves - concentrating on the bands, whatever names they were going by, but not ignoring the crowds - and I'd checked some of the dance bars where the bands were more loud than talented.

It'd hadn't been a big deal. I'd been looking for any of eight or ten runaways who'd been reported in the SF area and I'd found one - a teen who, offered the chance, was tearfully happy to return home.

The surprise had come a couple of weeks after I'd started looking for Ted - one morning when he'd walked into my office, holding several posters. "You walked right by three of these," he'd announced, tapping his figure on three of the pictures. "What's it worth to find them?"

I hadn't twigged to him immediately - he was three years older than his photo, his hair was longer and he wasn't wearing a suit ... among other things. "How about a C-note," I'd offered. "If it's legitimate."

"Each?"

"Okay," I'd agreed. "Think you can do it?"

"Better 'n you," he'd challenged. "You're too old and, with that gimp leg, you couldn't run down a crip ... " he'd hesitated.

"Wasn't planning to," I'd agreed again. "You deliver?"

"Two of 'em, easy. This one," he'd pointed at one of the photos, a young man, "doesn't want to go home. Has reasons. What 'bout him?"

"I'd still like to talk to him. There's someone who wants to hear from him. I can't force him to go home but maybe I could help."

"I'll tell him," Ted had agreed. "I'll bring the others by this afternoon. Okay?"

"Fine. Any message for your sister?" I wondered if that would get a reaction.

"So, made me, didn't you. Took you long enough. Just tell her I'm okay and I'll write."

"You've changed," I'd reminded him. "Three years is a long time." I didn't add "... at your age."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Tell me, what's your take from these kids?"

"Depends on how much time I bill their parents ... or guardians. And how much I pay you. Nothing exorbitant. If they don't want to go home," I'd added, "there are agencies which will help. Or, if your friend would prefer," I'd pointed at the picture, "I'll be happy to forward a letter and to pass on a reply.

"One question ..." It had been my turn to pause.

"What?"

"How'd you find me?" I didn't have an address on the posters, just a phone number.

"Followed you," Ted had smiled. "Wasn't hard. Asked around, too. Street word says you're straight."

"Glad to hear it. Want a job?"

"Yeah, I was thinking about that. Worth a try ... but I still want my three C's."

"Bring 'em in," I'd agreed, "and we'll talk."

He had. We had. And I'd hired him.

And, he'd been right - for tracking down runaways, he was pretty good.

As for other things, he'd been learning.

* * *

"Yeh, this is Carlton ... Who? ... Uh, sorry, I'm not awake yet Yeh, look, thanks for the call back. I know this is out of channels but I thought you ought to know. I think there's something going on over at ... what? ... Yeh, the BayView ... No, not exactly, but it's ... Sure, tonight? Yeh, we can do that ... Uh, how about around two? I'll be doing an outside stretch. I could meet you then. ... Okay, tonight then. Why don't you wait outside the Macy's - on the east side. That's a quiet spot ... Yeh, I'll keep it quiet ... Okay ... Yeh, thanks ... I hope so ..."

* * *

"Look, I don't want to embarrass anyone ... or worse ... so if there's anything a police check would turn up - particularly any outstanding wants or warrants - say so now and I'll forget you mentioned it." I took a sip of coffee and looked around the room, waiting for a response from any of my picked crew of indigents.

Not that you'd necessarily know them for homeless. Some were better dressed, some worse but, if none were elegantly tailored, none were entirely in rags either. Several could have used haircuts ... or perms ... but, overall, they looked like ... well, your average less-than-wealthy citizen dressed down to work in the garden or paint the porch. No big deal - clothes were easy to change ...

Nobody said anything.

"Okay, remember that includes felony convictions - even if you've already done time on 'em," I emphasized. "Nothing?"

"What about illegal camping," Pietro queried. "Jordan's park patrol's hassled a lot of us on that."

"I don't think that's one to worry about." Illegal camping was like parking ticket ... except that if you fell asleep on the grass wearing $150.00 jogging shoes, you weren't likely to be ticketed. It was only if you were "dressed down" that you'd get cited.

"Did thirty days 'cause of it," Pietro complained. "Wasn't nothin' to me."

Well, I could understand the gripe. If Pietro had been ticketed for illegal camping - which was synonymous with being homeless - and hadn't been able to pay the fine - which was pretty certain - his thirty days in the clink had cost the city a couple of grand. It was a great way to fight homelessness and poverty - if you defined that as keeping Jordan in office and on the city payroll.

"Strictly a misdemeanor," I assured him. "Don't sweat it. Anything else?" I looked again at the seven faces crowded in my not too spacious office.

