The bust on Viscount Services was almost a textbook case. Only five people were present - two were the women Herb and I had watched entering and exiting Magic Carpets, one - a man - identified himself as the shift manager while the remaining two - a man and woman team - had just returned from cleaning an accounting firm.

The fact that the younger kid I had met on my first visit - the one who had sent the bomb, who had been behind my attack by the homies and who had knifed Ted - was not in evidence was a minor disappointment. The odds were that he'd also torched my old offices but that was minor and, considering our new location, had almost been a kindness. As for his absence, I figured he'd turn up but, attacks aside, he was small potatoes and didn't really rate any heavy worry.

Lieutenant Holloway was mollifying the shift manager and reassuring the returning workers when Sergeant Cleaver called to report a fix on the location of the cellular phone ... a boarded-up storefront in a mediocre commercial district just west of 19th.

Understandably, Herb was torn between wanting to cover the second bust and needing to stay where we were to maintain the chain of evidence. The warrants issued by an understanding judge had been comprehensive enough to include "... such other locations as the chain of evidence may show to be directly implicated under the doctrine of hot pursuit ..." - the rest being legal verbiage and amplification.

Granted, in this electronic age, 'hot pursuit' had taken on something of a new meaning and the fact that the link was a recording of a telephone call with the location traced electronically rather than directly was still within the meaning of the act.

In the end, duty won over desire and Herb gave the orders - by radio - to bust the storefront.

The evidence at the Viscount location was important since this was where the stolen data was recovered and the perpetrators captured. But half of a conspiracy was only half of a case.

A second report, not more than a few minutes later, revealed that the storefront across town - in addition to the actual phone providing the link - had also yielded boxes of thousands of blank credit cards, a half-dozen imprinting and encoding machines and hundreds of already imprinted cards ... as well as the Sun workstation set up and waiting to decrypt the intercepted data transmissions.

The half-dozen automatic rifles, assorted handguns and three kilos of coke were minor by comparison.

Particularly after the search teams turned up evidence linking the operations to mid-eastern militant radicals ...

Not that the link was difficult to discover - since the FBI already had the entire operation under surveillance while the Treasury Department had infiltrated one undercover agent ... who was present when the raid went down ...

Which was also when all bureaucratic hell broke loose ...

I wasn't really sorry that I missed out on the fun - I'd been through a few of these jurisdictional squabbles before and felt no nostalgia at all. Even absent - physically - I was aware both by radio and experience of what was happening.

The first thunderclap was a third call from Sergeant Cleaver, this time to tell Horrible that one of the 'suspects' - a euphemism for 'not yet convicted' - from the card printer operation was claiming to be a Secret Service agent.

Herb's response was both emphatic ... and physically impossible as well as highly improbable. Scatology aside, the gist of his instructions were to keep the 'unprintable' in custody but separate from the rest of the prisoners - that he, Herb, would deal with the matter at the station but, in the mean time, to keep the 'doubly-censored' in complete isolation.

The additional suggestions concerning the fate of Sergeant Cleaver if the instructions were not followed faithfully were simply a measure of how strongly Holloway felt about 'intra-agency cooperation' ... or, more accurately, the lack there of.

"Hot dogging federal glory hounds," he remarked after slipping the radio back in his pocket, "think they can waltz in anywhere they want without so much as saying hello to the locals ..."

Of course, Herb was preaching to the choir as they say but I let him ramble anyway ... As Mark Twain is reported to have said: "When mad, count to ten, then cuss. When very mad, cuss ... It's relieving to the feelings."

Herb was beginning to run down and sound like his normal, easy-going self when the fourth call came - this time to warn him that Special Agents (i.e. FBI) Christian and Mackelvey were on site and were claiming custody. And, according to the warning, another Special Agent was already enroute to the Viscount warehouse, demanding custody of the seized computer disks.

This time, Herb didn't say anything.

