Thinking of St. Monica's most devoted parishioner, I said, "I didn't see the Widow Giacalona at the funeral. When is she coming back?"

"She ain't." Lucky gave a heavy sigh. "She likes it out there in Seattle. Says she's staying. She's done with this life. She ain't never coming back. And she don't ever wanna speak to me again. Ever Ever."

"Oh, Lucky. I'm so sorry to hear that." And after he had saved her life, too.

"Yeah. Well." The old hit man shrugged. "Love. Whaddya gonna do?"

We gazed up at St. Monica together, two brokenhearted souls seeking comfort . . . And a single tear rolled down the plaster saint's cheek.

"Lucky! Do you . . ." Do you . . ."

"Yeah. I see it!" His gruff voice was filled with awe.

I watched the tear roll all the way down the saint's face, and I continued staring in silent wonder, until the tender trickle of moisture had dried and evaporated.

"Your saint really does weep for the brokenhearted," I said. "I thought it was just . . ." I shook my head. "You know."

"Hey, kid, there's miracles everywhere," Lucky said. "You just gotta let your eyes be open to 'em."

"Wow." I was still brokenhearted about Lopez, but . . . "I feel a little better."

"Me, too," Lucky said. "Ain't life something?"

My cell phone rang, startling me. "Sorry." I pulled it out of my purse and glanced at the LCD panel. "Oh, no no."

"What is it?" Lucky asked in alarm.

"My mother!" How did she always do this? "How does she know I'm in a church, kneeling before a Catholic saint, and crying because my would-be boyfriend just dumped me? How does she always know? know?"

I considered not answering, but I'd just have to call her back later. "Might as well get it over with," I muttered. I rose to my feet and flipped open the phone. "h.e.l.lo?"

My mother's first words were, " 'Singing Server Sees Slaying'?"

"You read the tabloids?" I blurted. read the tabloids?" I blurted.

"No, dear. But people love to share good news with a proud mother."

I sighed and started walking down the aisle. "It's all over now. They caught the killer."

As I guiltily headed for the exit before she could ask where I was, she said, "Please tell me you're not still waiting tables at the restaurant where this happened."

"Actually, I am. But things are looking up, Mom. I just got cast as a homeless bis.e.xual junkie prost.i.tute."

"How nice," she said.

"On a TV show," I said.

"Oh, good. This way a maximum number of people nationwide can see my daughter in that persona."

Outside in the sunlight, New York City greeted me with robust noise and color and life. Sometimes besieged by Evil, and sometimes full of heartbreak, but always full of wonders.

Acknowledgments.

Blame my friend Mary Jo Putney for putting the idea of Mercury Retrograde into my head, though any misstatements about it in the text are strictly my own error. Apart from that, I once again owe MJP many thanks for her practical help and moral support.

I also extend my grat.i.tude to Naomi Wiener and the Israeli science/fiction fantasy community, Karin Laub in Jerusalem, Denise Little and my friends at Tekno Books, Hilary and Tim Warmoth, Linda Howard, Valerie Taylor, Zell Schulman, Pat McLaughlin, Jerry Spradlin, Betsy Wollheim, Marsha Jones, Elaine English, and my parents, who all made it possible, in their various ways, for me to write this book and to see it published, after some hairpin turns in fate, while juggling many commitments and crossing the ocean twice.