"Couple of parking tickets ... back when I had a car." That was Jane Morgan. "Never could afford to pay them."

"If necessary," I assured her, "we'll cover them. Anyone else?"

"My ex-wife," Bill Williams spoke up. "Probably still wants alimony. Haven't paid her in ten years."

"In California?" I was surprised.

"Back east," Bill corrected. "A raw deal in the first place. She got everything anyway."

"And alimony as well?"

"Hey, I was big time back then ... except I should have gotten a better lawyer. Should have gotten a better accountant too. Don't matter. Don't reckon she can put the screws to me now." He grinned at the thought. "Go ahead, she comes snooping, I'll tell her where to go. Nothin' she could do anyway."

"Okay," I agreed. "You're in. Who else?"

"Come on, Mac," Terry Jackson prompted. "Just tell us what's up. Another surveillance? Or you want us to tail someone?"

"This is a bit different," I correct. "I want you to get jobs."

"Love to," Gary Velas jumped in - he'd been Black Bart, hiding in the dumpster. "You know some? Is it legal?"

"I've got the jobs," I assured him, "And I think I can make sure you get hired. And, yes, it's legal. Except that you'll be doing two jobs ... or three. Before I tell you about it, though, uh, let's see. You're Vera Chambers, right?" I addressed one of the two who were relative strangers. I knew them - having seen them around - but hadn't worked with them before.

"That's right." Vera was a brunette turning gray, about five-eight and around a hundred-fifty pounds - not fat but stocky. She was rather shabbily dressed but clean. No makeup. Hair gathered neatly in a long braid. Trying to keep up appearances under difficult circumstances.

"And you're Daniel Herrick?" I addressed the second stranger.

Herrick pulled himself up straight and bowed slightly. "I am." His voice was clear, the two words spoken in well rounded tones. In appearance, he was wearing a suit - slightly rumpled - and his hair needed a trim soon - what was left of it - but it was well brushed and his mustache was perfect.

"Actor?" I queried.

"Off Broadway, mostly bit parts and stock. Nothing terribly successful. Also a radio personality," he continued before adding: "That's what they call a DJ if he's successful. Bum's the next step - when they get tired of you."

"Well, I can't offer you a radio spot but ... Look, Ms Chambers, Mr. Herrick, neither of you know me. Mark" - I was referring to Mark at the Fourth Street Mission - "vouches for you as does Jane so I'm willing to take a chance. But I think you ought to know what you're getting into."

"You've been vouched for as well, Mr. MacPherson." Vera spoke. "If it's legal and it pays, I'm in no position to turn down a job."

"It's legal," I assured her. "And it's a paying job. But there are some risks. Small but present. Because of the risks, you'll be drawing a second paycheck on the side."

Everyone was silent, attentive.

"Okay, the job is to become security guards - it will be night shift positions at shopping malls. Dull, boring work."

Ms Chambers smiled slightly, Terry and Bill exchanged glances, then nodded. Only Jane had reservations.

"I'm not sure," Jane hesitated, her voice regretful, "if my legs are up to that. We are talking about a lot of walking, aren't we?"

"I've got a slightly different job for you," I assured her. "I'll tell you about it in a moment. Questions?"

"You said 'risks'," Ms Chambers asked. "I assume you mean something aside from the usual night watchman job?"

"That's right," I smiled. "Because you'll also be doing undercover work for me."

Nobody said anything.

"And," I continued, "I also want you to be crooks."

"You said 'legal'?" Mr. Herrick wasn't objecting, just asking.

"Absolutely," I assured him. "You'll try to pick up items of value and, after leaving work, you'll deliver them to a fence. You need to be sure to remember where you've stolen them from and tell our fence so she can keep a record."

Jane was smiling. "And I'm the fence?" she asked. That was one of the reasons I liked her - she didn't have to have everything spelled out for her. "Do I get to ... how does a fence dress anyway?"

"You're the fence," I agreed. "And I'll coach you on it later. I'm still working on a location. As for the guard jobs, any problems?"

"What happens if we get caught?" Bill sounded worried.

"You'll be covered," I reported. "Actually, I want you to get caught ... by the other guards. That's the whole point."

"And the risks," Ms Chambers was thoughtful, "come in if they discover that we're also working undercover. Correct?"

I nodded, reassured. Ms Chambers was quick on the uptake and not at all worried.

"I'm in," she affirmed. "Beats the Corps." Marine Corps, I wondered? Could be - looked like she had the moves, definitely had the attitude.

We spent the next couple of hours going over the application forms - Ms Zappa had supplied samples and suggestions on how to fill them out and what to say during the interviews but I wanted everybody letter perfect.