For a moment, neither did I ... Sometimes, even invective isn't enough.

Finally, "Pity I haven't seen your new offices," Herb offered. "Don't guess your phone and address are listed yet, are they?"

"Pity," I agreed with studiously casual demeanor. "But, things have been a little busy lately."

"I suppose you could use a lift," Herb suggested.

"I'd appreciate it," I admitted.

"And you'll call me tomorrow?"

"Naturally. I suppose you'll be needing a formal statement?"

"No real rush," Herb considered calmly. "Any time in the next day or two should do it."

The fact that we were both being so super-cool was a measure both of our shared trust and our mutual and separate previous experiences with various federal agencies.

Having extricated himself from the Chinatown traffic, Officer Milton - Terry - was available for taxi-service and the trip back to the TrenData building was as uneventful as our original tail job had been.

* * *

From my personal viewpoint - as a private citizen rather than a police officer - the problem with the feds sticking their noses into things was that federal fingers could get very sticky ... as in anything they thought could or might be evidence in a federal case. And, potentially, that could include the surveillance equipment I had installed in Magic Carpets.

The only real evidentiary value lay in the video tape - although even that was not essential considering the mass of other evidence - but, knowing Federal habits, I wasn't particularly interested in having either Federal agency seize the cameras, the additions to the alarm system or the VCR itself.

Sure, I'd get the equipment back eventually ... eventually meaning anywhere from two to five years ...

For that matter, I wouldn't put it past the Feds to try to make Magic Carpets a crime scene with the equipment in place - an inconvenience which I felt like I owed Mr. Parajan the courtesy of preventing.

Under the circumstances, if I was more interested in removing my personal equipment and turning the evidentiary tape - after making a couple of copies - over to Herb, my immediate problem was how to gain 'legal' access to the building ... preferably with a competent witness in attendance.

The truth of the matter was that it wasn't just a question of having expensive equipment out of service in Federal custody. There was also my own personal antipathy toward Federal attitudes and their habits of ignoring the participation of both local agencies and private individuals involved in the solution to important cases. Or, if you'd like it in simpler terms, too many Feds try to be glory hogs taking all the credit to themselves.

Sure, I was expecting to make a very pretty penny from my participation in this job ... but I was also expecting the publicity to add up to a very nice piece of advertising which would affect my future income. And I figured that Herb deserved a chuck of the credit as well. There was certainly enough to go around ... and I had no personal objections to letting the Feds have a slice of the pie - I only objected to them taking to whole pie for themselves.

But, as long as the chain of evidence ran from The Homeless Detective Agency to Lieutenant Holloway of the San Francisco Police Department and then to whichever of the Federal agencies won their interjurisdictional dispute, it was going to be pretty difficult to make this a Federal-only case.

I regretted the imposition of waking Mr. Parajan up at four A. M. but his reaction was far more curiosity than annoyance.

"For burglars," he informed me in his clipped Indian accent, "it is maybe an annoyance. But I am an old man and do not need much sleep. You will tell me all about this, yes? I will be coming most quickly."

Mr. Parajan's arrival was as good as his word. Or better, actually, since he arrived with a thermos filled with a hot, smoky, milky tea and a small bag filled with fruit cookies.

I hadn't realized how long it had been since dinner ... or anything else ... but the tea - 'chai' as Mr. Parajan called it - and cookies were perfect.

Upstairs at Magic Carpets - while I alternated between removing equipment and munching cookies - I offered an outline of the events of the past few weeks and then recapped to fill in some of the gaps. "Of course," I concluded as I hefted the gym bag holding the recorder, camera and my additions to the alarm system, "you'll be getting some publicity out of this - probably more than you'll like. But, when things quiets down, I think that TrenData would like to pay for a new security system for your building. And," I added, "I'll be happy to provide some recommendations - no charge.

