Outside it was fog ... and rain. A dull drizzle hardly deserving of the name, almost a mist.

I poked through the ashes in the fireplace trying to decide whether last night's fire was dead enough to empty, using the fireplace shovel to turn the gray powdery mass. It wasn't - there were live coals under the ash.

Considering the weather, I fetched fresh kindling and, quickly enough, had a new fire built.

I sat on the hearth rug, watching the flames lick the logs, enjoying the feathery flicker as much as the warmth. Fire, the warmth of the hearth holding the night at bay, dispelling the gloom and damp ...

Last night, the ending for The Sucker Game had been developing rather well ...

But, at the same time, I realized, I was going to have to find time to fly down to Phoenix. I had the plot - but I needed the details ...the flavor of the desert surrounding the city ... the taste and smells of the city itself. It wasn't something that could be faked - I needed to be there, to walk the streets, to listen to the people, to drive through the arroyos - to see the place.

But not right now. Not today. In a week or so, maybe ... after other matters were wrapped up.

That was part of what was wrong with the version Barbara had handed me - the last five chapters just weren't real ...They were something someone had made up. Someone who hadn't been there.

I was almost certain that somebody was Toland. Who else could it have been. Que bono? Who benefits?

Yesterday, I'd put on a performance - a man with a handicap, a man with no memory, a man who ... Well, the character had been pretty badly off.

And Toland had been ... concerned, generous, helpful, supportive ...

Maybe Toland should have tried a movie or stage career. He'd been awfully convincing ... except for those few false notes in our conversation ... and the bogus five chapters in the manuscript. And the slip about the twenty-five caliber slug?

That was the one Dan had spotted. And it had been rather a clinker.

Almost enough for a conviction ...

Not a conviction in court, perhaps, but enough for my own conviction ... and that was the only court - at the moment - where a trial was going to be held. Granted, Dan and the Captain had come to the same conclusion but I wasn't depending on concurrence to support my decision.

Additional proof - supporting evidence - would be forthcoming tomorrow ... or, if I was wrong, it would be exonerating evidence. Act in haste, repent at leisure?

No, I wasn't planning any haste ...

Tomorrow, if I was wrong ... well, then, I'd be wrong. And it would be time enough to consider the question again.

In many ways I wished I would discover I was wrong. Part of me wanted this to all be a mistake - for there to be a reasonable explanation for everything. Except that I really didn't expect to find there was any error.

The real question was ... what to do about it.

I wasn't looking for a legal solution. As we'd discussed, a legal solution was very unlikely. No evidence that could be presented in court. Even the Captain's tape - had it been admissible - wouldn't have proven anything.

Instead, I was looking for a moral solution. A moral 'lex talonis', not a literal one.

The solution I wanted was a poetic solution - something that Gregory Thorne would have approved of. A resolution that encapsulated all the elements necessary to satisfy both the poetic and the moral imperatives ... and the realistic, if not legalistic, imperatives.

Punishment? Yes, that was one of the elements - Toland had killed. Deliberately and with malice aforethought. The act deserved retribution.

But there was also the social imperative - that a dangerous element should be removed from society for the protection of society. That was, after all, the real point behind exercising the death penalty. Except, for me at least, that was not an option. I couldn't simply execute the guilty party as just retribution.

However, allowing him to live didn't necessarily mean allowing him to be free to prey on his fellow citizens.

I liked the Captain's idea about keel-hauling ... a salutary lesson but not a practical one.

Instead, I thought about it, there was the gem of an idea there.

Problem was, today, where did you find a deserted island to maroon someone? Deserted islands were in short supply in this crowded world.

For a while, the English had tried transportation, dumping the contents of their overcrowded jails on the Australian continent. I liked the concept ... but there wasn't any real way to implement it.

Even so, something about transportation had a poetic rightness - it would remove the cancer from the body politic. And it would also exact a punishment - removing the guilty from his familiar and comfortable surroundings ... which, in essence, was what he had done to Thorne by shooting him in the head.