Ms Chambers - with her Marine Corp. background - was a natural. She and Pietro - who'd done security work before ... and hated it - headed on out to get jobs.

Their first stops would be the Herrington and the Malory for rooms - they needed addresses and, for an extra twenty, just in case anyone asked, they'd have been living there for months.

Once they had addresses, they'd catch a bus out to DSS to put in applications. After that, they were free to relax ... and wait to be called. Naturally, I'd given each an advance - on their salaries from the H. D. Agency. It would be a couple of days before DSS found itself suddenly needing people but it was better to set things up in advance rather than at the last moment.-

The others I felt could use a little preparation ... mostly a matter of giving them a more attractive background. I'd made arrangements with several clients, asking them to provide references - preferably, nothing too glowing - for my new operatives but I also needed to brief each of them on their backgrounds. And, of course, brief their old 'employers' on who their ex-employees were.

Then there was the fact that Terry and Bill could use a change of costume. Nothing too new but there were a number of good used clothing stores which could make them presentable without making them affluent.

And, of course, it would look kind of odd if they all applied the same day. Two today and four applications tomorrow - two in the morning and two in the afternoon - sounded about right. As long as they didn't go in together it shouldn't raise any eyebrows.

In the mean time, I had another task for Jane, Bill and Terry. Nothing strenuous, just a little leg work - something they'd done for me a few times before.

* * *

"One question," Daniel Herrick paused on the way out.

"Yes?"

"You think there's a chance these could be permanent jobs? Or is this simply a limited engagement?"

* * *

"Yeah, I've got the crack. You get your homies together and meet me over at the park. I'll show you from there. After I finger the target, you can have the stash. Just do it right. Mr. Fuzz is in the way and I want him smoked."

* * *

One of the nice things about being private instead of official is not having to bother with paperwork.

Another is that you can do things - interesting things - which would be difficult to explain to official superiors.

While Ted and I shared submarine sandwiches - the deli around the corner did great takeout and I'd missed lunch; Ted, of course was always hungry - I outlined Ted's assignment. His was the easy part - credit checks.

While Ted got busy at the computer - in this business, data links and the internet have shoe leather beat all hollow - I took the other phone and got started ordering a few special items.

"Thanks, Johnny but I think orange smokes will be fine. I'll send Ted around to pick them up. When can they be ready? .... This evening? ... And the radio trigger? ... Yes, definitely pulse-coded. I don't want any errors but give me a decent transmitter ... At least a half-mile range ... Okay, tomorrow morning then. Now, there are a couple of other items ..."

* * *

"Sheldon? ... James MacPherson, here. ... Doing just fine - yourself? ... No, you're not due for a review for another month. Unless there's a problem? .... Good. Look, I've got a favor to ask. You still have that warehouse out by China Basin? ... Great. ... Still full of seconds and remainders? ... Okay, so it was a silly question ... No, I don't need a new television. What I do need is to borrow a corner ..."

* * *

"... No, definitely not the real thing, just an assortment of good fakes. Show stuff only. And not too flashy. No hundred carat stones, please. Threes and fours are fine ... Emeralds? Lovely, why not. And pearls would be nice, too. ... Uh, do you have a case I could borrow? Glass front and shelves? ... Great ..."

* * *

" ... Uh-huh ... a couple of cases with the appropriate stencils on the sides ... Oh, maybe Uzi's and a case of Glocks ... Well, whatever's convenient ... Just put bricks in them. Weight's all we need. ... Yeah? They were shooting what? ... I'll have to see that. When's the release? ... Yeah, I'll watch for it. .... What? ...Okay, why not. Does it do anything? ... Good, that would be too much ... No, I'll call you later and tell you where to deliver it. Thanks ... Huh? Sure will. Bye."

* * *

" ... need cameras and recorders, of course ... Right, with directional mikes ... No, I wouldn't mind a hand with the setup ... Sure, I'm also going to need some new taps ... Optical fiber, preferably ... Right, fully stealthed ... Not more than two weeks ... Come on, give me a break. I want to rent them, not buy them ... You want my first born as well? ... Okay, okay, its a deal ... Of course I'm not paying for it but my client isn't Saudi Arabia either ..."

* * *

It was late when I finished with my end of the arrangements. Ted had had the easy end of it - a neat stack of print-outs were sitting on the desk and he was happily committing video mayhem when I finally hung the phone up and stretched.

"You need to go see Johnny," I reminded him. "Anytime after eight or so's fine. He won't quit before midnight anyway."

"No sweat," he assured me. "You got it. Ready to leave?"