"As for the equipment on your roof," I resumed on another thread, slinging the bag over my shoulder and leaning on the cane, "I imagine that the police will be sending someone over for it tomorrow ... well, later today." If the Feds didn't get into the act, that was.

"I am most happy to cooperate," Mr. Parajan agreed, holding the door for me to exit. "It is no problem ..."

He was interrupted by an inarticulate cry from the darkness outside.

The light through the door gave me a glimpse of my van - which I'd parked for easy loading - and of the rear tire which had been slashed repeatedly - far more that required either to deflate or to ruin it.

At the same instant, I realized that something - someone - was hurtling toward me through the door. My reaction was more automatic than anything I could take credit for - if it had been a reasoned reaction, I certainly would have chosen an alternative.

Instead, sheer reflex brought the cane up to ward off my attacker while sheer luck - good or bad - caught the hurtling figure square in the pit of his stomach.

Or, perhaps, that was the good side of a two-sided coin ... because the other end of the cane - transmitting the impact of his speed - forced my arm back and sending me in a twisting tumble backwards ... to have my fall broken partially by the equipment in my slung gym bag and partially by collapsing on my side on the floor.

To say that it hurt like hell would be a misnomer since I had no evidence for comparison nor even any evidence that such a local exists but it certainly did hurt and it wasn't minor. But, even as I fell backwards, I realized that my attacker's momentum - with the cane as a pivoting lever - had carried him upwards and over me to a crashing collision somewhere inside.

Adrenaline flooded my veins, heightening every sense and lighting the dimly illuminated shipping dock with a surreal clarity. To one side, I could see Mr. Parajan staggering against the gate enclosing the freight lift. Somewhere behind me I could sense if not see the movements of my attacker ... and behind me was where my attention was focused.

I rolled away from the gym bag which, stubbornly, refused to release itself from my shoulder and fought first to get myself turned around to face the immediate danger. The gym bag's straps finally released their grip and the smooth floor - linoleum tiles rather than carpet, regularly cleaned and polished by my custodial friends - allowed me to swivel clumsily until my back was against the wall next to the door.

I was still holding my cane but my hand felt awkward, slow to respond and far less efficient than circumstance demanded.

I didn't have time to see what was wrong. Across from me, against the opposite wall, I could see the quarry missing from the night's earlier catch ... or, at any rate, a kid who matched the description - and the behavior - of the multiple recent attacks. The fact that he appeared dazed from his impact - although not as much as might be expected - was no reassurance since, dazed or not, he was already trying to scramble across the floor toward me.

In the adrenaline-induced clarity of the moment, I could see a shard of bone poking though a rip in his jeans - a compound fracture which should have been disabling but wasn't. Not the way he was trying to stand up using it.

That probably meant speed or angel dust or ecstasy - or something similar. There were a host of 'recreational' drugs which exhibited similar characteristics - including complete oblivion to pain, maniacal strength and a manic paranoia which could drive the perp to insane lengths of virtually superhuman performance ... if it didn't kill them sooner rather than later.

The only difference the broken leg made was that he couldn't stand ... physically, the leg simply wouldn't support him.

But it wasn't stopping him.

Even without a broken leg as a handicap, adrenaline was running a poor second.

I couldn't get a proper grip on the cane to force myself upright. My hand seemed to keep slipping, my back and side hurt and George seemed to be twisted out of place.

Having George twisted wasn't an unknown calamity. It didn't happen easily but it could happen and, normally, could easily - almost automatically - be set right in an instant. Except for now ... when I couldn't seem to control anything ... and didn't have time to figure out the problem.

Except that I knew the problem - with George out of alignment, the mycoelectronic pickups were also out of alignment ... which meant that the nerves in my stump couldn't sent the right signals ... and the perp wasn't laboring under the same obstacles.

He also wasn't paying any attention to the obstacles he was laboring under.

Which meant that he was making a lot more progress than I was.

He also had a knife.