Further, if it could be appropriately arranged - a disappearance maybe - then an unexplained absence might be regarded by the legal authorities as supplementary evidence of other wrongdoings.

If there were just some way to arrange amnesia ... and to dump Toland in, for example, Mexico City ...a cultural banishment as it were ...

All I needed was some mysterious drug that would remove Toland's memory ...The problem with fiction - some sorts of fiction anyway - was that you could have anything you wanted. Reality was more demanding.

And why was I thinking of Mexico as a 'foreign' place?

There was something ... yeah, in the wrap on Sucker Game - a few words of Spanish which were totally wrong.

And, yesterday, at the grill - I'd recommended the chili con carne. Toland had tried it ... but he'd told the cook/waiter "chili con carne - the kind with meat, not just beans." Anyone who didn't know that 'con carne' meant 'with meat' had to be linguistically illiterate. Probably culturally illiterate as well.

On the other hand, since I couldn't arrange the amnesia, dumping Toland in Mexico probably wouldn't accomplish much. Too much of the world speaks English.

Maybe some inland regions in Africa would do. Somewhere on the upper-reaches of the Amazon. Except it would be too hard to arrange. The same for the Peruvian highlands. Or Burma. Or Nepal.

I wondered if there was any truth to the stories about zombies. Maybe - with a little explanation - I could broach the subject with Lucille.

Then again, maybe I wouldn't - it didn't seem very likely ... and I didn't relish looking like an utter fool.

What if, I thought again, what if it didn't matter if he retained his memories ... and it didn't matter if other people could understand English ... as long as they didn't believe him ... and wouldn't be inclined to help him return ...

Maybe, my thoughts raced ahead, if they thought Toland was something he wasn't ... just maybe ...

And, if it was someplace where he couldn't reach a U.S. Embassy ...

Like Iran? Parachute Toland into Bagdad? Load him down with espionage gear?

I sat in front of the fire and grinned. Maybe not Bagdad ... but there was somewhere else ... And it fit. Both poetic justice and moral - a figurative "lex talonis" - possibly a literal one as well.

Closure is achieved, as the I-Ching phrased it. The elements of yin and yang balanced, the scales leveled, the classical verities were satisfied ... and the flames softly voiced the chuckles of the gods. Even the Buddha might have smiled.

And, for Toland, perhaps it would be a learning experience ...

"Still, one may allow the malefactor to learn from their errors," a soft voice counseled from the depths of another's memory.

* * *

"You look happy this morning," Dan suggested, joining me in front of the fire with a cup of coffee.

"I am," I agreed without explanation - I wanted to think about things a bit more before sharing them. "How'd the plot go last night?" Dan had still been sitting with his lap top when I'd retired - trying to resolve conflicts between the revisions in his outline and the characters.

"I should have something for you to look at in a few days," he considered. "I'm getting the development sketched out. Like you said, create the characters and build the situation, then see what they decide to do."

"It's going well, then?"

"Most of it," he nodded. "The villain's still a problem - finding the right balance. I've got one character - who isn't the villain but ought to be - who's a real rounder. The kind of person you'd love to hate. But the real murderer ... I don't want people to like him too much ..."

"Or is it that you don't want to like him too much?" I guessed.

"Some of that as well," Dan agreed. "It isn't easy, is it?"

"Not if you make your characters real," I admitted. "To make them real, you have to have empathy for them. And that makes you want to like them. Probably that's one reason that so many authors seem to have characters fashioned out of cardboard - they're easier to work with if they don't have feelings."

"But not as interesting?" he guessed where I was headed. "Well, I'll just have to like her good points and try not to get hung up on her faults."

* * *

"Hello, Barbara? Alex here," I addressed the phone.

"Good morning," Barbara Yount responded. "I guess it's morning where you are, right? With you, I'm never sure."

"Still in California," I agreed. "But I'll probably hop down to Phoenix in a week or so. I'll let you know."

"Did you get everything all right? The duplicate royalty statements and all?"