"Tired," I yawned. "Let's get out of here."

Which would have been fine except for Murphey's Law. As Ted was locking the door, the phone rang - the line Ted gave out to runaways.

"Go ahead, boss," Ted suggested. "I'll get it. See you tomorrow."

"Right. I'll be home if you need me."

I rode the elevator down and let myself out the front door. Like a lot of older downtown buildings, there was neither parking garage nor parking lot. Instead, like a lot of others, I parked in a lot a couple of blocks away. I didn't always enjoy the walk but ... the rent was cheap.

Outside, the sky was dark and cloudy but it wasn't raining - just an overcast layer which would settle during the night to become fog by morning. I turned left, headed for the lot.

On the street, when you see two guys in identical shirts and ball caps, it could be coincidence ... or they could be brothers.

Three of them and you've got to figure they're showing colors.

And that's what I was facing. The dark black and blue plaid shirts and the orange ball caps from a minor league ball team spelled gang colors - one of the smaller barrio gangs, I thought, but couldn't remember which and I didn't waste time worrying about it. I was more concerned with the chain one of them was unwrapping from his waist, the chunk of pipe the second was hefting ... and the butterfly knife the leader was swinging like a toy.

Never mind that this wasn't gang turf ... It wasn't even dark and it wasn't deserted. These goons didn't care.

My instructor - nearly two decades ago - had two rules for a situation like this. "If you're not armed and you're out numbered," he'd rap out in his drill sergeant's voice, "the smart move is to run ... as fast as you can, as far as you can. If you want to be a hero, fine. Dead's easy! Stupid's easy!

"Second, if you can't run - and be damn sure you can't - then the best thing to do is hit them first, keep hitting them and don't ever let the son of a bitches get up again. If they're down and try to get up, stomp them and keep them down. It's not the movies. Dead's easy! Stupid's easy!"

Then he'd call someone out and wipe the mat with them. The only difference was that - once you were down - he'd stomp the mat instead of your head.

This wasn't a situation where I could run. I could do a lot of things with George but marathons weren't one of them - a fast walk was my top speed, any faster and I'd simply go down. Running was out.

Which left 'second'.

I feinted left as if I was trying to go around, then swung right, weight on my good leg, and brought the cane up and forward like a rapier ... straight into the leader's throat with everything I could put behind it.

I caught him under the chin - not square enough to collapse his windpipe but slightly offside. It wasn't generosity, just bad aim and lack of practice. Still, it was enough to see the butterfly knife go flying one way and the homeboy the other - straight into the chain swinger ... which made the goon with the pipe my priority.

Retracting the cane for a two-handed grip - which gave me the choice of using it in either hand - I blocked one swing of the pipe as I felt my prosthesis collapsing ... and saw a blue-jeaned leg snapping forward - from behind the pipe bearer - taking him squarely under the armpit and sending the pipe flying out of sight.

As I collapsed, the chain missed my arm by inches while, more by luck than anything, I swung the cane with my other hand, catching the chain with the grip and pulling it free as I fell. I turned my fall into a roll - some reflexes are never forgotten - and tried to recover my feet before the trio could mount another attack. The chain tangled about the cane didn't help a bit ... and neither did treacherous George.

It was just as well that my antagonists seemed to have lost interest - I wasn't regaining my feet very quickly.

When I did get started up again, I was free to watch two of the homeboys dragging the third toward a car and ... standing to one side, watching them leave, hands on her hips ... my rescuer.

I recognized her even without the black and green Spandex and the blue plaid shirt. The long blonde hair and sidewalls were a give-away in themselves. The levis and frilled shirt were an improvement. No rollerblades either - just Nikes.

I sat there, half-crouched, and unwound the chain so I could use the cane to stand up. The butterfly knife was lying in the street a few feet away. I didn't see the pipe but it wasn't important.

"Nice moves," the girl turned. "Tae kwon do?"

I shook my head. "One part aikido, one part desperation. You?"

"Man's modest too. Kenpo karate, fifth dan. You want this?" She reached for the knife lying in the street.

"Leave it!" I barked. "Fingerprints," I added in a softer voice. "Ask for a bag in the deli."

"Whatever you say," she shrugged.

I stood over the knife, warning off traffic while the girl brought me a sandwich bag. I picked the knife up by the blade, letting the two halves of the handle swing free. "I owe you one," I turned back to my unexpected rescuer. "Is this just coincidence or were you dropping by?"

"Come cee, come sai - Ted around?"

"I left him in the office. You like to come up?"

"Maybe I should buy you a drink," she offered. "Looks like you could use one."

