Syd ran out into the living room, saw in a glance that her bags were gone. A car engine cranked outside; Syd raced to the window, saw her headlights come on.

He banged on the ancient frame, trying to pry it free. The moldings seized up and held and he punched it, fist smashing the wood so hard that the pane cracked, sending a tinkling shower of gla.s.s raining down to the street.

Nora's car started to back out of the s.p.a.ce.

"NORA, DON'T GO!".

Syd spun, dashed for the door: throwing it open, taking the stairs two at a time. Halfway down he stumbled and pitched forward, slamming into the banister and whacking his knee on the heavy wood. "s.h.i.t!" he screamed, kept running as he hit the first-floor landing, threw the outer door open.

He made it to the street just in time to see her taillights wink and disappear around the corner.

"NORA!" he screamed. "NORA, I'M SORRY!! COME BACK!!"

Lights came on in the houses across the street, as lumpy profiles peered out at his distress. "WHAT'RE YOU LOOKING AT?!!!" he shrieked. The lights blinked out again. Syd looked back, saw the last of her exhaust dissipate into the night.

He stood there, shirtless and shivering. Nora was gone. He was in shock. The throbbing in his knee came to him, registered as pain. Nora was gone. He wiped his hand across his face, felt something sticky, looked at his hand. A gash glistened where he'd torn it open.

Breathless and bleeding, Syd hobbled back to his apartment. As he limped up the stairs a part of his mind vaguely wondered where his cigarette had landed, if it was even now smoldering, turning to a fire that would burn the whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned building down, and him along with it.

He should be so lucky.

20.

It was twenty till two when Vaughn Restal finally decided to call it a night.

Up until that point, he had to admit, the evening had frankly sucked. Trish Reinhardt had informed him, not two hours before, that it was over between them. Ray had found out about them, and they'd gotten all weepy on each other, and d.a.m.ned if they hadn't decided to try and work things out. He was gonna help her start her own business, fer chrissakes. Go figure.

Vaughn was vexed. Trish had broken the news to him in mid-nightcap; ensconced in a cozy little corner at Fifty-Five South, his hands tracing the inside of her thighs under the table, contemplating the way her a.s.s would look bent over his breakfast nook once they got back to his place.

Vaughn liked variety. He also liked Trish's a.s.s, which was nice and creamy and tight. The two went hand in hand, so to speak; and Vaughn had handled Trish Reinhardt's sweet backside at every available opportunity over the last three months. In his apartment. In her apartment, while Ray was doing the swing shift at Caterpillar.

On his balcony. In the park. In the car on the way to the bar.

He had big plans for that a.s.s, not to mention every other part of her. Which was one reason why he'd been so upset when she fessed up as to her intentions. Marriage counseling; yeah, right. Go for it, baby. Ray was a jerk, and he didn't understand her: Trish had made that real clear the first night they'd hooked up. He certainly didn't know the first thing about making her happy, and Vaughn doubted that he ever would. "But he really loves me." Uh-huh. If he did, why did she hook up with ol' Vaughn in the first place?

Because Vaughn had made her happy, that's why-probably for the first time in her whole miserable life. He genuinely cared about her, G.o.ddammit, and she cared about him-or so she said. So now she was gonna go back to some n.u.m.b.n.u.t.s workaholic who ignored her? He needs me, she said. Yeah, well, what about me? he thought bitterly. What about my feelings?

It wasn't fair. Vaughn drained his beer, lit a cigarette and poured himself another from the pitcher of Killian's on the table before him. He was hurt. The least she could have done was give him one last pop for the road, maybe blow him in the parking lot. At the very least, she could have given him some advance notice; save him sh.e.l.ling out for one more romantic dinner, maybe give him a chance to line up some other plans for the evening.

Plus, they'd come in her car, on account of someone having spiked Vaughn's gas tank with a pound and a half of Domino's last weekend. Fortunately he only lived a few blocks away, but that was hardly the point. It was cold outside. It was all just d.a.m.ned inconsiderate, was what it was.