I couldn't see enough of it to tell if it was the same kind that had jammed in the ribs below Ted's shoulder. It didn't matter. The four or five inches of double-edged blade protruding below the kid's fist were threat enough - the details could wait.

He was carrying the knife in a fool's grip - pointed down, like you see in too many bad slasher movies - not that there are any good slasher movies - but it was still a fool's grip ... except that even a fool can be deadly.

I should have been able to stop him - even seated - using the cane. Or the gun in my pocket, for that matter ... except that I was having trouble thinking of details like that just as I was having trouble gripping the cane.

I probably wouldn't have handled the gun any better.

When he raised the knife, I was trying to hit him in the temple. Done right, it can paralyze ... or it can kill. Under the circumstances, I didn't really care which.

What I did care about was that the cane went slithering out of my hand and flying wildly across the room. It also sent drops of blood flying and a screaming pain cutting through the adrenaline high.

At the same time, the perp's knife came slamming down, penetrating my leg just below the knee.

I didn't feel a thing - like I said, a prosthesis has no feeling.

But the leg - George - reacted anyway. Like an outraged spirtitus et machia.

Displaced or not, George was still attached and the movement - a kick - was strong enough to send a football into low Earth orbit ... and the reaction - against my stump and from there through my hips, spine and ribs - produced a second screaming pain.

And a third when the final jarring impact occurred ... when George connected with the perp's chin, angling in from the side and making a sharp cracking sound - the kind which, once you've heard it, is unmistakable.

The perp dropped like a slab of dead meat ... which was not an analogy but an accurate and precise description.

Even if I could have, I wouldn't have needed to feel for a pulse to see if the kid was dead - heads just don't roll back over the shoulder that way as long as they're still attached and still in proper working order.

Besides, he was out of reach. The kick had not only snapped his neck and tried to separate his head from his shoulders, it had also rolled - or tossed - him several feet away.

The reaction had spilled me from my half-sitting position back to lying on my side, sprawled against the wall. The knife - now I could see the pierced handle of a cheap butterfly blade - was still protruding from my leg ... from George, that is.

It was also smoking ...

But only for a moment before the flames appeared.

A new wave of adrenaline pushed the pain away.

My right hand - the thumb - was smashed and bleeding. Where it had hit the floor - with the cane behind it - and the kid's weight behind that.

I tried to grab the knife with my left hand. It was already hot.

I used my good hand to scrabble at my belt buckle, ripping my pants in my haste. Didn't matter, they were ruined anyway. But I had to get them off to get free of George.

I could feel the heat through the stump of my leg - or thought I could ... it amounted to the same thing - and the only important thing in my mind was to get it off.

* * *

I'd have killed the son-of-a-bitch if I could have ... if George hadn't already killed him ...

I wanted to stomp on the sob ... except George was lying there on the ground smoking ... ruined ... It wasn't that the stupid cabron had burned my offices ... or attacked me ... or stabbed Ted ... It was he'd killed George.

It was like losing my partner - my leg - all over again ... It was losing my leg all over again ... and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it ... except tell the misbegotten son of a corpse exactly what I thought of his ancestry for the past several generations, his prospects for future offspring and ... he was dead anyway so it didn't matter.

It just damned well didn't matter.

Like hell it didn't!

* * *

I didn't know if it was black-out or fugue or what but there was a discontinuity.

Then I found I was sitting against the wall. My pants were off, ripped. My prosthetic leg was lying on the floor ... half-shrouded with a white powdered dust. An extinguisher lay next to it.

Mr. Parajan was kneeling next to me, holding the thermos cup filled with spicy, milky tea.

I wasn't sure if I was laughing or crying ...

Both, maybe.

Laughing from sheer relief? Crying over the loss of George? Or just reaction? Shock?

The tea helped.

Brandy would have helped more.

"Your leg," Mr. Parajan gestured. "This is most unusual. There is a story - a myth - something like this. But I do not think is supernatural, yes? I use fire extinguisher. I am an old man, I have seen many things I do not understand. But never have I seen a leg burn.