"Brandy's in my desk," I suggested. "You have a name?" Ted hadn't said anything about her ... and I hadn't pressed - but I still didn't have a name.

"Sorry, it's Allison. Allison Hoyt. Yeah, brandy sounds good. You move pretty good for one leg. Maybe you ought to practice though." Then she added: "Or carry some heat. Don't PIs go armed?"

"It's with the brandy," I admitted. "Normally, no, I don't but I'm serious considering making an exception." Then the cane snapped - loudly - sending me sprawling. "Son of a ..."

"You okay?" Allison extended a hand to help me up, then supported my bad side as we returned to the office.

Naturally, when the elevator arrived, there was Ted.

"Problem, Boss?"

Ted's grasp of the situation was marvelous.

Upstairs, I called the police, poured brandy and sent Ted out for a new cane ... but not precisely in that order. I also checked my .38 before slipping it in my jacket pocket. The occasion seemed to demand it.

* * *

"I came over looking for Ted," Allison explained while we waited. "Then I spotted the kid with the bomb, hanging with the three homies who jumped you. I'd have called if I'd had my phone but it's back at the office, recharging. Sorry."

"I'll stand you the fifty anyway," I offered. "But I'll have to go by an ATM first."

"Forget it," she disagreed. "This one's on me. Never did like punks. Let me find the kid again, then I'll take the cash. Kid pointed you out to them, you know? Pointed them at you, then split. I thought about following him but decided you might need a hand."

I poured her another brandy - it was the least I could do.

* * *

Since - conservatively - I knew at least half the force by sight, it was no great shock that the detective answering the call was an acquaintance ... or, maybe I should say friend.

Lieutenant Carol Waltham and I had been in the same class at the Academy and we'd kept in touch - irregularly - afterwards. I'd been a guest at her wedding and she'd visited me in the hospital, things like that. And we'd see each other around town and say hello. A loose acquaintance.

This was the first time she'd ever answered a squeal from me though.

"What's the matter, Mac," she greeted me. "You lonesome for the department or something? First I hear you've got a bomb, now what?"

I slid the knife - in the wrapper - across the desk to her. "Three homeboys," I described them. "One of them may show up in Emergency. Hit him in the throat with my cane when he tried to cut me."

"Maybe two," Allison chimed in. "Look for a couple of broken ribs, possible dislocated shoulder. I hit him pretty good in the armpit."

Carol raised an eyebrow - a favorite trick she learned as a kid, watching Star Trek.

"Carol Waltham, Allison Hoyt," I made the introductions. "Allison's a fair maiden who goes around nights rescuing knights. She also delivers bombs."

And that took more explanation.

By the time we finished - and Carol had a description of the three homeboys and the kid as well as the events of the evening - Ted had returned. On his way out, he'd picked up the pieces of the broken cane and had found an identical replacement.

I offered Carol the broken one as evidence to go with the knife.

After Carol left - promising to keep in touch - I was ready to go home. It was barely eight but all I wanted was a soak in the hottest tub of water I could stand. I hurt. My stump hurt. Hell, my prosthesis probably hurt ... but at least I couldn't feel that.

Or maybe that was the problem - I couldn't feel it.

My prosthesis was twenty-five pounds of metal and plastic ... and electronics, batteries and motors. My flesh leg ended just above the knee while George extended half-way up my thigh, like a glove surrounding the stump. In the upper section of the prosthesis, sensors read the nerve impulses in my thigh while a computer chip translated these impulses into instructions which controlled the battery-powered motors to make the knee, ankle and foot respond ... almost like a real leg.

In theory, I could have kicked a football hard enough to place-kick a goal from the 10 yard line - the other team's ten yard line ... or, with accurate aim, with enough force to move a man's gonads from his crotch to his chin.

In practice, however, aside from power-assists being banned by the NFL, the real problem was that I couldn't feel what the leg was doing. The only feedback was how the rest of my body responded ... and, if I lost my balance, all the power in the world couldn't compensate for the simple capability of feeling the tension in the tendons along the ankle and knee.

For a real leg, millions of years of evolution had perfected a feedback system which we didn't even think about ... until we'd lost it. And, while my prosthesis could almost read my mind, I couldn't read its.

Someday, maybe. In the mean time, I got around ... but I didn't dance.

I thanked Allison - again - and assured Ted that I could make it okay this time and that, no, there was no reason he should have been with me earlier.

The phone call which had delayed him had been a runaway - the same who'd made a couple of tentative calls Monday night. Ted had a meet arranged for tomorrow morning - at Washington Square, across town. Neutral territory. Some runaways were like that - they wanted to be sure they could ... run away, that is.

That was fine, I assured him. Just fine.