Vaughn sipped his beer and stewed. He felt victimized. He didn't really like messing around with married women; deep down he really considered himself to be a pretty okay guy. He just had a thing about women-in-need; he was attracted to them, to the point of being driven. They came into the bar, looking all lost and lonely in that way Vaughn could never resist. Could he help it if so many of them happened to be trapped in archaic, decaying relationships?

If he could find any personal fault at all, it was that he was just too d.a.m.ned sensitive. He felt too much, cared too much, wanted too much for them. It was like a chemical thing. So they opened themselves up to him, and he liked to make them feel good. Past that, he just couldn't help himself. He was only human.

Besides, was he to blame if these guys couldn't hold on to their women? If they'd been doing their jobs right, it never would have happened.

Vaughn sighed. When he stopped to think about it, it had really been kind of a lousy year. Tonight's letdown with Trish was nothing new; in fact, it was practically becoming a deja vu experience. Before her, there'd been a string of similarly short-lived relationships: with Darlene, and Melissa, and Laurie, and Marcia . . .

And Karen, a voice in his head piped in. Let's not forget Karen.

Vaughn winced. Come to think of it, that's where this whole downhill slide had started. Her and her f.u.c.king psycho of a husband. Correction: ex-husband. Like that was really his fault. His hand came up instinctively to touch the crooked hump on his nose, the one that blew his profile and made him feel insecure, and he wished he'd never even seen the b.i.t.c.h. It seemed as though his luck had soured in the aftermath of that experience, like their bad karma had rubbed off on him somehow. He was sorry and all, but really. Like they wouldn't have flamed out anyway? It was ridiculous.

The whole thing just undermined his confidence, he realized. And he got really tired of watching his back. Like the gas tank thing, for instance; it almost ruined his

f.u.c.king engine, and was gonna set him back almost four hundred bucks, to boot. And what about the time he got his tires slashed outside Mr. Bill's Crab Shack, and he wasn't even with anybody. Did anyone ever think about that? No, it was just Dump-on-Vaughn Day. It wasn't fair.

Oh, well, he thought, what are you gonna do? There's all kinds of a.s.sholes in the world. He finished his beer and turned his attention to salvaging the rest of the evening.

It didn't look too promising. He scanned the room; there were maybe thirty people scattered across the bar. Fifty-Five South was large and dark and s.p.a.cious, with high ceilings and a long bra.s.s-railed bar perpendicular to the row of big picture windows that looked out onto Front Street. The walls were covered with funky photos and counterculture gewgaws in a homegrown Hard Rock Cafe kind of effect. It was a cross-cultural hangout, and it tended to attract a mix of college kids, working people, and young professionals.

Although not, he amended, at the moment. At this late hour the pickings were pretty slim: everyone was either already hooked up for the night, or not worth the bother. A trio of sloppy-drunk coeds were getting scoped by a quartet of equally sloppy jocks. He half-wondered which of them would end up being odd man out.

A cl.u.s.ter of lonely-looking middle-aged guys lined the bar, nursing beers and bleak futures. A half-dozen couples conversed, oblivious to everyone and everything else. Vaughn sighed; at least someone was having a good time. There was a blonde down on the far end who looked like she could use some company, but she was a little shopworn and twenty pounds too heavy to register on Vaughn's empathy scale.

Oh, well. Vaughn checked his funds. The dinner tonight had tapped him; he had exactly ten bucks left with which to get lucky or cab it home. He was just about to abandon all hope when the door swung wide, accompanied by a blast of head-clearingly-cold air. Vaughn looked up, and suddenly he was trying to sc.r.a.pe his jaw up off his knees.

Oh my G.o.d, he thought, astonished. Who is THAT?

She was gorgeous, and she was wasted: two qualities he deeply admired in a woman. Her hair was long and tousled, her jacket unb.u.t.toned in spite of the cold; and when she slid out of it, Vaughn just about slid right out of his boxer shorts. Even in a sweater and jeans she bypa.s.sed babe, went clear to G.o.ddess.