"No problem. Everything showed up just fine. I have a question for you though. Has anyone been asking about me? Aside from Dan, I mean?"

"Nothing that I've heard about," she replied. "Should there have been?"

"No, that's fine," I hastened to assure her. "Remember, you haven't heard from me, okay?"

"As long as I haven't heard from you, how's the rewrite going?"

"Passably, but that's why I need to visit Arizona for a bit. But I'll have the rewrite for you in a few weeks. And," I added, "I'll tell all then. That suit?"

"Then I can schedule you for production?"

"Shouldn't be any problems. Fall release date?"

"I don't know," she considered. "Maybe we should try to catch the Christmas season - go for a November release? Any objections if we delay a month or two?"

"You're the publisher," I agreed. "I just write 'em." I heard a brief gasp from the other end of the line. "Sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"No," she hesitated. "It's just - that's what Greg always said. I can't get used to the idea ... I mean, you're not the same as Gregory ... but then you're so much the same it's ... scary."

"Tell you what," I decided. "When I get the manuscript wrapped up, I'll fly up to New York with it. I'll have a new outline as well - something different - but I'd like to have your reaction. I'd like to know what you think Gregory would have thought of it."

"Shall I book your usual rooms at the ..." she stopped in mid-sentence, remembering that 'your usual' was Gregory's usual, not mine.

"It'll be fine, don't worry about it. I'll call you when I know my schedule. Talk to you later. Okay?"

"Later," she agreed, then remembered: "Your friend Dan left a message - tell him sorry I haven't gotten back to him. It took a while to check but, no, sorry, we don't have any record on your passport. Is that a problem?"

"Not really," I assured her. "But I'll tell Dan. And thanks - it was a long shot anyway."

I broke the connection. The confusion between the old Gregory Thorne and the new Alex Tambeau was something I assumed I was going to have to face again in the future - I might as well get used to handling it. And the simplest way - in most cases - was going to be to just accept other people's memories of Gregory.

As for the passport ... I wondered it Thorne had been a nom-de-plume as well. If I had a passport and tax accounts under a third name. Maybe, I decided, I'd have a chance to find out ... maybe tomorrow.

* * *

"Not being a successful author," Dan grinned through the driver's window ...

"Yet," I interjected - I had a feeling that he'd make it.

"Anyway," Dan continued, "I need to make an appearance at the office. I guess you guys can handle the rest of the stuff without me?"

Yesterday, he'd missed going to the office entirely - on my account - so I couldn't really accuse Dan of disobeying the doctor's orders about his working hours.

"See you for lunch, eh?" Captain Donavi invited.

Dan glanced at his watch. "How about around one?"

We nodded agreement, Dan driving off in his beemer and the Captain joining me in the van.

* * *

"The problem with new jump suits," I commented as we drove downtown, "is that they look new. Same for toolboxes. I guess we could always be artistic and stain them."

"Find a pawn shop, eh?" the Captain suggested. "Used toolboxes are easy to find. Maybe find a few tools as well."

"Makes sense," I agreed. "Any ideas for jump suits? Wait a second, can you grab the phonebook in the back - see if there are any costume shops listed?"

* * *

In the press of yesterday's events, there was one small errand I'd forgotten- picking up my new ATM card from the bank.

Of course, if I'd gone in yesterday - the way I'd been dressed that morning - they might have had second thoughts about giving me one. Today, in a more respectable guise - and a more comfortable one - it was no problem at all.

More important, the bank's debit card was a debit-Visa, not just an ATM card. A credit card - even if it was debit card - was one commodity I needed badly. It's strange, I suppose, but in today's world, it's almost impossible to get anywhere without one. Particularly if you're a traveler.

For instance, just try renting a car without one. And even hotels - decent ones - sometimes balk at cash ... or else request a deposit to cover phone calls, room service and such. And plane tickets? Well, they will accept cash but they frown on it.

Further, since my transfer from the Bank of Shanghai had been credited - as well as the check from Brown and Vauxhall - my balance was respectable enough to warrant a few courtesies.

