Blackburn held the book under Arthur's hands, and a few drops of blood spattered on the paper.

Blackburn closed the book and stepped back.

"You are a great man," he said.

Arthur made a noise in his throat. "I've p.i.s.sed my pants," he said.

Blackburn left the room. Despite the gunshot, the hall was still empty. He went down to the lobby and called for an ambulance from one of the pay phones, then got out of there. He wondered if Arthur had any children, and if so, whether they felt as much kinship for the man as he did.

He was bruised and sore the next morning, and the cut on his face throbbed. But he forgot all of that when he turned on the radio. According to the newscaster, novelist Artimus Arthur had died the night before when he leaped through the gla.s.s of his hotel room window and fell to the street. A paramedic had told him that his wounded hands might be crippled for life. Blackburn wept.

EIGHT.

BLACKBURN SINS.

The deadbolt wasn't set, so Blackburn broke into the apartment with a six-inch metal ruler. A lamp was on inside. He scanned the living room, but wasn't interested in the TV or stereo. This was a second-story apartment with outside stairs, so he couldn't take anything big. The VCR was small enough, but he decided against it anyway. He wasn't proud that he had turned to thievery, so he preferred to steal only those things that were of no use or pleasure to their owners. But that rule tended to limit him to cla.s.s rings and junk, so he didn't always stick to it.

He didn't bother with the kitchen. Apartment dwellers didn't own silver. He pulled his folded duffel bag from his coat and stepped into the hallway that led to the bedroom. Bedrooms were good for jewelry.

Houston p.a.w.n shops paid cash for gold chains and silver earrings.

The bedroom door opened, and a man stepped out. Blackburn froze.

The man closed the door behind him. He was tall. His face and most of his body were shadowed. His right hand was empty, but Blackburn couldn't see his left. It might be holding a weapon.

"What are you doing here?" the man asked. His voice was of moderate pitch. He didn't sound upset.

Blackburn was confused. He had watched this building for three days, noting the occupants of each apartment and their schedules. This unit's occupant was a woman who had left for her night shift at Whataburger twenty minutes ago. He was sure that she lived alone. The man at the end of the hall should not exist. "Don't be afraid," the man said. "I just want to know why you're here."

Blackburn took two steps backward. His Colt Python was in its pouch in his coat, but he couldn't reach for it without dropping the duffel bag from his right hand. Then it would take two or three seconds to reach into the left side of his coat, open the Velcro flap, and pull out the pistol. If the shadowed man had a gun or knife, Blackburn might be dead before getting off a shot. So his best option was to leave, but he had to do it without turning his back.

"Tell me why you're here," the shadowed man said, "and I won't hurt you. But if you don't stand still, I will."

Blackburn stopped. "I was going to steal things," he said, "but I'm not going to now."

"What things were you going to steal?"

"Jewelry. Rings, necklaces. Maybe a musical instrument, like an old trumpet or an out-of-tune guitar."

"Why out of tune?" the shadowed man asked.

"A guitar that's in tune is in use," Blackburn said. "I don't like to steal things people use."

The shadowed man gave a short chuckle, almost a grunt. "A burglar with a moral code," he said. "But people use jewelry too, you know."

"It just hangs there," Blackburn said. "It's stupid."

"In your opinion."

Blackburn started to relax his grip on the duffel bag. He had decided to try for the Python. "Yes," he said. "In my opinion."

"And that's the only opinion that counts."

"Yes." The duffel began to slip from Blackburn's fingers.

"Don't reach for your pistol, Musician," the shadowed man said.

"I don't have a pistol."

"You have a lump in your coat. It's big, but the wrong shape for an automatic. I'm guessing a three fifty-seven. A forty-four would be awfully heavy."

Blackburn tightened his grip on the duffel bag again. "All right. I won't reach for it."

"Good. If you did, I'd have to kill you. And that would be a shame, because I agree with you. Your opinion is the only one that matters.My opinion is the only one that matters too."

"That's a contradiction," Blackburn said.

"Why? You create your world, I create mine. Contradictions only exist for people who aren't brightenough to do that. When they come up against someone who is, it's matter and antimatter. Know what I mean?"

"Yes."

"I knew you would," the shadowed man said. "I'm going to come toward you now so we can see each other. I'll move slowly, and you won't move at all. All right?"

"All right."

A smell of deodorant soap preceded the man as he stepped from the shadows. He had long dark hair, shot through with gray. It was pulled back from his face. His skin was sallow, his eyes a greenish brown.

He was wearing a hooded black pullover sweatshirt, black sweatpants, and gray running shoes. His left hand held a small paper bag. There was no visible weapon.

Blackburn dropped his duffel and brought out the Python. He c.o.c.ked it and pointed it at the man's face.

The man stopped. "You agreed not to move," he said.

"I lied."

"That doesn't seem consistent with a moral code."

"I've created my own world," Blackburn said. "In here, it's moral." He stepped backward.

"You don't have to leave empty-handed," the man said. He shook the paper bag, and its contents clinked. "See, I'm a burglar too. I don't know that I'm as moral as you, but I'm willing to split the take."

Blackburn paused. He eyed the paper bag. "I was watching this place. How'd you get in?"

"Through a window in the bathroom. On the back side of the building."

"Someone might see your ladder."

The man shook his head. "I climbed the wall. Plenty of s.p.a.ce between the bricks." He turned the paper bag upside down. Rings, necklaces, and earrings fell to the carpet. "This has to be fifty-fifty, so don't cheat."