I reminded him as well that he need to do a job application - at Viscount. But, I added, be careful. "And that means don't take any alleyways, okay? Somebody's playing rough and I don't want you getting caught. In the mean time, take Allison out to dinner okay? On expense account. But," I added, "don't forget the pickup from Johnny, okay?"

* * *

Eight o'clock in the morning and I was still sore. And I was due at DSS for a meeting with the executive staff.

I pulled on pressed slacks and a fresh shirt, deciding against a tie. Since I was going in as a maverick consultant, there was no need to bow to the dictates of corporate culture. The best approach was going to be to get somebody off guard - so I might as well start by giving them something to focus on ... like an open shirt and sports coat approach.

* * *

DSS's corporate offices occupied the first of two floors in a sprawling, glass-sided office building overlooking Buena Vista Park. The building was surrounded by an apron of carefully manicured grass, boxwood shrubbery trimmed to precise ninety degree angles and a parking lot where the four rows of painted slots were broken by ivy-filled planter strips punctuated by carefully tended, trimmed and uniformly sized trees.

The parking lot was half-full ... or half-empty, depending on which view seemed more appropriately optimistic.

In brief, it was a typical upscale corporate office building.

I had idle visions of Dun and Bradstreet sending out investigation teams to measure the amount of glass, catalog the shrubbery and trees and evaluate the esthetics of the view from the CEO's office before assigning a corporate credit rating.

The question of shaking things up, however, had become a moot point. The presence among the Cameros, Falcons, Towncars, BMWs and two Porche convertibles of a selection of black-and-whites ... as well as a couple of unmarked - but identifiable by their license plates - official vehicles suggested that the SFPD had beat me to it.

If my imagined D&B snoops saw these, DSS's corporate rating would probably evaporate like the snowcaps on the peaks of the TransAmerica Tower.

Inside, at the reception desk - more glass, polished granite, blonde oak panels and inoffensive carpeting - I introduced myself and offered my card. "Ms Zappa is expecting me," I suggested.

Through a half-opened door to the boardroom adjoining reception, I spotted Detectives Chaplain and Shaw - both from homicide.

"I'm sorry, Mr. MacPherson," the receptionist apologized. "But one of our employees was shot last night. A drive-by shooting, they say. Out at the Bay View Mall. It's just not safe anywhere any more."

I raised an eyebrow - inviting further confidences - but the receptionist was either well trained at keeping corporate matters private or - more likely - didn't really know anything more.

I took a seat next to the half-opened door and thumbed through a copy of Security World while waiting for Ms Zappa.

Unfortunately, both Chaplain and Shaw were at the farther end of the adjoining board room and were conducting their discussion in low-pitched voices. What little I could overhear was fragmentary and uninformative.

I was considering interrupting the discussion - just to say hello, of course - when Ms Zappa appeared

* * *

In her office - with the door closed - Mrs. Zappa confirmed what I'd heard from the receptionist ... but had very little to offer which I hadn't heard already. The only discretion involved was the police department's - whatever and however much they knew, they weren't telling anyone.

"It was Jeffrey Carlton," Mrs. Zappa explained. "He'd been with DSS for ten years. Everyone knew him. People are kind of shook up."

"The receptionist said something about a drive-by shooting. I thought Bay View was a pretty quiet area."

"I don't know," she admitted. "Mr. MacPherson - I'm worried. Jeff was a good employee. If he stumbled on something ..."

"Is Bay View one of the problem locations?"

She nodded.

I didn't tell her that the amounts just weren't worth murder - people have killed for nothing. And it looked like the stakes were a lot more than appeared on the surface.

We circled around the shooting for ten - fifteen minutes without really getting anywhere. Possibly because there really wasn't anywhere to get to.

"I have talked to two of the Board members," Mrs. Zappa offered. "We've discussed offering a reward. Ten thousand for information leading to the arrest and conviction. Suggestions?"

I thought about it for a moment before answering. "Probably won't do any real good," I decided. "But it can't do any harm either. On the other hand," I continued, "it could help morale within the company and, from our viewpoint, it would be good subterfuge."

"How? What do you mean?"

"It wouldn't hurt," I explained, "to have the heavies thinking that everyone's looking for a street gang. Misdirection's always useful."

"It isn't for show, Mr. MacPherson," Mrs. Zappa's voice had the finality of a granite block sliding into position - a very large and heavy one. "Who ever did this, I want them caught and punished. Whatever else happens, that is your number one priority."

"Number two," I disagreed. "Number one is preventing anyone else from getting hurt. Jumping from theft to murder is a pretty serious step. But, once they've gone that far, a second killing becomes easy."