Not that I was rated among the bank's major depositors but it was enough - since I'd called and asked them to confirm my status with Bank of Shanghai, offering an explanation for the differences in names, and referring to my publishers as well - for them to suggest that I apply for a conventional Visa or MasterCard in addition to the debit card.

Certainly I would consider it, I agreed. But, for the moment, one card and my balance would be sufficient.

My next stop - with the Captain's forbearance - was the up-town computer store where I'd visited twice before.

* * *

"This afternoon's fine," I assured the salesman. Here, at least, paying for the laptop computer with an ATM card hadn't fazed them at all - the delay was simply because they needed time to put together the configuration I'd requested ... and to load the software I wanted.

"Don't wait until Saturday," the salesman cautioned. "We'll be closed. The Bay To Breakers disrupts everything anyway. You running in it?"

"Bad knee," I excused myself. "Took a bullet once." - which was a surprise memory - "You'll be around Sunday?"

"Someone will," he agreed. "If you have any problems, just call. Or drop in."

* * *

While I'd been discussing computer configurations and software packages, Captain Donavi had used the opportunity to scout out the local pawn shops and had returned carrying two worn but serviceable toolboxes.

"This one's yours," he instructed, handing me the red toolbox.

"Okay," I agreed, taking the handle and hefting the box easily. It wasn't heavy ... but neither was it empty. I didn't open it, however - not on the street.

* * *

Setting the red box on the floor of the van, I flipped the two latches and tilted the lid back. Inside, in the tray, there was a battery-operated screwdriver, a couple of loose bits - phillips, straight and hex socket - and a black plastic card. The card was imprinted in gold, reading: "Impulse" across the top and "24 HR TELLER" below. Across the bottom there was a string of numbers.

I flipped the card over - the reverse was blank. Nothing, no magnetic strip, no signature blank, no list of participating services ... just a blank black plastic surface.

I looked up at the Captain. He was smiling a lop-sided smile with a twinkle in his eye.

I turned the card over again. The gold imprinting on the front wasn't perfect - it was okay but a little slip-shod with the top of the 'valid thru' missing. The date below the "valid thru" was 0/00.

The card felt heavier than a credit or ATM card. Slightly thicker.

I felt the edges - another irregularity ... like there was more than one layer.

I ran a thumbnail down the side, finally catching an opening toward one corner. The plain black back peeled away - a separate sheet of plastic held in place by adhesive.

Inside, between the layers there were five slots running the length of the card. Each slot held a small metal tool with the center one a simple strip of metal, narrower than the rest. The remaining four were wide on one end - about a third of their length - while the longer portion of each was narrow and tapering. Each of the four ended with a different shape - one with two round circles, one with a slight hook, the next with a tooth and the last with a rounded zig-zag.

"Madre de dios," I muttered under my breath, "e todos santos."

"Nice, eh?" the Captain's smile widened into a grin.

"Lovely," I agreed. "Where ..."

Captain Donavi interrupted me with a small shake of the head, still grinning.

"They're absolutely lovely," I repeated. "And I thank you most sincerely." I replaced the backing, then extracted my wallet and tucked the card in one of the plastic pockets. It was not only well concealed and elegantly packaged but it was one of the neatest sets of lock picks I'd ever seen - a complete tool kit concealed in a card.

The problem with carrying lock picks - in many locations, San Francisco included - was that unless you could show a good reason, possession could be treated as a presumption of guilt. Unless you were a locksmith - or a repro agent or something like that - burglary tools were considered evidence of intent to burglar.

In this case, the packaging was elegant misdirection ... and likely to be overlooked by even a good search.

Convenient too.

Even if the imprint itself was a bad joke ... twenty-four hour teller, indeed.

* * *

"Costume shop on Stanford," the Captain suggested as I took the wheel. "Take a right at the corner, eh?"

* * *

Another Face occupied two floors of an older office building. The request for three sets of jump suits was met with calm equanimity. "Any particular kind," the clerk asked. "Plumbers, electricians, what?"

