"Just chat." She repeated, laughing, with a lilt.

Her voice had the loveliest trace of an Irish brogue. Nothing stage-Irish or exaggerated. Just a faint mist of musicality. Hearing her, one could almost love her instead of loathe her.

Matt held to that idea. Had Kitty the Cutter been lovable once? Or never? Was that what had shaped her?

"What's your trouble?" he asked, emphasizing the word for the Irish political conflict, The Troubles.

"Ah. It's about a man."

"Of course."

"I gave him everything. Or the chance at everything."

"And he failed you. Just like a man."

"Well, no. He was a man. He betrayed me."

"My gender takes a beating on this program." Matt could never bear to call it a "show," though sometimes it was. "Another gal done wrong by some heartless cad?"

"Not heartless. Too much heart. No b.a.l.l.s."

He glanced at Ambrosia. Games he could play on his own time. Raunchy language that could lose the station its license was another matter.

She shook her head, disowned any say-so on program content. This was too vital.

Matt had long since disowned the issue of cowardice. Martial arts had built up his self-esteem in that area, if not others. He had abandoned every precept of his youth and vocation to meet Va.s.sar. Even she had understood and respected that. As he had come to respect her. Yes. That was his weapon. His a.s.signation with Va.s.sar had been a meeting of the minds, even the soul. Who would have thought it?

"A coward," Matt said. "Fickle. Anything else?"

"Only that he went to a common wh.o.r.e, snuck around on me. Thought I'd never know."

"Maybe he knew you'd know, wanted you to know, wanted you to get the idea, and get lost."

"Wanted me to know? Snuck around, I said. Danced in and out of casinos all along the Strip so no one could trace his path."

"Apparently you did."

"Well, a woman knows."

"So, forget him. You really want that kind of sneaky rat?"

"Hmmm. I had hopes that he would have some morals. His history certainly indicated that."

"So what are you going to do? Moon over this no-good guy? Confront him? He'll Only lie."

"You're right. The only thing to do is to wash my handsof him. Wash that man right out of my hair. Wash my hands of him, like Pontius Pilate."

Matt felt a chill. She knew her Scriptures as well as he did. He was to be crucified, was that it?

"Maybe," he said, "you should consider yourself lucky. This is Las Vegas. You can get a lucky break here. He obviously wasn't worth your attention."

"Obviously. He obviously was a lot more sneaky than I thought. I guess I'll just leave him alone all by himself to pay the price. There will be one, won't there?"

"For every action and reaction, there is always a price."

"Right. So this is my declaration of independence. He's off my hook. I want nothing more to do with him. Let him stew in his own juices, if he has any. I'm outta here. Will you tell him for me?"

"I think you've done it yourself, very well."

"Thank you. It's been fun. And, if you really want to do me a favor, play 'Misty' for me."

Matt was surprised to find Ambrosia "breaking" into the studio, shattering the "fourth wall." That's what actors called the invisible divide between them and the audience, and it pretty much applied to radio too. Both mediums offered ersatz intimacy.

Before Matt could answer, Ambrosia punched some b.u.t.tons on the console.

The Midnight Hour closed for the first time with music, not talk: Johnny Mathis crooning "Misty." His voice was as caressing as ever. Matt couldn't believe this was the swan song to Kathleen O'Connor's obsession with him.

Once the words and music were launched and the mike was dead, Ambrosia glared at Matt. Not at him, on his behalf. "Sorry, my man. I really wanted to give that girl what she had coming to her. And that was not a last word from you. She don't deserve that." She smiled suddenly. "Oh, that Johnny is one mellow fellow, isn't he?"

Would that Mr. Midnight were one too.

Chapter 19.

. . . Max Outed Not many people, especially security, carried firearms that required c.o.c.king anymore.

Max decided he had heard his almost-invisible door magnetically shutting again. Or . . . he was not alone in the pitch dark.

He stood still and listened.

No one can stand still longer than a performance-hardened magician. Perfectly still. Even his breathing slowed. His performance days were a bit too far behind him, but most of his physical disciplines had held up. He worked out daily.

In time all the tiny almost sub-sonic sounds to be heard became clear.

The faint thump of the raucous musical heart of this odd building. The occasional click, almost mechanical, that came not from a pistol-packing phantom, but from somewhere inside this dark and concealed s.p.a.ce.

Max began moving on his treadless, rubber-soled shoes designed to leave no trace and make no sound. He felt likea mime against a black velvet curtain, moving, or appearing to move, but hardly perceived.

And then he heard a thin trail of laughter, as distant as a dream.

His hands reached further out, finding a wall.

He moved along it, swift and silent as a spider, halting the instant the wall vanished.

The slight breath of air on his mask-bare face, the touch of his fingers, told him he had reached the intersection with a wider hall.

This he went down, drawn by the sound of men murmuring, the sound increasing, murmurs becoming words. Thurston in twenty-four . . . on Halloween yet . . . d.a.m.ned b.a.s.t.a.r.d! . . . the thugi . . . dead, I suppose. . . .

A woman's voice came bright as a bird chirp in that ba.s.so chorus. Cloaked Conjuror, she said. Jeered. Laughter, mostly male. Hearty. Mean.

Max stopped moving, listened further.

More murmurs and now the convivial click of crystal. Not gla.s.s, but crystal with its higher, bell-like clarity, as seductive as a long fingernail skimming silk.

He had to be there, bare-faced or not.

Max let his fingers do the walking, those combination pads and prints so supersensitive they could feel another's sticky fingerprints on gla.s.s.

They reached out and touched something. Another door into the dark.