"Agreed," her response was only slightly softer - sandstone instead of granite, maybe. "I won't tell you how to do your job."

We were interrupted by a tap at the door.

"Just a moment," Mrs. Zappa raised her voice, then dropped it again. "I'd better let you get on with things. Oh, I have copies of the personnel folders you asked for. All executive officers, department heads and board members." She produced a thick envelope from her desk before adding: "I made these copies myself. Early this morning. Nobody else knows about them. You didn't ask but you'll find mine here as well."

I nodded, slipping the manila envelope into my attaché case. I didn't mention the fact that I already had Ted's TRW reports on each of them - including Mrs. Zappa - and that I had three "homeless" assistants at the library and both major newspapers digging for additional background. Or that I'd already done a fairly complete background check - in public records, mostly - on both DSS and DSS's CEO.

* * *

The meeting with the DSS executives went about like I expected ... with the single dictum that I didn't need to stir things up to get started. The shooting - and the police - had done that.

Instead, while the police were busy with various staff members, Mrs. Zappa gathered the department heads in the board room where I introduced myself, explaining that I was an industrial security consultant and that I was here at DSS to do an independent review of their hiring practices, of their employee oversight practices, of their security review measures ... and, in short, that I'd be snooping into all phases of their operation.

If there were any guilty consciences in the board room, I was sure I'd pricked them. What I hadn't told them was what I was actually looking for.

The way I'd left it, I was going to be looking at all kinds of paper work ... and that was one place I was pretty sure they - whoever they were - had covered themselves.

What I was really doing here was putting myself in position to look for something else entirely ...

Of course, I was also making myself a target ... and these people, as last night's events evidenced, had a habit of coming out shooting ...

But, no, I didn't think there was any connection between the shooting and either the bomb or last night's homeboys. Both attacks directed at me had been pretty amateurish, almost comical if they hadn't been so violent.

The drive-by shooting had also been violent ... but amateurish? Somehow, it didn't strike me likely.

No, these were two different matters entirely.

* * *

I spent the rest of the morning meeting with individuals, discussing what I'd be talking to them about later.

I started with Mich Jorgenson - Personnel Training.

Jorgenson was a middle-aged middle manager. His TRW report showed a seven-year-old morgage - in the mid six figures - leases for two vehicles, one three years old and about to expire, the second newer - a Camero coupe. The credit report didn't list the color. He also had a half-dozen credit cards with limits ranging from two to five thousand, moderate to high balances but a regular payment history. Financially, he was Joe Average Successful. Nothing sensational, fairly heavily in debt but nothing remarkable.

In Jorgenson's office, I started by telling him I'd be wanting an overview of their training methods and outlining - briefly - a proposed training program which would include everything from methods for apprehending shop-lifters to how to handle medical emergencies and lost children. I also made sure that Mr. Jorgenson saw the program not as an encroachment on his department but as a request for his participation and - understanding executives - a chance for him to expand his personal empire. If you want a dog to roll over, it helps to start by throwing him a bone.

When we parted, Jorgenson was doing everything except wagging his tail.

My second call was Martha Simes, in charge of Accounting.

Simes was an MBA, divorced, early forties and this was her third corporation in ten years - definitely an upwardly mobile executive. Her TRW showed a new mortgage - less than a year old - in one of San Francisco's newly gentrified yuppie enclaves. Her credit cards included Discover, Visa, Master Card and American Express ... all with high credit limits but fairly restrained balances. Definitely a lady who watched her expenses.

No automotive loans appeared in her credit history - either she preferred public transportation or paid cash - the latter was more likely.

With Ms Simes, I was apologetic and unctuously polite, explaining that I would need salary and benefit breakdowns - all anonymous, of course - simply for comparison against industry standards and local cost of living, etc. And that I would be most grateful for any suggestions which might help attract and retain employees, etc. I was so apologetic for causing her additional work and all and so grateful for her time that I could hardly stand myself.

I also kept it short.

My third was Personnel where I met Thea Chen to discuss hiring practices.

Ms Chen's credit history showed both a first and second morgage on a Broadmoor address. The second morgage was recent ... and heavy.

Likewise her credit cards - all had medium to high balances and a couple of late payments. Nothing serious but it suggested she'd needed money recently - a considerable amount.

Ms Chen was ex-SFPD. I vaguely remembered her and - also vaguely - some scandal concerning her resignation. I didn't mention either but stuck to my script, suggesting that - later, at a better time - I'd like to review recruiting practices and to get her views on scheduling, assignments and how people felt about shift rotation practices. I hinted that this was largely pro forma because my main concerns were with training.