"Lock and safe," I suggested, "is what the script calls for. But I figured we'd have tack on some patches for the logos." I handed over a note of the sizes - mine, Dan's and the Captain's.

The clerk consulted a computer for a moment, then offered: "I can outfit you in three sets in blue with an Acme logo. Or, if you like, for a little extra, we can change the patches. We've got a wide assortment if you'd like to look through them."

The Acme logo was fine - it meant nothing and, therefore, meant anything. More important, the jump suits looked authentic - realistically worn, a few stains ...perfect.

* * *

One more stop - at Fisherman's Wharf - and I bought three ball caps, adjustable, one size fits all. One advertised the Raiders, another the 49ers and the third was for something call the Dolphins. All were sports teams, I assumed.

"Awfully new, eh?" Captain Donavi regarded the hats. Then he gathered the three together and mangled them, wrapping his weathered hands around the brims and crushing them like so much tissue.

A moment later, straightening them out again, they only looked too clean ... but not new at all.

"A good start," I observed.

"Near lunch time," the Captain suggested. "We collect Dan, eh?"

"You got it." I started the engine, taking the Embarcadero back toward the financial district.

* * *

Dan suggested sushi again. Since there were no objections, we headed for Takahara's.

At one o'clock, the lunch time crowd was thinning out, giving us a choice between a table or the sushi bar. We took a table.

After ordering, I slipped Captain Donavi's surprise out of my wallet, passing it across the table to Dan.

It took him a minute but not much longer - if any - than it had me before he had the back peeled off.

"If this is what I think it is," he commented, "I want one. And," he added, "instructions."

The Captain was grinning like a cheshire cat as he extracted a second card from his jacket pocket.

"I think," I looked at Dan, "the Captain is finding us both predictable."

* * *

Following lunch, Dan announced his intention to remain at the office for a couple of hours. "Nothing too serious," Dan explained. "Just filing an amended return for a client. Have to work occasionally." He paused, fingering the card. "Maybe you can give me some lessons later?"

"Er, I'll be out this evening," I reminded him. "I'm not sure what time I'll be back."

"Lucille, right?"

I nodded.

"And, tomorrow, we've got a job to handle," Dan's eyes gleamed at the thought. "Well, I guess it can wait."

"Maybe practice on your own, eh?"

"You know how to use these?" Dan turned to the Captain.

"Simple mechanisms," the Captain shrugged. "Show you later, eh?" he smiled.

* * *

"The question," I commented as the Captain and I drove back towards Daly City, "is whether Dan can keep his mind on business this afternoon. Maybe you shouldn't have sprung those on him until later. You any good with them?"

"A little," Captain Donavi admitted. "Handy sometimes when you can't find the right key, eh?"

I didn't say anything more until we were on the 280, then "Look, no offense but ... you ever carry special cargo?"

"Like maybe a passenger not on the manifest, eh?"

"Like maybe an unwilling stowaway," I suggested.

"Never an 'unwilling' stowaway," the Captain responded, then added, "First for everything, eh?"

"Would this be a problem? Supposing your passenger slept a lot?"

"No sweat, mate," the Captain's response was laconic. Then, as we turned off on Skyline, "Andromea'll be in on Tuesday. Loading cargo containers in Oakland. Any special destination?"

There was ... I pulled off and stopped so I could explain in detail.

* * *

When I finished, Captain Donavi thought a moment before repeating his earlier assurance, "No sweat, mate. About five - six days enroute, eh? Then wait for evening, make a run close in, drop your passenger and carry on our way. Easy, eh?"

"You make it sound easy, yes. I'm just not sure how to keep your passenger from being a problem for the five or six days. Ideally, it would be appropriate if he slept most of the trip. All of it, really. But let me think a bit more." I started the engine and pulled back on the road, taking us back to Dan's.

* * *

There were messages waiting on the answering machine.