Better yet, she looked like a kindred spirit, which was to say she looked like she'd just been through some s.h.i.t. Her eyes were red-rimmed and positively aglow with turbocharged emotion. His senses were keenly tuned through years of practice, and he recognized the look instantly: she was in breakup mode.

Vaughn smiled. She hit the bar and kicked back a Cuervo shooter like it was a Dixie cup of Kool-Aid, did another one in the time it took for him to bring his own gla.s.s to his lips.

He couldn't take his eyes off her; she was clearly a woman after his own heart. Vaughn liked the way she moved, simultaneously deliberate and over-the-top. She flipped her hair back and away from her face; Vaughn found himself staring at the muscles in her neck. They looked chewable in the extreme. And as for the rest of her . . .

Trish Reinhardt's a.s.s was a sack of wet cottage cheese by comparison. Correction: there was no comparison. This woman was in a cla.s.s all by herself. Vaughn watched, waiting. No date showed up, no p.i.s.sed-off hubby or beefy beau. By all outward appearances, she was alone.

Maybe the night wasn't a complete whack, after all.

He thought about it for a moment, weighing his previously sagging spirits against the lateness of the hour. Not a lot of time to get to know each other. Still, he thought, nothing to lose by trying. Besides, she really looked like she could use a friend right now.

He signaled the waitress on her way back to the bar, slipped her the sawbuck, and asked her to do him a big, big favor. She nodded and hustled off; Vaughn put his feet up and struck a decidedly casual pose, the better to watch as the line played out. If she didn't take the bait, no biggie. He was just a nice guy, buying a cute girl a drink.

But if, on the other hand, she did . . .

Please, he thought. Oh please . . .

The bartender appeared in front of her, placed a fresh shot on the bar. She fingered the gla.s.s, as if searching it for clues. The bartender gestured toward Vaughn. She turned and scanned the room, stopped when she came to his shady little corner. Her eyes flared.

Gotcha.

Vaughn tipped his drink to her and smiled, gave her just the tiniest wink. Nice-guy shy. Her eyes flashed, and she smiled what he thought was a sly and very wicked smile. Yes, Vaughn thought. Please come over oh please please please . . .

But instead of coming over to his table, or even inviting him to sidle up beside her, the woman drained the gla.s.s in a single gulp.

Then set it back on the bar. Grabbed her jacket. And left.

Vaughn was flabbergasted. He watched her disappear through the door, caught the most fleeting of glimpses of her as she headed down Front Street. How could she do that? It was so rude. The very least she could have done was say thank you, maybe come over and have another. Maybe even-G.o.d forbid-buy him one.

"Well, f.u.c.k you very much," he sighed. He reached for his cigarettes, discovered he was down to his last two. "Great," he muttered. There was no doubt about it. He was in h.e.l.l.

The waitress came back around, dropped him his change. He counted it out, tipped her two. "Thanks," he said dolefully. There wasn't even enough left for more smokes, no less cab fare. He wondered for a moment if he might not be cursed.

"Can I get you anything?" the waitress asked as she scooped up the empty pitcher and gla.s.ses.

"Yeah." Smiling wanly. "A new lease on life."

"Sorry. Fresh out." She swabbed the table. "But seriously, folks. It's last call."

"Okay. How 'bout a shooter?" he asked. "And maybe a smile? I could use one of each right about now." The waitress smiled. She was cute, he realized now; her short black hair and green eyes gave her a punky, gamine quality. Her legs were a little thicker than Vaughn liked, but nothing he would kick out of bed. "So what's your name?" he pressed, his interest piqued.

"Karla. With a K."

"Ah-hah." He pretended to be amused. "So, Karla-with-a-K. What are you doing after you get off?"

"Going home with my boyfriend," she said, deflecting him.

"Oh," Vaughn said. "Lucky guy."

It was the waitress's turn to feign amus.e.m.e.nt. She rolled her eyes and returned to the bar. He watched her a.s.s sadly as she departed. It wasn't one he'd be getting to know.

Sure enough, when Karla came back, she was all business. "Thanks," she said, taking the last of his cash. "Have a good one." She headed off without another glance back.