Max knew how these doors worked now. He gave this one a karate chop at the doork.n.o.b level, where no doork.n.o.b, where no light existed.

The barrier snapped open, halfway, truncating Max's figure into two halves, both dark.

A roomful of people stared at him as if he were an apparition. What an entrance! Now all he had to worry about was an exit.

Chapter 20.

. . . Synth Lynx It strikes me as very odd that humans have to work so hard at having fun.

What is it all but running around the block until the day of the executioner's axe? For the mouse it is the toothsome cheese that comes just before the steel trap. For the cat it is the endless naps that come before the Final Nap. For people, it seems to be addictions, group tours, and therapy. ' The scene at Neon Nightmare reminds me of a cruise on the good ship LSD. I was not around for the vintage happenings, but it recall what I have learned of the sixties: s.e.x, drugs, and rock and roll. Just add neon and you get the general idea.

The light, sound, and action here is so manic that a dude of my persuasion strolling into the open raises no more of an eyebrow than a chain-smoking, hooka-pipe-hooked caterpillar did in Alice in Wonderland.

Speaking of Alice, there are no little girls in ballet slippers and full skirts here. I am seeing lots of skin, much of ittanned (one way or another), tattooed, and pierced. The same goes for the dudes.

When they are not gyrating in the flashing neon strobes on the central floor, they are hunched around too-tiny tables importing illegal smokes, tokes, and c.o.kes of the non-capitalized kind.

I cannot feel too superior. I do like a little nip now and then myself. It has even been known to turn me head over heels, quite literally. But this is a small vice I indulge in the privacy of my own home, provided for me quite legally by my thoughtful roommate, who herself does not indulge in anything illegal other than meddling in police matters. And maybe sporting incendiary hair, an invitation to arson of a temperamental sort.

Although I understand that my Miss Temple has been snooping around such debased environments as strip clubs lately, I am glad that she is not here to see this: Mr. Max slinking along the perimeter to disappear into a door as invisible and matte black as his own attire.

Mr. Max does slink almost as well as I do, for a two-leg. I know he is investigating the premises, but it still saddens me that he must hang out among such dissolute individuals.

I decide to go forth and do likewise, however, for I have this pet theory. Okay, it is very pet and very much theory. I believe that Hyacinth and her evil magician-mistress Shangri-La are links to the Synth.

They have been turning up at the fringes of several cases like a bad dream now for months. In fact, Hyacinth has been turning up in my personal bad dreams like a case of kitty acne. (You know, that nasty black rash that shows up under the chin. No problem in my case, as black is my business, my only business, but it provokes a major depression in my pale-coated kin, believe-you-me!) So I am determined to stick around this joint until I learn more than I should.

Granted, that is a dangerous position to be in, but if you are a solo operative, danger is often the only way to go. I may not get anywhere tonight, but at least I will see Mr. Max safely home after whatever he is up to is over.

My Miss Temple would appreciate my thoughtfulness, and I will know as much as Mr. Max does, which strikes me as a very good thing.

Chapter 21.

. . . Magic Fingers If the people in the room were surprised to see Max appear in their concealed doorway, he was pretty nonplused himself.

It was like looking into one of those small worlds in a gla.s.s globe that could make snowflakes fall when shaken, not stirred.

The room was paneled in cherry wood and glowed like fine claret. Flames flicked against a soot-black chimney. Max noticed that the disembodied fingers of fire fueled gas logs, but otherwise the effect was British Empire clubhouse, and quite inviting.

To add to the ambiance, the men gathered on an array of tufted leather couches and Empire satin-and-gilt chairs were all in their middle years and dressed in black tie.

Only two women were present. One woman was Hispanic, perhaps mid-thirties, sleeker than a polished ebony hair comb, matte black in her own way, with pale skin like a mask, raven eyebrows drawn in perfect arches, and a wide, crimson mouth. Her eyes were as dark as tar. She too wore black tie, with a man's formal suit.

The other woman matched the age of the men present, her torso relaxed into middle-age spread, wearing a paisley turban and a black caftan. She reminded him a bit of Electra Lark, Temple's much more colorful landlady at the Circle Ritz. But her hair was concealed by the turban, and it was difficult to a.s.sign her an exact age. A middling-preserved sixty, he would think.

"I see I've not dressed for the occasion," Max said, taking the initiative. He stepped inside, bowed, and shrugged.

"You weren't expected," the Hispanic woman spoke in a husky tone that outrasped Temple's slightly foggy voice.

"Nor were you," he answered with another slight bow. Max immediately, from some impish impulse, decided to nickname her "Carmen."

They regarded each other, the a.s.sembled magicians, for Max recognized faces that went with familiar posters. These were long-established magicians One could say over the hill. Steady, reasonably well-known professionals who had not, and never would, front a major hotel act in Las Vegas.

The good old boys. The pre-pyrotechnic crowd. Performers who didn't have a gimmick, as Gypsy Rose Lee and her stripping sisterhood had found essential. His kind of magician, really. His youthful idols.

They were the Synth.

Of course.

He had found them.

Or had they found him?

Old-fashioned though they were, it wouldn't do to underestimate them.

"How did you get in?" a Colonel Mustard type asked from the fireplace.

"Who are you?" Carmen demanded, her strident voice overriding the duffer's.

Max answered the old fellow first. "I blundered in. I'm a magician. I find a door with no visible hardware, I play with it, looking for the trick. Magic fingers." Max liftedand waggled his own particular set of those useful appendages. "Every puzzling thing I see is an illusion I have to figure out. It's my vocation. That's all there is to it." He turned to the Spanish rose with thorns. "I was known, at one time, as the Mystifying Max."