The first was by radio-phone from the Andromea - for Captain Donavi from his wife. It was also in Greek. The Captain listened through the message, then hit the 'repeat' button to listen a second time. He was smiling softly as he listened.

The second and third messages were for Dan - I hit the skip button for each.

The fourth message was for me: "I am speaking with Thorne-sar? Mustaf Hydar is calling please. Wishing to say that a package has arrived for Thorne-sar. I am thinking it is maybe most important and he is wishing to know."

I hit the 'stop' button, feeling a cold shiver run down my back.

"Not good, eh?" Captain Donavi's face had lost the smile.

"Not good," I agreed. I wasn't smiling either. "I'll be back in a while ..." I moved toward the door, adding "I hope."

"Coming with you," the Captain announced.

"This could be dangerous," I spoke over my shoulder. "There's no need ..." I saved my breath - Captain Donavi wasn't listening. "Okay, damnit, come on."

* * *

My biggest concern making it downtown from Daly City was not getting stopped by the police. I was trying to keep my mind on driving safely while still making the best time. Problem was I kept getting side tracked - partially berating myself for not having anticipated the possibility, partly excusing myself on the basis that nobody can predict everything.

Luckily, it was early afternoon and the traffic was relatively light.

Light traffic or not, it still seemed to take forever to reach the Morrison Arms ... and, naturally, there was no parking available.

"I'll go in," I decided. "If you'll circle the block, I'll be right back out."

Captain Donavi didn't argue, just shifted to the driver's seat as I dismounted.

Inside, my first thought was that the Morrison Arms was a lousy place to die.

My second thought was that the sentiment probably wasn't original.

"Thorn-sar, I am most happy to see you," the clerk - Mustaf Hydar - greeted me. "A package you have received. I am thinking it is important, yes?"

"It might be," I agreed softly but didn't add "more than you could know." "May I?" I requested.

Hydar produced the package from under the counter, resting it on the dirt-stained marble slab. The package was a plain white cardboard box - about the same size as a hard-bound novel but not quite the same dimensions. The weight, however, was too heavy for paper.

My name - "Gregory Thorne" - was printed on the front with the words "Morrison Arms" below. No postage, no shipping label, no return address or other notation except a large, block printed "Personal" running diagonally across to the left of the name and hotel.

I bent to sniff the package, not caring if I appeared foolish. There was a faint odor of acetic acid - it was hard to tell with all the other odors of tobacco, disinfectant, stale urine and sweat. The chill feeling along my spine returned and I could feel the short hairs along my neck trying to stand erect.

"Ah, thanks," I said, straightening up - even though I wasn't really feeling grateful, just worried. I pulled my wallet out, extracting a pair of twenties and laying them on the counter. "How was this delivered anyway?" I tried to keep my voice casual as I asked.

"A man comes in off the street," Mustaf shrugged. "I am thinking he is looking for room but he lays package on desk, then goes out." He gestured toward the liquor store at the front. "He buys a bottle, understand? And I am seeing him outside drinking as I call you."

Then he hadn't hurried away ... and might not be far. Question was, since he was doubtless just a messenger hired for a quick sawbuck ... or, maybe, a twenty ... did I want to find him. And, if I did, what condition would he be in. For that matter, what condition had he been in in the first place. "What did the delivery person look like?" I asked.

"I am thinking maybe he looked a little like you. Yesterday, you understand? Not today?"

Meaning a bum. Today, I was the diametric opposite of yesterday - my tan slacks, open-necked silk shirt and light-weight sports coat were topped by the panama hat. I'd shaved - leaving the beard, of course - and taken a long bath to remove the perfume which had replaced the vinegar, trimmed my nails and scraped the last traces of wax from under them.

Granted, my sandals weren't polished ... but the rough leather had never been destined to see shoe wax.

"The package," Mustaf picked up the two bills from the counter. "It is important, yes?"

"The package, I am thinking, is marnâ," I answered absently, taking the box firmly with both hands. Marnâ - to die ... but I hoped I was wrong.

