I would forever be known as a pervert, a child-molester.

So I let her steal my dear Lazzy.

I stood frozen with terror and let her.

And from outside came a familiar reeooow! followed by a quick harsh yelp - the sort of yelp a girl might make if the cat in her arms decided to claw its way to freedom - followed by a thudding splash.

I still stood motionless.

No longer terrified.

Amused, actually.

The poor dear. Fell and got herself all wet.

Lazzy leaped over the threshold and came scampering through the den, fur abristle over the ridge of her spine, her tiny ears swept back, tail curled up in a small, bushy question mark.

She slowed down, then rubbed her side against my bare ankle.

I picked up my tiny little cat. I held her in front of my face with both hands.

From outside came more splashing sounds.

Cries of 'Help!' and *Help!'

Was it possible that Monica's bag of tricks did not include swimming?

I dared not get my hopes up.

There were no more cries for help. I did hear some choky gasps and quite a good deal of splashing, however, before silence replaced the disturbance.

I carried Lazzy out to poolside.

Monica was at the deep end. Face down, arms and legs spread out, hair drifting above her head, blouse and jumper shimmering slightly.

She rather looked like a skydiver enjoying a freefall, waiting for the very last moment to pull her ringcord.

*I suppose I ought to pull her out,' I told Lazzy. *Give her some CPR.'

Then I shook my head.

*No. Not a good idea - a man my age putting his hands on a ten-year-old girl? What would people say?'

I headed for the sliding gla.s.s door.

*Why don't we go pay a visit to James? Who knows? Maybe someone will be lucky enough to find Monica while we're away.' Lazzy purred, her little body vibrating like a warm engine.

THE BLEEDER.

The spot of wetness on the sidewalk at Byron's feet looked purple in the mercury glow of the streetlight. It looked like a drop of blood.

He squatted down and peered at it. Then he pulled a flashlight out of the side pocket of his sport jacket. He thumbed the switch. In the bright, somewhat yellowish shine of its beam, the spot appeared crimson.

Might be paint, he thought.

But who would be wandering around at night dripping red paint?

He reached down and touched it. Bringing his fingertip close to the flashlight gla.s.s, he inspected the red smear. He rubbed it with his thumb. The stuff was kind of watery. Not gooey enough for paint. More like blood that had been spilled very recently.

He sniffed it.

He could only smell mustard from the hot dog he'd eaten during the last show, a smell strong enough to overpower blood's subtle aroma. But it wouldn't have masked the pungent odor of paint.

Byron wiped his finger and thumb on his sock. Still squatting, he let the beam of his flashlight drift over the concrete ahead. He saw a dirty pink disk of flattened bubble gum, a gob of spit, a mashed cigarette b.u.t.t, and a second drop of blood.

The second drop was three strides away. He stopped above it. Like the first, it was about the size of a nickel. Sweeping his light forward, he found a third.

Maybe someone with a nosebleed, he thought.

Or a switchblade in the guts.

No, a real wound and there'd be blood everywhere. Byron remembered the mess in the Elsinore's restroom last month. During intermission, a couple of teenagers had gone at each other with knives. He and Digby, one of the other ushers, had broken it up. Though the kids only had minor wounds, the john had looked like a slaughterhouse.

Compared to that, this was nothing. Just a drip once in a while. Even a nosebleed, he thought, would throw out more gore.

On the other hand, the person's clothing, or a handkerchief, might have soaked up most of it - so that only a fraction of the spillage actually hit the sidewalk.

Just a little drip now and then.

Just enough to make Byron very curious.

The trail of blood was going in his direction, anyway, so he kept his flashlight on and kept a lookout.

*What, the streetlights aren't bright enough for you?'

He turned around.

Digby Hymus, known to the gals who worked the refreshment stand as the Jolly Green Dork, came striding down the sidewalk. The thirty-year-old retired boxer had removed his green usher's jacket. Its sleeves were tied around his neck so he looked as if he were giving a piggy-back ride to someone who'd been mashed by a steam roller. His arms were so thick with muscle that they couldn't swing close to his sides when he walked.

*Hate to tell you this, By, but you look like a G.o.dd.a.m.n r.e.t.a.r.d with that flashlight on.'

*Appearances are often deceiving,' he said. *Take a gander.' He aimed his flashlight at the nearest spot of blood.

*Yeah? So what?'

*Blood.'

*Yeah? So what?'

*Don't you find it intriguing?'

*Probably some babe sprung a leak in hera'

*Don't be disgusting.'

*Hey, you're the guy so interested in blood. You've got a real ghoulish streak, you know that?'