Yeah, sure. You bet, he thought morosely. He couldn't imagine how it could get any worse.

It was just past two by the time Vaughn hit the street.

The wind had picked up considerably, bitter and biting. In fact, the weather forecast had underscored his day just perfectly: warm and sunny early in the day, turning much colder as the night wears on. You could say that again. It rustled through the trash in the gutter, sent cigarette b.u.t.ts and old dead leaves pinwheeling end over end, chasing each other down the empty sidewalks. Front Street was desolate, the last vestiges of nightlife having already packed off to the sanctuary of warm bodies and beds.

Up ahead, a lone taxicab prowled, slicing across the intersection at the end of the block. It slowed when it saw him. He shook his head. d.a.m.n. The cab gunned its engine and sped away; an old newspaper danced like a dervish in its wake. Vaughn watched it spin, felt his head echo the motion.

The wind gusted again, knocking him off-balance. This utterly sucked. The air cleared his head somewhat, but the ground still felt rubbery beneath his feet: that last shot had snuck up on him, left him with a beer-and-tequila c.o.c.ktail sloshing in his guts. Killian's alone was bad enough: it always gave him a vaguely reamed-out feeling, as though his bowels had been freshly Roto-Rootered. The Cuervo had capped it like a shooter of mucus and grease.

A nagging little voice in his head lectured him on the perils of mixing liquor, warned him that he'd pay in the morning. He tried hard to ignore it, though he knew it was certainly right. The thing to do right now was keep moving. Take deep breaths, get his blood circulating. Get home.

Vaughn stuffed his hands in his pockets and hugged the wall, stumbling past the darkened shops and stores, hiding from the wind. Somewhere, a trash can tipped into the gutter with a hollow metal clang. He started at the sound, felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen and tingle, kept walking.

It was less than two blocks later that he started to get that old familiar feeling: like a hair-triggered silent alarm that tingled down the length of his spine. Watch your back, it told him. Watch your back. It was a reflex action, a survival skill, born of too much time spent dodging drunken boyfriends or vengeance-crazed mates. It was wrong roughly three-quarters of the time, but it had saved his white a.s.s more than once.

Vaughn cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, searching the shadows. Nothing but wind, whipping down the empty street. A dog loped across an intersection a few blocks back. There were a lot of strays in town these days, he remembered, courtesy of jobless families picking up and moving on, in the process leaving ol' Fido to fend for himself. They lived in abandoned buildings and empty lots, eventually turned feral and ran in packs, ripping into trash and feeding on rats, or the odd luckless cat. He stared for a moment longer, just to be sure. Nothing. Just paranoid, he told himself, and continued on his way.

But a dozen steps later, he felt it again. Substantially stronger. Frighteningly so.

Vaughn looked back, caught a fleeting glimpse of furtive movement some twenty yards behind him. Someone was moving in the shadows, hugging the wall and pacing him. It occurred to him that he was about to get jumped. His system began to brace itself. He took another peek: something was definitely back there. Just my f.u.c.king luck. Thanks, Trish.

And that started the wheels turning in his head: thinking Ray, oh s.h.i.t, what if it's Ray? That put a real blush of reality on it. He wondered just what the f.u.c.k she'd told him, in the heat of the confessional crunch. Had she spilled the beans on their s.e.xual positions? Had she told him little details that drove him nuts? There was no telling what a guy might do-even a doughy little putz like Ray-if you gave him an image vivid enough, goaded him over the line.

Vaughn was moving just as fast as he could without breaking into a run. He was trying his best not to show it; but he, himself, would not have been fooled. His stomach burbled and churned. His temples thudded with adrenalated blood. His bladder ballooned in his jeans. He had to p.i.s.s like a fire hydrant. Great.

The good news was that he did not have that far to go: another three blocks and he was home free. The bad news was that he had to turn onto Beaver Street at the next corner to do it. Vaughn's apartment was a loft in the warehouse district, and the homestretch was not nearly so well-lit.