I took the package in both hands, carrying carefully. I didn't want to know what would happen if were dropped.

I reached the front door just in time to see the van driving past ... slowly. Inside, the lobby was too dark for Captain Donavi to have seen me ... and the glass too dirty.

I pushed though the doors and stood blinking in the sunlight. The morning's fog and rain had vanished, leaving the sun glaring down on the sidewalk, the litter and at least three people clutching paperbag-covered bottles ... any of whom might ... or might not ... be the delivery person.

I was wondering if it was worthwhile confronting any of them and trying for a description - assuming that I didn't get three different descriptions from each one of them - when someone kicked my leg, hooking it out from under me and, at the same time, snatched the white box.

I tried to twist as I fell, reflexes fighting for command of muscles that had spent six weeks somnambulant and scarcely two weeks recovering.

Reflexes won ... but just barely. I caught myself in time to spot my assailant - Reeboks, black pants and the tail of a blue plaid shirt - disappearing around the corner. The white box was carried like a football - American style, not soccer - cradled in the arm of a running back. The heel of the right Reebok flashed with each pounding step, the left shoe didn't.

I forced myself up and gave chase, slapping a hand against the corner pillar to help change direction. My antagonist was a half-block ahead and gaining.

I felt like a double-damned fool but I kept running, passing the Captain - who was driving the other way - and rounding another corner.

My attacker was not in sight. I kept running anyway - making another half-block before my knee seized, bouncing me off the side panel of a parked delivery truck and sending me sprawling on the pavement.

I pulled myself up again, limping badly. Three painful steps were a convincer - I was in no shape to run further.

"Alex," a voice called, partially muffled.

The Captain had reversed direction and was leaning across to open the passenger door. I scrambled between two cars and into the passenger seat. "Kid," I gasped for breath. "White box, lost him." I managed two deep breaths, then added a description as the Captain drove slowly, head turning to examine both sides of the street.

"Spiral search pattern, eh," the Captain suggested. "Not much else we can do. You're bleeding a bit. You okay?"

"See if he doubled back," I offered. "Try around Washington Square." I was grasping at straws ... but there wasn't anything else to grasp at.

I looked down a my leg. My pants were torn, the blood wasn't much - a skinned knee. The package of wipes was still in the back - I used one to wipe the blood and dirt away. The alcohol in the solution stung. I tried to ignore it, looking for the kid.

At least, I thought it had been a kid. Who else wears tennis shoes with flashing heels?

The one-way streets didn't help any, forcing us to widen the search pattern and making it difficult to be systematic.

We were about two blocks from the hotel, back in the original direction the kid had taken when we heard the sirens.

"Damn it," I cursed, then added, "Better follow them."

"Think that was it?"

"What else?" We'd been searching for fifteen or twenty minutes - how long would the thief have waited before opening the package? And how much of this time had it taken the PD to receive a call and respond?

The police were already blocking off the street when we found them. The fire trucks made the location obvious - a four-story building that didn't need 'Condemned' signs to confirm its status. Now, there was a gaping hole where a second floor window had been.

Beside me, Captain Donavi said something softly - in Greek. From the tone and rhythms, it had to be a prayer.

I offered my own regrets - less formally but no less sincerely. I also made an overdue decision.

Sure, I believe in coincidence. Coincidence happens. Jung called it syncronicity and made all kinds of excuses and explanations but it still boiled down to coincidence. But what I didn't believe in was stretching coincidence to the breaking point.

This wasn't coincidence.

And I had no more proof - of anything - than I'd had yesterday.

Even with the package, it would have been unlikely that I'd have had any real proof of anything. Nothing that I could pin on anyone.

The only thing that had changed was that any doubts I'd held had vanished ... completely.

As we drove back to Daly City - less hastily than we'd come in - neither of us felt like saying much.

And, when the Captain stopped outside a liquor store, I climbed out without a word, returning with one bottle of cognac and one of Metaxia.

* * *

Back at the house, Dan had returned from the office and had played all of the messages.