*If you can't say something nice, don't say it.'

*Screw you,' he said, and walked across the road to his parked car. Byron waited until the car sped off, then continued to follow the trail of blood. He stopped at the corner of 11th Street. His apartment was five blocks straight ahead. But the drops of blood went to the right.

He paused for a moment, considering what to do. He knew that he ought to go on home. But if he did that, he would always wonder.

Maybe the bleeder needs help, he told himself. Even a slow leak could be fatal if it went on long enough. Maybe I'm this person's only chance.

Maybe I'll be a hero, my story will be on the news.

Then guys like Digby - gals like Mary and Agnes of the snack counter - wouldn't be so quick to poke fun at him.

His mind made up, he turned the corner and began to follow the blood up 11th Street.

The television. He could see it now. Karen Ling on the five o'clock news. *Byron Lewis, twenty-eight-year-old poet and part-time usher at the Elsinore theater, last night came to the aid of a mugging victim in an alley off 11th Street. The victim, twenty-two-year-old fashion model Jessica Connors, had been a.s.saulted earlier that evening in front of the theater where Byron worked. Bleeding and disoriented, she had staggered several blocks before falling unconscious where she was later discovered by the young poet. Byron made the grisly discovery after following Jessica's trail of blood. According to paramedics, Jessica was only minutes away from death at the time she was found. Her survival is being attributed to Byron's quick actions in applying first aid and summoning paramedics. She is currently recovering, and extremely grateful, at Queen of Angels Hospital.'

Byron smiled.

Just a fantasy, he told himself. But what's wrong with that?

The bleeder will probably turn out to be an old wino who cut his lip on a bottle of rotgut.

Or worse.

You'll probably wish you'd gone straight home.

But at least you'll know.

Stopping at Harker Avenue, he found a spot of blood on the curb. No traffic was nearby. But Byron believed in playing by the rules. So he thumbed the b.u.t.ton to activate the WALK sign, waited for the signal to change, then started across.

If the bleeder had left any drops on the road pavement, pa.s.sing cars must have obliterated them.

He found more when he reached the other side.

The bleeder was still heading north on 11th Street.

And Byron realized, with some dismay, that he had crossed an invisible border into Skid Row.

In the area ahead, many of the streetlights were out. They left broad pools of darkness on the sidewalk and road. Every shop in Byron's sight was closed for the night. Metal gates had been stretched across their display windows and doors. He glanced through the checkered grating in front of a clothes store, saw a face at the window, and managed to stifle a gasp of alarm.

Just a mannequin, he told himself, hurrying away.

He made a point to avoid looking into any more windows.

Better just to watch the sidewalk, he thought. Watch the trail of blood.

The next time he looked up, he saw a pair of legs sticking out of a tenement's recessed entryway.

The bleeder!

I did it!

Byron rushed to the fallen man. It was a man, unfortunately. A man with holes in the bottom of his shoes, whose grimy ankles were blotched with scabs, whose trousers were stained and crusty with filth, who wore a ragged sweatshirt that had one empty sleeve pinned up.

No left arm.

His right arm was folded under his head like a pillow.

*Excuse me,' Byron said.

The man kept snoring.

Byron nudged him with a foot. The body twitched. The snoring stopped with a startled gasp. *Huh? Whuh?'

*Are you all right?' Byron asked. *Are you bleeding?'

*BLEEDING?' The man squealed and bolted upright. His head swiveled as he looked down at himself. Byron helped by shining the light on him. *I don' see no blood. Where? Where?'

Byron didn't see blood on the man, either. But he saw other things that made him turn away and try not to gag.

*Oh G.o.d, I'm bleedin'!' the man whined. *They musta bit me. Oh, they's always bitin' me. Why they wanna bite on of Dandy! Where'd they get me? They after ol' Dandy's stump again? Jeezum!'

Byron risked a look at Dandy, and saw that the old man was struggling with his single arm to pull his sweatshirt off.

*Maybe I've got the wrong person.'

*Oh, they's after me.' The shirt started to rise. Byron glimpsed gray, blotchy skin of Dandy's belly.

*Gimme yer light, duke! C'mon, gimme!'

*I've gotta go,' Byron blurted.

He staggered away from the frantic derelict - and saw a spot of blood farther up the sidewalk.

Dandy wasn't the bleeder, after all.

*I'm sorry,' Byron called back. *Go back to sleep.'

He heard a low groan. A voice sunken in fear and disgust said, *Aw, looky what they's done to me.'

If only I'd left the guy alone, he thought.