The other bad news was that, whoever it was, it was getting closer. Ten yards now, and closing. Still hugging the shadows. It was definitely a setup. But not a mugger, he thought. They would usually stalk more openly, approach under the pretense of asking directions or b.u.mming a smoke-at least until he was within striking range.

s.h.i.t. It's Ray. It's gotta be. His mind raced in drunken overdrive: plotting panic vectors, weighing his options. Running was out of the question: he was already a heartbeat away from heaving, and his bladder felt like it was going to explode.

But there was something else about it that didn't sit well, especially since his run-in with Syd. Vaughn's pride still stung at the memory; it shouldn't have gone down that way. Syd had just gotten lucky, on account of how distraught Vaughn was over Karen. He also fought dirty, the sonofab.i.t.c.h. He hit him when he wasn't expecting it. The guy was a f.u.c.king animal.

Ray, on the other hand, was not a big man: five-five, tops, and not much known for his machismo. Vaughn was six feet, one-eighty, and a pretty fair hunka manhood, if he did say so himself. If push came to shove, Vaughn knew he could take him.

His spirits lifted as he sized up his odds. The more he thought about it, the more the whole thing p.i.s.sed him off. He was cold and tired and he felt like s.h.i.t, and now some a.s.shole was gonna jack him up just 'cause he couldn't keep his woman home? Honest to G.o.d, enough was enough.

There was one more street lamp before the corner, casting a wan circle of light on the darkened sidewalk. It was maybe ten yards away when the glimmer of a strategy formed in his mind. Vaughn smiled, moved away from the wall, steering ever so casually toward the light.

And he began to rehea.r.s.e a speech in his head, the speech he would make when he hit the spotlight. He'd starred as Conrad Birdie in the Central High School production of Bye Bye Birdie oh those many years ago; so he knew a thing or two about stage presence, not to mention projecting his voice.

Okay, f.u.c.ko! he planned to say. I see you slinking around in the dark! Let's see what kind of man you are in the light! Or something hard-hitting and edgy like that. Ever since Syd, he'd paid particular attention to the tough-guy dialogue in action films; he'd learned firsthand, when it came down to fighting, the withering power of a good one-liner.

He could picture Ray now, stepping into the spotlight: be he pudgily defiant or suddenly embarra.s.sed, realizing too late what a fool of himself he'd made. No matter how it played, Vaughn saw himself coming out on top. He couldn't picture it any other way.

Unless, of course, it wasn't Ray . . .

And that was when all his alarms went off, less than twenty feet from the edge of the light. That was when he began to turn, just in time to see the darkness descend upon him. A flash of teeth, so many teeth, moving toward him at such an incredible speed, closing the distance in seconds that vanished before he could even scream . . .

. . . and he started to run, legs desperately pumping under him, fleeing for dear life as he realized christ it's a dog a f.u.c.king feral dog. And he didn't get a clear look at it but he could hear the ragged chug of its breath and the slap of its feet as it closed the distance, and he knew it was huge, a shepherd or wolfhound but wrong, it was much bigger, it was built like a refrigerator like a car like a motherf.u.c.king truck. . . .

Vaughn ran like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, boots clomping wildly on the pavement, his all-state track star days way too many tar and nicotine years behind him as he tried to make the corner, slipped, recovered . . .

. . . and then came the moment of impact, as the animal hit him three quarters from behind and slammed him sideways, like being run over by a truck with a great slavering mouth bearing dozens of chrome incisors. He felt fangs like roofing nails punch into his midsection even as his head cracked the pavement, was dragged forward by the sheer momentum of the attack. Vaughn tried to scream but the jaws clamped down, got a deathgrip on his midsection, squeezing the air out of his lungs in mid-shriek as they tumbled into the street lamp's glare.

Then the light struck his eyes, half-blinding him, making ugly dots swim in the frozen air. His mind raced madly, thinking it's gonna kill me someone save me please jesus help! as he scrabbled and fought to escape. His left arm was free, and he flailed out with it, desperately twisting in the animal's jaws. He aimed for the snout and missed, struck a glancing blow over its eye. The beast released him just enough to turn.