"Why let me have any of it?" Blackburn asked.

The man knelt on the floor and bent over the tangle of jewelry. His ponytail hung down over his shoulder. "So you won't turn me in." He looked up and smiled. "And so if we're caught, I can plea-bargain the punishment over your way."

Blackburn replaced the Python in its pouch. "I'll take that cla.s.s ring."

The man flicked it toward him. "You can call me Roy-Boy."

"I don't need to call you anything," Blackburn said, squatting to pick up the ring. "I won't be seeing you again." "The best laid plans, Musician."

"I'm not a musician."

"In your world, maybe not. In mine, you play electric guitar. You want to sound like Hendrix, but you're too white and you don't do enough drugs."

Blackburn said nothing. He took the ring and three gold chains, then picked up his duffel bag and left.

He crossed the street and hid behind a dumpster to watch the apartment building. He wanted to see if Roy-Boy left too.

A few minutes later Roy-Boy appeared under a streetlight and looked across at the dumpster. He pointed his right finger and waggled his thumb to mimic a pistol. Then he walked away.

Blackburn waited until Roy-Boy was out of sight before walking the four blocks to his Plymouth Duster.

The back of his neck tingled. He looked in all directions, but saw no one. He thought he smelled deodorant soap, but decided it was his clothes. Maybe he had used too much detergent.

Two nights later, on Friday, Blackburn stuffed his pockets with cash and drove to The Hoot, a bar near the Rice University campus. His coat felt light without the Python, which he had hidden in his closet. He wouldn't need a gun tonight. His goal was to seduce one of the college girls he had met at The Hoot the week before, preferably the thin brunette who was a flute player in the marching band. The last time he'd had s.e.x had been behind a barbecue pit at a Labor Day picnic, and here it was almost Christmas. He was afraid the top of his head might blow off.

The Hoot was crowded. It smelled of moist flesh and beer, and throbbed with canned rock 'n' roll. The flute player was there. Blackburn went to her and made the comment that the Rice football team could have had more success the previous weekend had it used the band's woodwind section in place of its defensive line. The flute player laughed. She remembered him and called him Alan, the name he was using now. Her name was Heather. It seemed to Blackburn that at least half of the twenty-year-old women in the world were named Heather, but he didn't tell her that. He liked her. She had a fine sense of humor. It had been her idea, she said, for the Marching Owl Band to cover their uniforms with black plastic trash bags and lie down on the football field at halftime to simulate an oil slick.

Heather was a steady drinker, and Blackburn felt obliged to match her. After half an hour he had to excuse himself for a few minutes. When he came out of the men's room, he saw that someone had taken his place at the bar and was leaning close to Heather. Blackburn couldn't see this person's head, but he could tell from the way the jeans fit across the hips that it was a male.

Heather saw Blackburn and waved. "Hey!" she called. "Everything come out okay?"

The man beside her raised his head, and Blackburn saw that it was Roy-Boy.

Roy-Boy smiled as Blackburn approached. "Musician," he said. His ponytail was wet. It glistened in the neon glow.

Heather looked from Blackburn to Roy-Boy. "You guys know each other?"

"We're in the same business," Roy-Boy said. He turned on his bar stool so that his knee touchedHeather's thigh.

Blackburn's teeth clenched. The sharp scent of Roy-Boy's deodorant soap was cutting through the other smells.

"Really?" Heather said. "What do you do?"

"We sell discount merchandise," Roy-Boy said. "We're compet.i.tors, actually."

Heather looked concerned. "Does that mean you don't like each other?"

"No," Roy-Boy said. "In fact, we can help each other."

"I'm thinking of getting into another line of work," Blackburn said. But if he stopped stealing, he would have to take a job at yet another fast-food restaurant. It was the only legal work he was qualified to do.

He had fried burgers or chicken, or stuffed burritos, in every city he had ever stayed in more than a few days. He was sick of it.

"I'd be sorry if you did that, Alan," Roy-Boy said.

Blackburn looked at Heather. "Did you tell him my name?" He realized after he said it that it sounded like an accusation. The beer had made him stupid.

"No," Heather said, frowning. "Why would I? You know each other, right?"

"We've never exchanged names," Roy-Boy told her, "but I got curious and asked around about him.

Has he told you he's a guitar player? He plays a left-handed Telecaster."

Heather's frown vanished. "You in a band?" she asked Blackburn.

"No," he said. "I mean, not right now."

"He was in three bands at once when he lived in Austin," Roy-Boy said. "He even played with Stevie Ray a couple of times."

Heather was gazing at Blackburn. "Why'd you quit?"

"No money in it," he said.

Roy-Boy got off the bar stool. "That reminds me," he said. "I have some work to catch up on." He dropped a five-dollar bill on the bar. "Next round's on me."

"Oh, that's sweet," Heather said.

"Yeah," Blackburn said.

Roy-Boy clapped Blackburn on the shoulder. "Happy to do it," he said. "Us old guys got to stick together." He headed for the door.

Blackburn imagined making Roy-Boy eat his own eyes. "Bye, Steve!" Heather called. Then she grinned at Blackburn. "How old are you, anyway?"

Blackburn sat down on the empty stool. It was warm from Roy-Boy, so he stood up again.

"Twenty-seven," he said. "How about you?"

Heather raised her beer mug. "Twenty-one, of course. You don't think I'd come into a bar if I wasn't, do you?"

"Guess not."