"The man ... the boy ... he is dead," Mr. Parajan started to stand up. "I will call police, yes? And an ambulance for you."

The police? Yeah, we needed the police. The formalities had to be satisified.

"The police, yes," I blinked, then added. "Tell them to radio Lieutenant Holloway. Have him call me," I fumbled for the cellular phone with my good hand, awkwardly flipping it open. The display and idiot light came on. I guessed it should be working. I gave Mr. Parajan the number.

Looking at my right hand, I added, "Yeah, call the ambulance too."

Mr. Parajan nodded, placed the thermos on the floor, carefully avoiding the powder left by the extinguisher, then reached for the wall phone mounted above the clerk's desk next to the freight elevator.

While he was dialing 9-1-1, I placed the cell phone on the floor and used my left hand - awkwardly - to punch out Ted's home number, hoping he was there.

It took a minute before Ted answered.

It took another minute for him to wake up enough to understand. That was okay, I needed a minute to get my mind working as well.

"You want a pair of pants and your wheelchair," he finally repeated. "And you're over at Magic Carpets?"

"That's right," I agreed. "But come by here first - and move fast. A few things here that need to taken away for safe keeping." Meaning everything except the tape itself. That I'd hang on to. To simplify the chain of evidence. The tape I meant to hand to Herb in person.

I was fumbling for the tea when the cell phone buzzed at me.

It was Herb, calling me from the station.

"I thought you'd be catching some zzz's by now," he suggested. "Your message said urgent? Something happen?"

I filled him in as concisely as I could, hitting the important points but leaving the details for another time. "Can you get away?" I concluded. "It would be better."

"With or without company?" was Herb's only question.

"Without if you can." Meaning ditch the federals if he could. That was why I'd given him the cellular number ... aside from the fact that I'd have had trouble reaching the regular phone on the wall. Cellulars were harder to trace ... or to locate, anyway.

I preferred not having the feds involved right now. I had enough pains at the moment - I didn't need another in my posterior.

"I'll be there," Herb assured me. "I need some fresh air anyway."

* * *

The first arrivals - reassuringly - were the paramedics and a patrol car.

It was quite a scene.

One of the officers was rookie. The kid on the floor - I guessed - was her first stiff. At any rate, the youngster - an attractive chicano chica - took one look at the sprawled corpse then made a dash for the alley with a hand over her mouth.

Her partner, also chicano but older, looked at the stiff, looked at George, picked up the extinguisher, looked over the paramedic's shoulder where they were working on my hand, stood, shook her head and finally offered, "And it's not even a full moon." She paused a moment, then asked, "MacPherson, right?"

I nodded.

"Yeah, I've heard stories. But this one's going to take the cake. Hey, leave it alone, buster," she interrupted the second paramedic who had started to reach for George. "That's evidence," she instructed, then paused. "At least ..."

"It's evidence," I agreed. "You'll want to dust it. The knife, I mean. The leg I want back. Maybe it can be repaired."

"You're going to send it to a body shop, right?" The paramedic moved around to the other side. "Forget it, buddy. A replacement, yes, but this one's a melted mess."

I didn't protest.

I didn't even try to explain. It just wasn't worth it.

You can't just go down to your local hardware store and say to the clerk: "Hey, I need a new prosthetic leg ..." A leg's a custom job. It has to be made to fit. And then you have to learn to use it. And it has to learn to respond to you. And ... it's personal ... it's like a part of you ... it is a part of you ... intimately.

But it just wasn't something you could explain to someone ... not unless they'd been there ... and then you didn't have to explain.

Besides, I was expecting a few more guests and there were going to be explanations enough without repeating them ... and without trying to explain something that they wouldn't really understand anyway.

I'd talk about it later ... with people who would know what I was talking about ...