Fourth was Tami Anderson in Marketing. Tami was married, late thirties and limited her credit cards to two: a Visa card and an American Express card - both gold and high credit limits but the balances were paid regularly. She also showed three mortgages in different parts of the city. Looked like real estate speculation. All three mortgages had heavy payments but were up to date with only a couple of lates.

This time I talked about how improved training could make it easier to market DSS's services, mentioned niche market positioning, changing roles of security services, gave a nod to the growing - and glamorous - personal security services market and left the marketing department basking in glowing dreams of new advertising campaigns, new slogans, new glossy brochures and all the hype so loved by marketing executives - and would-be marketing executives - the world over.

By this time, I'd annoyed, bored or mollified almost everyone and it was time for lunch and time to leave. This had only been a preliminary meeting - a brief, get acquainted session and the real work - as I'd explained repeatedly - would be over a longer period in the future.

I'd also spoken with and been introduced to the entire executive staff, most of their secretaries and a large portion of the working staff ... and, if you hadn't guessed, I had all of them on tape.

It's wonderful what you can do with modern electronics - particularly when you don't need a warrant and a judge's permission. After all, none of this was going to be used in court.

Of course, it also meant that Ted would be spending a lot of time with a XXXXXXX voice stress analysis system, transcribing the tapes and noting who had jumped at what ... but that was why I'd trained him on it in the first place. What else are assistant's for if not to keep the boss from having to bore himself to death?

I suppose that one of these days, we'll have a computer and voice recognition software that can do all of this for us, making the transcription and doing the analysis without anyone being stuck with the boring part of the job. But, when we got to that point, I figured there'd be something else for Ted to handle ... assuming I hadn't retired by then, leaving Ted to find jobs for his assistant.

* * *

Before returning to the office, I dropped by the station to buy Chaplain a cup of coffee ... and to get the low down on the shooting the night before.

"You here for protection, Mac?" Chaplain cracked. "Hear you've been mixing things up lately."

"That's right," I agreed. "I though you might like to moonlight as my stand-in."

"Cute. What were you doing out at DSS this morning? You did a pretty good job of ducking us - any reason?"

"Business, Tom - I'm a security consultant, remember. I'm on contract with DSS to review some of their practices."

"Nothing to do with the Bay View Mall shooting?"

"Not that I know about," I skirted the truth. "It was a total surprise when I arrived this morning."

"So you rushed down here to pump me?"

"I'm curious, of course. What happened anyway?"

"Somebody sprayed the east side of the Bay View Macy's with an automatic. Security guard got in the way. Open and shut ... except, of course, that it isn't shut since we don't have any leads."

"Round up the usual suspects?" I quoted the line from Casablanca.

"Don't I wish," Tom shook his head ruefully. "The Bay Side's never been gang turf - too upscale. This kind of thing doesn't fit."

"No," I agreed. "It doesn't. But there's something else, too."

Tom looked at me with a sideways glance. "Yeah? What?"

"That's what I'm hoping you'll share," I suggested. "Since I'll be around DSS, I might stumble over something ... If I knew what to watch for."

"And just what makes you think there is something?"

"You ... and Shaw and at least two uniforms crawling all over the place? For a drive-by shooting? Come on, don't kid me. Maybe I'm not on the force but I didn't turn in my brains along with my badge."

"You didn't hear it from me, okay?"

"I didn't hear it from anyone," I agreed. "If you'll just remind me what it was I didn't hear."

"You didn't hear anything about powder burns on the body, that satisfy you?"

"It's a start," I agreed. "How close?"

"Like I said," Tom gestured with his hands six to eight inches apart, "you didn't hear anything."

"Good enough," I agreed. "And if I don't stumble over anything, I'll give you a call. By the way?"

"Yeah?"

"Is the caliber public?"

"Try nine millimeter - pretty common."

"Empties?"

"None. Very neat for a gang hit."

"Thanks," I blinked. No empty shell casings? From an automatic? Homeboys weren't noted for avoiding littering. "I'll drop a nickel if I come across anything."

"You do that," Tom agreed. "And watch out, okay?"

"I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," Tom growled. "But I've already got too big a work load. What I ought to do is go private ... then I could relax occasionally."

"Right ..."

* * *

As long as I was at the station, I hunted for Tom Baker - who was out to lunch ... which reminded me I hadn't eaten in a while.

I left my list of potential employees for DSS - together with a note - and head back to my own office. I had jobs to do ... and a few things to think about.

When I'd been recruiting - yesterday - I'd said the risks were small.

Now it didn't look that way ...

Which meant another briefing ...

I wondered how many of my irregulars would back out ...