Since we hadn't left a note - what could I have said? - a lengthy explanation was the first item on the agenda.

When I reached our arrival at the site of the explosion, I stopped, pausing while Captain Donavi refilled my glass. Dan was abstaining - his ulcer was better but yesterday's brandy had not set well.

I took another drink before I spelled it out - "Only one person - present company excepted - knew about the Morrison Arms. That is the first item. A package arrives addressed to Gregory Thorne. That's the second. A street thief snatches a package, thinking from the way I'm holding it, I suppose, that it's valuable. That's three. And there's an explosion in the neighborhood a few minutes after I lose him. That's four and final. Am I missing anything? Any comments?"

Instead of replying, Dan glanced at this watch, then stood up and crossed to turn on the TV, consulting the guide from the Sunday paper before selecting a channel.

A moment later, we were watching the latest from Washington - DC, not Washington Square.

We had lots of time to think before the story we were looking for came on. When it did, it was brief and to the point.

"An explosion in North Beach late this afternoon claimed one life," the announcer read, against a plain backdrop and an icon representing a bomb in the corner of the screen, "damaging a vacant building on Taylor. The Fire Marshall's office has not yet released a report and the cause of the explosion is not yet known. The name of the victim has been withheld pending notification of the next of kin. In other news ..." Dan hit the mute button.

It was too brief to even be called an obituary.

"Too late for anything to make the evening paper," Dan announced. "Might be something in the morning edition though."

"Doesn't matter," I decided. "I'm going ahead with it tomorrow. There's no need for anyone else to be involved, I can ..."

"Don't get too hasty there, mate," Captain Donavi interrupted. "You wouldn't be trying to leave us out, eh?"

"Don't even think about," Dan confirmed. "You'd better get cleaned up - you have a date tonight, remember? And, tomorrow, we'll be there."

* * *

Following a hot bath, a change of clothes, and borrowing the Captain's cane - my right knee had quit bleeding but my left was the real problem - I still had three-quarters of an hour ... and, given the late rush-hour traffic, I needed all of it to reach the Galleria and Le Vévés by seven ... but I made it.

Le Vévés was as strange the second time around as it had been the first.

And Lucille was as beautiful. This time, she was wearing a pants suit in a soft green fabric highlighted by vines patterned with gold threads. Again, her costume suggested nothing of voodoo ... and her presence was all the more powerful for the contrast.

"Alex," she called me as I entered. "I'll be just a minute. Come on in. Have you met my son, Tyrone?" She indicated the young man I'd seen - but not met - the day before.

"Alex Tambeau," I offered my hand, adding, "a.k.a. Gregory Thorne. I'm a writer."

"I know," he grinned, returning the grasp with a firm shake. "I've heard a lot about you. And I've started reading your book. The Darjeeling Scam? I like how Robeson operates - he's one chill manja."

"Chill manja?" I echoed.

"You know - cool dude?"

"I hadn't heard the term," I apologized. "Where's it come from?"

"Beats me," Tyrone looked briefly flustered. "Just an expression."

"Slang's like that," I agreed. "All the sudden everyone's saying it and nobody knows where it comes from. But, thank you."

"Look, Mom," Tyrone turned to his mother. "You get on out of here. I'll take care of things. It's chill."

"If you'd like to join us ..." I invited.

"And have Mom throw a ju-ju on me?" the younger man protested in mock horror. "No way. Y'all have a good time - besides, Kerri's coming by. We're catching the new Stallone flick. And don't worry, Mom," he kissed her cheek affectionately. "I won't wait up."

"That's what worries me," she responded, extracting her purse from behind the counter. "Ready if you are," she turned to me.

Ready? My heart was skipping beats. I offered my arm to escort her out.

I tried not to limp too badly.

* * *

It was late when I returned to Dan's and let myself in quietly.

Dinner had been wonderful ... the evening had been wonderful ... and I was feeling a severe case of infatuation ... or worse ...or did I mean better?

Whichever - it had still been a wonderful evening ...