For now, I sipped the tea ... keeping my grief private.

* * *

Ted's arrival beat Herb's but only by a narrow margin.

And Herb was followed by a team from Homicide.

The party was getting interesting.

With Herb's support - i.e., keeping the Homicide team from interfering - Ted extracted the video recorder from the gym bag far enough that I could eject the tape. If any of the equipment was damaged, we could find that out later.

"Now," I directed, "if you'll pick up some pants and the chair for me, I'd appreciate it. We'll check the gear out tomorrow - at the office."

Ted took the hint and slipped out, carrying the bag with him. With Herb on hand and agreeing by default, Homicide didn't offer any objections.

"Mr. Parajan?" I asked. "If you would witness a moment? Lieutenant Herbert Holloway," I held out the video tape, "I am handing you a video tape containing recordings of events occuring at ..." - I added the address and approximate dates before concluding - "Having supervised the installation and use of the surveillance equipment with the knowledge and acquiescence of Mr. Raja Parajan who is the owner of the property in question, I further state that this recording has not been tampered with or altered in any respect."

"Accepted," Herb took the video cassette with a grin, adding the usual formula and concluding with "accepted in to my custody at this time." Then he paused and grinned even wider before adding, "Signed, sealed and delivered. And I owe you."

"Now can we talk about the body?" the homicide detective asked plaintively. Obviously, there were several other things he'd like to have asked ...

* * *

By the time explanations were finished, the paramedics had finished splinting my thumb ... and strapping my ribs - two were cracked and half my side was turning into polychromatic surrealism.

I turned down the offer - well, it was stronger than that - to take me to the hospital. X-rays weren't going to tell me anything I didn't already know.

Of course, they'd loaded the kid in a body bag - he was in no position to argue about where he was going ... for that matter, I sincerely hoped he was already there.

And they were arguing with the homicide boys about whether George rated a body bag or an evidence bag.

I stayed out of that one. It was pointless anyway.

Either my disability benefits or my insurance would pay for a replacement - I'd let their respective attorneys and agents fight over which one. My more immediate concern was going to be getting the replacement constructed and fitted ... and what the hell was I going to use in the mean time. Being stuck in my chair just wasn't my idea of fun.

But at least Ted had returned with a pair of slacks and my chair ... and a clip to hold the folded, empty pants leg. The slacks didn't exactly match my present outfit - they were clean and neatly pressed and looked so out of place I'd've laughed if it hadn't hurt so much.

Ted'd also called a garage to arrange for new tires for my van - which, temporarily, was sitting on jack-stands while they took the wheels in to the shop.

And two set of Feds had appeared. They didn't give a rat's whisker about the body but they were definitely concerned with the tape ... and more than concerned with the absence of the recording equipment.

I supposed they could have split it in two, Solomon-fashion. As it was, I was just as glad Ted had gotten it away with the rest of the equipment.

Listening to the two agency reps was like watching a mirror argue with itself. They both demanded jurisdiction, threaten legal action against each other and promised dire consequence to me, to Herb and to the San Francisco Police Department, both severally and individually.

Herb's response was simple. He stood silent, arms folded, leaning against the wall. The video cassette was tucked under his belt in back, under his grubby jacket ... right next to his .38. The message was simple. Simple enough for even the agency boys to understand.

Neither of them tried anything overt ... but they did argue ... at length.

When the agency boys finally ran down, Herb grinned and made them an offer. "In the spirit of interagency cooperation," Herb tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, "what we will agree to do is to go back to the station and make copies for each of you. Which I will be happy to certify are true and complete duplicates of the original - made in your presence. This tape, however," his grin couldn't get any larger but it tried, "is evidence in and for the City of San Francisco and will remain in the custody of the San Francisco Police Department.

"Capesh?" Herb wasn't smiling at all when he concluded.

Bluster aside, there really wasn't much either of the agency boys could do about it.

Grudgingly, they agreed.